No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [165]
“I don’t know,” Joseph admitted.
Matthew pulled the car up in front of the house, its tires crunching on the gravel. A moment later Judith opened the front door, relief flooding her face. She took the steps in two strides and hugged Joseph and then Matthew before turning to go back inside.
Walking out over the soft grass in the garden under the apple trees, they told her about Elwyn and Sebastian. She was stunned; rage, pity, confusion washed over her like storm waves, leaving her dizzy.
It was a late and somber lunch, eaten in an agreed silence, each willing to be alone with his or her thoughts. It was one of those strange, interminable occasions when time stands still. The sound of cutlery on the china of a plate was deafening.
Today, tomorrow, one day soon, Joseph would have to make his decision. He was thirty-five. He did not have to fight. He could claim all kinds of exemptions and no one would object. Life had to continue at home: there were sermons to be preached, people to be christened or married or buried, the sick and the troubled to be visited.
There were raspberries for dessert. He ate his slowly, savoring the sweetness of them, as if he would not have them again. He felt as if Matthew and Judith expected him to say something, but he had no idea what, and he was saved by Matthew interrupting his indecision.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said slowly. “I don’t know what armaments we have, not in detail. I do know it’s not enough. We may be asked to give up anything we have that works. I don’t know if anyone will want them, but they might.”
“It’s not going to be that bad! Is it?” Judith looked very pale, her eyes frightened. “I mean . . .”
“No, of course it isn’t!” Joseph rushed in. He glared warningly at Matthew.
“They may ask us for guns,” Matthew said stiffly. “I shan’t be home, and I don’t know whether you will or not.” He looked at Joseph, pushing his chair back as he spoke, and standing up. “There are at least two shotguns, one new one and an old one that may not be up to much. And there’s the punt gun.”
“You could stop an elephant with that!” Judith said wryly. “But only if it was coming at you across the fens and you just happened to be out punting at the time.”
Matthew pushed the chair back in at the table. “I’ll get it out anyway. It’ll probably be of use to someone.”
Joseph went with him, not out of any interest in guns—he loathed them—but for something to do. “You don’t need to frighten her like that!” he criticized. “For God’s sake, use some sense!”
“She’s better off knowing,” was all Matthew replied.
The guns were kept in a locked cupboard in the study. Matthew took the key from his ring and opened it. Inside were the three guns he had mentioned, and a very old target pistol. He looked at them one by one, breaking the shotguns and examining them.
“Have you decided yet what you’re going to do?” he asked, squinting down one of the barrels.
Joseph did not answer. The thoughts in his head had been forming into immovable shapes for far longer than he had realized. They had already cut off every line of retreat from the inevitable. Now he was forced to acknowledge it.
Matthew looked down the other barrel, then straightened the gun again. He picked up the second gun and broke it. “You haven’t much time, Joe,” he said gently. “It won’t be more than another day or two.”
Joseph hoped he might be guessing. It was a last grasp at innocence, and it failed. He understood Sebastian’s fear. Perhaps that was what he had seen in him that had found the deepest echo within himself, the helpless pity for suffering he could not reach, even to ease. It overwhelmed him. The anger of war horrified him, the ability to hate, to make one’s life’s aim the death of another . . . for any cause at all. If he became part of it, it would drown him.
Matthew picked up the big punt gun. It was an awkward thing, long-barreled and muzzle-loaded. It did