No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [42]
The door opened behind him, and he turned to see the porter standing in the entrance, his hair ruffled and his face puckered with alarm. He glanced at Joseph, then stared past him at Sebastian, and the color drained from his skin. A gagging sound issued from his throat.
“Mitchell, will you please lock the room here, then take Mr. Allard”—he nodded to indicate Elwyn, a couple of steps behind him on the landing—“and get him a cup of hot tea with a good stiff drop of brandy. Look after him.” He took a shivering breath. “We’ll have to call the police, so no one else should go up or down this stair, for the time being. Will you tell the other gentlemen who use this way to remain in their rooms until informed otherwise. Tell them there’s been an accident. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Dr. Reavley . . . I . . .” Mitchell was a good man who had served at St. John’s for over twenty years and was up to meeting most crises appropriately—from drunken brawls and the odd dislocated or broken bone to the occasional overzealous student stuck up on the roof. But the worst crimes had been the theft of a few pounds and, once, cheating at an examination. This was of a different nature, something intruding from outside his world.
“Thank you,” Joseph said, stepping onto the landing himself. He looked beyond Mitchell to Elwyn. “I’ll go see the master and do everything else that’s necessary. You go with Mitchell, stay with him.”
“Yes . . . yes . . .” Elwyn’s voice tailed off, and he remained motionless until Mitchell locked the door. Then Joseph took him by the arm gently, forcing him to turn away, guiding him to the stairs and down them a step at a time.
Once outside in the quad, Joseph walked briskly across the path to the next quad, which was smaller and quieter, with one slender tree asymmetrically planted to the left. At the farther side was the wrought-iron gate leading through to the Fellows’ Garden. At this hour it would be locked, as usual. The master’s lodgings had two doors, one from the Fellows’ Garden, one from this quad.
He passed into the shadow where the dew was still wet, and suddenly remembered he was barefoot. His feet were cold. He had not even thought to go back to his own room for slippers. It was too late to matter now.
He knocked on the door and ran his fingers through his hair to push it back off his face, suddenly conscious of how he looked if Connie Thyer should answer, not the master himself.
As it was, he had to knock twice more before he heard footsteps. Then the lock turned, and Aidan Thyer stood blinking at him.
“Good God, Reavley! Do you know what time it is?” he demanded. His long, pale face was still dazed with sleep, and his fair hair flopped forward over his brow. He looked at Joseph’s dressing gown and his bare feet, then up again quickly, a flicker of alarm shadowing his eyes. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Sebastian Allard has been shot dead,” Joseph replied. The words somehow gave the nightmare a sickening reality. The very act of sharing it increased the number of those for whom it was true. He saw from Thyer’s confusion that he had not grasped that Joseph meant violence of the mind as well as of the hand. Joseph had not used the word murder, but it was what he meant. “Elwyn just came and told me,” he added. “I need to come in.”
“Oh!” Thyer jerked to attention, embarrassed. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.” He pulled the door wide and moved back.
Joseph followed him, relieved to step onto carpet after the cold stone of the pathway. He had not realized it, but he was shivering.
“Come into the study.” Thyer led the way.
Joseph closed the front door and followed. He sat down in one of the big chairs while Thyer poured him a stiff brandy from the tantalus on the sideboard and passed it to him, then turned back and poured a second one for himself.
“Tell me what happened,” he directed. “Where were they?” He glanced at the mahogany clock on the mantel. It