No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [43]
Joseph was not sure what he was imagining—target practice, a tragic piece of carelessness?
“In his room,” he answered. “He must have got up very early to study. He’s . . . he was one of my best students.” He tried to steady himself. “He was in his chair, alone, apart from whoever shot him. The windows were closed and locked, and there are no marks of forced entry on the door. It was just one shot, to the side of the head, but the gun is not there.”
Thyer’s face stiffened and his hands clasped the arm of his chair. He sat a little forward. “What are you saying, Joseph?” Unconsciously he slipped into familiarity.
“That someone else shot him and then left, taking the gun with him,” Joseph answered. “I can’t think of any way to explain it except that.” How had he come in the space of two weeks to speak of murder as if he understood it?
Thyer sat without moving for several moments. There was a rustle behind him, and Joseph turned to see Connie standing in the open doorway, her dark hair loose around her shoulders and a pale satin wrap covering her from neck to foot.
Both men rose to their feet.
“What is it?” she said quietly. Her face was full of concern, making her look younger and far more vulnerable than the beautiful, self-assured woman she usually was. It was the first time Joseph had seen her when she was not aware, before anything else, of being the master’s wife.
“Dr. Reavley, are you all right?” she asked anxiously. “You don’t look well. I’m afraid this has been a terrible time for you.” She came into the room, ignoring the fact that she was really not dressed suitably to greet anyone. “If I am intruding, please tell me. But if there is anything I can do to help . . . at all?”
Joseph was conscious of the warmth of her—not just her physical nearness, the slight perfume of her hair and skin and the slither of silk as she moved, but of a softness in her face, an understanding of what it is to be hurt.
“Thank you, Mrs. Thyer,” Joseph said with an attempt at a smile that failed. “I am afraid something dreadful has happened. I—”
“There is nothing you can do, my dear,” Thyer cut in, leaving Joseph feeling as if he had been clumsy. And yet there was no point in protecting her from it. Within a few hours everyone in St. John’s would have to know.
“Nonsense!” she said abruptly. “There are always things to do, even if it is only seeing that the domestic arrangements continue. What is it that has happened?”
Thyer’s face tightened. “Sebastian Allard has been killed. Apparently it could not have been an accident.” He looked at her apologetically, seeing the color drain from her skin.
Joseph stepped toward her, all but losing his own balance as he put out his hands to steady her, and felt the muscles in her arms lock with surprising strength.
“Thank you, Dr. Reavley,” she said very quietly but with almost complete control. “I am quite all right. How very dreadful. Do you know who was responsible?”
Thyer moved toward her as well but stopped short of touching her. “No. That is rather what Joseph expects us to do, I imagine—call the police? Isn’t it?”
“It is unavoidable, Master,” Joseph answered, dropping his hands to his sides. “And if you will excuse me, I must go and see what I can do to help Elwyn. The dean . . .” He did not finish.
Thyer walked from the room to the hall, where there was a telephone on the small table. He lifted it, and Joseph heard him asking the operator to ring the police station for him.
Connie looked at Joseph, her dark eyes searching his, trying to find some answer to the fear that he could see was already beginning inside her.
“I . . . ,” he began, and realized he had no idea how to go on. She was expecting him, as a man professing a faith in God, to explain it to her in some terms that at least made sense to him. Idiotic phrases came into his mind that people had said to him after Eleanor’s death—things about