No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [45]
He ran awkwardly across the last few yards to the door, then up the stairs, tripping and stumbling, until he threw open the door to his own room and slammed it behind him.
He stood still, breathing heavily. He must get control of himself. There were things to do, duties—duty always helped. First, he should finish shaving and get dressed. He must make himself look respectable. He would feel better. And eat something! Except that his stomach was churning and his throat ached so abominably he would not be able to swallow.
He took off his dressing gown. It was a flat, baking summer in Cambridge, and he was cold. He could smell blood and fear, as if he were coated with them.
Very carefully, because his hands were stiff, he ran hot water and washed himself, then stared at his face in the glass. Black eyes looked back at him above high cheekbones, a strong, slightly aquiline nose, and a highly individual mouth. His flesh looked gray, even beneath the dark stubble of his half-shaved beard. There was something waxen about him.
Even shaving slowly and carefully, he still cut himself. He put on a clean shirt, and his fingers could not find the buttons or get them through the holes.
It was all absurd, idiotic! The students had thought he was off on some amorous encounter. Looking like this? He was a man walking through a nightmare. And yet he had been so aware of Connie Thyer . . . the warmth of her, the sweet smell, her closeness. How could he even think of such a thing now?
Because he was blindingly, desperately alone! He would have given anything at all to have had Eleanor here, to take her in his arms and cling to her, have her hold him, take some of this unbearable loss from him.
His parents were dead, crushed and tossed aside, for a document. And now Sebastian, his brain destroyed, blasted into wreckage by a bullet.
Everything was slipping away, all that was good and precious and gave light and meaning. What was there left that he dared love anymore? When would God smash that and take it away?
This was the last time he was ever going to let it happen. There was going to be no more pain like this! He could not open himself up to it.
Habit told him that it was not God’s fault. How many times had he explained that to other people who were screaming inside because of something they could not bear?
Yes, it was! He could have done something! If He couldn’t manage that, why was He God?
And the ice-cold voice of reason said: There is no God. You are alone.
That was the worst truth of all: alone. The word was a kind of death.
He stood still for several minutes, no coherent thoughts in his head. The coldness didn’t stay. He was too angry. Someone had killed John and Alys Reavley, and he was helpless to find out who or why.
Memories flooded back of pottering quietly in the garden, John telling long, rambling jokes, the smell of lily-of-the-valley, Hannah brushing Alys’s hair, Sunday dinner.
He leaned against the mantel and wept, letting go of the self-control at last and freeing the grief to wash over him and take hold.
By midmorning he was still ashen-faced, but composed. His bedder, the elderly woman who tidied and cared for all the rooms on this stair, had been in, shaking and tearful, but she completed her duty. The police had arrived, led by an Inspector Perth, a man of barely average height with receding hair sprinkled with gray, and crooked teeth, two missing. He spoke quietly, but he moved with unswerving purpose. Although he was gentle with the grieving and severely rattled students, he allowed none of his questions to go unanswered.
As soon as Inspector Perth discovered that the dean was absent in Italy but that Joseph was an ordained minister, he asked him to stay at hand. “Might help,” he said with a nod. He did not explain if it was to ensure truthfulness among the students or for the comfort of their distress.
“Seems nobody came nor went during the night,” Perth said, looking at Joseph with sharp gray eyes. They were alone in