No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [47]
But Joseph would not tell Perth that, at least not yet.
And there were Foubister and Morel, good friends to each other, with whom Sebastian and Peter Rattray often made a four for tennis. Rattray was keen on debate, and he and Sebastian had indulged in many all-night arguments, to the intense pleasure of both of them. Although that did not seem a reason for going to anyone’s rooms so early.
Who else was there? At least half a dozen others came to his mind, all of whom were still here in college for one reason or another, but he could not imagine any of them even thinking of violence, let alone acting it out.
Perth was watching him, content to wait, patient as a cat at a mousehole.
“I have no idea,” Joseph repeated helplessly, aware that Perth would know he was being evasive. How could any man who was trained in the spiritual care of people, living and working with a group of students, be totally blind to a passion so intense it ended in murder? Such terror or hatred does not spring whole into being in a day. How was it that he had not seen it?
“How long’ve you bin here, Reverend?” Perth asked.
Joseph felt himself blushing, the heat painful in his face. “A little over a year.” He had to have seen it, merely refused to recognize it for what it was. How stupid! How totally useless!
“An’ you taught Mr. Sebastian Allard? What about his brother, Mr. Elwyn? Did you teach him, too?”
“For a while, for Latin. He dropped it.”
“Why?”
“He found it difficult, and he didn’t think it was necessary for his career. He was right.”
“So he weren’t so clever as his brother?”
“Very few were. Sebastian was remarkably gifted. He would have . . .” The words stuck in his throat. Without any warning, the reality of death engulfed him again. All the golden promise he had seen ahead for Sebastian was gone, as if night had obstructed daylight. It took him a moment to regain control of himself so he could continue speaking. “He had a remarkable career ahead of him,” he finished.
“Doing what?” Perth raised his eyebrows.
“Almost anything he wanted.”
“Schoolmaster?” Perth frowned. “Preacher?”
“Poet, philosopher. In government if he wanted.”
“Government? Learning old languages?” Perth was utterly confused.
“A lot of our greatest leaders have begun with a degree in classics,” Joseph explained. “Mr. Gladstone is the most obvious example.”
“Well, I never knew that!” Perth clearly found it beyond his comprehension.
“You don’t understand,” Joseph went on. “At university there are always those who are more brilliant than you are, more spectacularly gifted in a particular area. If you didn’t know that when you came, you would certainly learn it very quickly. Every student here has sufficient talent and intellect to succeed, if he works. I know of no one foolish enough to carry anything more than a passing moment of envy for a superior mind.” He said it with absolute certainty, and it was only when he looked at Perth’s expression that he realized how condescending he sounded, but it was too late to retrieve it.
“So you didn’t notice anything at all?” Perth observed. It was impossible to tell if he believed that, or what he thought of a teacher and minister who could be so blind.
Joseph felt like a new student chastised for a stupid mistake. “Nothing I thought could lead to more than a passing stiffness, a distance,” he defended himself. “Young men are emotional, highly strung sometimes. Exams . . .” He tailed off, not knowing what else to add. He was trying to explain a culture and a way of life to a man for whom it was totally foreign. The gulf between a Cambridge student and a policeman was unbridgeable. How could Perth possibly understand the passions and dreams that impelled young men from backgrounds of privilege and in most cases a degree of wealth, men whose academic gifts were great enough to earn them places