No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [55]
“I’m very sorry,” Matthew said quietly. There was no sound here in the shelter of the trees and not a breath in the air. “What an appalling tragedy,” he said to fill the silence. “I must call in on Joseph before I go back to London. He’ll be very grieved. He’s known Sebastian for years.” He was aware of the numbing pain Joseph would feel, but now he wanted to ask Isenham about John Reavley. He forced all other thoughts out of his mind and kept pace with him in the shade of the ancient elms that closed out the sky above them.
Again the tiny thunder flies were hovering, irritating the eyes and face. Matthew swatted at them, even though he knew it was useless. If only it would hurry up and rain! He did not mind getting wet, and it would be a good excuse to stay at Isenham’s house longer. “Actually, it’s been a pretty rotten time altogether,” he continued. “I know a good few people are worried about this Balkan business.”
Isenham took his hands out of his pockets. “Ah! Now there you have a real cause for anxiety,” he said, his broad, windburned face intensely serious. “That’s very worrying, you know? Yes, I expect you do know . . . I daresay more than I do, eh?” He searched Matthew’s eyes intently.
Matthew was a little taken aback. He had not realized that Isenham knew where he worked. Presumably John had said something? In pride, or confiding a shame? The thought stung with all the old sharpness, multiplied by the fact that now Matthew would never be able to prove to his father the value of his profession, and that it was not devious or grubby, full of betrayals and moral compromise.
“Yes,” Matthew acknowledged. “Yes, it’s pretty ugly. Austria has demanded reparation, and the kaiser has reasserted Germany’s alliance with them. And of course the Russians are bound to be loyal to Serbia.”
The first heavy drops of rain spattered on the leaves, and far in the distance thunder rattled like a heavy cart over cobbles, jolting and jarring around the horizon.
“War,” Isenham said succinctly. “Drag us all in, damn it! Need to get ready for it. Prepare men and guns.”
“Did Father know that, do you think?” Matthew asked.
Isenham pursed his lips before responding. “Not sure, honestly.” It was an unfinished remark, as if he had stopped before he said too much.
Matthew waited.
Isenham looked unhappy, but he apparently realized he had to continue. “Seemed a trifle odd lately. Nervous, you know? He . . . er . . .” He shook his head. “The day before he died he expected war.” He was puzzled. “Not like him, not at all.” He increased his pace, his body stiff, shoulders straight. The rain was beating on the canopy of leaves above them and beginning to come through. “Sorry, Matthew, but there it is. Can’t lie about it. Definitely odd.”
“In what way?” Matthew asked, the words coming automatically as his mind raced to absorb this new information and at the same time defend himself from what it meant.
He was relieved that the weather made it so easy to stay with Isenham, although at the same time it allowed him no excuse to avoid asking still more searching questions. Thank goodness the house was no more than sixty yards away or they would get very wet indeed. Isenham bent forward and began to run. “Come on!” he shouted. “You’ll get soaked, man!”
They reached the gate of his garden and dashed through to open the front door. The path was already swimming in water, and the smell of hot, wet earth filled the air. Plants drooped under the fierceness of the storm as it drummed on the leaves.
As Matthew turned to close the gate behind him, he saw a man walking across the lane, coat collar turned up, dark face shining wet. Then the figure disappeared through the trees.
Matthew found Isenham inside and stood dripping in the hallway, surrounded by oak paneling, hunting prints, and leather straps with horse brasses in dozens of different designs.
“Thank you.” Matthew accepted the towel Isenham offered him and dried his hands and his face on it. The rain could not have come at a better time if he had designed it. “I think