No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [56]
Isenham lifted his shoulders in a gesture of denial and took the towel back, dropping it on the floor by the cloakroom door along with his own. “He said something about plots, but frankly, Matthew, it was all a bit . . . fanciful.” He evidently had struggled to find a polite word, but the real meaning was plain in his face. He shook his head. “Most of our disasters came from good, old-fashioned British blunders. We don’t plot our way into wars. We trip over our own feet and fall into them by accident.” He winced, looking apologetic, and rubbed his hand over his wet hair. “Win in the end, on the principle that God looks after fools and drunkards. Presumably he has a soft spot for us as well.”
“You don’t think he could have found something?”
Isenham’s face tightened. “No. He lost the thread a bit, honestly. He rambled on about the mutiny in the Curragh—at least that’s what I think he was talking about. Wasn’t very clear, you know. Said it would get a lot worse, hinted that it would end in a conflagration that could engulf all England, even Europe.” He colored with embarrassment. “Nonsense, you see? War minister resigned and all that, I know, but hardly Europe in flames. Don’t suppose anyone across the Channel gives a damn about it one way or the other. Got their own problems. You’d better stay for a bite of lunch,” he added, looking at Matthew’s sodden shoulders and feet. “I’ve got a telephone. Call Judith and let her know.”
He turned and led the way to the dining room, where his housekeeper had laid out cold meat, pickles, fresh bread and butter, a newly baked pie that had barely cooled, and a jug of thick cream.
“Sufficient for two, I think,” he pronounced. He ignored his own wet clothes because he could do nothing about Matthew’s. It was part of his code of hospitality that he should sit to dine in dripping trouser legs, because his guest was obliged to do so.
“You don’t think the Irish situation could escalate?” Matthew said when they were halfway through the excellent cold lamb and he had taken the edge off his hunger.
“To involve Europe? Not a chance of it. Domestic matter. Always has been.” Isenham took another mouthful and swallowed before continuing. “I’m sorry, but poor old John was a bit misled. Ran off with the wrong end of things. It happens.”
It was the note of pity in his voice that Matthew could not bear. He thought of his father and saw his face as vividly as if he had left the room only minutes before, grave and gentle, his eyes as direct as Judith’s. He had a quick temper at times and he suffered fools badly, but he was a man without guile. To hear him spoken of with such condescension hurt fiercely, and Matthew was instantly defensive.
“What do you mean?” he demanded. “What happens?” He heard the anger inside himself and knew he had to control it. He was sitting in Isenham’s house, eating his food, and more important than that, he needed his help. “What was it he was afraid of?”
“Best leave it,” Isenham replied, looking down at his plate and very carefully balancing a piece of pickle on the crust of his bread.
“Are you saying he was deluded?” The instant it was out, he wished he had chosen a word less pejorative. He was betraying his own hurt, as well as leaving himself unguarded. It sabotaged his purpose. He was angry with himself. He had more skill than that!
Isenham raised his eyes, hot and miserable. “No, no, of course not. He was just . . . a little jumpy. I daresay we all are, what with the army mutinying, and then all this violence in the Balkans.”
“Father didn’t know about the archduke,” Matthew pointed out. “He and Mother were killed that day themselves.”
“Killed?” Isenham asked.
Matthew amended it instantly. “When the car went off the road.”
“Of course. I’m . . . I’m sorrier than I can say. Look, wouldn’t you rather—”
“No. I’d like to know what he was worried about. You see, he mentioned it to me, but only briefly.” Was that a risk? It was a deliberate one.