No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [57]
“I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t want to let down an old friend. Remember him as he was, Matthew.”
“Was it really so bad?” It was barely within Matthew’s control not to lash back.
Isenham flushed. “No, of course not! Just . . . just a misinterpretation of facts, I think. A touch overdramatic, out of proportion. After all . . .” He was trying to make it better, and failing. “We’ve always had wars here or there over the last thousand years or so. It’s our national spirit, our destiny, if you like.” His voice lifted with his own belief. “We’ll survive it. We always do. It’ll be nasty for a while, but I daresay it won’t last more than a few months.”
It was clear to Matthew that Isenham was aware of having revealed his friend’s weakness to the man’s own son, and when John Reavley was not here to defend himself. “I’m sure in a little while he would have seen that,” he added lamely.
Matthew leaned forward, elbows on the table. “What was it he thought?” He felt his heart hammering.
“That’s it,” Isenham said, shaking his head from side to side. “He wasn’t clear. Honestly, Matthew, I don’t think he knew! I think . . . I didn’t want to say this, but you force me to.” He looked resentful, his face red even under his windburn. “I think he got hold of half an idea and imagined the rest. He wouldn’t tell me what it was because I don’t think he could. But it had something to do with honor . . . and he wanted war. There! I’m sorry. I knew it would hurt you, but you insisted.”
It was preposterous. John Reavley would never countenance war, no matter what anyone had done. It was barbaric, revolting! It was utterly unlike anything he believed in and had fought for all his life, against all the decency he had treasured, nurtured, every human faith he had professed! The very reason at the heart of his hatred of the intelligence services was what he saw as their dishonesty, then manipulation of people to serve nationalist ends, and ultimately to make war more likely.
“He wouldn’t want war!” Matthew said aloud, his voice shaking. The mere idea tore away all that was certain inside him.
But then, how well had he known his father? How many children knew their fathers as men, as fighters, lovers, friends? Do children ever become old enough to see clearly beyond the tie of love?
“He wouldn’t ever want war!” Matthew repeated intensely, fixing Isenham with a glare.
Isenham nodded. “He had half a story and he wasn’t making sense of it. He was a good man. Remember that, Matthew, and forget the rest.” He took another bite of bread and pickle, then helped himself to more meat, speaking with his mouth full. “This kind of tension makes everyone a bit jumpy. Fear does different things to people. Some run away. Some go forward to meet it before it’s there—can’t bear the suspense. Seems John was one of those. Seen it out on the hunting field sometimes, more in the army. Takes a strong man to wait.”
Matthew felt the accusation of weakness scald with a pain almost physical. John Reavley was not weak! Matthew drew in his breath in a gasp, longing to retort with something that would crush the notion out of existence, but he could not find even an idea, let alone words.
“There are no grand conspiracies, only nasty little plots now and then,” Isenham continued, as if unaware of the emotions raging inside Matthew. “He wasn’t in government anymore, and I think he missed it. But look around you.” He waved his free hand. “What could be going on here?”
The truth sank in on Matthew with a slowly crushing weight: Isenham was probably right, and the harder he struggled against the realization, the tighter it coiled around him.
“You should remember the best in him, Matthew,” Isenham said. “That was what he was really like.”
Then Isenham deliberately changed the subject, and Matthew allowed the conversation to move to other matters: the weather, people in the village, an upcoming cricket