No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [64]
“I don’t have an active ministry now,” Joseph explained, surprised by the pang of guilt it caused him, like a captain having left his ship in bad weather, and before his crew. That was ridiculous; what he was doing here was just as important a job, and one to which he was far better suited.
“Still ordained, though, aren’t you.” Perth made it a statement.
“Yes.”
“You must be a good judge o’ folk, an’ Oi dare say as they trust you more’n most, tell you things?”
“Sometimes,” Joseph said carefully, aware with a biting hollowness that he had been confided in very little, or he would not be as confused as he was by this eruption of violence. “But a confidence is precisely that, Inspector, and I would not break it. However, I can tell you that I have no idea who killed Sebastian Allard, or why.”
Perth nodded slowly. “Oi took that for granted, sir. But you know these young men mebbe better’n anyone else.”
“I don’t know of any reason!” Joseph protested. “Being a minister means that people tend not to tell you their uglier thoughts!” He realized with dismay how profoundly that was true. How many things had he been blind to? For how long? Years? Had his own pain made him retreat from reality into uselessness? Then, without grasping the fullness of what he said, he spoke with sudden intensity. “But I shall find out! I ought to have known!” He meant it, savagely, with the intensity of a drowning man’s need for air. Perth might need to solve Sebastian’s murder for his professional reputation, or even to prove that town was as good as gown, but Joseph needed to do it for his belief in reason and the power of men to rise above chaos.
Perth nodded slowly, but his eyes were wide and unblinking. “Very good, Reverend.” He drew in his breath as if about to add something more, then just nodded again.
After Perth had gone, Joseph began to appreciate the enormity of what he had promised himself. There was no point in waiting for people to reveal some anger or resentment against Sebastian. They had not done so before; they certainly would not now. He had to go and investigate for himself.
The first person he spoke to was Aidan Thyer. He found him at home finishing a late breakfast. He looked tired and flustered, his fair hair more faded by gray than had been apparent at a glance, his face unrefreshed by sleep. He looked up at Joseph in surprise as the maid showed him into the dining room.
“Good morning, Reavley. Nothing wrong, I hope?”
“Nothing new,” Joseph replied a trifle drily.
“Tea?” Thyer offered.
“Thank you.” Joseph sat down, not because he particularly wanted tea, but it obliged the master to continue the conversation. “How are Gerald and Mary?”
Thyer’s face tightened. “Inconsolable. I suppose it’s natural. I can’t imagine what it is like to lose a son, let alone in such a way.” He took another bite of his toast. “Connie’s doing everything she can, but nothing makes the slightest difference.”
“I suppose one of the worst things is realizing that someone hated him so much they resorted to murder. I admit, I had no idea there was such a passion in anyone.” Joseph poured himself tea from the silver pot and sipped it tentatively. It was very hot; obviously someone had refilled it. “Which shows that I was paying far too little attention.”
Thyer looked at him with surprise. “I had no idea, either! For God’s sake, do you think that if I had—”
“No! Of course not,” Joseph said quickly. “But you might at least have been more aware than I of an undercurrent of emotion, a rivalry, an insult, real or imagined, or some kind of a threat.” The truth embarrassed him, and it was hard to admit. “I had my head so buried in their academic work that I paid too little attention to their other thoughts or feelings. Perhaps you didn’t?”
“You’re an idealist,