No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [65]
“And you can’t afford to be,” Joseph replied. “Who hated Sebastian?”
“That’s blunt!”
“I think it would be better if we knew before Perth did, don’t you?”
Thyer put down his cup again and regarded Joseph steadily. “Actually, more people than you would care to think. You were very fond of him, knowing the family, and perhaps he showed you the best of himself for that reason.”
Joseph took a long breath. “And who saw the other side?” Unwittingly, Harry Beecher’s wry, familiar face came to his mind, sitting on the bench in the Pickerel, watching the boats on the river in the evening light, and the sudden tightness in his voice.
Thyer considered for a moment. “Most people, one way or another. Oh, his work was brilliant, you were right about that, and you perceived it long before anyone else. He had the potential to be excellent one day, possibly one of the great poets of the English language. But he had a long way to go to any kind of emotional maturity.” He shrugged. “Not that emotional maturity is any necessity for a poet. One could hardly claim it for Byron or Shelley, to name but two. And I rather think that both of them probably escaped murder more by luck than virtue.”
“That is not very specific,” Joseph said, wishing he could leave it all to Perth and never know more than simply who had done it, not why. But it was already too late for that.
Thyer sighed. “Well, there’s always the question of women, I suppose. Sebastian was good-looking, and he enjoyed exercising his charm and the power it gave him. Perhaps in time he would have learned to govern it, or on the other hand it might have grown worse. It takes a very fine character indeed to have power and refrain from using it. He was a long way from that yet.” His face tightened until it was curiously bleak. “And of course there is always the possibility that it was not a woman but a man. It happens, particularly in a place like Cambridge. An older man, a student who is full of vitality and dreams, hunger . . .” He stopped. Further explanation was unnecessary.
Joseph heard a sound in the doorway and swiveled around to see Connie standing behind him, her face grave, a flash of anger in her dark eyes.
“Good morning, Dr. Reavley.” She came in and closed the door behind her with a snap. She was wearing a deep lavender morning dress, suitable both for the heat and for the tragedy of her houseguests. The sweeping lines of it, impossibly slender at the knees, became her rich figure, and the color flattered her complexion. Even in these circumstances it was a pleasure to look at her.
“Really, Aidan, if you have to be so candid, you might at least do it with more discretion!” she said sharply, coming further into the room. “What if Mrs. Allard had overheard you? She can’t bear to hear anything but praise for him, which I suppose is natural enough in the circumstances. I don’t suppose the boy was a saint—few of us are—but that is how she needs to see him at the moment. And apart from unnecessary cruelty to her, I don’t want a case of hysteria on my hands.” She turned away from her husband, possibly without seeing the shadow in his face, as if he had received a blow he half expected. “Would you like some breakfast, Dr. Reavley?” she invited. “It won’t be the least difficulty to have Cook prepare you something.”
“No, thank you.” Joseph felt discomforted for having wanted Thyer to be candid, and a degree of embarrassment at having witnessed a moment of personal pain. “I am afraid the master’s comments were my fault,” he said to Connie. “I was asking him because I feel we need to have the truth, if possible before the police uncover every mistake of judgment by a student—or one of us, for that matter.” He was talking too much, explaining unnecessarily, but he could not stop.
Connie sat down at the head of the table, managing the restriction of her skirts with extraordinary grace, and Joseph was aware of the faint lily-of-the-valley perfume she wore. He felt a wave of loss for Alys that