No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [68]
Elwyn had turned on him instantly when Joseph had said something about fear, denying hotly that Sebastian was a coward, a charge that had never crossed Joseph’s mind. Should it have? Had Sebastian been afraid and felt unable to confide it to Joseph, who was supposed to be his friend? What was friendship worth if one had to wear a mask over the thoughts that really hurt?
Not a great deal. Without honesty, compassion, the will to understand, it was no more than an acquaintanceship, and not even a good one at that.
And Beecher’s forbearance was no better. There was pity in it, even kindness, but there was no equality, and certainly no respect.
“I wish I had known,” Joseph said bitterly. “Now all we are left with is that somebody hated him so uncontrollably they went to his room early in the morning and shot him in the head. That’s a very deep hatred, Harry. Not only did we not see it before, we can’t even see it now, and God knows I’m looking!”
The next day, late in the morning, Joseph called on Mary and Gerald Allard, still at the master’s house, at least until the funeral, which the police had held up because of the investigation. They had been acquaintances a long time. He could think of nothing to say that would ease their pain, but that did not excuse the need at least to express some care. Apart from that, he must learn anything from them he could that would help him to know Sebastian better.
“Come in,” Connie said as soon as the maid took Joseph from the front hall into her quiet sitting room. He saw immediately that none of the Allards was there. The moment could be put off a little longer, and he was ashamed of being so relieved.
“Do sit down, Dr. Reavley.” She looked at him with a smile, as if she read his thoughts and sympathized with them.
He accepted. The room was wildly eclectic. Of course it was part of the college and could not be fundamentally altered, but Thyer’s taste was conservative, and most of the house was furnished accordingly. However, this room was hers, and a Spanish flamenco dancer whirled in a glare of scarlet in the painting over the mantelpiece. It burst with vitality. It was crudely painted and really rather in bad taste, but the colors were gorgeous. Joseph knew Thyer loathed it. He had given her a modern, expensive impressionist painting that he disliked himself, but he thought it would please her, and at least be fit to hang in the house. She had accepted it graciously and put it in the dining room. Perhaps Joseph was the only one who knew that she did not like it, either.
Now he sat down next to the Moroccan blanket in rich earth tones and made himself comfortable, disregarding a tall brass hookah on the table beside him. Oddly, he found the mood of the room both unique and comfortable.
“How is Mrs. Allard?” he asked.
“Plunging between grief and fury,” she answered with wry honesty. “I don’t know what to do for her. The master has to continue with his duties to the rest of the college, of course, but I have been doing what little I can to offer some physical care to her, though I confess I feel helpless.” She gave him a sudden, candid smile. “I’m so glad you’ve come! I’m at my wits’ end. I never know if what I’m saying is right or wrong.”
He felt vaguely conspiratorial; it eased the moment. “Where is she?” he asked.
“In the Fellows’ Garden,” she replied. “That policeman was questioning her yesterday, and she was berating him for his failure to arrest anyone yet.” Her eyes became serious, and the soft lines of her mouth pulled a little tighter with pity. “She said there couldn’t be more than one or two people who hated Sebastian.” Her voice dropped. “I’m afraid that’s not really true. He was not always a comfortable person at all. I look at that poor girl, Miss Coopersmith, and I wonder what she is feeling. I can read nothing in her face, and Mrs. Allard is too consumed in her own loss to spare her anything but the most perfunctory attention.”
Joseph was not surprised, but he was sorry.
“Poor Elwyn is doing all he can,” Connie went on.