No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [69]
He understood perfectly, but he was not prepared to let her see that, not yet. He had a wrenching pity for Gerald’s weakness, and it forced him to conceal it, even from Connie.
He rose to his feet. “Thank you. You have given me a few moments to collect my thoughts. I think I had better go and speak to Mrs. Allard, even if it doesn’t do much good.”
She nodded and walked with him through to the passage and the side door into the garden. He thanked her again and went out into the sun and the motionless, perfumed heat, where the flowers blazed in a profusion of reds and purples and billowed across the carefully paved walks between the beds. Flaming nasturtiums spilled out of an old terra-cotta urn left on its side. Spires of blue salvia made a solemn background to a riot of pansies, faces jostling for attention. Delphiniums towered almost to eye level, and ragged pinks cast up a giddy perfume. A butterfly staggered by like a happy drunkard, and the droning of bees was a steady, somnolent music in the background.
Mary Allard was standing in the center looking at the dark burgundy moss roses. She was dressed entirely in black, and Joseph could not help thinking how insufferably hot she must have been. In spite of the sun, she had no parasol, and she was also unveiled. The harsh light exposed the tiny lines in her skin, all dragging tight and downward, betraying the pain eating inside her.
“Mrs. Allard,” he said quietly.
From the sudden rigidity of her body under the silk, she had obviously not been aware of his presence. She swiveled around to face him. “Reverend Reavley!” There was a challenge in her bearing and the directness of her eyes.
It was going to be more difficult than he had imagined.
“I came by to see you,” he began, knowing he was being trite.
“Do you know anything more about who killed Sebastian?” she demanded. “That policeman is useless!”
Joseph changed his mind. Any attempt at comfort was doomed to failure. Instead he would pursue his own need, which was also hers.
“What does he think?” he asked her.
She was startled, as if she had expected him to argue with her and insist that Perth was doing his best, or at the very least defend him by pointing out how difficult his task was.
“He’s going around looking for reasons to hate Sebastian,” she answered witheringly. “Envy, that’s the only reason. I told him that, but he doesn’t listen.”
“Academic?” he asked. “Personal? Over anything in particular?”
“Why?” She took half a step toward him. “Do you know something?”
“No, I don’t,” he said. “But I want very much to find out who killed Sebastian, for a lot of reasons.”
“To cover your own failure!” She spat the word. “That’s all that’s left. We sent him here to learn. That was your idea! We trusted you with him, and you let some creature kill him. I want justice!” Tears filled her eyes, and she turned away from him. “Nothing can bring him back,” she said hoarsely. “But I want whoever did it to suffer.”
Joseph could not defend himself. She was right; he had failed to protect Sebastian because he had seen only what he wanted to see, not any of the darker envies or hatreds that had to have been there. He had thought he was dealing with reality, a higher, saner view of man. In truth, he had been looking for his own comfort.
It was also pointless to argue about justice or to tell her that it would ease nothing. It was morally wrong, and she would almost certainly never know all the truths of what had happened. It would only add to her anger to tell her that mercy was the better part, just as she herself would need mercy when her own judgment should come. She was not listening. And if he was honest, his own rage at violence and senseless death was so close beneath the surface of his words that he would have been a hypocrite to preach to her. He could not forget how he had felt when he