No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [72]
Joseph saw Sebastian’s face in the fading light again, as clearly as if he had been in the room with them.
“Yes, I know he did.”
“I wonder if he would be surprised to see how much turmoil he’s left behind.” She gave a tiny laugh, almost like a hiccup. “We are tearing ourselves apart trying to find out who killed him, and you know, I’m not sure if I want to succeed. Is that wicked of me, irresponsible?”
“I don’t think we have a choice,” he answered. “We are going to be forced to know.”
“I’m afraid of that!” She stared at him, searching his face.
“Yes,” he agreed. “So am I.”
CHAPTER
SEVEN
On the evening of Friday, July 17, Matthew again left London and drove north toward Cambridge. It was a fine evening, with a slight wind piling clouds into bright towers of light high up in a cobalt sky—a perfect time to be on the road, once he had left the confines of the city. Long stretches opened up ahead of him, and he increased speed until the wind tore at his hair and stung his cheeks and in his imagination he thought what it would be like to fly.
He reached Cambridge at about quarter past seven. He came in on the Trumpington Road with the river on his left and Lammas Land beyond, past Fitzwilliam, Peterhouse, Pembroke, Corpus Christi, and up the broad elegance of King’s Parade with shops and houses to the right, and intricate wrought iron railings to the left. He passed the ornate spires of the screen that walled off the Front Court of King’s College, then the classical perfection of the Senate House, with Great Saint Mary’s opposite.
He pulled up at the main gate of St. John’s and climbed out of the seat. He walked stiffly to the porter’s lodge and was about to tell Mitchell who he was and that he had come to see Joseph, when Mitchell recognized him.
Within a quarter of an hour his car was safely parked and he was sitting in Joseph’s rooms. The sun made bright patches on the carpet and picked out the gold lettering on the books in the case. The college cat, Bertie, sat with his eyes closed in the warmth, and every now and again his tail gave a slight twitch.
Joseph sat in shadow. Even so, Matthew could see the weariness and the pain of uncertainty etched in his face. His eyes looked hollow in spite of his high cheekbones. His cheeks were thin and there were shadows that had nothing to do with the darkness of his hair.
“Do they know who killed Sebastian yet?” Matthew asked.
Joseph shook his head.
“How’s Mary Allard? Someone told me she came here.”
“She and Gerald are staying at the master’s house. The funeral was today. It was ghastly.”
“They haven’t gone home?”
“They’re still hoping the police will find something any day.”
Matthew looked at him with concern. He seemed to lack all vitality, as if something inside him were exhausted. “Joe, you look bloody awful!” he said abruptly. “Are you going to be all right?” It was a pointless question, but he had to ask. He had some idea of how fond Joseph had been of Sebastian Allard, and of his acute sense of responsibility, perhaps taken too personally. Was this additional blow too much for him?
Joseph raised his eyes. “Probably.” He rubbed his hand over his forehead. “It just takes a day or two. There doesn’t seem to be any sense in this. I feel as if everything is slithering out of my grasp.”
Matthew leaned forward a little. “Sebastian Allard was extraordinarily gifted, and he could be more charming than anyone else I can think of, but he wasn’t perfect. Nobody is entirely good—or bad. Someone killed Sebastian, and it’s a tragedy, but it’s not inexplicable. There’ll be an answer that makes as much sense as most things ever do . . . when we know it.”
Joseph straightened up. “I expect so. Do you suppose reason is going to be any comfort?