No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [74]
Joseph hesitated a moment or two before speaking. “Be careful,” was all he said.
Matthew spent the evening at home in St. Giles, and he telephoned Corcoran to ask if he could call the next day. He received an immediate invitation to dinner, which he accepted unhesitatingly.
He was glad of a lazy morning, and he and Judith dealt with a number of small duties. Then in the hot, still afternoon they took Henry and walked together to the churchyard and on through the lanes, Henry scuffling happily in the deep grasses on either side. The wild rose petals had mostly fallen.
Matthew changed for dinner early and was glad to be able to put the top down on the car and drive the ten or twelve miles to Corcoran’s magnificent home. As he passed through Grantchester, a dozen or more youths were still practicing cricket in the lengthening sun, to the cheers and occasional shouts of a handful of watchers. Girls in pinafore dresses dangled hats by their ribbons. Three miles further on, children were sailing wooden boats in the village duck pond. A hurdy-gurdy man cranked out music, and an ice cream seller was packing his barrow to go home, his wares gone, his purse heavy.
Matthew crossed the main road between Cambridge and the west, then a mile and a half further along he swung off just short of Madingley, and in through the gates of Corcoran’s house. He had barely stepped out of the car when the butler appeared, solemn-faced and punctilious.
“Good evening, Captain Reavley. How pleasant to see you, sir. We have been expecting you. Have you anything you wish carried, sir?”
“No, thank you.” Matthew declined with a smile, reaching into the car to pick up the box of Orla’s favorite Turkish delight from the passenger seat. “I’ll manage these myself.”
“Yes, sir. Then if you leave your keys, I’ll see that Parley puts your car away safely. If you’d like to come this way, sir?”
Matthew followed him under the portico and up the shallow steps, through the door and into the wide, stone-flagged hallway, black and white squared like a chessboard. A full suit of medieval armor stood beside the carved newel post at the right-hand side of the mahogany staircase, its helmet catching the sun through the oval window on the landing.
Matthew dropped the car keys onto the tray the butler was holding, then turned as the study door opened and Shanley Corcoran appeared.
A wide smile lit Corcoran’s face and he came forward, extending both his hands. “I’m so glad you could come,” he said enthusiastically, searching Matthew’s face. “How are you? Come in and sit down!” He indicated the study doorway, and without waiting for a reply he led the way in.
The room was typical of the man—exuberant. The books and artifacts were highly individual, and there were also scientific curiosities and exquisite works of art. There was a Russian icon, all gold and umber and black. Above the fireplace hung an Italian old master drawing of a man riding a donkey, probably Jesus entering Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. An astrolabe made of silver, polished bright, stood on the mahogany Pembroke table by the wall, and an illustrated copy of Chaucer on the drum table in the center of the room.
“Sit down, sit down,” Corcoran invited, gesturing toward the other chair.
Matthew sank back into it, at ease already in the familiar room with its happy memories. It was quarter past seven, and he knew dinner would be served by eight. There was no time to waste on a preparatory conversation. “Did you hear about the death of Sebastian Allard?” he asked. “His family is devastated. I don’t suppose it will begin to heal until they find out what happened. I know how they feel.”
Corcoran’s face darkened. “I understand your grief.” His voice was very gentle. “I miss John. He was one of the kindest, most honest men I knew. I can’t begin