No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [77]
“Matthew, my dear,” she said with a smile. “How good it is to see you.” She regarded him more closely. “But you are looking a little tired. Have you been working too hard with all this wretched business in eastern Europe? The Austrians don’t seem to manage their affairs very well. I do hope they don’t draw us all into their mess.”
“I’m in good health, thank you,” he said, taking her hand and touching it to his lips. “Unfortunately they haven’t given me anything so interesting to do. I fear I may be picking up the domestic duties of others who are sent off to exotic parts.”
“Oh, you really don’t want to go to Serbia!” she said instantly. “It would take you ages to get there, and then you wouldn’t understand a word they said.” She turned to Corcoran. “Dinner is about to be served. Do come through, and talk about pleasanter things. Have you been to the theater lately? Last week we saw Lady Randolph Churchill’s new play at the Prince of Wales.” She led the way across the hall, passing a maid dressed in black with a crisp white lace-edged apron apparently without seeing her. “Very mixed, I thought,” she went on. “Lots of drama, but a bit thin on skill here and there.”
“You are repeating exactly what the reviewers say, my dear,” Corcoran remarked with amusement.
“Then perhaps for once they are right!” she retorted, leading the way into the splendid rose-and-gold dining room.
The long mahogany table was very simple, in the classic style of Adam. The mahogany chairs’ high, tapered backs echoed the lines of the windows. The curtains were drawn, hiding the view across the garden and the fields beyond.
They took their seats, and the first course was served. Since it was high summer and in the nature of a family meal rather than a formal one, a cold collation was quite acceptable. The second course was grilled trout and fresh vegetables, with a light German wine, dry and very delicate.
Matthew passed the natural compliments to the cook, but he meant them with great sincerity.
The conversation meandered over a dozen subjects: the latest novels published, accounts of travel in North Africa, more local gossip of Cambridgeshire families, the likelihood of a cold winter after such a glorious summer, anything but Ireland or Europe. Eventually they touched on Turkey, but only as a possible site for the ruins of what was once the great city of Troy.
“Wasn’t that where Ivor Chetwin went?” Orla asked, turning to Corcoran.
Corcoran glanced at Matthew, then back to his wife. “I don’t know,” he answered.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” she said impatiently, spearing a slice of nectarine with her fork. “Matthew knows perfectly well that John quarreled with Ivor. You don’t have to tiptoe around it as if it were a hole he would fall into.” She turned to Matthew, the fork still in her hand. “Ivor and your father used to be very good friends, nine or ten years ago. They both knew a man called Galliford, Galliard, something like that. He was doing something serious that he shouldn’t, I don’t know what. They never tell you.” She ate the last of the nectarine quickly. “But Ivor told the authorities about it and the man was arrested.”
Corcoran drew in his breath, seemingly to interrupt, then apparently changed his mind. The damage was done.
“John never really forgave him for it,” Orla continued. “I don’t know why—after all, Galliford, or whatever his name was, was guilty of doing it. That was Ivor’s chance to join some branch or other of the secret services, and he took it. After that he and John never really spoke to each other, except to be polite. It was a great shame, because Ivor was a lovely man and they used to enjoy each other’s company.”
“It wasn’t that he caught Gallard,” Corcoran said quietly. “It was the way in which he did it that John couldn’t forgive. John was a very candid man—almost innocent, you might say. He expected a certain standard of honesty from other people.” He glanced at Matthew.
“Father never told me about Ivor Chetwin,” Matthew said. “Did he