No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [83]
A little before six Matthew went back to Shearing’s office, knowing he would find him still there.
“Yes?” Shearing looked up. His eyes were red-rimmed, his skin colorless.
“Patrick Hannassey,” Matthew replied, placing the papers on the desk in front of him. “I’d like your permission to go after him. He is the most serious threat to Blunden, because frankly he’s far cleverer. Blunden doesn’t react instinctively, but Hannassay’s capable of making him look like a coward, compared with Wynyard.”
“Denied,” Shearing answered him.
“But he’s—” Matthew began.
“I know,” Shearing cut him off. “And you’re right. But we don’t know where he is, and his own men will never betray him. For the time being he’s disappeared. Learn what you can about him, but discreetly, if there’s time. Go after Michael Neill, his lieutenant—you’ll get plenty of cooperation on that.”
There was a flatness in his voice that alarmed Matthew, a sense of defeat. “What is it?” he asked edgily.
“The king has backed the Loyalists,” Shearing answered, watching Matthew, bleak misery in his eyes. “Go and see if you can find out what Neill is up to, and if there’s anyone willing to betray him. Anything that will help.”
“Sir . . .”
“What?”
Should he mention John Reavley’s document? Was this what it was about, and he had the chance now to make it matter? Perhaps even to save the country from plunging into civil war? But Shearing might be part of it.
“Reavley, if you’ve got something to say, then say it!” Shearing snapped. “I haven’t got time to play nursemaid to your feelings! Get on with it, man!”
What could he say? That his father knew there was a conspiracy?
Shearing drew in his breath sharply, with a little hiss between his teeth, impatient, scratchy.
“Only that I think you’re right, sir,” Matthew said aloud. “One of my informants believed there was a conspiracy.”
“Then why the hell didn’t you mention it?” Shearing’s eyes were hot and black.
“Because he had no facts,” Matthew retorted with equal tartness. “No names, no dates, places, nothing but a belief.”
“Based on what?” Shearing glared at him, challenging him for a reply.
“I don’t know, sir. He was killed before he could tell me.” How hard the words were to say, even in anger.
“Killed?” Shearing said softly. Death of one of his own men, honor indirectly so, always hurt him more than Matthew expected. “How? Are you saying he was murdered for this piece of information?” His fury exploded in a snarl, full of helplessness he could no longer conceal. “What the hell’s the matter with you that you didn’t tell me? If your parents’ deaths have robbed you of this much of your wits, then . . .” He stopped.
In that instant Matthew knew that Shearing understood. Had he gone too far? Had he done precisely what his father had warned him against?
“Was it your father, Reavley?” Shearing asked, regret in his face now, something that might even have been pity.
There was no purpose in lying. Shearing would know, if not now, then later. It would destroy his trust and make Matthew look a fool, and it would gain nothing.
“Yes, sir,” he admitted. “But he was killed in a car accident on his way to see me. All I know is that he spoke of a conspiracy that would dishonor England.” It was ridiculous—he had trouble keeping his voice steady. “And it went as high as the royal family.” That was not all of the truth. He omitted the involvement of the world. That was only his father’s opinion, and perhaps he put too much importance on England’s place in things. He said nothing of the scars on the road and his certainty that it had been murder.
“I see.” In the low, slanting sunlight through the windows the tiny lines in Shearing’s skin were etched clearly. His emotion and his weariness were naked, but his thoughts were as hidden as always. “Then you’d better follow it up, find out all you can.” His lips tightened. It was impossible to imagine his thoughts. “I presume you will anyway. Do it properly.”
“And Neill?” Matthew asked. “Blunden?”
Shearing’s eyes were bright,