No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [84]
Matthew did not allow his gratitude to show. Shearing should not think him too much in debt. “Thank you, sir. I’ll report when I have something.” He turned on his heel before Shearing could add anything, and went out, closing the door behind him. He felt a curious sense of freedom, and of danger.
Matthew began immediately and his first call was exactly as Chetwin had suggested, to Dermot Sandwell. Matthew asked if he might see him as a matter of urgency, to do with the king’s announcement today of his support for the Ulster Loyalists. He gave his name and rank, and that he was on assignment to the Secret Intelligence Service. There was no point in hiding it because Sandwell could very easily find out and would be extremely unlikely to receive him at all otherwise.
He had to wait only fifteen minutes before he was taken into first the outer office and then the inner. It was a handsome room overlooking Horseguards’ Parade, furnished with an extremely individual and pleasing mixture of classical and Middle Eastern styles. A burr walnut desk was flanked by Queen Anne chairs. Turkish brassware sat on an Italian petra dura table. Persian miniatures painted on bone decorated one wall, and above the fireplace was a minor Turner of exquisite beauty, and probably worth as much money as Matthew would earn in a decade.
Sandwell himself was tall and very slight, but there was a wiry grace to him that suggested strength. His hair and skin were fair, and his eyes were a uniquely vivid blue. There was an intensity to his face that would have made him unusual even were the rest of him ordinary. It would have held the attention of anyone who had been in his company for more than a few moments.
He came forward and shook Matthew’s hand, his grip firm, then he stepped back.
“What can I do for you, Reavley?” He waved at the chair to indicate Matthew was to sit, then sat back again in his own, his eyes not leaving Matthew’s face. He continued to create a life and a tension in the room while remaining perfectly motionless. Matthew noticed that there was a mosaic ashtray on the desk, with at least half a dozen cigarette ends in it.
“As you know, sir, His Majesty has expressed his support for the Ulster Loyalists,” he began. “And we are concerned that in doing so he may have placed himself in a certain amount of danger from Nationalists.”
“I should think that is beyond doubt,” Sandwell agreed, with only the smallest flicker of impatience across his face.
“We have cause, insubstantial but sufficient to concern us, that there may be a plot to assassinate him,” Matthew went on.
Sandwell was motionless, but something inside him became even more rigid. “Have you, indeed? I admit that in itself it does not surprise me, but I had no idea they were so . . . daring! Do you know who is behind it?”
“That’s what I’m working on,” Matthew answered. “There are several possibilities, but the one that seems most likely so far is a man named Patrick Hannassey.”
“A Nationalist with a long history of activity,” Sandwell agreed. “I’ve had slight dealings with him myself, but not lately.”
“No one has seen him for over two months,” Matthew said drily. “Which is one of the facts that concerns us. He has dropped out of sight so completely that none of our contacts knows where he is.”
“So what is it you want from me?” Sandwell asked.
“Any information you might have on Hannassey’s past contacts,” Matthew replied. “Anything about him we might not know—foreign connections, friends, enemies, weaknesses . . .” He had decided not to mention Michael Neill. Never pass on information you do not have to.
Finally Sandwell spoke. His voice was quiet and rough-edged. “Hannassey fought in the Boer War . . . on the Boer side, of course. He was captured by the British and held in a concentration camp for some time. I don’t know how long, but several months at least. If you’d seen that