No Graves as Yet_ A Novel - Anne Perry [85]
His blue eyes flashed up and held Matthew’s with a storm of feeling that his casual, easy elegance had completely masked. “Civilization is thin, Captain Reavley, desperately thin, a veneer like a single coat of paint, but it is all we have between us and the darkness.” His long-fingered, almost delicate hands were clenched, the knuckles pale where the skin stretched. “We must hold on to it at any cost, because if we lose it, we face chaos.”
His voice was soft, but it contained a contempt he could not control. “Believe me, Captain Reavley, civilization can all be swept away and we can turn into savages so hideous it is a horror you can never wipe from your soul.” Now his voice was little more than a whisper. “You wake up sweating in the night, your skin crawling, but the nightmare is inside you, for the possibility that this is what we are all like . . . underneath the smiling masks.”
Matthew could offer no argument. Sandwell was speaking about something of which he had no knowledge. He had heard only fragments of accusation and denial, rumors of ugliness that belonged to another world and other, far different people.
Sandwell smiled, but it was a grimace, an attempt to conceal again a little of the passion he had allowed to show itself too nakedly. “We must grasp civilization, Reavley, pay any price to keep it for ourselves and those who come after us. Guard the gates of sanity so madness does not return. We can do that for each other . . . we must. If we can’t, there is nothing else worth doing. You want to find Hannassey, I’ll help you. If he assassinates the king, God only knows what hatred will follow! We could even end up with martial law, the persecution of thousands of totally innocent Irish people, simply by association. As it is, it’s going to take the effort of every good man in Europe to keep the lid on this Austro-Serbian affair, after the assassination of the archduke. Neither side can afford to back down, and they are both gathering allies everywhere they can: Russia for the Serbs, Germany for the Austrians—naturally.”
He reached for a black leather cigarette case and took out a cigarette so automatically he seemed unaware of doing it. He lit it and drew in a deep draft of smoke. “As well as the Irish, you might look toward some of the socialist groups,” he continued. “Men like Hannassey take their allies anywhere they find them. Socialist aspiration is far greater than many people think. There’s Jaurès, Rosa Luxemburg, Adler, unrest everywhere. I’ll give you what help I can—all the information this office has is at your disposal—but time is short . . . desperately so.”
“Thank you, sir,” Matthew said simply. He was profoundly grateful. Suddenly he was lurching forward with a frightening speed. From being alone he had moved to having one of the most discreetly powerful men in foreign affairs willing to listen to him and to share information. Perhaps the truth was only just beyond sight. In days, a week at most, he would face the truth of his parents’ death. John Reavley had been right—there was a conspiracy.
“Thank you, sir,” he repeated, rising to his feet. “I appreciate that very much.” Small words to convey the excitement and the apprehension inside him.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
On Monday, July 20, Joseph spent the morning in a lively albeit erratic discussion with half a dozen students in which he doubted anyone learned very much.
He found himself enervated by the exchange as he walked back across the quad toward his own room, eager for the peace of familiar books and pictures, and above all the silence. He was fourteen or fifteen years older than most of the young men he had been with, but today it seemed more than a generation. They were frightened, perhaps of the thought of war in Europe, even though it was distant and problematical.
Far more immediate was the