Shoulder the Sky_ A Novel - Anne Perry [110]
He had a quick meal at the railway station, and went to Cambridge on the afternoon train, arriving a little after three. Fortunately the day on which John and Alys Reavley were killed was one that would be remembered in England as long as recorded history lasted. That day an assassination had occurred in the Balkans that had precipitated the last hectic plunge toward a war which seemed as if it must be the end of the world as Europe knew it, and the beginning of something unknown, perhaps swifter, darker, and immeasurably uglier.
It did not take long for him to find a driver to take him to the village, and the public house where Hannah had said Sebastian and Laetitia Dawson had been seen.
“A fine lookin’ lass, all right,” the publican agreed, looking from the picture to Cullingford with respect. He was in uniform, as thousands of other men were, but in his case because he had not had time, or inclination, to go home. He wanted to deal with this matter first, and if he was honest, he had no desire to see Nerys, and be obliged to put on the mask that for her sake hid his feelings. It was an effort he was uncertain he could sustain, and he was too tired, too emotionally raw to try.
“Do you remember her?” Cullingford asked patiently.
“Don’t see ’er much these days,” the publican replied. “Busy, I s’pose. Most folk are.”
“I am trying to understand an event that happened a little under a year ago, in order to clear someone of a certain blame,” Cullingford elaborated with something of a slant to the truth. “I’m sure you remember the day of the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand . . .”
The publican rolled his eyes. “Do I ever? Hardly goin’ to forget that!”
“I imagine no one is,” Cullingford agreed. “Did you see this woman the day before that?” He remembered Judith’s description of Sebastian Allard. “She may have been in the company of a young man, tall also, very good-looking indeed, fair brown hair, sunburned, looked like a poet, a dreamer.”
The publican smiled. “Oh yeah! I remember him. Right handsome, he was. Odd, because I’ve never see’d ’im since. I s’pose he’s gone to war—like most of ’em.” His face flooded with sadness and he blinked several times. He polished the glass in his hand so hard he was fortunate not to snap it. “I’d like to think ’e weren’t killed. ’E had such a look to ’im, as if ’e were alight with something inside ’isself.” He shook his head. “An’ it weren’t love, like you see all the time in young folk. It were bigger than that, like you said, a dream. An’ ’e and she were friendly, but no more’n that. An’ she were proper ’andsome, too, but a bit tall for a girl, to my taste. Does that ’elp you?”
“Yes,” Cullingford said quickly. “Yes, thank you.” It was what he needed to know. He would take it to Matthew Reavley. It was his task to know how to arrest the Peacemaker, or what else to do about him. But at least now he would know who he was. His power would be curtailed forever. Perhaps they would do something discreet, no open accusation, certainly no trial.
He thanked the publican again and gave him a handsome tip for his time, then he walked outside into the sun.
Did people commit suicide out of honor anymore, if they were found in treason? Certainly the government could never let it be known. Would someone offer him a sword or a gun? It would be the best way.
The driver was waiting for him, and he went back to the station to catch the next train to London. He should have thought to ask Judith for Matthew’s address, but he had not wanted to tell her what he intended to do. Any questions, and she might have guessed. Now he would have to telephone one of his friends in the Intelligence Services and ask. It was only a temporary setback.
The journey back from Cambridge was very pleasant. He let himself drift off into sleep. He woke with a start to find himself already on the outskirts of the city. He would have to find a hotel tonight, and perhaps go home