Shoulder the Sky_ A Novel - Anne Perry [19]
The porter nodded. He was a quiet man, stolid, fond of a quiet beer in the evenings, and a walk beside the river. “We’ve got a few of our young men there. Many in France, too, o’ course. An’ Gallipoli. It isn’t like it used to be. Don’t hear young people laughing around the place like it was, playin’ the fool, an’ gettin’ up to tricks.” He sighed, his blunt face full of loss. “Daft, half the time. No harm in ’em, mind, just high spirits. Dead now, some of ’em. Young Mowbray, what was studyin’ history, lost both his feet. Frostbite, they said it was, then gangrene. Don’t think of that in war, do you! Think of shots, and things like that.” He took a deep breath. “That’s the master’s house, sir. He’s expecting you.”
Matthew thanked him and walked across the short space to the door. It opened the moment he knocked on it. A maid of about sixteen led him into the dining room where French doors opened onto the master’s garden. It was presently filled with pruned rosebushes, bare-sticked, waiting for the spring, and gaudy splashes of late daffodils in bloom. Here and there were dense clumps of violets in the damp, shaded earth.
Aidan Thyer was sitting in his armchair, a pile of papers on the table beside him, presumably essays, theses on one thing and another. He stood up as Matthew came in. He was a little taller than average, but the striking thing about him was his flaxen hair, so fair it seemed to catch the light whichever way he moved. His face was long, his cast of expression a strange mixture of melancholy and humor, but both infused by a keen intelligence.
“Come in, Captain Reavley,” he invited, waving to the chair opposite his own. “Can I offer you anything? Tea, or a glass of sherry?”
“Sherry would be excellent, thank you. It’s good of you to make time for me.”
“Not at all. You said it was important. How can I help?” As he was speaking, Thyer went to the cabinet, opened it, and poured two glasses of light, dry sherry. He carried one back to Matthew, and sat down with the other. “Have you heard from Joseph lately?” he asked with interest. “He writes occasionally, but I can’t help wondering if he is putting a brave face on it.”
“I’m sure he is,” Matthew answered. “Sometimes it is the only way to deal with it.”
Thyer smiled bleakly. He was waiting for Matthew to explain his visit.
Matthew hesitated also. It would take great care; he could not be as forthright as he had been with Mary Allard. Thyer was less emotional and a far better judge of other men’s characters. Sitting in this quiet drawing room surrounded by the dust and stones, the wooden stairs hollowed by the feet of centuries of students, the strange mixture of wisdom and enthusiasm. He was acutely conscious that he might be facing a man who had deliberately plotted to betray and break it all on the wheel of idealistic militarism and bloodless surrender.
“I’ve been thinking about the deaths of my parents,” he began, and saw the twist of pity in Thyer’s face. “We know probably as much of the facts as we ever will,” he continued. “And perhaps now they don’t matter. But I still find myself needing to understand. It seems unarguable that Sebastian Allard deliberately caused the accident, and the evidence is strong as to how.” He was aware of sitting unnaturally still. The silence in the room seemed like a tangible thing. “I still have no idea why, and I find that I need to know.” He waited for Thyer’s response, trying to read his face.
Thyer looked startled.
“My dear Matthew, if I knew why, I should have told you at the time. Or at least, to be more accurate, I should probably have told Joseph.”
Matthew leaned back a little, steepling his fingers and gazing at Thyer over the top