We Shall Not Sleep_ A Novel - Anne Perry [55]
Matthew drew in his breath, then let it out again without saying anything. The whole thing was a nightmare. He felt the canvas walls of the tent sway around him and blur into unreality. And yet Hampton’s hold on his arms was hard and very real indeed.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Joseph was writing letters at the table in his bunker, catching up with condolences. There was a terrible grief in the senselessness of the slaughter this close to the end. Dusk was falling rapidly, and he found himself straining his eyes in the lamplight as the ink on the page blurred in front of him. He put the pen down for a moment, blinking. He was even more tired than usual. These last few weeks seemed to be the hardest. It was foolish. They should have been easier now that the cease-fire was in sight.
They would even know who the Peacemaker was. He had given up hope of that until Matthew had come, and then Schenckendorff had actually crossed through the lines. Fortunately his foot seemed to be healing. The swelling was reduced, and the infection they had feared had not materialized. As soon as Jacobson found out who had killed poor Sarah Price, Joseph and Matthew, and perhaps Judith, could leave and take Schenckendorff with them. It was the twenty-first of October. They probably had a couple of weeks left.
He was startled by the sound of boots on the step and someone banging loudly on the lintel. Even before he could reply, Barshey Gee pulled the sacking aside, his face smeared with mud. He was clearly very upset.
“What’s happened?” Joseph rose to his feet in alarm.
Barshey came in, letting the sacking fall. “Chaplain, that daft policeman has gone and arrested Major Reavley for killing the nurse. He’s got him locked up back in the hut next to where they have the German prisoners.”
“That’s absurd!” Joseph refused to believe it. Barshey must have it wrong. “Matthew’s an intelligence officer. He isn’t even stationed here. What the…” He started to push past but Barshey clasped his arm, holding him tightly.
“No, Chaplain. From what Oi hear, that other policeman, Hampton, was looking through Miss Proice’s things, and he found a picture of Major Reavley and her, going back to before the war, and it looked loike they knew each other pretty well.” Barshey appeared embarrassed. “But he says the major denoied it. And o’ course he can’t say where he was when she was killed…that is, he can, but there’s only you would know it, and you were asleep. And seeing as you’re his brother anyway, he doesn’t put a lot of weight on your say-so, if you’ll pardon me.”
There was no point at all in being offended, and no time to waste. He had to prove to Jacobson that Matthew was innocent. He had no idea where to even begin, let alone to reach any conclusion. The idea was preposterous because he knew Matthew, but Jacobson obviously didn’t.
His mind raced. Could he get in touch with Shearing in London and have him use some authority to persuade Jacobson? But Matthew had said Shearing did not know what he was here for. And did men in charge of intelligence units ever emerge from their secrecy to do such things? Would the police take notice of him anyway?
Joseph knew almost nothing about Matthew’s work. No one did. By its very nature that was obligatory. There was no one to support them. They fought in secret, and there was no praise for them, except from their own.
If the police could not blame a German, then Matthew was an obvious scapegoat: a man in uniform who stayed safely at home in London, sleeping in his own bed every night. He never even got mud on his shoes, never mind shrapnel or a bayonet in his body.
“What are you going to do, sir?” Barshey asked, pulling himself to attention carefully to avoid cracking his head on the ceiling. He said it as if he was waiting for orders to help.