He turned to Matthew, willing him to deny it, wipe away what he imagined.
“Caltrops,” Matthew said softly, shaking his head as if he could rid himself of the idea.
“Caltrops?” Joseph asked, puzzled.
“Twists of iron prong,” Matthew replied, hooking his fingers together to demonstrate. “Like the things they put in barbed wire, only bigger. They used them in the Middle Ages to bring down knights on horseback.”
Thunder rumbled again, closer to them. The air was almost too clammy to breathe.
“On a rope,” Matthew went on. He did not look at Joseph, as if he could not bear to. “They must have waited here until they heard the car coming. Then when they knew it was the Lanchester, they sprinted across the road to the far side, and pulled it tight.” He bowed his head for a moment. “Even if Father saw it,” he said hoarsely, “there would be no way to avoid it.” He hesitated a moment, taking a deep breath. “Then afterward they cut the rope— hacked it, by the look of it—and took the whole thing away with them.”
It was all clear. Joseph said nothing. It was hideously real now, no more possibility of doubt. John and Alys Reavley had been murdered—he to silence him and retrieve the document, she because she happened to be with him. It was brutal, monstrous! Pain ran through him like fire inside his head. He could see the terror in his mother’s face, his father struggling desperately to control the car and knowing he couldn’t, the physical destruction, the helplessness. Had they had time to know it was death and they could do nothing for each other, not even time for a touch, a word?
And he could do nothing. It was over, complete, beyond his reach. There was nothing left but blind, bright red fury. They would find whoever had done this. It was his father, his mother, it had happened to. People who were precious and good had been destroyed, taken from him. Who had done it? What kind of people—and why?
They must find them, stop them. This must never happen again.
He would do what he should. He would be kind, obedient, honorable—but never hurt like this again. He could not endure it.
“Is Judith safe?” he said abruptly. “What if they go back to the house?” The thought of having to tell her the truth was ugly, but how could they avoid it?
“They won’t go back.” Matthew straightened up unsteadily. “They know it’s not there. But where the hell is it? I’m damned if I know!” His voice was breaking, threatening to go out of control. He stared at Joseph, willing him to help, to find an answer where he could not.
Thunder cracked across the sky above them, and the first heavy spots of rain fell, splashing large and warm on them and on the road.
Joseph seized Matthew’s arm and they turned and ran to the car, sprinting the last few paces and scrambling in, struggling with the roof as the heavens opened and torrential rain swirled across the fields and hedges, blinding the windscreen and drumming on the metal of the car body. Lightning blazed and vanished.
Matthew started the engine, and it was a relief to hear it roar to life. He put the car into gear and inched out onto the swimming road. Neither of them spoke.
When the cloudburst had passed and they could open the windows, the air was filled with the perfume of fresh rain on parched earth. It was a fragrance like no other, so sharp and clean they could hardly draw enough of it. The sun returned, gleaming on wet roads and dripping hedges, every leaf bright.
“What did Father say, exactly?” Joseph asked when at last he had control of himself enough to speak almost levelly.
“I’ve gone over and over it so many times I’m not sure anymore,” Matthew answered, his eyes ahead on the road. “I thought he said he was bringing it, but now I’m not certain. And since they didn’t find it, and they must have looked, and so did we, the only alternative seems to be that he hid it somewhere.” He was almost calm, addressing it as though it were an intellectual problem he had to solve, and the passion of the reality had never existed.
“We have to tell Judith,” Joseph said, watching his face for his reaction. “Apart from keeping the house locked if she’s ever in it alone, she has a right to know. And Hannah . . . but perhaps not yet.”
Matthew was silent. There was another flare of lightning far away, and then thunder off in the distance to the south.
Joseph was about to repeat what he had said, but finally Matthew spoke.
“I suppose we must, but let me do it.”
Joseph did not argue. If Matthew imagined Judith would allow him to evade any of the issues, then he did not know his sister as well as Joseph did.
When they reached St. Giles it started to rain again. They were both glad to leave the car and use getting soaked as an excuse to avoid immediate conversation. It was emotional enough saying goodbye to Hannah as Albert put her luggage into the Ford. She did not want anyone to go to the station with her.
“I’d rather not!” she said quickly. “If I’m going to burst into tears, at least let me do it here, not on the platform!”
No one argued with her. Perhaps they preferred it this way, too. She hugged each of them, not able to find words, or a steady voice to say anything. Then, holding her head so high she all but tripped on the step—even though it had been there all her life—she followed Albert out to the car. Joseph, Matthew, and Judith stood in the doorway watching her until the car was out of sight. Then Joseph walked over the grass to close the gate.
“I know what you’re going to say,” Judith retorted defensively when they were sitting in the dining room after dinner, Henry asleep on the floor. It was barely dark outside and clear again, the storm long since passed.
“I don’t think you do.” Matthew set his coffee cup down and regarded her gravely.
She looked at Joseph. “Shouldn’t you be the one doing this?” she challenged, anger hard in her voice and her eyes. “Why aren’t you telling me what to do? Haven’t you the stomach for it? Or do you know it’s a waste of time? You’re a priest! It’s cowardly not even to try! Father always tried!”
It was an accusation that he was not Father, not wise enough, not patient or persistent enough. He knew it already. It was a deep ache inside him and, as with her, an anger, because no one had equipped him to do this. John Reavley had gone leaving a task half done and no one to replace him, as if he did not care.
“Judith . . . ,” Matthew began.
“I know!” She swung round to face him, cutting across his words. “The house is Joseph’s, but I can live here as long as he doesn’t need it, and he doesn’t. We’ve already discussed that. But I can’t go on wasting my time. That’s a condition. I’ve either got to get married or find something useful to do, preferably something that pays me enough to at least feed and clothe myself.” Her eyes were red-rimmed, full of tears. “Why haven’t you the courage to say that to me? Father would have! And I don’t need a gardener, a cook, a manservant, and a housemaid to look after me.” She stared at him furiously. “I worked that out for myself.” She flicked a glance sideways at Joseph, contempt in it.
Joseph felt the sting, but he had no defense. It was true.
“Actually, I wasn’t going to say anything of the sort,” Matthew said to her tartly. “Joseph told me you were perfectly aware of the situation. I was going to tell you why Father was coming to see me on the day he was killed, and what we have learned since then. I would rather have protected you from it, but I don’t think we can afford to do that, and Joseph thinks you have a right to know anyway.”
Apology flashed across her face, then fear. She bit her lip. “Know what?” she said huskily.
Briefly Matthew told her about John Reavley’s call on the telephone, admitting that he was uncertain now of the exact words. “And when we were at the funeral, someone searched the house,” he finished. “That is why Joseph and I were late into the dining room.”
“Well, where is it?” she said, looking at one, then the other, her anger added to by confusion and the beginning of sick, urgent fear.
“We don’t know,” Matthew answered. “We’ve looked everywhere we can think of. I even tried the laundry, the gun room, and the apple shed this morning, but we haven’t found anything.”
“Then who has it?” She turned to Joseph. “It is real, isn’t it?”
It was a question he was not prepared to face. It challenged too much of the belief in his father, and he refused to be without that. “Yes, it’s real,” he said with biting certainty. He saw the doubt in her eyes, her struggle to believe and understand it, far more than he was willing to admit. “We went to the stretch of road where it happened,” he said in harsh, measured words, like incisions. “We saw where the car began to swerve, and where it
