No Graves As Yet

Joseph thought of Mary Allard and how her grief would consume her. No mother can bear the death of her child, but Mary had loved Sebastian with a fierce, all-enveloping pride. She saw in him everything that fed her ambition and her dreams.

He could understand it so easily. Sebastian had possessed an energy of the spirit that lit not only his own vision, but that of others as well. He had touched their lives, whether they wished it or not. It was impossible to believe that his mind did not exist anymore. How could Mary Allard ever bear it?

“Yes,” he said, turning to her with sudden urgency. “You will have to look after them, and not be hurt or dismayed if they are in the kind of pain that unintentionally wounds others carelessly, or even on purpose. Sometimes when we are drowning in our own loss we lash out—anger is momentarily easier to cope with.” That was hideously true, and yet he was speaking not from his own passion but in the accustomed platitudes he had used for years. He was ashamed of himself, but he did not know what else to say. If he laid open his own feelings, he would allow her to see the rage and confusion inside him, and he could not afford that. She would be repelled by its savagery—and frightened.

“I know.” She smiled with great sweetness. “You don’t need to tell me . . . or to worry about them.” She spoke as if he had answered her need. “Thank you.” He had to escape before he broke the grace of her judgment. “Yes . . . thank you. I must see what else I can do.” And he excused himself and left, still barefoot and now feeling ridiculous in the broad daylight. He had given no answers at all, not from faith. He had simply provided the advice of common sense: Deal with what one can. At least do something.

He went under the archway into his own quad. Two students returning from early exercise stared at him in amusement and smothered laughter. Did they imagine he was coming back in his pajamas after an assignation? At another time he would have corrected them and left them in no doubt, but now the words died on his tongue. It was as if there were two realities, side by side, glittering, bright as shattered glass, one in which death was violent and terrible, the smell of blood was in the throat, and images floated before the eyes, even when they were closed—and another reality in which he merely looked absurd, wandering around in his dressing gown.

He did not trust himself to speak to the students in case he screamed the dreadful truth. He could hear his own voice inside his head, wild and soaring out of control.

He ran awkwardly across the last few yards to the door, then up the stairs, tripping and stumbling, until he threw open the door to his own room and slammed it behind him.

He stood still, breathing heavily. He must get control of himself. There were things to do, duties—duty always helped. First, he should finish shaving and get dressed. He must make himself look respectable. He would feel better. And eat something! Except that his stomach was churning and his throat ached so abominably he would not be able to swallow.

He took off his dressing gown. It was a flat, baking summer in Cambridge, and he was cold. He could smell blood and fear, as if he were coated with them.

Very carefully, because his hands were stiff, he ran hot water and washed himself, then stared at his face in the glass. Black eyes looked back at him above high cheekbones, a strong, slightly aquiline nose, and a highly individual mouth. His flesh looked gray, even beneath the dark stubble of his half-shaved beard. There was something waxen about him.

Even shaving slowly and carefully, he still cut himself. He put on a clean shirt, and his fingers could not find the buttons or get them through the holes.

It was all absurd, idiotic! The students had thought he was off on some amorous encounter. Looking like this? He was a man walking through a nightmare. And yet he had been so aware of Connie Thyer . . . the warmth of her, the sweet smell, her closeness. How could he even think of such a thing now?

Because he was blindingly, desperately alone! He would have given anything at all to have had Eleanor here, to take her in his arms and cling to her, have her hold him, take some of this unbearable loss from him.

His parents were dead, crushed and tossed aside, for a document. And now Sebastian, his brain destroyed, blasted into wreckage by a bullet.

Everything was slipping away, all that was good and precious and gave light and meaning. What was there left that he dared love anymore? When would God smash that and take it away?

This was the last time he was ever going to let it happen. There was going to be no more pain like this! He could not open himself up to it.

Habit told him that it was not God’s fault. How many times had he explained that to other people who were screaming inside because of something they could not bear?

Yes, it was! He could have done something! If He couldn’t manage that, why was He God?

And the ice-cold voice of reason said: There is no God. You are alone.

That was the worst truth of all: alone. The word was a kind of death.

He stood still for several minutes, no coherent thoughts in his head. The coldness didn’t stay. He was too angry. Someone had killed John and Alys Reavley, and he was helpless to find out who or why.

Memories flooded back of pottering quietly in the garden, John telling long, rambling jokes, the smell of lily- of-the-valley, Hannah brushing Alys’s hair, Sunday dinner.

He leaned against the mantel and wept, letting go of the self-control at last and freeing the grief to wash over him and take hold.

By midmorning he was still ashen-faced, but composed. His bedder, the elderly woman who tidied and cared for all the rooms on this stair, had been in, shaking and tearful, but she completed her duty. The police had arrived, led by an Inspector Perth, a man of barely average height with receding hair sprinkled with gray, and crooked teeth, two missing. He spoke quietly, but he moved with unswerving purpose. Although he was gentle with the grieving and severely rattled students, he allowed none of his questions to go unanswered.

As soon as Inspector Perth discovered that the dean was absent in Italy but that Joseph was an ordained minister, he asked him to stay at hand. “Might help,” he said with a nod. He did not explain if it was to ensure truthfulness among the students or for the comfort of their distress.

“Seems nobody came nor went during the night,” Perth said, looking at Joseph with sharp gray eyes. They were alone in the master’s lodge, Mitchell having been sent on some errand. “No break-in. My men’ve bin all over. Sorry, Reverend, but it looks like your young Mr. Allard—the dead one, that is—must’ve bin shot by someone inside the college here. Police surgeon might be able to tell us what time, but it doesn’t make no difference for who could’ve bin there. He was up an’ dressed an’ sitting at his books—”

“I touched his cheek,” Joseph interrupted him. “When I went in. It wasn’t cold . . . I mean, it was . . . cool.” He shuddered inside at the memory. That had been three hours ago. Sebastian would be cold now, the spirit, the dreams, and the hunger that made him unique dissolved into—what? He knew what the answer was supposed to be . . . but he had no inner fire that affirmed it to him.

Perth was nodding, biting his lip. “Sounds right, sir. Looks like he knew whoever did it, from what Oi’ve bin told. You knew him, Reverend. Was he the sort of young gentleman to let in someone he didn’t know, at that time —which looks to’ve bin about half past five—an’ while he was studying?”

“No. He was a very serious student,” Joseph replied. “He would resent the intrusion. People don’t normally call on anyone before breakfast unless it’s an emergency.”

“What Oi thought,” Perth agreed. “An’ we’ve searched all over the room, an’ the gun’s not there. We’ll be going over the whole college for it, of course. Don’t look like he put up any sort of a fight. Took by surprise, by all we can see. Someone he trusted.”

Joseph had thought the same thing, but until now he had not put it in those words. It was indescribably ugly.

Perth was staring at him. “Spoken to a few of the young gentlemen, sir. Asked if anyone heard a shot, seeing as there must’ve bin one. One young gentleman said he heard a bang, but he didn’t take notice. Thought it was just something in the street, car mebbe, and he doesn’t know what time it was. Went back to sleep again.” Perth chewed his lip. “An’ no one has any thoughts as to why, least none as how they’ll own to. All seem took by surprise. But it’s early days. D’you know of anyone who had a brangle with him? Jealous, mebbe? He was a very good-looking young man. Clever, too, by accounts—good scholar, one of the best. First-class honors, they say.” His expression was carefully unreadable.

“You don’t kill people because they outshine you academically!” Joseph said with too much of an edge to his voice. He was being rude and he could not help it. His hands were shaking and he felt dry-mouthed.