been blind to hatred. There had been none to see.
“I hope that’s true,” he answered, placing a hand on Foubister’s arm. “Wait and see what happens. And don’t leap to judgment yet.”
Foubister nodded, but he said nothing. Joseph watched as he hurried away to the opposite side. As clearly as if he had been told, Joseph knew he was going straight to see his friend Morel.
Gerald and Mary Allard arrived before noon. They had only to come from Haslingfield, about four miles to the southwest. The first shock of the news must have reached them after breakfast, almost certainly leaving them too stunned to react immediately. There may have been people to tell, perhaps a doctor or a priest, and other members of the family.
Joseph dreaded meeting them. He knew Mary’s grief would be wild and savage. She would feel all the pent- up, wounding rage that he did. The comforting words that she had said so sincerely to him at his parents’ funeral would mean nothing repeated back to her now, just as they had meant nothing to him at the time.
Because he was afraid of the encounter, he went straightaway, within minutes of their car pulling up at the front gate on St. John’s Street. He saw Mitchell taking them solemnly through the first quad and the second toward the master’s house. Joseph met them a dozen yards from the front door.
Mary was dressed in black, her skirt stained with dust at the hem, her hat wide, shading her veiled face. Beside her, Gerald looked like a man struggling to stand the morning after a drunken binge. His skin was pasty, his eyes bloodshot. He took a moment or two to recognize Joseph, then lurched toward him, momentarily seeming to forget his wife.
“Reavley! Thank God you’re here! What happened? I don’t understand—it doesn’t make sense! Nobody would . . .” He tailed off helplessly, not knowing what else he meant to say. He wanted help, anyone who would tell him it was not true and release him from a grief he could not bear.
Joseph gripped Gerald’s hand and steadied his other arm, taking some of his weight as he staggered. “We don’t know what happened,” he said firmly. “It seems to have been around half past five this morning, and the best thing I can say at the moment is that it was very quick, a couple of seconds, if that. He didn’t suffer.”
Mary was in front of him, her black eyes blazing even through her veil. “Is that supposed to comfort me?” she demanded, her voice hoarse. “He’s dead! Sebastian’s dead!”
Her passion was too fierce for Joseph to touch, and yet he was standing here in the middle of the quad in the July sun trying to find words that would be something more than a statement of his own futility. Where was the fire of his faith when he needed it? Anyone could believe on a calm Sunday in a church pew, when life was whole and safe. Faith is real only when there is nothing else between you and the abyss, an unseen thread strong enough to hold the world.
“I know he’s dead, Mary,” he answered her. “I can’t tell you why or how. I don’t know who did it, or whether they meant to or not. We may learn everything except the reason, but it will take time.”
“It’s the reason I want!” Her voice shook with fury. “Why Sebastian? He was . . . beautiful!”
He knew what she meant, not only his face but the brilliance of his mind, the strength of his dreams. “Yes, he was,” he agreed.
“So why has your God let some stupid, worthless . . .” She could not think of a word big enough to carry her hatred. “Destroy him?” she spat. “Tell me why, Reverend Reavley!”
“I don’t know. Did you think I would be able to tell you? I’m just as human as you are, just as much in need of learning faith, walking with trust, not—”
“Trust in what?” Her thin, black-gloved hand sliced the air. “A God who takes everything from me and lets evil destroy good?”
“Nothing destroys good,” he said, wondering if it was true. “If good were never threatened, and even beaten sometimes, then there would be no good, because it would eventually become no more than wisdom, self-interest. If—”
She turned away from him impatiently, snatching her arm back as if he had been holding her, and stalked over the grass toward Connie Thyer, standing at the doorway of the master’s house.
“I’m sorry,” Gerald muttered helplessly. “She’s taking it . . . I . . . I really . . .”
“It’s all right.” Joseph stopped his fumbling embarrassment. It was painful to see and he wanted it ended for both their sakes. “I understand. You had better go and be with her. She needs you.”
“No, she doesn’t,” Gerald said with an instant’s extraordinary bitterness. Then he caught himself, blushed, and walked away after her.
Joseph started back toward the first quad and was almost there when he saw the second woman, also veiled and in black. She was apparently lost, looking through the arch tentatively. She seemed young, from the grace of her posture, yet there was a dignity and natural assurance to her suggesting that in other circumstances she would have been very much in command of herself.
“May I help you?” Joseph asked, startled to see her. He could not imagine what she could be doing here in St. John’s, or why Mitchell had ever let her in.
She came forward with relief. “Thank you. That is very kind of you, Mr. . . . ?”
“Reavley, Joseph Reavley,” he introduced himself. “You seem uncertain which way to go. Where is it you wish to be?”
“The master’s house,” she replied. “I believe his name is Mr. Aidan Thyer. Is that correct?”
“Yes, but I am afraid he is engaged at present, and likely to be for some considerable time. An unexpected event has changed everyone’s arrangements.” There was no need to tell her of the tragedy. “I shall convey any message to him when he is free, and perhaps you can make an appointment to call at another time?”
She stood even straighter. “I am aware of the events, Mr. Reavley. You are referring to the death this morning of Sebastian Allard. My name is Regina Coopersmith. I was his fiancee.”
Joseph stared at her as if she had spoken in an alien language. It was not possible! How could Sebastian, the passionate idealist, the scholar whose mind danced to the music of language, have fallen in love and contracted himself to marriage, yet never even mentioned it?
Joseph looked at Regina Coopersmith, knowing he should be offering her some sympathy, but his mind refused to accept what she had said.
“I’m sorry, Miss Coopersmith,” he said awkwardly. “I didn’t know.” He must add something. This superficially composed young woman had lost the man she loved, and in the most appalling circumstances. “I’m deeply sorry for your bereavement.” He knew how it felt to face that gulf of loneliness suddenly, without any warning at all. One day one had everything; the next day it was gone.
“Thank you,” she replied with the ghost of a smile.
“May I accompany you to the master’s house? It is through there.” He gestured behind him. “I expect the porter has your bags?”
“Yes, thank you. That would be most courteous.”
Joseph turned and walked with the young woman back into the sunlight and along the path. He glanced sideways at her. Her veil hid only part of her face; her mouth and chin were clearly visible. Her features were strong, but pleasant rather than pretty. She had dignity, resolve, but it was not a face of passion. What had made Sebastian fall in love with her? Could she have been Mary Allard’s choice for her son, rather than his own? Perhaps she had money and good connections with county families? She would give Sebastian the security and the background he would need for a career in poetry or philosophy, which might not immediately provide such things itself.
Or perhaps there were whole areas of Sebastian’s nature about which Joseph had been entirely ignorant.
The midday sun was hot and sharp, casting the shadows with hard edges, like the cutting realities of knowledge.
CHAPTER
FIVE
In a quiet house on Marchmont Street, a man who liked to be known by those he trusted as “the
