No Graves As Yet

too. I daresay the boy wouldn’t even have gone up to Cambridge, if it weren’t for Joseph’s encouragement.”

“Sebastian Allard?” Matthew was confused.

Isenham turned to look at him, stopping in the road where it had already changed into the long, tree-lined avenue down toward his own house. “Oh, dear. No one told you.” He looked a trifle abashed. “I presume they felt you’d had enough to get over. Sebastian Allard was murdered, in Cambridge. Right in college . . . St. John’s. Devilish thing. Yesterday morning. I only heard from Hutchinson. He’s known the Allards for years. Dreadfully cut up, of course.” He pursed his lips. “Can’t expect you to feel the same, naturally. I imagine you’ve got all the grief you can manage at the moment.”

“I’m very sorry,” Matthew said quietly. There was no sound here in the shelter of the trees and not a breath in the air. “What an appalling tragedy,” he said to fill the silence. “I must call in on Joseph before I go back to London. He’ll be very grieved. He’s known Sebastian for years.” He was aware of the numbing pain Joseph would feel, but now he wanted to ask Isenham about John Reavley. He forced all other thoughts out of his mind and kept pace with him in the shade of the ancient elms that closed out the sky above them.

Again the tiny thunder flies were hovering, irritating the eyes and face. Matthew swatted at them, even though he knew it was useless. If only it would hurry up and rain! He did not mind getting wet, and it would be a good excuse to stay at Isenham’s house longer. “Actually, it’s been a pretty rotten time altogether,” he continued. “I know a good few people are worried about this Balkan business.”

Isenham took his hands out of his pockets. “Ah! Now there you have a real cause for anxiety,” he said, his broad, windburned face intensely serious. “That’s very worrying, you know? Yes, I expect you do know . . . I daresay more than I do, eh?” He searched Matthew’s eyes intently.

Matthew was a little taken aback. He had not realized that Isenham knew where he worked. Presumably John had said something? In pride, or confiding a shame? The thought stung with all the old sharpness, multiplied by the fact that now Matthew would never be able to prove to his father the value of his profession, and that it was not devious or grubby, full of betrayals and moral compromise.

“Yes,” Matthew acknowledged. “Yes, it’s pretty ugly. Austria has demanded reparation, and the kaiser has reasserted Germany’s alliance with them. And of course the Russians are bound to be loyal to Serbia.”

The first heavy drops of rain spattered on the leaves, and far in the distance thunder rattled like a heavy cart over cobbles, jolting and jarring around the horizon.

“War,” Isenham said succinctly. “Drag us all in, damn it! Need to get ready for it. Prepare men and guns.”

“Did Father know that, do you think?” Matthew asked.

Isenham pursed his lips before responding. “Not sure, honestly.” It was an unfinished remark, as if he had stopped before he said too much.

Matthew waited.

Isenham looked unhappy, but he apparently realized he had to continue. “Seemed a trifle odd lately. Nervous, you know? He . . . er . . .” He shook his head. “The day before he died he expected war.” He was puzzled. “Not like him, not at all.” He increased his pace, his body stiff, shoulders straight. The rain was beating on the canopy of leaves above them and beginning to come through. “Sorry, Matthew, but there it is. Can’t lie about it. Definitely odd.”

“In what way?” Matthew asked, the words coming automatically as his mind raced to absorb this new information and at the same time defend himself from what it meant.

He was relieved that the weather made it so easy to stay with Isenham, although at the same time it allowed him no excuse to avoid asking still more searching questions. Thank goodness the house was no more than sixty yards away or they would get very wet indeed. Isenham bent forward and began to run. “Come on!” he shouted. “You’ll get soaked, man!”

They reached the gate of his garden and dashed through to open the front door. The path was already swimming in water, and the smell of hot, wet earth filled the air. Plants drooped under the fierceness of the storm as it drummed on the leaves.

As Matthew turned to close the gate behind him, he saw a man walking across the lane, coat collar turned up, dark face shining wet. Then the figure disappeared through the trees.

Matthew found Isenham inside and stood dripping in the hallway, surrounded by oak paneling, hunting prints, and leather straps with horse brasses in dozens of different designs.

“Thank you.” Matthew accepted the towel Isenham offered him and dried his hands and his face on it. The rain could not have come at a better time if he had designed it. “I think there were certain groups Father was worried about,” he went on, picking up the conversation before their dash to the gate.

Isenham lifted his shoulders in a gesture of denial and took the towel back, dropping it on the floor by the cloakroom door along with his own. “He said something about plots, but frankly, Matthew, it was all a bit . . . fanciful.” He evidently had struggled to find a polite word, but the real meaning was plain in his face. He shook his head. “Most of our disasters came from good, old-fashioned British blunders. We don’t plot our way into wars. We trip over our own feet and fall into them by accident.” He winced, looking apologetic, and rubbed his hand over his wet hair. “Win in the end, on the principle that God looks after fools and drunkards. Presumably he has a soft spot for us as well.”

“You don’t think he could have found something?”

Isenham’s face tightened. “No. He lost the thread a bit, honestly. He rambled on about the mutiny in the Curragh—at least that’s what I think he was talking about. Wasn’t very clear, you know. Said it would get a lot worse, hinted that it would end in a conflagration that could engulf all England, even Europe.” He colored with embarrassment. “Nonsense, you see? War minister resigned and all that, I know, but hardly Europe in flames. Don’t suppose anyone across the Channel gives a damn about it one way or the other. Got their own problems. You’d better stay for a bite of lunch,” he added, looking at Matthew’s sodden shoulders and feet. “I’ve got a telephone. Call Judith and let her know.”

He turned and led the way to the dining room, where his housekeeper had laid out cold meat, pickles, fresh bread and butter, a newly baked pie that had barely cooled, and a jug of thick cream.

“Sufficient for two, I think,” he pronounced. He ignored his own wet clothes because he could do nothing about Matthew’s. It was part of his code of hospitality that he should sit to dine in dripping trouser legs, because his guest was obliged to do so.

“You don’t think the Irish situation could escalate?” Matthew said when they were halfway through the excellent cold lamb and he had taken the edge off his hunger.

“To involve Europe? Not a chance of it. Domestic matter. Always has been.” Isenham took another mouthful and swallowed before continuing. “I’m sorry, but poor old John was a bit misled. Ran off with the wrong end of things. It happens.”

It was the note of pity in his voice that Matthew could not bear. He thought of his father and saw his face as vividly as if he had left the room only minutes before, grave and gentle, his eyes as direct as Judith’s. He had a quick temper at times and he suffered fools badly, but he was a man without guile. To hear him spoken of with such condescension hurt fiercely, and Matthew was instantly defensive.

“What do you mean?” he demanded. “What happens?” He heard the anger inside himself and knew he had to control it. He was sitting in Isenham’s house, eating his food, and more important than that, he needed his help. “What was it he was afraid of?”

“Best leave it,” Isenham replied, looking down at his plate and very carefully balancing a piece of pickle on the crust of his bread.

“Are you saying he was deluded?” The instant it was out, he wished he had chosen a word less pejorative. He was betraying his own hurt, as well as leaving himself unguarded. It sabotaged his purpose. He was angry with himself. He had more skill than that!

Isenham raised his eyes, hot and miserable. “No, no, of course not. He was just . . . a little jumpy. I daresay we all are, what with the army mutinying, and then all this violence in the Balkans.”

“Father didn’t know about the archduke,” Matthew pointed out. “He and Mother were killed that day themselves.”

“Killed?” Isenham asked.

Matthew amended it instantly. “When the car went off the road.”

“Of course. I’m . . . I’m sorrier than I can say. Look, wouldn’t you rather—”