weren’t there at the time, that cuts them out.”
“Naturally,” Joseph nodded.
Perth regarded him steadily. “Second,” he continued, putting up the next finger, “there’s the means, in this case a gun. Who had a gun?”
“I have no idea.”
“That’s a shame, you see, because no one else has neither, leastways not that they’re telling of.” Perth still had a pleasant air about him, as if he were a lecturer with a bright student, leading him through the points of a piece of logic. “We know it was a small gun, a revolver of some sort, because of the bullet—which we got, by the way.”
Joseph winced at the horrible thought of its passage through Sebastian’s torn brain, presumably into the wall of the room. He had not looked. Now he was aware of Perth’s eyes watching him, but he could not keep the revulsion from his face, or the slight feeling of sickness from his stomach.
“An’ o’ course it would be awkward like to be carrying a rifle or a shotgun around with you in a place like this,” Perth went on, his voice unemotional. “Nowhere to hide it from being seen, except in a case for a trumpet or something like that. But what would anybody be doing with a trumpet at foive o’clock in the morning?”
“Cricket bat,” Joseph said instantly. “If . . .”
Perth’s eyes widened. “Very clever, Reverend! Oi never thought o’ that, but you’re right. A nice early practice out on that lovely grass by the river, or even one o’ those cricket fields—Fenner’s, or what’s the other one, Parker’s Piece?”
“Parker’s Piece belongs to the town,” Joseph pointed out. “The university uses Fenner’s. But you can’t practice cricket by yourself.”
“O’ course. Town and gown—separate.” Perth nodded, pursing his lips. The difference was a gulf between them, uncrossable, and Joseph had inadvertently just reminded him of it. “But then, you see, our fellow might not have bin sticking to the rules,” he said stiffly, his expression tight, defensive. “In fact, he might not even have practiced at all, seeing as he would have had a gun in his case, not a bat.” He leaned forward. “But since we’re having a lot o’ trouble finding this gun, which could be anywhere by now, that means we got just the last thing left on which to catch him, doesn’t it? Motive!” He held up his third finger.
Joseph should have realized it from the moment Perth had come in. The inspector knew Joseph would have nothing to give him on means or opportunity. He would hardly be here simply to keep Joseph informed. “I see,” he said flatly.
“Oi’m sure as you do, Reverend,” Perth agreed, a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. “Not easy to find that out. Not even counting the fact that no one wants to incriminate ’emselves, they don’t want to speak ill o’ the dead neither. It ain’t decent. People talk the greatest rubbish Oi ever heard about a person just because they’re dead. Why do you think that is, Reverend? You must come across a lot of that in your line o’ work.”
“I don’t have an active ministry now,” Joseph explained, surprised by the pang of guilt it caused him, like a captain having left his ship in bad weather, and before his crew. That was ridiculous; what he was doing here was just as important a job, and one to which he was far better suited.
“Still ordained, though, aren’t you.” Perth made it a statement.
“Yes.”
“You must be a good judge o’ folk, an’ Oi dare say as they trust you more’n most, tell you things?”
“Sometimes,” Joseph said carefully, aware with a biting hollowness that he had been confided in very little, or he would not be as confused as he was by this eruption of violence. “But a confidence is precisely that, Inspector, and I would not break it. However, I can tell you that I have no idea who killed Sebastian Allard, or why.”
Perth nodded slowly. “Oi took that for granted, sir. But you know these young men mebbe better’n anyone else.”
“I don’t know of any reason!” Joseph protested. “Being a minister means that people tend not to tell you their uglier thoughts!” He realized with dismay how profoundly that was true. How many things had he been blind to? For how long? Years? Had his own pain made him retreat from reality into uselessness? Then, without grasping the fullness of what he said, he spoke with sudden intensity. “But I shall find out! I ought to have known!” He meant it, savagely, with the intensity of a drowning man’s need for air. Perth might need to solve Sebastian’s murder for his professional reputation, or even to prove that town was as good as gown, but Joseph needed to do it for his belief in reason and the power of men to rise above chaos.
Perth nodded slowly, but his eyes were wide and unblinking. “Very good, Reverend.” He drew in his breath as if about to add something more, then just nodded again.
After Perth had gone, Joseph began to appreciate the enormity of what he had promised himself. There was no point in waiting for people to reveal some anger or resentment against Sebastian. They had not done so before; they certainly would not now. He had to go and investigate for himself.
The first person he spoke to was Aidan Thyer. He found him at home finishing a late breakfast. He looked tired and flustered, his fair hair more faded by gray than had been apparent at a glance, his face unrefreshed by sleep. He looked up at Joseph in surprise as the maid showed him into the dining room.
“Good morning, Reavley. Nothing wrong, I hope?”
“Nothing new,” Joseph replied a trifle drily.
“Tea?” Thyer offered.
“Thank you.” Joseph sat down, not because he particularly wanted tea, but it obliged the master to continue the conversation. “How are Gerald and Mary?”
Thyer’s face tightened. “Inconsolable. I suppose it’s natural. I can’t imagine what it is like to lose a son, let alone in such a way.” He took another bite of his toast. “Connie’s doing everything she can, but nothing makes the slightest difference.”
“I suppose one of the worst things is realizing that someone hated him so much they resorted to murder. I admit, I had no idea there was such a passion in anyone.” Joseph poured himself tea from the silver pot and sipped it tentatively. It was very hot; obviously someone had refilled it. “Which shows that I was paying far too little attention.”
Thyer looked at him with surprise. “I had no idea, either! For God’s sake, do you think that if I had—”
“No! Of course not,” Joseph said quickly. “But you might at least have been more aware than I of an undercurrent of emotion, a rivalry, an insult, real or imagined, or some kind of a threat.” The truth embarrassed him, and it was hard to admit. “I had my head so buried in their academic work that I paid too little attention to their other thoughts or feelings. Perhaps you didn’t?”
“You’re an idealist,” Thyer agreed, picking up his tea, but the sharp perception in his eyes was not unkind.
“And you can’t afford to be,” Joseph replied. “Who hated Sebastian?”
“That’s blunt!”
“I think it would be better if we knew before Perth did, don’t you?”
Thyer put down his cup again and regarded Joseph steadily. “Actually, more people than you would care to think. You were very fond of him, knowing the family, and perhaps he showed you the best of himself for that reason.”
Joseph took a long breath. “And who saw the other side?” Unwittingly, Harry Beecher’s wry, familiar face came to his mind, sitting on the bench in the Pickerel, watching the boats on the river in the evening light, and the sudden tightness in his voice.
Thyer considered for a moment. “Most people, one way or another. Oh, his work was brilliant, you were right about that, and you perceived it long before anyone else. He had the potential to be excellent one day, possibly one of the great poets of the English language. But he had a long way to go to any kind of emotional maturity.” He shrugged. “Not that emotional maturity is any necessity for a poet. One could hardly claim it for Byron or Shelley, to name but two. And I rather think that both of them probably escaped murder more by luck than virtue.”
“That is not very specific,” Joseph said, wishing he could leave it all to Perth and never know more than simply who had done it, not why. But it was already too late for that.
Thyer sighed. “Well, there’s always the question of women, I suppose. Sebastian was good-looking, and he enjoyed exercising his charm and the power it gave him. Perhaps in time he would have learned to govern it, or on the other hand it might have grown worse. It takes a very fine character indeed to have power and refrain from using it. He was a long way from that yet.” His face tightened until it was curiously bleak. “And of course there is
