sight.”
“But it could still have been a small scandal rather than a major act of espionage affecting the world.”
“It was major enough to murder two people in order to hide it,” Joseph said, his jaw tight. “And apart from that, Father didn’t exaggerate.” He made it a simple statement, no additions, no emphasis.
Images raced through Matthew’s mind: his father standing in the garden in old clothes, trousers a trifle baggy, mud-stained at the knees, watching Judith picking blackberries; sitting in his armchair in the winter evening by the fire, a book open on his lap as he read them stories; at the dining room table on a Sunday, leaning a little forward in his chair as he argued reasonably; reciting absurd limericks and smiling, singing the Gilbert and Sullivan patter songs as he drove along the road with the top of the old car down in the wind and the sun.
The pain of loss was sweet for all he had been, and almost too sharp to bear because it no longer existed except in memory. It was a moment before Matthew could control his voice enough to speak. “I’ll go and see Shanley Corcoran.” He took a deep breath. “He was Father’s closest friend. I can at last tell him the truth, or most of it.”
Joseph hesitated a moment or two before speaking. “Be careful,” was all he said.
Matthew spent the evening at home in St. Giles, and he telephoned Corcoran to ask if he could call the next day. He received an immediate invitation to dinner, which he accepted unhesitatingly.
He was glad of a lazy morning, and he and Judith dealt with a number of small duties. Then in the hot, still afternoon they took Henry and walked together to the churchyard and on through the lanes, Henry scuffling happily in the deep grasses on either side. The wild rose petals had mostly fallen.
Matthew changed for dinner early and was glad to be able to put the top down on the car and drive the ten or twelve miles to Corcoran’s magnificent home. As he passed through Grantchester, a dozen or more youths were still practicing cricket in the lengthening sun, to the cheers and occasional shouts of a handful of watchers. Girls in pinafore dresses dangled hats by their ribbons. Three miles further on, children were sailing wooden boats in the village duck pond. A hurdy-gurdy man cranked out music, and an ice cream seller was packing his barrow to go home, his wares gone, his purse heavy.
Matthew crossed the main road between Cambridge and the west, then a mile and a half further along he swung off just short of Madingley, and in through the gates of Corcoran’s house. He had barely stepped out of the car when the butler appeared, solemn-faced and punctilious.
“Good evening, Captain Reavley. How pleasant to see you, sir. We have been expecting you. Have you anything you wish carried, sir?”
“No, thank you.” Matthew declined with a smile, reaching into the car to pick up the box of Orla’s favorite Turkish delight from the passenger seat. “I’ll manage these myself.”
“Yes, sir. Then if you leave your keys, I’ll see that Parley puts your car away safely. If you’d like to come this way, sir?”
Matthew followed him under the portico and up the shallow steps, through the door and into the wide, stone-flagged hallway, black and white squared like a chessboard. A full suit of medieval armor stood beside the carved newel post at the right-hand side of the mahogany staircase, its helmet catching the sun through the oval window on the landing.
Matthew dropped the car keys onto the tray the butler was holding, then turned as the study door opened and Shanley Corcoran appeared.
A wide smile lit Corcoran’s face and he came forward, extending both his hands. “I’m so glad you could come,” he said enthusiastically, searching Matthew’s face. “How are you? Come in and sit down!” He indicated the study doorway, and without waiting for a reply he led the way in.
The room was typical of the man—exuberant. The books and artifacts were highly individual, and there were also scientific curiosities and exquisite works of art. There was a Russian icon, all gold and umber and black. Above the fireplace hung an Italian old master drawing of a man riding a donkey, probably Jesus entering Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. An astrolabe made of silver, polished bright, stood on the mahogany Pembroke table by the wall, and an illustrated copy of Chaucer on the drum table in the center of the room.
“Sit down, sit down,” Corcoran invited, gesturing toward the other chair.
Matthew sank back into it, at ease already in the familiar room with its happy memories. It was quarter past seven, and he knew dinner would be served by eight. There was no time to waste on a preparatory conversation. “Did you hear about the death of Sebastian Allard?” he asked. “His family is devastated. I don’t suppose it will begin to heal until they find out what happened. I know how they feel.”
Corcoran’s face darkened. “I understand your grief.” His voice was very gentle. “I miss John. He was one of the kindest, most honest men I knew. I can’t begin to imagine how you must feel.” A frown of puzzlement creased his brow. “But what more is there to know about his death? No one was responsible. Perhaps it was a slick of oil on the road, or something wrong with the steering of the car? I don’t drive, personally. I know nothing about the mechanics.” He smiled at the irony of it. “I understand airplanes a little, and submarines a lot, but I imagine there are considerable differences.”
Matthew attempted to smile in answer. Being here with Corcoran brought back memories with an intensity he had been unprepared for. The veil between past and present was too thin. “Well, neither airplanes nor submarines are going to crash off the road, if that is what you meant. But I don’t believe that was what happened. In fact, I’m sure it wasn’t.” He saw Corcoran’s eyes widen slightly. “Joseph and I went to the place,” he explained. “We saw the skid marks exactly where the car veered off. There was no oil.” He hesitated, then took the plunge. “Only a line of scratches, as if made by a row of iron caltrops across the tarmacadam.”
The silence was so heavy in the room that Matthew could hear the ticking of the long-case clock against the far wall as if it were beside him.
“What are you saying, Matthew?” Corcoran said at last.
Matthew leaned forward a little. “Father was on his way to see me in London. He called me up to arrange it the night before. I’ve never heard him more serious.”
“Oh? About what?” If Corcoran already had any idea, there was no indication of it in his face.
“He said he had discovered a conspiracy that was highly dishonorable and would eventually affect the whole world. He wanted my advice on it.”
Corcoran’s vivid blue eyes were unblinking. “Your professional advice?” he said cautiously.
“Yes.”
“You couldn’t have misunderstood?”
“No.” Matthew was not going to elaborate and perhaps put words into Corcoran’s mouth. Suddenly the conversation was no longer easy, or simply between friends.
“I knew he was concerned about something,” Corcoran said, looking at Matthew over the top of his steepled fingers. “But he didn’t confide in me. In fact, he was politely evasive, so I didn’t pursue it.”
“What did he say to you, exactly?” Matthew pressed.
Corcoran blinked. “Very little. Only that he was worried about the pressure in the Balkans—which we all are, but he seemed to think it were more explosive than I did.” Corcoran’s expression tightened, his lips a thin line. “It seems he was right. The assassination of the archduke is very ugly. They’ll demand reparation, and of course Serbia won’t pay. The Russians will back the Serbs, and Germany will back Austria. That’s inevitable.”
“And us?” Matthew asked. “That’s still a long way from Britain, and it has nothing to do with our honor.”
Corcoran was thoughtful for a moment. The ticking of the clock measured the silence in the room.
“The alliances are a web right across Europe,” he said at last. “We know some of them, but perhaps not all. It’s fears and promises that could be our undoing.”
“Do you think Father could possibly have known about the assassination before it happened?” It was a wild thought, but he was reduced to desperation.
Corcoran lifted his shoulders, but there was no incredulity in his face and no ridicule. “I can’t think how!” he answered. “If he had any connections with that part of the world, he didn’t mention them to me. He knew France and Germany well, and Belgium, too, I think. He had some relative who married a Belgian, I believe, a cousin he was fond of.”
“Yes, Aunt Abigail,” Matthew confirmed. “But what has Belgium to do with Serbia?”
“Nothing, so far as I know. But what puzzles me far more is that he should want to involve you professionally.” He looked apologetic. “I’m sorry, Matthew, but you know as well as I that he hated all secret
