Matthew asked if he might see him as a matter of urgency, to do with the king’s announcement today of his support for the Ulster Loyalists. He gave his name and rank, and that he was on assignment to the Secret Intelligence Service. There was no point in hiding it because Sandwell could very easily find out and would be extremely unlikely to receive him at all otherwise.
He had to wait only fifteen minutes before he was taken into first the outer office and then the inner. It was a handsome room overlooking Horseguards’ Parade, furnished with an extremely individual and pleasing mixture of classical and Middle Eastern styles. A burr walnut desk was flanked by Queen Anne chairs. Turkish brassware sat on an Italian
Sandwell himself was tall and very slight, but there was a wiry grace to him that suggested strength. His hair and skin were fair, and his eyes were a uniquely vivid blue. There was an intensity to his face that would have made him unusual even were the rest of him ordinary. It would have held the attention of anyone who had been in his company for more than a few moments.
He came forward and shook Matthew’s hand, his grip firm, then he stepped back.
“What can I do for you, Reavley?” He waved at the chair to indicate Matthew was to sit, then sat back again in his own, his eyes not leaving Matthew’s face. He continued to create a life and a tension in the room while remaining perfectly motionless. Matthew noticed that there was a mosaic ashtray on the desk, with at least half a dozen cigarette ends in it.
“As you know, sir, His Majesty has expressed his support for the Ulster Loyalists,” he began. “And we are concerned that in doing so he may have placed himself in a certain amount of danger from Nationalists.”
“I should think that is beyond doubt,” Sandwell agreed, with only the smallest flicker of impatience across his face.
“We have cause, insubstantial but sufficient to concern us, that there may be a plot to assassinate him,” Matthew went on.
Sandwell was motionless, but something inside him became even more rigid. “Have you, indeed? I admit that in itself it does not surprise me, but I had no idea they were so . . . daring! Do you know who is behind it?”
“That’s what I’m working on,” Matthew answered. “There are several possibilities, but the one that seems most likely so far is a man named Patrick Hannassey.”
“A Nationalist with a long history of activity,” Sandwell agreed. “I’ve had slight dealings with him myself, but not lately.”
“No one has seen him for over two months,” Matthew said drily. “Which is one of the facts that concerns us. He has dropped out of sight so completely that none of our contacts knows where he is.”
“So what is it you want from me?” Sandwell asked.
“Any information you might have on Hannassey’s past contacts,” Matthew replied. “Anything about him we might not know—foreign connections, friends, enemies, weaknesses . . .” He had decided not to mention Michael Neill. Never pass on information you do not have to.
Finally Sandwell spoke. His voice was quiet and rough-edged. “Hannassey fought in the Boer War . . . on the Boer side, of course. He was captured by the British and held in a concentration camp for some time. I don’t know how long, but several months at least. If you’d seen that . . .” His voice cracked. “War can rob men of their humanity. Men you would have sworn were decent and they were before fear, pain, hunger, and the propaganda of hatred stripped away that decency and left only the animal will to survive.”
His blue eyes flashed up and held Matthew’s with a storm of feeling that his casual, easy elegance had completely masked. “Civilization is thin, Captain Reavley, desperately thin, a veneer like a single coat of paint, but it is all we have between us and the darkness.” His long-fingered, almost delicate hands were clenched, the knuckles pale where the skin stretched. “We must hold on to it at any cost, because if we lose it, we face chaos.”
His voice was soft, but it contained a contempt he could not control. “Believe me, Captain Reavley, civilization can all be swept away and we can turn into savages so hideous it is a horror you can never wipe from your soul.” Now his voice was little more than a whisper. “You wake up sweating in the night, your skin crawling, but the nightmare is inside you, for the possibility that this is what we are all like . . . underneath the smiling masks.”
Matthew could offer no argument. Sandwell was speaking about something of which he had no knowledge. He had heard only fragments of accusation and denial, rumors of ugliness that belonged to another world and other, far different people.
Sandwell smiled, but it was a grimace, an attempt to conceal again a little of the passion he had allowed to show itself too nakedly. “We must grasp civilization, Reavley, pay any price to keep it for ourselves and those who come after us. Guard the gates of sanity so madness does not return. We can do that for each other . . . we must. If we can’t, there is nothing else worth doing. You want to find Hannassey, I’ll help you. If he assassinates the king, God only knows what hatred will follow! We could even end up with martial law, the persecution of thousands of totally innocent Irish people, simply by association. As it is, it’s going to take the effort of every good man in Europe to keep the lid on this Austro-Serbian affair, after the assassination of the archduke. Neither side can afford to back down, and they are both gathering allies everywhere they can: Russia for the Serbs, Germany for the Austrians— naturally.”
He reached for a black leather cigarette case and took out a cigarette so automatically he seemed unaware of doing it. He lit it and drew in a deep draft of smoke. “As well as the Irish, you might look toward some of the socialist groups,” he continued. “Men like Hannassey take their allies anywhere they find them. Socialist aspiration is far greater than many people think. There’s Jaures, Rosa Luxemburg, Adler, unrest everywhere. I’ll give you what help I can—all the information this office has is at your disposal—but time is short . . . desperately so.”
“Thank you, sir,” Matthew said simply. He was profoundly grateful. Suddenly he was lurching forward with a frightening speed. From being alone he had moved to having one of the most discreetly powerful men in foreign affairs willing to listen to him and to share information. Perhaps the truth was only just beyond sight. In days, a week at most, he would face the truth of his parents’ death. John Reavley had been right—there was a conspiracy.
“Thank you, sir,” he repeated, rising to his feet. “I appreciate that very much.” Small words to convey the excitement and the apprehension inside him.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
On Monday, July 20, Joseph spent the morning in a lively albeit erratic discussion with half a dozen students in which he doubted anyone learned very much.
He found himself enervated by the exchange as he walked back across the quad toward his own room, eager for the peace of familiar books and pictures, and above all the silence. He was fourteen or fifteen years older than most of the young men he had been with, but today it seemed more than a generation. They were frightened, perhaps of the thought of war in Europe, even though it was distant and problematical.
Far more immediate was the continuing police investigation of Sebastian Allard’s murder. That could not be escaped. It was omnipresent as Sebastian’s grieving mother walked the Fellows’ Garden in black, waiting for justice, her rage and misery consuming her. She seemed in a self-chosen isolation from the rest of the world. Inspector Perth continued his interrogations, never telling anyone what he had concluded from their answers. And always was the knowledge that one of these gilded scholars, studying the collected thoughts of the ages, had fired the deliberate shot.
Joseph was almost at the door when he heard the light, rapid footsteps behind him and turned to find Perth a couple of yards away. As always, he wore a suit that fitted without elegance or grace. His hair was combed back straight and his mustache trimmed level. He was carrying a pipe by the bowl, as if he was undecided whether to light it or not.
“Oh! Good. Reverend Reavley . . . glad to catch up wi’ you, sir,” he said cheerfully. “Are you going inside?”
“Yes. I’ve just finished a debate with some of my students.”
