The color burned up her cheeks, but she did not look away from him. “I’m ashamed of it,” she said in a voice that was little above a whisper. “I’d hoped I wouldn’t ever have to think of it again, much less tell anyone.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid there is no escape. We owe it to everyone else involved.”
Once their tea and scones were served, she began her account. “I met Edgar Morel. I liked him very much, and gradually it turned into love—at least I thought it did. I had never really been in love before, and I didn’t know what to expect.” She glanced up at him and then down at her hands again. She held them clasped in front of her, strong, well-shaped, and bare of rings. “He asked me to marry him, and I was wondering whether to accept. It seemed a little soon.” She drew in her breath. “Then I met Sebastian. He was the most beautiful person I had ever seen.” She raised her eyes to meet Joseph’s, and they were bright, swimming in tears.
He wanted to help her, but there was nothing he could do except listen. If he did not interrupt, it would be over more quickly.
“He was so clever, so quick to understand everything,” she went on, rueful now, obviously curious about the irony of it. “And he was funny. I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so much in my life.” She looked at him again. “I never really laughed, not just a little giggle but the sort of aching, uncontrollable laughter my mother would think was totally indecent. And it was such fun! We talked about all sorts of things and it was like being able to fly—in your mind. Do you know what I mean, Mr. Reavley?”
“Yes, certainly I do,” he said with a catch in his voice, partly for Sebastian, partly for Eleanor, perhaps most of all for inner loneliness for something he needed and did not have.
She sipped her tea.
He took one of the scones and put butter, jam, and cream on it.
“I was in love with Sebastian,” she continued with conviction. “It wouldn’t matter what Edgar did. I could never feel like that about him. I couldn’t marry him. It would have been an impossible lie. I told him, and he was very upset. It was awful!”
“Yes, I’m sure it was,” he agreed. “When you are in love, there is not much that hurts as deeply as rejection.”
“I know,” she whispered.
He waited.
She sniffed a little and sipped her tea again, then set down the cup. “Sebastian rejected me. He said he liked me very much, but he liked Edgar also, and he couldn’t do what amounted morally to stealing his girl.” She took a shivery breath. “I never saw him alone after that. I was mortified. For ages I didn’t want to see anyone. But I suppose it passes. We all survive.”
“No, we don’t,” he corrected her. “Sebastian is dead.”
The blood drained from her face, and she stared at him in horror. “You don’t . . . you don’t think Edgar . . . Oh, no! No! He was upset, but he would never do that! Besides, it really wasn’t Sebastian’s fault. He didn’t do anything to encourage me!”
“Would that make you feel any better if you were in Edgar’s place?” he asked. “It wouldn’t comfort me to know somebody had taken the woman I loved, without even having to try.”
She closed her eyes, and the tears ran down her cheeks. “No,” she said huskily. “No, I think I’d feel worse. I still don’t believe Edgar would kill him. He didn’t love me that much, not to commit murder for. He’s a nice man, really nice, just not . . . not alive as Sebastian was.”
“It isn’t always the value of what is taken that makes us hate,” he pointed out. “Sometimes it’s just the fact that we’ve been robbed. It’s pride.”
“He wouldn’t,” she repeated. “If you think he did, then you don’t know him.”
Perhaps she was right, but he wondered if she was defending him because she carried such a burden of guilt for having hurt him. It would be a way of paying some of that debt.
And yet the Morel he knew would not have killed for such a reason. He could easily see him fighting, perhaps punching Sebastian hard enough to kill him by accident, but not deliberately with a gun. For one thing, the sheer physical release of violence would not be in it. It would leave him still empty, and consumed not only with guilt but with fear also.
“No, I don’t think he would, either,” he agreed.
“Do you have to tell that policeman?”
“I won’t unless something happens to change things,” he promised. “Unfortunately there are many other possibilities, and very few of us can prove we didn’t. Please have one of these scones. They really are excellent.”
She smiled at him, blinking hard, and reached out to accept.
On Tuesday afternoon, Joseph took the train to London and was waiting for Matthew when he came home to his flat.
“What are you doing here?” Matthew demanded, coming into the sitting room and seeing Joseph lounging in his own favorite chair. Matthew was in uniform, and he looked tired and harassed, his fair hair untidy and uncharacteristically in need of cutting, his face pale.
“The doorman let me in,” Joseph replied, climbing to his feet to leave the chair free. “Have you eaten?” It was past dinnertime. He had found bread and a little cheese in the kitchen and some Belgian pate, and opened a bottle of red wine. “Can I get you something?”
“Like what?” Matthew said a little sarcastically, but easing himself into the chair and relaxing slowly.
“Bread and pate?” Joseph replied. “I finished the cheese. Wine or tea?”
“Wine, if you haven’t finished that, too! Why have you come? Not for dinner!”
Joseph ignored him until he had cut three slices of the bread and brought it along with butter, pate, and the bottle of wine and a glass.
“You didn’t answer my question. You look like hell. Has something else happened?”
Joseph heard the edge to his voice. “So do you,” he said, sitting in the other chair and crossing his legs. “How are you progressing?”
Matthew smiled, half ruefully, and a little of the weariness ironed out of his face. “I know more. I’m not sure how much of it is relevant. The British and Irish parties met at the Palace and failed to reach any agreement. I suppose no one is surprised. The king supported the Loyalists yesterday, but I expect you know that.”
“No, I didn’t,” Joseph said. “But I meant to do with Father’s death and the document.”
“I know you did. Let me finish! I’ve spoken to several people—Shanley Corcoran; Ivor Chetwin, who used to be a friend of Father’s; my boss, Shearing; and Dermot Sandwell, from the Foreign Office. Sandwell was actually the most helpful. From everything I can gather, an Irish plot to assassinate the king seems most likely. . . .” He stopped, having seen Joseph’s face. “It answers all Father’s criteria,” he said very quietly. “Think of what British reaction would be.”
Joseph closed his eyes for a moment. Views of rage, bloodshed, martial law, and oppression filled his mind, sickening him. He had wanted his father to be right, to be justified rather than foolish, but not at this cost. He looked up at Matthew, seeing the grayness in him with an overwhelming understanding. “Is there anything we can do?” he asked.
“I don’t know. At least Sandwell is aware of it. I imagine he will warn the king.”
“Will he? I mean, would he even be able to get access to see him without alarming . . . ?”
“Oh, yes. I think they’re distantly related somewhere along the line. From the marriage of one of Victoria’s umpteen children. I just don’t know if Sandwell can make the king believe it. No one has ever assassinated a British monarch.”
“Not assassinated, perhaps,” Joseph agreed. “But we’ve certainly had a good few murdered, deposed, or executed. But the last was bloodless, and a long time ago: 1688, to be precise.”
“Rather beyond living memory,” Matthew pointed out. “Did you come to ask what I’d found so far?” He took another bite of his bread and pate.
“I came to tell you that the police have discovered that Sebastian lied about when he left home to go back to college the day Mother and Father were killed. He actually left a couple of hours earlier.”
Matthew was puzzled. “I thought he was killed over a week later. What difference does that make?”
Joseph shook his head. “The point is that he lied about it, and why do that unless there was something he wanted to conceal?”
