grace, but very ordinary. Her white cotton blouse was such as most young women choose in country villages: high to the neck, shaped to fit, and with minimum decoration. She was not interested in whether it pleased anyone else or not. He realized with a sense of shock the change in her in a few weeks. The regularity of her features was still there, the gentleness of her mouth, but the vitality that made her beautiful was gone.
“Mrs. Appleton’s bringing me some scones and lemonade. Would you like any?” He said it to break the silence; he was thinking how badly he had neglected her.
“No, thanks,” she replied. “I’ve already had some. Did you come home for anything in particular? I suppose they don’t know who killed Sebastian Allard yet? I’m sorry about that.” She met his eyes, trying to read if he was hurting.
He sat down, deliberately choosing his father’s chair. “Not yet. I’m not even sure if they’re getting any closer.”
She sat down also. “What about Mother and Father?” she asked. “Matthew doesn’t tell me anything. Sometimes I think he forgets I even know about it being murder, or about the document. We still get the papers, and the news is awful. Everyone in the village is talking about the possibility of war.”
Mrs. Appleton brought in his scones and lemonade, and he thanked her. When she had gone, he looked at Judith again and realized how little he knew her inner strengths and weaknesses. Could she bear the truth that they had no idea who had killed John Reavley, or that his whole judgment of the document could be flawed? He might have died for a simple crime of greed. Could she bear to know that war was a real possibility that nobody could measure? The whole future lay ahead clouded and uncertain—perhaps worse than that, even tragic.
A hard knot of anger clenched inside Joseph against his father. John Reavley should have had more sense than to tell Matthew he had a document that could rock the world, and then to drive unprotected along the road, for someone to kill . . . and not only him, but Alys as well!
“Well, are they right?” Judith demanded, breaking into his thoughts. “Are they right? Is there going to be a war? You can’t be so isolated in your ivory tower that you don’t know Austria and Serbia are on the brink!”
“I’m not.” He said it with the sharpness of his own anger and frustration. “Yes, they are, and I expect Austria will march into Serbia and conquer it again.”
“They’re talking about Russia getting involved as well if that happens,” she persisted.
“It’s possible all Europe could be involved,” he said, meeting her eyes. “It’s not likely, but if it does happen, then we may be drawn in. It’s also possible that they will come back from the brink, seeing what it will cost them.”
“And if they don’t?” She struggled to keep her voice level, but her face was white.
He stood up and walked over to the French windows opening onto the garden.
“Then we’ll have to conduct ourselves with honor and do what we’ve always done—send our armies to the battle,” he replied. “I daresay it won’t last very long. It’s not Africa, where there are vast stretches of open country to hide in.”
She must have risen to her feet also, because she spoke from just behind him. “I suppose not.” She hesitated a moment. “Joseph, do you think that was what Father knew about? I mean, something to do with the assassination in Sarajevo? Could he have stumbled onto the plan for that?”
Did she want to believe it? It would be far easier than supposing some new danger. It was a moment of judgment. Evasion, or the truth that he did not know? “Perhaps,” he agreed, walking out onto the grass. She followed him. The night was balmy and softly scented with the heavy sweetness of pinks and late lilies. “Maybe there was no date on it, and he didn’t realize it was planned for that day.”
“No, it wasn’t,” she said grimly. “That doesn’t have anything to do with England’s honor!” He heard the vibrancy in her voice. She was angry, alive again. “Don’t condescend to me, Joseph!” She caught his arm. “I hate it when you do that! Killing an Austrian archduke has got nothing to do with England.”
“It was your suggestion,” he pointed out, stung by her remark about his condescension, because he knew it was true. Evasion had been a mistake.
“And it was stupid,” she went on. “Why can’t you tell me I’m stupid honestly? Don’t always be so damn polite! I’m not your congregation, and you’re not my father! But I suppose you’re trying to be, and at least you’re somebody I can talk to properly.”
“Thank you,” he said drily. It was a backhanded compliment he had not deserved, and he was disturbed by how much it mattered to him.
They passed the border and were snared in the warm, sweet perfume. A barn owl swooped low between the trees and disappeared on soundless wings.
“Don’t you want to know what the document was?” she asked.
“Of course I do.” He said it automatically, and only afterward realized that if it was something their father had misjudged, then perhaps he would rather not.
He stopped at the edge of the lawn and she stood beside him, the moonlight on her face. “Then we ought to be able to find out where he got it, surely,” she said. “He can’t have had it very long, or he would have taken it to Matthew sooner.” Her voice was steady now, some inner resolve asserting itself.
“We’ve already tried to find out everywhere he went for several days before that,” he answered. “He saw the bank manager, Robert Isenham, and old Mr. Frawley, who keeps the curiosity shop up on the Cambridge Road.” He looked at her gently. “He and Frawley know each other pretty well. If Father had just discovered anything awful, Frawley would have known there was something wrong.”
“Mother went to see Maude Channery the day Father called Matthew,” she said seriously.
“Who is Maude Channery?” If he knew, he had forgotten.
“One of Mother’s good causes,” she answered, struggling for a moment to keep her voice level. “Father couldn’t bear her, said she was a fearful old fraud, but he drove Mother there anyway.”
“He’d have to, if it was far,” he pointed out. “Unless you did—and Mother would never go to visit anyone important in your Model T! Not if the Lanchester was available.”
“I could have driven her in the Lanchester,” she argued.
“Oh? Since when could you drive that?” he said, surprised. “Or more to the point, since when would Father have let you?”
“Since he couldn’t stand Maude Channery,” she retorted, a tiny flash of humor in her voice, there and then gone again. “But he didn’t. He took Mother. And when they came back he went straight to his study, and Mother and I had supper alone.”
He hesitated. The idea was absurd. “Surely you aren’t suggesting he got a document of international importance from an old woman who was one of Mother’s good causes?”
“I don’t know! Can you think of somewhere better to start? You haven’t got anything, and neither has Matthew.”
“We’ll go and see her tomorrow if you like,” he offered.
She gave him a wry look, and he knew it was on the tip of her tongue to tell him again not to be so condescending, but instead she simply accepted. She said that they would make it a morning call, before he could change his mind—and she would be ready at ten.
Joseph woke up early. It was a warm, blustery day, the wind full of the fine dust of the first crops being gathered. He walked down to the village and collected the Sunday papers from Cully Teversham at the tobacconists, and exchanged the usual pleasantries—a word about the weather, a spot of local gossip—and left to go home again. He passed a few neighbors on the way, and nodded good morning.
He intended not to open the papers until breakfast, but his curiosity overcame him. The news was worse than he had expected. Serbia had rejected Austrian demands, and diplomatic relations had been broken off. It seemed like the prelude to war. Russia had declared that it would act to protect Serbia’s interests. Who would win the Tour de France seemed like an issue from another era already sliding into the past, almost irretrievable even now, and a visit to Maude Channery was the last thing on his mind.
But he had promised Judith, and at least it would make up for some of the time he had been so absorbed with his own emotions that he had forgotten hers.
They set off at ten o’clock, but it took them until after half past to drive as far as Cherry Hinton. After making inquiries at the village shop, they found Fen Cottage on the outskirts, and parked the car just around the corner.
