No Graves As Yet

such things out?

It was time to face Beecher. He went out and closed the door behind him. He felt stiff and weary, dreading what was to come.

It was windless and hot in the late slanting sunlight as he crossed the quad and went in through the door on the far side and up the stairs to Beecher’s rooms. He dreaded having to be so blunt about what was a private subject, but nothing was truly private anymore.

He reached the landing and was surprised to see Beecher’s door slightly ajar. It was unusual because it was an invitation to anyone to interrupt whatever he was doing, and that was completely out of character.

“Beecher?” he called, pushing it a few inches wider. “Beecher?”

There was no answer. Could he have slipped out to see someone, intending to be back in a moment or two, and simply left the door ajar?

He did not like to go in uninvited. He was going to intrude painfully enough when it was inevitable. He called out again, and there was still no answer. He stood, expecting to hear Beecher’s familiar step any minute, but there was no sound except the call of voices in the distance.

Then at last there were footsteps, light and quick. Joseph spun around. But it was Rattray coming down from the floor above.

“Have you seen Dr. Beecher?” Joseph asked.

“No, sir. I thought he was in his rooms. Are you sure he isn’t?”

“Beecher!” Joseph called again, this time raising his voice considerably.

Still there was silence. But it would be most unlike Beecher to have gone out and left his door open. He pushed it wider and went inside. There was no one in the study, but the bedroom door beyond was also ajar. Joseph walked over and knocked on it. It swung open. Then he saw Beecher. He was leaning back in the bedroom chair, his head lolled against the wall behind him. He looked exactly as Sebastian had: the small hole in his right temple, the gaping wound on the other side, the blood drenching the wall. Only this time the revolver was on the floor where it had fallen from the dead hand.

For a moment Joseph could not move for horror. It lurched up inside him, and he had the thought that he was going to be sick. The room wavered, and there was a roar in his ears.

He breathed in deeply and tasted bile in his throat. Gradually he backed out of the door and through the outer room to find Rattray still waiting on the landing. Rattray saw his face and the words were hoarse on his lips. “What is it?”

“Dr. Beecher is dead.” Joseph’s voice sounded strangled, as if his lungs were paralyzed. “Go and get Perth . . . or . . . someone.”

“Yes, sir.” But for several seconds Rattray was unable to move.

Joseph closed the door to Beecher’s rooms and stood for a moment gasping for air. Then his legs buckled and he collapsed onto the floor, leaning his back against the door lintel. His whole body was shuddering uncontrollably, and the tears ran down his face. It was too much; he could not bear it.

At last Rattray went, stumbling down the first two or three steps, and Joseph heard his feet all the way down, then a terrible silence.

It seemed an eternity of confusion, horror and soul-bruising misery until Perth arrived with Mitchell and, a couple of paces behind him, Aidan Thyer. They went in past Joseph, and a few moments later Thyer came out, gray-faced.

“I’m sorry, Reavley,” he said gently. “This must be rotten for you. Did you guess?”

“What?” Joseph looked up at him slowly, dreading what he was going to say. His mind was whirling; thoughts slipped out of his grasp, no coherence to them, but he knew they were black with tragedy.

Thyer held out his hand. “Come on. You need a stiff shot of brandy. Come back to the house and I’ll get . . .”

Oh, God! Joseph was appalled as one thought emerged from the rest: Connie! She would have to be told that Beecher was dead! Who should tell her? It was going to be unbearable for her, whoever it was, but what would be least terrible? Her husband . . . alone? Could she mask her own feelings for Beecher? Was it even conceivable that Thyer knew?

Had Beecher taken his own life, knowing that the truth would come out and that he’d be blamed for Sebastian’s murder? Joseph refused even to think that he might actually have done it—but the possibility hung on the dark edges of his mind. Or was it Aidan Thyer who had made it look like suicide, standing there in front of him, with his grave face and pale hair, his hand outstretched to help Joseph to his feet?

The answer was something he could not evade. Yes, he should go to the house, whether it was he or Thyer who told Connie. She would need help. If he did not go and there was a further tragedy, he would be to blame.

He grasped Thyer’s hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, accepting Thyer’s arm to steady himself until he found his balance.

“Thank you,” he said huskily. “Yes, I think a stiff brandy would be very good.”

Thyer nodded and led the way down the stairs, across the quad and through the archway toward the master’s lodgings. Joseph’s mind raced as he walked beside him a little dizzily, every step drawing him closer to the moment that would end Connie’s happiness. Would she believe Beecher had killed Sebastian? Had she even known of the blackmail? Had Beecher told her, or had he borne it alone? Or had the photograph been his?

And might she think it was Aidan Thyer? If she did, then she might be terrified of him herself. But Joseph could not stay there forever to protect her. What could he say or do so that she would be safe after he left? It was his responsibility, because he was the only one who knew.

Nothing. There was nothing anyone could do to save her from ultimately having to face the husband she had betrayed, at heart if not more.

They were at the door. Thyer opened it and held it for Joseph, watching him with care in case he staggered and tripped. Did he really look so dreadful? He must. He certainly felt it. He was moving in a nightmare, as if his body did not belong to him.

It seemed interminable moments before Connie appeared. For seconds she did not realize there was anything wrong, and she said something pleasant about having tea. Then slowly the look on Thyer’s face registered with her, and she looked at Joseph.

Thyer was about to speak. Joseph must act now. He stepped forward a couple of paces.

“Connie, I’m afraid something very dreadful has happened. I think you had better sit down . . . please . . .”

She hesitated a moment.

“Please,” he urged.

Slowly she obeyed. “What is it?”

“Harry Beecher has killed himself,” he said quietly. There was no way to make it any better or gentler. All he could do now was try to save her from a self-betraying reaction.

There was an instant’s terrible silence, then the blood drained from her face. She stared at him.

He stepped between her and her husband, taking her hands in his as if he could hold her together, in some physical fashion bridging the gulf of aloneness. What he really wanted was to shield her from Thyer’s sight.

“I’m so sorry,” he went on. “I know you were as fond of him as I was, and it is the most awful shock, on top of everything else that has happened. It was very quick, a single shot. But no one yet knows why. I’m afraid there is bound to be speculation. We must prepare ourselves.”

She drew in her breath in a stifled little cry, her eyes wide and empty. Did she understand that he knew about them, that he was saying all this to give her whatever protection there was?

Thyer was at his elbow with two glasses of brandy. Joseph straightened up to allow him to give one to Connie. Had he any idea? Looking at his white face and pinched mouth told him nothing. It might as easily have been only the horror of yet another tragedy in his college.

Joseph took the brandy offered to him and drank it, choking on the unaccustomed fire of it in his throat. Then he felt it blossom inside him with artificial warmth, and it did help. It steadied him, gave him a little strength, even though he knew it was only temporary, and changed nothing.

Thyer took over. “We don’t know what happened yet,” he was telling Connie. “The gun was there on the floor beside him. It looks as if it is maybe the end of all this.”

She stared at him and started to say something, but the words died in her throat. She shook her head,