She was staring at him, waiting, wanting to quarrel and not knowing if she dared to. The anger needed to spill out, but not at him.
He stood up slowly. “We haven’t time to waste on hate, Abby,” he said very softly. “Hold on to the good you have, while you have it. Time is so precious, and so short.”
The tears spilled over her cheeks. Awkwardly, as if it were a gesture he had never made before, he knelt down in front of her and took her in his arms.
He had already given the subject considerable reflection, and he knew which friend he would speak to regarding the idea that was taking greater shape in his mind the longer he considered it. It made a hideous sense. If what he learned next fitted in with what Judith had told him, the identity of the Peacemaker was certain.
He walked along Piccadilly in the sun with a sense of dreamlike unreality. It all looked exactly the same as it had a year ago, and yet it was indefinably shabbier. Part of it was in the dress of the women. There were no bright colors, no reds, no oranges or hot pinks, as if they would be crass in the face of so many people’s mourning.
Perhaps there were rather fewer horses and more cars, which might have had to do with the war, or simply the progress of time. Newsboys stood on the corners. There was nothing different: casualty figures from Flanders, France, Gallipoli; bits of news from other regions such as Africa and the Mediterranean. Oddly enough there were still theater flyers advertising musicals, dramas, the latest entertainment, and of course moving pictures.
He stopped to take his bearings for a moment, then crossed the street and went into a large block of flats, each one like a smart town house, with entrance foyer and a suite of rooms.
Gustavus Tempany was expecting him. He was at least fifteen years older than Cullingford. He was tall and thin, limping from the wound that had invalided him out of the Indian army ten years ago. He still stood like a soldier. His thoughts and dreams were with the men in France, but his own days of battle were over.
He welcomed Cullingford and offered him whisky, in spite of the hour, but he was not surprised when it was declined.
“Well?” he said gravely, looking at Cullingford where he sat opposite him, legs crossed as if he were relaxed, trying to appear casual. “Don’t play silly beggars with me, Cullingford. Something’s eating at you, or you wouldn’t be here. This is not time for tittle-tattle.”
“Do you know Laetitia Dawson?” Cullingford asked bluntly.
Tempany’s eyes opened very wide, but he did not make any obvious comment. “Of course.”
“Do you know what she is doing these days?”
“Socially? No idea. Don’t care much about these things.” Very carefully he did not ask why on earth Cullingford should be interested in such a superficial matter. He frowned. “Is it important?”
“It could be. She’s still in London? Hasn’t married, gone abroad, or anything?”
“No. Saw her at a dinner at the Savoy a couple of weeks ago, or perhaps it was three.”
“Who with? Do you remember?”
“Somebody’s brother. All very casual,” Tempany replied.
Cullingford saw the curiosity in him, and smiled. He could have trusted his discretion, and his honor, but if Judith was right, such knowledge was dangerous, and Tempany had been his friend too long and too deeply to risk his safety.
“Can you put me in touch with anyone who knows her currently?” he asked.
“Cullingford, are you sure you know what you are doing?” Tempany said anxiously. “She won’t be up to anything questionable, you know! You do know her family connections—who her uncle is?”
“Yes, I do. Please—it’s important.”
“Well if you must, I think she actually lives quite a bit of the time up near Cambridge. Family home, you know?”
“Yes, I know.”
“You could try one of the young scientists up at the Establishment there. Can’t remember the fellow’s name, but supposed to be brilliant. All very secret stuff. War effort, and all that. Is that what you’re after?”
Cullingford did not answer. It was fitting together too easily: Laetitia Dawson with first Eldon; presumably he had been the first? Then the message to Sebastian Allard. Now there was some young scientist in Cambridge. The connection was perfect. The passion was there, the idealism, the power. He would have to go up to Cambridge, of course. Every step needed proving, but he did not expect any difficulty. A society photograph of Laetitia was easy enough to find out of the
He had a quick meal at the railway station, and went to Cambridge on the afternoon train, arriving a little after three. Fortunately the day on which John and Alys Reavley were killed was one that would be remembered in England as long as recorded history lasted. That day an assassination had occurred in the Balkans that had precipitated the last hectic plunge toward a war which seemed as if it must be the end of the world as Europe knew it, and the beginning of something unknown, perhaps swifter, darker, and immeasurably uglier.
It did not take long for him to find a driver to take him to the village, and the public house where Hannah had said Sebastian and Laetitia Dawson had been seen.
“A fine lookin’ lass, all right,” the publican agreed, looking from the picture to Cullingford with respect. He was in uniform, as thousands of other men were, but in his case because he had not had time, or inclination, to go home. He wanted to deal with this matter first, and if he was honest, he had no desire to see Nerys, and be obliged to put on the mask that for her sake hid his feelings. It was an effort he was uncertain he could sustain, and he was too tired, too emotionally raw to try.
“Do you remember her?” Cullingford asked patiently.
“Don’t see ’er much these days,” the publican replied. “Busy, I s’pose. Most folk are.”
“I am trying to understand an event that happened a little under a year ago, in order to clear someone of a certain blame,” Cullingford elaborated with something of a slant to the truth. “I’m sure you remember the day of the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand . . .”
The publican rolled his eyes. “Do I ever? Hardly goin’ to forget that!”
“I imagine no one is,” Cullingford agreed. “Did you see this woman the day before that?” He remembered Judith’s description of Sebastian Allard. “She may have been in the company of a young man, tall also, very good- looking indeed, fair brown hair, sunburned, looked like a poet, a dreamer.”
The publican smiled. “Oh yeah! I remember him. Right handsome, he was. Odd, because I’ve never see’d ’im since. I s’pose he’s gone to war—like most of ’em.” His face flooded with sadness and he blinked several times. He polished the glass in his hand so hard he was fortunate not to snap it. “I’d like to think ’e weren’t killed. ’E had such a look to ’im, as if ’e were alight with something inside ’isself.” He shook his head. “An’ it weren’t love, like you see all the time in young folk. It were bigger than that, like you said, a dream. An’ ’e and she were friendly, but no more’n that. An’ she were proper ’andsome, too, but a bit tall for a girl, to my taste. Does that ’elp you?”
“Yes,” Cullingford said quickly. “Yes, thank you.” It was what he needed to know. He would take it to Matthew Reavley. It was his task to know how to arrest the Peacemaker, or what else to do about him. But at least now he would know who he was. His power would be curtailed forever. Perhaps they would do something discreet, no open accusation, certainly no trial.
He thanked the publican again and gave him a handsome tip for his time, then he walked outside into the sun.
Did people commit suicide out of honor anymore, if they were found in treason? Certainly the government could never let it be known. Would someone offer him a sword or a gun? It would be the best way.
The driver was waiting for him, and he went back to the station to catch the next train to London. He should have thought to ask Judith for Matthew’s address, but he had not wanted to tell her what he intended to do. Any questions, and she might have guessed. Now he would have to telephone one of his friends in the Intelligence Services and ask. It was only a temporary setback.
The journey back from Cambridge was very pleasant. He let himself drift off into sleep. He woke with a start to find himself already on the outskirts of the city. He would have to find a hotel tonight, and perhaps go home tomorrow. Time to face that decision when he had to.
It was nearly seven o’clock and already the light was fading when he walked along the platform under the vast ceiling and out into the early evening air. It was warm, a softness to it as if summer were almost here.
He realized how hungry he was and looked for a restaurant to find a decent meal before going to see
