He reached Matthew’s flat a little after six, and the porter, knowing him well, let him in. He bathed, letting the hot water soak into his skin, although it stung the scratches where he had torn himself with his nails when the lice or fleas became unbearable. The bone-deep ease of it made him realize how tired he was, how many nights he had lain on the hard clay, or on duckboards, and slept fitfully. It was going to be strange to sleep in a bed with sheets, and waken knowing he was in England. It would seem eerily silent with only the distant sound of traffic, no gunfire, no shaking of the ground as the fourteen-pounders landed. No injuries, no deaths.
He toweled himself dry, examining the scraped and abraded patches of his skin, and dressed, borrowing clean underwear from Matthew’s drawer. Then he made himself a pot of tea and sat down to wait.
Matthew came in a little before nine. The porter must have told him of Joseph’s arrival because there was no surprise in his face. He pushed the door shut behind him and hesitated only a moment before flinging his arms around Joseph and hugging him briefly and fiercely. Then he stood back, looking him up and down. “Hell, Joe, you look awful! And you’re thin . . .”
“You know about Cullingford?” Joseph asked.
The joy in Matthew’s face vanished. “Yes, of course I do. It was only a few yards from here, practically on my doorstep. He was the one Judith drove, wasn’t he? Is she all right?”
Joseph found himself torn with all kinds of emotions. A few days ago he had been furious with her, so certain that regardless of temptations, she was morally wrong. Now nothing was so certain. He understood the darkness where, without a human touch, you drown. Perhaps Cullingford had needed that to survive, whether Judith did or not. Who else could he turn to? Not his wife in England, certainly not his junior officers. Maybe right and wrong did not move, but understanding of them did. The wrenching pain of walking the same path, even for a short space, tore away the willingness to judge.
“I don’t know,” he answered Matthew. “She loved him.”
Matthew’s eyes flickered wider open. “I didn’t know that!”
Joseph shrugged. “It’s not only that,” he went on. “She told him about the Peacemaker, all she knew.” He saw Matthew’s start of surprise. “Apparently Prentice was something of an idealist as well, with a lot of the same beliefs, and a driving compulsion to do something about them. Judith’s convinced Cullingford found the Peacemaker and that’s why he was killed, which to her makes it her fault!”
Matthew sat down slowly in the largest chair, running his hands through his hair, scraping it back off his brow.
“Oh, God! You mean he was on his way here to tell me when they caught up with him?”
“Probably.” Joseph sat opposite him.
“I think it’s Ivor Chetwin.” Matthew looked up at him. “Everything I have points to him. He has the knowledge, the political ability, the family connections in England, and we know he has the brains.” He pushed his hair back, dragging it off his brow. “It’s absolutely bloody, because he knows our codes in SIS, and other things I can’t tell you! I just need a few last details from a fellow called Mynott, who used to be a military attache at the embassy in Berlin before the war. That should settle the last doubts there are. Unfortunately he’s ADC to Hamilton out in Gallipoli. I’ve got a berth on a troopship leaving tomorrow night. But you can stay here, as long as you like! Thank God at least Mynott wasn’t a naval attache, or I’d never find him. I’m sorry, Joe, but I’ve got to go out and ask him the last questions. He knows for sure what Chetwin was doing in Berlin. If he knew Reisenburg, that’ll be enough.”
It twisted inside Joseph that it should be Chetwin, for his father’s sake, but it had to be someone he had known, or at least had known him. He knew Matthew had even feared it was Shearing himself. Joseph had been afraid it was Aidan Thyer. There was no answer that would be painless, and after Cullingford’s death, there was a new bitterness to it.
Matthew stood up and poured himself a generous glass of whisky. “I don’t suppose we’ll ever prove that. But I’ll be happy to see Chetwin swing high just for Mother and Father.” He drank the glassful in one draft. “Do you want some?”
“No.” He looked at Matthew with anxiety. He seemed to have drunk the whisky with unusual ease. A few months ago he would have sipped it, made it last the evening.
Matthew turned back to look at him, the glass still in his hand. He frowned. “Exactly what did she tell Cullingford, Joe? How could he find the Peacemaker in a couple of days when we haven’t in a year?”
“What’s the connection between Chetwin and the woman who spoke to Sebastian in the pub the day before he killed Mother and Father?” Joseph asked.
“I’ve no idea. Could be anything: relatives, lover, disciple, possibly just a paid messenger, a mercenary. If we get him, she won’t matter.”
“That’s how Cullingford trailed him, I think.” Joseph tried to remember exactly what Judith had said. She had been certain it was her fault, and he thought it was not hysteria but a deep and terrible knowledge. “There was a photograph of Prentice in his mother’s home that Judith saw when she was there, taking Cullingford’s condolences, as it were,” he explained. “Prentice was with a young woman who answered pretty closely to the description of the woman Hannah says was seen with Sebastian the day before the murders. If it was the same woman, perhaps Cullingford knew who she was, and knew her connection to the Peacemaker.”
“Then go to Mrs. Prentice tomorrow and look at the photograph!” Matthew said urgently. “I can’t, I have to go on the early train to Portsmouth in time to get on board the troopship. Look at the picture, and for God’s sake, Joe, do nothing! Just remember what the woman looks like, and get out.” He finished the whisky, pulling a face as if he disliked the taste of it. His voice was hoarse, fear in his eyes, and more emotion than he could control. “I don’t want to come back from Gallipoli and find you dead, too.” He tried to smile. “Apart from anything else, what would I tell Judith? Just go and tell Mrs. Prentice that you were the man who brought her son back, and buried him. Say something nice about him. . . .”
“Matthew!” Joseph exclaimed. “I understand! I’ll just look at all the photographs of Prentice, then I’ll come back here. I may go home for a few days, see Hannah. . . .” He saw Matthew’s face fill with alarm. “And I won’t go asking questions in any pubs! I swear!”
He was prevented from any further persuasion by the telephone.
Matthew stood up to answer it. He listened in silence for several moments, his body rigid, his hand holding the mouthpiece shaking a little, then he said “Yes, sir,” and replaced it on the hook. “That was Shearing. The Germans have sunk the
Joseph was stunned. “The
“The Irish Sea. It
“What about Chetwin . . . and Gallipoli?”
“I can’t go. Can you?”
“Me?” Joseph was startled.
Matthew’s face was white. “If you don’t go to Gallipoli, and I can’t, and Mynott’s killed before he can give us the proof, then the Peacemaker goes on, and England loses the war.”
Joseph leaned forward, head in his hands. “All right. I’ll go in the morning,” he whispered.
“I’m sorry,” Matthew said with sudden gentleness. “I know you haven’t had leave in months, and God knows, you deserve it. But I can’t trust anyone else.”
“I know,” Joseph agreed. “I’ll be all right. Tell me about Mynott, and what I need to do.”
The sea journey was, as Matthew had said, roughly three days, steaming at full speed south through the Straits of Gibraltar, then east across the Mediterranean. The weather was perfect, blazing sunshine and warm, blue seas.
At first Joseph was glad simply to sleep as much as cramped and shared accommodation allowed him to. The ship was full of men going out to fight on the beaches and landings at Gallipoli, and they must have heard of the storm of casualties there already. Many of them would not come home, and most of them who did would have sustained injury and loss.
Joseph made himself available to offer what support and encouragement he could, but they were raw
