“Possibly,” Mason agreed flatly. “But I won’t.”
“Reavley can’t . . .”
“It’s nothing to do with what Reavley would do,” Mason replied, a flare of anger in his eyes. “Or to save my life. It’s because I don’t believe it’s the right thing to do. It won’t bring peace, only a betrayal of the ordinary soldier who now believes that he’s fighting a just and necessary war. I won’t do that.”
The Peacemaker’s temper flared because he was losing control in a startling and unexpected way. It took him a supreme effort to mask it and keep his expression bland. “Even Gallipoli?” he asked. “What was it like? What happened to you there?”
“I helped the wounded,” Mason replied. His voice was filled with pain, but there was a finality in it, closing off search for detail.
The Peacemaker stared at him. His words were true, but he was concealing something deeper. He could feel it. He could also feel the emotional tension in Mason, a passion just below the surface that consumed him, but he was too frightened of it to allow it through.
The Peacemaker would have to wait, move gently. Mason was too valuable to lose. He must be won back, persuaded, whatever it needed to change his mind again. Perhaps this was not the time to raise the subject of U- boats and torpedoes anyway! He would like to have turned his attention to those plans that included undermining and ultimately destroying this government, but he was not at the moment sufficiently certain of Mason’s loyalties in that direction.
“You’ve had a grim experience,” he said with some warmth. “And perhaps you are right about some of the issues of morale.” It was difficult to say, and he saw the surprise in Mason’s face, but he would come back to it later, slowly and with greater subtlety. “There are other matters of importance,” he went on with a smile. “The situation in the United States is of the utmost interest. Mexico is in turmoil and could invade any day. Unfortunately no one there is to be relied on. They are at war with each other as much as with any outside force.”
Mason’s eyes were wide, stunned with total incomprehension. “Why in God’s name did the Germans sink the
The Peacemaker pushed his hands into his pockets. “It seems nothing will bring him in. The Mexican move was even more successful than we hoped. We’ll keep working on it. Let me tell you what the exact situation is now, who we have there and what is next to be done.” He indicated that Mason should sit down. “It’s detailed,” he began. “Complicated. You need to understand the people.”
Mason listened, his attention held at last, almost as if he were relieved to have something to fasten his intellect on and rest from the turmoil inside him.
The Peacemaker did not tell him about the mole he had placed in the Scientific Establishment in Cambridge. He would keep that secret. It was as well to give only the information you had to. Trust no one.
Joseph ate and slept and did little more than wander around Matthew’s flat for two days. Then in the evening of the third day Matthew answered the telephone, and Joseph, watching him, saw his face light up, and an intense concern fill his expression.
“How are you?” Matthew said earnestly. He waited for the answer, listening with obvious sympathy. “I can’t,” he went on. “Although I expect Joseph would move for you. He’s been through a pretty rough time. He went out to Gallipoli, and came back by sea. His ship was sunk, and . . . yes, yes, he’s all right!” He glanced at Joseph as he spoke. “He’s here, now. I wouldn’t tell you like that, for heaven’s sake! But he did spend a bit of time in an open boat, rowing the thing. Yes, of course he is! I swear!”
There was another silence.
Matthew smiled. “Of course. That sounds like a good idea. Do you want to speak to him? Right.” He held out the telephone receiver. “It’s Judith. She’s in London.”
Joseph took the receiver. “Judith?” He was terribly afraid of what he might hear—the pain in her he still had no idea how to help.
“Are you all right,” she said urgently, “Joseph?” She sounded as if she were afraid for him.
“Yes, I’m fine,” he answered. “I was only cold and wet . . . and terrified.”
She laughed a little jerkily. “Is that all?”
“Where are you?” he asked. “If you want to stay here, I can move to a hotel.”
“No . . . thank you. I wanted to stay with Mrs. Prentice, and she invited me. I’m going to a dinner at the Savoy tomorrow evening, a sort of government thing, to get some kind of organization into voluntary help. There are people all over the country doing things; knitting, driving around, packing parcels, writing letters. It needs to get some order, or we’ll be falling over each other. It’s Dermot Sandwell’s idea, I think. Anyway, I need to find a dress.”
“Who’s taking you?”
“Taking me?” She drew in her breath quickly, a little shakily.
“May I?” he asked before she had time to think.
“If . . . if you want to? Yes. Thank you.”
“Where shall I pick you up, and when?”
She gave him the address. “About six, to give us time in case the traffic is bad.”
He heard the hesitation in her voice. “What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing! At least not . . . Joseph, this is Eldon Prentice’s family, you know. And . . . and General Cullingford’s sister . . . they’ve lost . . .” She did not know how to finish.
“Are you saying you would rather meet me somewhere else?” he offered.
“No! I was saying perhaps you could come a little earlier, and say something . . . decent about Prentice at least. It . . . Joseph, it’s terrible for them. . . .”
“Of course.” He responded immediately and without wondering how he would do it, especially now that he knew what Prentice had really been intending to do. “And no one has anything to say about Cullingford except good.” He took a deep breath. “Are you all right, Judith?”
“No,” she said a little huskily. “But then is anybody?”
“No. It’s only a matter of degree. How about five, or is that too early?”
“Five would be excellent. Thank you.”
“The only thing I have to wear is a uniform. Is that all right?”
“It’ll be perfect. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye.” He passed the receiver back to Matthew. “She’s got a dinner tomorrow evening. I’ll take her.”
Matthew smiled. He did not say anything, but his pleasure was like a brightness in the room.
Joseph still looked haggard when he surveyed himself in the mirror in Matthew’s bathroom, but he was almost as presentable as any other soldier home on a brief leave.
He borrowed Matthew’s car, and by the time he pulled up outside the Prentices’ house he was decidedly nervous. He was being faced again with the duty of trying to say something of comfort to people who had lost someone they had loved long and intimately. It hardly ever made sense, in peacetime or war. The wound was gaping, full of all kinds of regrets, wishes, guilt over things said, and unsaid, all sorts of hopes dashed. Mrs. Prentice did not know her son had been murdered, but Joseph did. He remembered Mary Allard’s terrible, consuming grief. Nothing could limit it, nothing attempt to heal.
Would Mrs. Prentice be like that? Was he going to feel just as helpless? Or more so, because he had despised Eldon Prentice. Worse than that, Sam, who had killed him, was Joseph’s dearest friend, and he understood heart deep, bone deep, why he had done it. He had come close to doing something very like it himself.
He rang the doorbell. It was not a maid who answered, but Judith. He was startled because she looked so beautiful. She was utterly different from the healthy, rather coltish country girl, full of shy grace, that she had been a year ago. Now there were shadows in her face, a sculpting under the cheekbones. She looked far older, a woman, one who had seen passion and tragedy and understood at least something of each. She looked even more vulnerable than before, but also, oddly, she was stronger.
She was wearing a blue dress, which was quite deep in color, muted like the sky at dusk. It had a wide waist, emphasizing how slender she was, and the skirt was swathed and fell to below the knee, then another skirt beneath it to above the ankle, keeping the fashionable line.
