“Do you think it was a German spy or sympathizer who killed him?”
Corcoran chewed his lip. “The more I consider that possibility, the less certain I am. At first I assumed, because of the work we were doing, that it had to be. Now I am beginning to remember that as well as being a superb mind he was also a young man, with a young man’s appetites and occasionally an impractical way of looking at things, and particularly at people.”
Joseph smiled in spite of himself. “Is that a euphemistic way of saying that he ignored other people’s feelings? Like, possibly, his wife’s? Or those of Dacy Lucas?”
Corcoran’s eyes widened. “You know about that?”
“I’ve heard. Was he self-centered?”
“I suppose so. A lot of young men are, in that area of their lives. And I think Mrs. Lucas is a headstrong woman, perhaps a trifle bored with being the wife of a man devoted to his work, in which she has no part, and very little understanding.” He shook his head. “She has a hot temper, and I think considerable appetite, at least for admiration.” His face puckered. “I’m truly sorry about it, Joseph. Sometimes we ask a great deal of people, and we forget that even highly talented individuals may have the same human weaknesses and needs as the rest of us.”
“Shanley, are you speaking of Theo Blaine, or of Mrs. Lucas? Or Dacy Lucas?”
“Or Lizzie Blaine,” Corcoran added wryly. “I really have no idea. And to be honest, I prefer not to. I don’t want to look at the people I know and like—and think such things of them.” His mouth twisted a little. “Perth told me that a woman was seen on a bicycle about half a mile from Blaine’s house, and there were bicycle tire marks in the damp earth of the path along the back. I wouldn’t like to think that it was Mrs. Lucas. That would be terrible. Although I suppose I have to admit that it is possible.”
“Why would she kill Blaine? She had nothing to be jealous of. If she wished to end the affair then she could have done it,” Joseph reasoned.
“Perhaps she didn’t wish to,” Corcoran responded, looking at Joseph with a patient smile. “Maybe he did?”
Joseph realized the obviousness of that now, but the thought was ugly. “And kill him?” he protested. “That seems . . .”
“A very violent passion,” Corcoran observed. “Of course it does. Insane to you or me. Very probably it was a German spy. I rather hope so. That resolution would be infinitely preferable to revealing the murderer as someone I know and probably like.”
“Did you know about his affair before?” Joseph asked.
Corcoran spread his hands in half apology. “I chose not to look, but I suppose I was aware.” Guilt creased his face. “Do you think I should have intervened somehow?”
Joseph drew in breath to say that he should, then changed his mind. “I don’t know. It probably would have looked more like interfering than the warning of friendship. I doubt it would have stopped him.”
“I could hardly threaten to dismiss him,” Corcoran said ruefully. “His genius put him above such law, and he knew it.”
“And whoever killed him?” Joseph asked, then almost instantly wished he had bitten the words into silence. Would Corcoran protect a man, even from payment for murder, if his brain were needed to finish a project that might be crucial to the war?
“Don’t ask me, Joseph,” Corcoran replied quietly. “I don’t know. Do the ordinary laws of society apply to men like Newton, Galileo, Copernicus, or geniuses of the spirit like da Vinci or Beethoven? Would I have saved Rembrandt or Vermeer from the gallows, if they had warranted it? Or Shakespeare or Dante, or Homer? Yes— probably. Wouldn’t you?”
Joseph had no answer to offer. Did you weigh one gift against another, count the price in other people’s lives, innocent people, make judgments? He refused to think whether such a thing had been necessary, or would yet be. Shanley Corcoran had no more idea than he had who had killed Theo Blaine.
He smiled, and they indulged in a pleasant debate as to who was the greater, Beethoven or Mozart. Corcoran always favored the lyrical clarity of Mozart, Joseph the turbulent passion of Beethoven. It was a conversation they had had before, more times than they could count, and it was a sort of game.
When Lizzie Blaine returned, it was already half past ten, and of course Corcoran had to be up in the morning and at his office in the Establishment. Only then did Joseph realize how tired his old friend must be. He moved slowly and as he walked with Joseph to the door, there was a dry, papery look to the skin around his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Joseph said, ashamed of the time he had taken up. He should have said at the outset that he would leave earlier, and asked Lizzie Blaine to come before ten.
“My dear boy, it has been delightful to see you. No matter what work there is to do, even I am allowed a little self-indulgence now and then. A few hours of doing what you wish restores the spirits and gives you strength to resume. I am the better for seeing you, I assure you.”
Joseph thanked Orla as well, and then went out into the darkness with Lizzie. Within moments they were motoring back toward St. Giles.
“He looks terribly tired,” Lizzie said after a while. The nighttime road did not seem to disconcert her at all. The overhanging hedgerows, tilting camber, and heavily overgrown verges made her hesitate no more than the bright bars of moonlight on the smooth tarmac of the stretches between.
“Yes, he was,” Joseph agreed, recalling now the strain in Corcoran’s face in repose, the tension in his hands, usually so relaxed. “It must be hard for him to carry the extra load. Your husband’s loss is very great.”
“Does he think it was Germans?” she asked quickly.
He did not know how to answer. What should he say to hurt her the least, and yet still be honest? “Do you think the Germans would pick on him particularly, more than Iliffe, Lucas, or Morven—or Corcoran himself?”
“Theo was the most original thinker. He would come up with something that seemed crazy at first, completely unrelated, then after a moment or two you could see that it was just sideways, not the way you’d been thinking. He could turn things inside out and show you a new sense to them.”
Joseph was surprised. “He talked about his work to you?” He tried not to sound incredulous.
“No, but I knew him pretty well. Or at least part of him,” she corrected herself and then paused in reflection. “You should have seen him play charades. It sounds ridiculous now. He used to invent the wildest clues, but once you caught on to what they were, they made perfect sense. He loved the Gilbert and Sullivan patter songs. And Edward Lear’s nonsense verses. He could recite Lewis Carroll’s ‘Hunting of the Snark,’ from beginning to end. Carroll was a mathematician, too, or I suppose I should say Charles Dodgson was. Theo loved mathematics. He got excited about it, the way I would about really beautiful poetry.” She stopped abruptly.
Joseph was aware with pain how very much she had loved him. Perhaps she was realizing it, too, in spite of all the effort to pretend otherwise. She was staring ahead of her, blinking hard, leaning forward a little as if the moonlight on the road dazzled her.
Of course she would never replace him, no matter what she said. He left an abyss that would remain unfilled. Would he leave such an emptiness for Corcoran, too, professionally? That was the fear that gnawed inside Joseph’s mind like an ache in the bone. Was it nothing to do with anybody’s love affair, loyalty, or betrayal, but a simple matter of an enemy somewhere in their midst? Was there someone, unsuspected, clever enough to have killed the one man capable of inventing a machine that would change the war? What was one woman’s widowhood compared with that? A small, terrible fraction of a whole that stretched on unimaginably.
He must think about it more. He knew the village and its people in a way Perth never would. He would not only hear the whispers but he would understand them. Passive goodwill was not enough.
They arrived back in St. Giles and as they drew up Joseph recognized Hallam Kerr’s Ford parked outside the house. The lights were on in the hall and sitting room in spite of the hour.
Joseph glanced at Lizzie. She was looking at him, understanding the sudden leap of anxiety in his eyes.
“Thank you,” he said with more sincerity than his haste suggested. He did not even know what he was afraid of, but Kerr would not be here, or Hannah still up, unless there was something deeply wrong. He leaned over and opened the door with his good hand.
“Good night,” she answered as his feet crunched on the gravel.
Hannah and Kerr were in the sitting room and both whirled around where they stood, their faces white, eyes hollow and wide, as if they did not know how to blink.
“What is it?” Joseph demanded, his heart pounding, breath choking him. “What’s happened?” He was terrified
