“Yes!” she said quickly. “I’m here.”
He pulled her into his arms and held her.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Matthew had just returned from Cambridgeshire and a visitto the Scientific Establishment.
“No, sir,” he said quietly.
Shearing looked drawn. The usually smooth flesh of his cheeks was hollow and the web of fine lines around his eyes was cut deeper as if the skin had no life in it. “No hope?” he asked, looking up at Matthew.
“No, sir. Not in any time we could put a name to.”
There was a tension in the room already, as if tragedy were only waiting to be acknowledged. Matthew realized with surprise how afraid he was. For once he wished he were a fighting man where he could at least do something physical to make himself feel better. And perhaps knowing less would also be easier now, a single enemy in front of him to fight, rather than the darkness all around, massive and closing in.
Shearing sat motionless.
The blow was numbing. Corcoran had been so certain he could complete the prototype, even with Blaine dead. He had worked on it himself, night and day. Ben Morven had helped him, taking over Blaine’s calculations. Lucas and Iliffe had continued with their work.
Shearing lifted his eyes and stared at Matthew. There was fury in his face—and fear, steady and unconcealed. It was the first time Matthew had seen it.
“A fatal flaw?” he asked.
“Yes,” Shearing replied.
“But Blaine knew the answer?”
“Possibly. Or maybe they hadn’t got far enough yet to realize it.” Shearing’s hands on top of his desk clenched tight, knuckles gleaming. “When we find the man who killed Blaine I’ll tie the rope around his neck myself, and pull the drop.” There was hatred so deep in his voice it rasped in his throat. “Who is it, Reavley?” That was a demand, almost an accusation.
“I don’t know, sir. Probably Ben Morven, but there’s no proof.”
Shearing looked beaten. He had been counting on success.
So had Matthew. He realized now just how much. He had believed Corcoran could do it, even without Blaine. Corcoran was a giant. He had been there all Matthew’s life—kind, funny, wise, above all, clever.
The sense of loss filled him with rage to equal Shearing’s. Whoever had murdered Theo Blaine might have lost Britain the war, the survival of everything that was of infinite value. He could not even imagine the end of his home and his life in the way he knew it. No more afternoon tea on the lawn, no irreverent jokes about the government, no country churchyards, no freedom to go anywhere you wanted, to be eccentric and make your own mistakes.
“Reavley!” Shearing’s voice was suddenly sharp.
It brought Matthew back to the moment with a jolt. “Yes, sir?”
“We must salvage something from this. Someone in the Establishment murdered Blaine and smashed the prototype?”
“Yes,” Matthew agreed. “Almost certainly the same person.”
“Probably Morven, but not beyond doubt,” Shearing went on. “A German sympathizer?”
“Naturally. There’s no other reason for doing it.”
“Is he on his own?”
“I doubt that.”
“Has Corcoran told him he’s beaten and is giving up?” Shearing leaned forward across the desk. “Be certain, Reavley! It could all hang on this! Who knows it’s a failure, apart from Corcoran himself?”
“No one.”
“Are you absolutely certain? Why? How do you know?”
“Corcoran still wants to keep working on it,” Matthew replied. “He can’t get Morven, Iliffe, or Lucas to do that if he admits it’s over.”
The irony touched Shearing’s mouth for an instant, then vanished. “Good! Excellent! We’ll send the device for sea trials,” he said wryly. “On Archie MacAllister’s ship. He’s already prepared.”
For an instant Matthew was stunned. Then he realized what Shearing meant to do. Morven must be reporting to someone who could not take the chance that the device did not work. They would have to steal it! “You’ll need someone on the ship!” he said urgently. “May I go? I’ve got nothing here that . . .”
“I have every intention that you should go,” Shearing cut across him. “Why do you suppose I’m telling you? I’ll have papers prepared for you and inform MacAllister. You will be a signals officer, newly drafted from a shore job, which will explain your unfamiliarity with naval discipline and the sea in general. We’ll change your name to Matthews. Reavley is too well known, the association would be immediate. We can get you on board the day after tomorrow. We need to be quick, but still give them time to get their man on as well. Be careful. It will not be easy. You will not know who he is, and there may be more than one, although I doubt it. It will be hard enough for them to get even one man there at this short notice.”
“Yes, sir . . .”
Shearing leaned forward over the desk. “Which means he will be good, Reavley! There are new men every voyage because losses are heavy. That’s all you’ll know about him. And you must appear like every other new man, no favors. MacAllister will not be able to do anything for you, except cover. He may tell some of his senior officers, but I have told him not to, unless in an extreme emergency. We can’t rely on them not betraying you accidentally. They are trained for the sea, not for espionage.”
“I understand.” Matthew felt his pulse beat harder, high in his throat. It was something physical to do at last, a real, immediate chance to catch whoever had murdered Blaine. He half hoped, and half dreaded, that it would be Hannassey himself. It was too late to grieve for Detta. That was a pain inside him he did not dare even examine.
He looked across at Shearing and saw his dark eyes studying him. It was a steady, penetrating stare, no readable emotion in it.
“Be careful, Reavley,” he said again. “Whoever comes after it, he will not be a fool, and he will be expecting us to guard the prototype with everything we have.” His mouth turned down at the corners, a delicate acknowledgment of defeat. “After all, it was supposed to be an invention that will turn the war for us. If we don’t guard it with our lives, they will know immediately that we failed.”
“And you’ll arrest Morven, or whoever it is!” Matthew insisted.
“Is that a question?” Shearing said bitterly, a flicker of anger back in his face again, savage, only just under the surface.
“No, sir, I apologize,” Matthew said sincerely. He hesitated a moment, trying to think of something further to say, but there was nothing. He glanced around the room with its impersonal furniture, its one painting of the London docks at twilight. He still did not know if Shearing had the painting because it held some meaning for him, or simply because it was beautiful and perhaps reminded him of somewhere else.
That evening the Peacemaker stood at the window of the house in Marchmont Street and looked down at the footpath below. He saw the young man from the Establishment in Cambridgeshire step out of the taxicab, pay the driver, and walk to the door. That was remiss of him. He should have stopped a block or two away, for the sake of discretion, as Mason always did. The Peacemaker’s lips tightened in irritation. He did not like to have to tell someone anything so elementary.
He heard the bell ring, and then a few moments later the light, rapid footsteps on the stairs, and the tap on the door.
“Come in,” he said abruptly.
The young man was flushed, his thick hair a little windblown as if he had been running, and he closed the door behind him with a sharp click, his hands shaking. He did not wait for the Peacemaker to speak, which was
