Angels in the Gloom (31 page)

The Peacemaker relaxed. He knew the men of British Intelligence. “Tell Bernadette we are grateful,” he said generously. “It’s a fine piece of work.”

“She didn’t do it for you,” Hannassey told him. “Or for Germany. She works for Ireland as a united country free of British rule, and with its rightful place in Europe. We’ve a proud heritage, older and better than yours, and far older than Germany’s.” His lip curled very slightly. “Neither do I work for you. We’ve a bargain, and I expect you to keep your side of it, starting with more money to support our men, and the right word in the ear of the right man about how the Easter Uprising is dealt with. We’ll need a great deal more support next time, not only financial but political.” His eyes were unflinching and there was an ugliness in his face, as if threat were very close to the surface.

The Peacemaker saw it, and understood exactly what it was. “Give us a list of your requirements,” he said calmly. “I’ll consider them.” He made a mental decision to get rid of Hannassey as soon as the opportunity offered itself. He had already exceeded his usefulness. If things worked out as he intended in Cambridgeshire, that opportunity would come very soon.

He looked up at Hannassey and smiled.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Joseph needed far more to take to Perth than vague ideas about Blaine’s death and the terrible fear for Shanley Corcoran corroding inside him. It was now inescapable that there was a German sympathizer within the Establishment. No one had broken in to smash the prototype; Perth had proved that beyond doubt. Whatever Theo Blaine’s romantic affairs had been, it was now ridiculous to suppose they were the cause of his death, or that Lizzie was involved.

It was for that reason that Joseph felt it was acceptable to ask her to drive him to meet with Francis Iliffe in the evening after his conversation with Perth in the orchard.

It was dusk as they left the village street in St. Giles and turned onto the road toward Haslingfield. She was concentrating on the twists, verges now almost hidden by the tall grass and the bursting leaf of hedgerows, here and there an early may blossom blooming white. And there was always the possibility of coming on a farm implement in the roadway, or horses, sometimes even a herd of cows.

“Do you know Francis?” Lizzie asked, slowing down for a curve.

“No.” That was the part that Joseph was going to find most difficult. He was intruding into the home of a man he had not even met with the intention of asking him impertinent questions, and even implying that he might be guilty of murder. He smiled ruefully, aware of his own absurdity. “I was hoping you would introduce me. I apologize if I am placing you in an embarrassing position.” However, he did not offer her the chance of retreating.

She glanced sideways at him, then back at the road. “You’re really worried about Mr. Corcoran, aren’t you?” she said quietly. There was sympathy in her voice, a sudden gentleness. Her own pain was still raw and full of surprise.

“Yes,” he admitted. “Whoever it is has already killed once, and smashed the machine.”

She winced.

“I’m sorry.” He was callous to have mentioned it to her so clumsily. He realized that he was requiring her to take him to see the man who might have murdered her husband, with as little thought for her feelings as if she had been a taxi driver. He blushed with shame for himself. “Mrs. Blaine, I really am sorry! I’ve behaved with terrible insensitivity. I was so afraid for Shanley I forgot your feelings altogether. I…”

“It’s all right. I know what you’re thinking. Truly. You can’t bring Theo back, and you’re trying to save a man who can finish his work and create something to win the war, and—far more important to you—a man you love as a friend and something like a father. I understand.”

He was embarrassed for her gentleness, and his own stupidity. “You are very forgiving,” he said sincerely.

She gave a little laugh, sad and self-deprecatory. “Not usually. It’s something I need to learn. I didn’t forgive Theo, and now it’s too late. I expected him to be clever in everything, not just some things, and people aren’t like that. Just because he could invent new and extraordinary machines didn’t mean he was wise as well, where people are concerned. I think mathematicians are young, the men that are geniuses. Understanding of people tends to come with age.”

“Is Iliffe brilliant as well?” he asked.

She looked at him quickly again, then back at the road. “You mean is he a fool over women? Probably, but I don’t know.”

“Do you know Ben Morven, too?” He thought of Hannah, but he would not ask Lizzie if she knew about the situation.

“Yes. He’s a bit naive also, an idealist,” she replied. “But a nice one. Not as abrasive as Francis Iliffe.”

“What sort of idealist?”

“Social justice,” she answered. “He thinks education is the answer for everyone. He’s rather sweet, but very provincial.”

They were out on the Haslingfield road and drove in silence for a while. The western sky in front of them flamed with color, and faded as they headed toward Iliffe s home. Joseph tried to prepare what he would say. It was late to call on anyone, and discourteous to do so without notice in advance, but urgency precluded such niceties.

Iliffe opened the door himself. He was in his early thirties, lean and dark-haired. At the moment he was wearing rather baggy trousers, a white shirt, and an old cricketing sweater against the evening chill. The lighted hallway behind him had the cleanliness of a house kept by a domestic servant, and the untidiness of one lived in by a young, single man who was interested in ideas and to whom physical surroundings were of little importance.

“Yes?” Iliffe looked at Joseph curiously, not immediately seeing Lizzie beyond the circle of the light.

Prepared explanations deserted Joseph and he was left with nothing but bare honesty, and his fear for Corcoran made anything else ridiculous.

“Good evening, Mr. Iliffe,” he said candidly. “My name is Joseph Reavley. Shanley Corcoran is a friend of mine; he has been for years.

I’m deeply afraid for his safety, and that of anyone else working at the Establishment.“

A flicker of humor lit Iliffe’s thin, intelligent face. “Thanks for your concern. Did you come here to tell me that?” There was an understandable edge to his voice. “A letter would have sufficed.”

Joseph felt himself blushing. “Of course not. I’m on sick leave from Ypres, where I’m a chaplain.” He saw Iliffe’s expression change and knew he had redeemed at least something of the situation. “I know Inspector Perth from another case, before the war. I intend to help him, whether he likes it or not.”

Iliffe smiled and stepped back. “Come in.” Then he saw Lizzie and his eyes softened. “If you’re a friend of Lizzie’s, you can’t be as bad as you seem,” he added, leading them to a sitting room where books and papers were scattered on every surface. He tidied them, putting them in a pile on the desk, and offered his guests seats.

“It’s not secret stuff,” he said disparagingly, seeing Joseph’s surprise. “I’m designing a sailing boat, one of those to put on ponds? I want to be able to steer it from the shore.”

Joseph found himself smiling.

“So what do you want from me?” Iliffe asked with interest. “If I had any proof who it was I’d have done something about it myself.”

Joseph knew what he wanted to ask; what he did not know was how to measure the truth of the answers he received. “How brilliant was Theo Blaine?” he asked. He wished Lizzie were not there, but the advantage was that she was at least some measure for accuracy.

“The best,” Iliffe said frankly. His eyes went to Lizzie with a smile, then back to Joseph again.

“Can you finish without him?” Joseph continued.

Iliffe shrugged. “Touch and go. Not if some swine smashes the prototype again. It’s worth a try, but I’m not sure.”

“With Corcoran working on it personally?”

Iliffe looked unhappy.

Joseph waited. There was a keen edge of intelligence in Iliffe’s face. He understood the reasoning, and guessed the personal gain and loss.

“If Morven works on it, perhaps,” he answered. “Corcoran alone, no.” He offered no apology and no prevarication.

“What can you tell me about Morven?” Joseph asked.

“Intellectually? He’s outstanding. Almost in Blaine’s category.”

“And in other ways?”

Iliffe looked at Lizzie, but she allowed him to answer without adding anything herself.

“Grew up in working-class Lancashire,” Iliffe said. “Grammar school, Manchester University. Opened up a new world to him. Don’t know if you can understand that, Mr. Reavley. Sorry, I don’t know your rank…”

“Captain, but it’s irrelevant. Yes, I can understand it. I lectured in Biblical languages in Cambridge before the war. I had many students with a similar background, some were even brilliant, in their own field.” He ignored the pain inside him as he said that.

Iliffe saw it. “Gone to the trenches?” he asked.

“Many of them, yes. It’s not exactly a war-exempt skill.”

“Then you know the impact of ideas on a boy from a narrow, working-class town suddenly in a ferment of social, political, and philosophical ideas, realizing he’s got a dazzling mind and the whole world is out there, and his for the conquering. Morven’s an idealist. At least he was a year ago. I think some of the dreams have been tempered a bit by reality since then. One grows up. Are you thinking he’s a German sympathizer?”

“Are you?” Joseph countered.

Lizzie looked from one to the other of them, but she did not interrupt.

“No, frankly,” Iliffe replied. “But a socialist, possibly. Even an internationalist of sorts. I can’t see him killing Blaine.” He glanced at Lizzie. “Sorry,” he apologized gently. He turned back to Joseph. “But then I can’t see anyone doing that, and obviously someone did. Does your pastoral experience teach you how to recognize violence like that behind the everyday faces, Reverend?”

“No,” Joseph said simply. “We all have the darkness. Some act on it; most of us don’t. I can’t tell who will, or who already has.”

“Pity,” Iliffe said drily. “I was hoping you had all the answers. I’m damn sure I don’t.”

Outside on the way home again Lizzie said very little. Joseph apologized once more for having asked her to drive him on such a journey.

“Don’t.” She shook her head. “In an obscure sort of way it makes me feel better to think I’m doing something. It isn’t right to carry on with my life as if Theo were going to come back one day. I was his wife. I loved him… I ought to be trying to find out who killed him, and prevent them from killing his work as well.”

He looked at her face, concentrated on the dark road and the bright path of the headlights. He could see only her profile, lips smiling, and tears on her cheek.

He did not say anything and they drove home in an oddly companionable silence.

The next day was Sunday. Archie had come home late the previous evening for a short leave, but he made the effort to get up and they all went to church together, dressed in their best clothes. Archie and Joseph both wore uniforms and Hannah walked between them, her head high with pride. They spoke to everyone they knew, assuring them they were well, asking in return but never mentioning other members of families. One could not be certain from day to day who was critically injured, posted missing in action, or even newly dead. There was kindness in it, sensitivity to pain and fear, and the knowledge that the blow could come at any moment. There was so much that could not be said, or the dam would break.

Joseph saw Ben Morven in a pew to their left, and caught his eyes on Hannah, watching her with a bright gentleness that betrayed more than he could have known. Once he saw Hannah look back at him, and then away again quickly, blushing.

The submerged tension in the air was crackling. Everyone practiced Sunday-best behavior, but the anger and suspicion were there, conspicuous in the tight lips, the whispers, and the silences.

Joseph wondered if Ben could possibly have killed Theo Blaine. Perhaps in a fistfight? He was young and strong and passionate in his loves and his dreams. But not in the dark, ripping his throat out with a garden fork! Could he?

That was absurdly naive. Idealism had crucified men, burned them at the stake, broken them on the wheel. Of course he could. It was hypocrisy that made the hand fail, cowardice, apathy, all the halfhearted emotions. Ben Morven was not half-hearted, right or wrong.

Kerr’s sermon was unusually effective, and Joseph caught his anxious glance two or three times. However much he would prefer to avoid it, he must speak to the minister. He waited behind after everyone else had left.

Kerr was standing at the church door, moving uncomfortably from one foot to the other. His hair was slicked back with its exact center parting, a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead in the warmth of the sun.

“The suspicion is tearing us apart,” he said before Joseph had time to speak. “All sorts of stupid whispers are going around the village. Old feuds we all thought were settled years ago are being opened up again. Anybody gets a letter from a stranger, an overseas stamp on it, and the stories begin. That wretched inspector talks to everyone and either someone says he suspects that person, or they’re telling stories about someone else, trying to plant suspicion.”