Angels in the Gloom (39 page)

He went to the port side, sliding on the floor as the tilt became steeper, grabbing at anything he could reach to help himself, and finding it slick with oil. The noise was roaring in his ears, the engines racing, the shrill hiss of steam, the crash and boom of guns.

Then he saw Hannassey about five yards in front of him. He was balanced with the prototype in his arms. He saw Matthew at the same instant.

“Told you you’d go down,” he shouted above the din. “Never had time to use your marvelous invention, did you!” His teeth gleamed in what was left of the lights. Then his face changed. All triumph vanished in a snarl of rage and furious, complete understanding. “It doesn’t bloody work!” he screamed. He hurled it from him, toward Matthew as if he could hit him with it. “The goddamn thing’s no use! You didn’t use it because you can’t! Mother of God! All this for—nothing!”

Matthew avoided it easily, the pitch of the ship carrying it hard against the other wall, and Hannassey stumbled with the release of the weight.

“That’s right!” Matthew shouted back at him. “You came for nothing! You’ll die for nothing! You’ll never see your bloody empire!”

“I don’t…” Hannassey started, but the rest of his sentence was drowned in another bellow of gunfire. He turned and stumbled over wreckage toward the steps upward.

Matthew went after him, clawing his way along, feet slipping on burning corticine and broken glass, climbing over twisted iron and crumpled bodies he could not help, Hannassey always just a few yards ahead of him.

There was another crash somewhere above and the ship heaved, sending them both flying. There were several more explosions as ammunition caught fire and a roar as a gun turret burst into searing flames. The heat hurt the skin and tore the breath away even where Matthew and Hannassey were sprawled on the burning floor in what was left of the passageway.

Then Hannassey shot forward and dived for the steps hanging loose-ended from the mangled deck and hauled himself up, swung his body over, and went on.

Matthew ran at it and jumped, catching the third rung, and flailed wildly for a moment or two before his feet found the bottom one and he swarmed up it after Hannassey.

He reached the deck and blessed air just in time to see Hannassey running into a pall of smoke under the blackened gun turret. The bow of the German ship was only yards below them. It had heaved away but now it was coming back. Deliberately for Hannassey? He could make it. He had only to leap. He turned for an instant, jubilation in his face, that wide smile, showing his teeth.

Matthew hurled himself forward and caught Hannassey at the knees, overbalancing him. Hannassey fought, kicking, gouging, tearing at Matthew’s face, his hair, anything he could reach.

But this was the Peacemaker, the man who would have sold England in the greatest betrayal of its history! But for Matthew, overpowering it like a drowning wave, was the fact that he was the man who had murdered John and Alys Reavley, simply because John Reavley had stumbled onto his plan. Matthew thought only of their bloodied bodies in the car, and his grip was unbreakable unless Hannassey could have crushed the bones of his hands.

They were near the rail. The German ship was only fifteen yards away, less, and closing. Even through the smoke he could see the vast darkness of it.

He pulled away with all his strength, then lunged forward, catching Hannassey on the jaw with his head. Hannassey gasped and let go for an instant. It was enough. Matthew scrambled to his feet. He made the decision without thinking. He bent and grasped Hannassey and heaved him over the side.

Matthew heard him scream as he went down and in the light of the fires saw him flailing in the water for long, desperate, terrible seconds until the steel bow of the German ship crushed him like a fly against the hull of the Cormorant.

Matthew clung to the rail, nausea sweeping over him, the deck lurching beneath his feet till he fell to his knees, still clinging on. He had killed Hannassey, with his own hands he had thrown him to a hideous death. He would remember that thin scream above the guns’ roar. The falling figure, arms wide, was seared onto his brain, and then the crunch of flesh and bones lost in the din of the sea, the flame, and the ear-splitting explosion of the rear gun turret. Then everything vanished in smoke and darkness, his lungs bursting, the deck heaving violently beneath him. He would die with the ship and all the men in it, but the Peacemaker was gone, dead forever.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Joseph had been to see Gwen Neave again and was walking back on the road homeward, Henry at his heels. He was no longer even aware of the slight ache in his leg. He had been over seven weeks away from his regiment, and he was actually in better health now than many of the men who were still there. The thing that kept him at home in the warmth of the sun and the quiet peace of the fields was his fear for Shanley Corcoran.

His feet crushed the stems of the grass and he could smell the sweetness of it in the air. The larks were singing above, high up beyond sight, less than a black dot against the blue.

Why had Corcoran not told Perth yet? Lack of proof? Or did he still need the man, assuming it was Ben Morven? It was a dangerous game to play. No wonder his voice had sounded strained on the telephone. There was so much to win, or lose.

Archie had just gone back to sea, and Matthew had telephoned to say that he too would be away for perhaps a week or more.

Then it struck him like a physical blow. The prototype was finished and on trial at sea. That was why Matthew was gone.

And here was Joseph walking through the grass with the may biossom heavy in the air as if there were nothing to be done but drink in its splendor.

It must be Archie’s ship being used for the sea trials. Archie had said Corcoran had talked to him about sea trials on the night Blaine was killed. They had been at the Cutlers’ Arms, over at Madingley.

No, Corcoran had said that was where they were. Archie had said… He stopped. It was absolutely clear in his mind, as if it had been only minutes ago, Archie had said they had met at eight, when Blaine had still been alive, and at the Drouthy Duck, here in St. Giles.

Could Archie have been mistaken? Surely he must have been. It did not matter to him where or when it had been. No one could have suspected him of being involved with Theo Blaine either personally or professionally. To Corcoran it was far more important, because he had said it was where he had been at the time his best scientist was murdered. Presumably that was what he had told Perth also, if he had asked. He would have, wouldn’t he, as a matter of course, if nothing else, to find out if Corcoran could have seen anything, or heard anything? Not that he would normally be anywhere near Blaine’s house. Corcoran lived in Madingley. Except that he was out that evening, which was unusual. He worked far too hard to take time off, except for the most important occasions—such as discussing sea trials.

He must simply have made a mistake, in tiredness and anxiety, even grief for the loss of his best scientist, and a friend, and been uncharacteristically careless. And of course it was impossible now to check with Archie so he could correct it.

Why did that make him feel uncomfortable? Why was he even considering the possibility that Shanley Corcoran could be lying about where he had been? What was it he thought? That somehow Corcoran knew the truth, and was lying about it? He already knew that he was protecting whoever had murdered Blaine because he needed him to complete the project. There was little doubt in his mind that it was Ben Morven. Lucas could not have killed Blaine, and he did not believe it was Iliffe, although it was not impossible.

Was it conceivable that Corcoran had guessed beforehand, and gone to Blaine’s home to prevent his murder, and been too late? What tragic irony.

But why had he then lied about it? To prevent any possibility of having to betray Morven, before the work was completed.

Had he gone openly, or in secret? Joseph was cold in the sun and the larks sounded tinny and far away. Did Morven know? Had he seen Corcoran there? No, surely not, or he would have killed him before now. He could hardly afford not to.

No, worse than that, he was waiting for Corcoran to complete the prototype, just as Corcoran had been waiting for him.

But if Joseph was right, then it was completed and already at sea! Was Morven waiting for news that it worked? Hardly—it would be a wildly unnecessary risk. Far more likely he was simply seeking the right moment to kill Corcoran so that he was safe himself, and the only man left who could re-create the machine.

Joseph started to walk quickly, calling Henry to follow him. He took long strides, ignoring the trampled grass. He reached the gate to the orchard and flung it open, slamming it behind him as soon as Henry was through, and sprinted under the trees to the hedge and the end of the garden. He was out of breath by the time he got to the back door and into the kitchen, oblivious of trailing mud over Mrs. Apple-ton’s clean floor.

He went straight to the telephone in the hall and asked the operator to connect him to Lizzie Blaine. Please heaven she was at home. She was the only person he could think of who would take him to the Establishment. He waited impatiently while it rang. Why should she be at home? There were a dozen other places she could be.

He heard her voice with intense relief.

“Mrs. Blaine? This is Joseph Reavley. Can you take me to the Establishment please, right away? It’s extremely urgent.”

“Yes, of course,” she said immediately. “Is everything all right? Has something happened?”

“Not so far, but I must go there and warn them so that it doesn’t. I’ll be waiting in the road. Thank you!”

It was ten minutes before she arrived, during which time he apologized to Mrs. Appleton and left a message for Hannah that he had gone on an errand, and would be back in the evening.

Lizzie swept up in the Model T. She looked anxious, her hair falling out of its pins and a smear of dirt on her cheek. Obviously she had taken him at his word as to the gravity of the occasion.

“Thank you,” he said, climbing in and closing the door.

She eased out the clutch and increased the acceleration before replying. “Are you going to tell me what it is? Do you know who killed Theo?”

“Yes, I think so,” he answered as they turned the corner into the High Street. “But I’ve got to make sure he doesn’t kill Corcoran as well. I believe they’re testing the invention, and if it’s a success he won’t need Corcoran anymore.”

“He wouldn’t kill him for that,” she said, increasing speed onto the open road and narrowly missing the may branches sloping wide. “It would be a stupid risk.”

“Not because they don’t need him,” Joseph explained. “This man killed your husband, and Corcoran knows it. I don’t know why he hasn’t turned him in already.”

“Perhaps he has no proof,” she suggested, her knuckles white on the wheel as she swerved with considerable skill and straightened up again. “Are you going to tell me?”

“Yes, when I’m absolutely sure. With Corcoran gone he would be the only man left alive who knows exactly how to re-create the invention.

She concentrated on her driving for several minutes in silence, her face intense on the road.

“I’m sorry,” he said in sudden contrition. He was speaking of the murder of her husband as if it were incidental to the scientific achievement, not the death of the man she had loved, probably more than anyone else in the world.

She flashed him a sudden smile, and it vanished as quickly. “Thank you. I’m not sure how much I want to know what happened. I thought I did, but now that it could be any minute, it’s more real, and a lot uglier. In a way it was better drifting into the past unsolved. Am I a coward?” There was pain in her voice, as if she cared what he thought and had already decided it was harsh.

“No,” he said quietly. “Just wise enough to know that answers don’t always help.”

“I’ll miss you when you go back to France.” She stared ahead, deliberately avoiding his eyes. She put her foot down and increased the speed, now having to concentrate fiercely to keep on the road. The silence settled between them as if by agreement. They both had much to think about.

She screeched to a halt at the gates of the Establishment and Joseph got out, thanking her and leaving her to wait. He spent nearly a quarter of an hour explaining to officials that he had to see Corcoran urgently, and then waited, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, while messages were sent, answers returned, and more messages sent in reply.

It was nearly twenty-five minutes after arriving that he reached the waiting room, and a full quarter hour after that before he was ushered into Corcoran’s office. Corcoran, pale and tired, looked up from a desk littered with papers.

“What is it, Joseph? Surely it could have waited until this evening? You would have been welcome to come over to dinner.”

“I don’t think it can wait,” Joseph answered, too tense to sit down in the chair opposite him. “Not safely. And I couldn’t have said it in front of Orla anyway. You’ve got to have Perth arrest Morven before he kills you as well.” He leaned forward onto the desk, refusing to allow it to separate them. “I’m not going to let you run this risk anymore!” He nearly added that he cared too much, but it sounded melodramatic, and selfish.

“The work…” Corcoran began.

“It’s finished!” Joseph said impatiently. “It’s on sea trials, isn’t it? With Archie. You said he was going to do them. Isn’t that where Matthew’s gone?”