No Graves As Yet by Anne Perry Page A

around the keyhole. It had not been there when he left. So someone had searched here, too.
    He sat down, his thoughts racing, clouded and skewed by guilt. There was no doubt left in him that it was his words overheard that had sent the assassin after John and Alys Reavley.
             
    His desk was piled with more and more information on the Curragh Mutiny. It was Thursday, July 9, before Calder Shearing sent for him and Matthew reported to his office a little after four o’clock. Like all rooms in the Intelligence Service, it was sparsely furnished, nothing more than the necessities, and those as cheap as possible, but Shearing had added nothing of his own, no family pictures, no personal books or mementos. His papers and volumes for work were untidily stacked, but he knew the precise place of every one of them.
    Shearing was not a tall man, but he had a presence more commanding than mere size. His black hair was receding considerably, but one barely noticed it because his brows were heavy and expressive and his eyes were dark and thick-lashed. His jutting nose was a perfect curve and his mouth sensitive, if unsmiling.
    He regarded Matthew, assessing his recovery from bereavement and hence his fitness for duty. His question was only a matter of courtesy.
    “How are you, Reavley? All matters taken care of?”
    “For the time being, sir,” Matthew answered, standing to attention.
    “Again, are you all right?” Shearing repeated.
    “Yes, sir, thank you.”
    Shearing looked at him a moment longer, then was apparently satisfied. “Good. Sit down. I expect you have caught up with the news? The king of the Belgians is on a state visit to Switzerland, which might be of significance but is more probably a routine affair. Yesterday the government said it might accept the House of Lords’ amendment to the Home Rule bill, excluding Ulster.”
    Matthew had heard the news, but no details. “Peace in Ireland?” he asked, slightly sarcastically.
    Shearing looked up at him, his expression incredulous. “If that’s what you think, you’d better take more leave. You’re obviously not fit for work!”
    “Well, a step in the right direction?” Matthew amended.
    Shearing pulled his mouth into a thin line. “God knows! I can’t see a partition in Ireland helping anyone. But neither will anything else.”
    Matthew’s mind raced. Was that what the conspiracy document concerned—dividing Ireland into two countries, one independent Catholic, the other Protestant and still part of Britain? Even the suggestion of it had already brought British troops to mutiny, robbed the army of its commander in chief, the Cabinet of its secretary of war, and taken Ulster itself to the brink of armed rebellion and civil war. Was that not the perfect ground in which to sow a plot to lead England to ruin and dishonor?
    But it was now July and there had been relative peace for weeks. The House of Lords was on the verge of accepting the exclusion of Ulster from the Home Rule bill, and the Ulstermen would be permitted to remain a part of Britain, a right for which they were apparently prepared not only to die themselves but to take with them all the rest of Ireland, not to mention the British army stationed there.
    “Reavley!” Shearing snapped, startling Matthew back to the present. “For God’s sake, man, if you need more time, take it! You’re no use to me off in a daydream!”
    “No, sir,” Matthew said tartly, feeling his body stiffen, the blood rush warm in his face. “I was thinking about the Irish situation and what difference it will make whether the government accepts the amendment or not. It’s an issue that arouses passion far beyond reason.”
    Shearing’s black eyes widened. “I don’t need you to tell me that, Reavley. Every Englishman with even half his wits has known that for the last three hundred years.” He was watching Matthew intently, trying to judge if his words could possibly be as empty as they sounded.