rest.
Except that perhaps it was not. The removal from office of four junior but highly effective members of the government was exactly the sort of thing the Peacemaker would do, and the skill and subtlety of the method suited his style. It was only by chance that the plot had come to Matthew’s notice. Now he realized with a chill that there may have been other plots during the year since Jutland, successful ones that he had not recognized because his assumption that the Peacemaker was dead had blinded him to even considering such a thing. He would have to rectify that fault urgently.
The next day he began inquiries about the death of Kemp in the zeppelin raid. No one had considered it suspicious at the time. There had been many deaths in such raids; his was simply more notable because of his position. Where he had lived was a matter of public record.
“Could it have been murder?” Matthew asked the fire warden who had been first on the scene.
“Murder?” the man looked startled, as if Matthew had said something in bad taste. “Call it that if you like, sir, but it’s better just to say it’s the war. Murder’s sort o’ personal. It’s this way for everybody at the moment.”
“What I mean, Mr. Barker, is could he have been killed by some other means and left with the casualties, to hide the fact that in his case it was murder?” Matthew explained.
Barker was taken aback. “Oo’d want ter do a thing like that?”
“Most people who have power also have enemies,” Matthew said evasively. “Is it possible?”
Barker still looked confused. “’Ow would I know, sir?”
“Where was he found? Inside the house? Under rubble? With other people or alone?” Matthew elaborated.
“Alone. In the street just outside the ’ouse,” Barker replied thoughtfully. “You sayin’ as ’e were put there, an’ we reckoned as it were the bombs wot killed ’im, but it weren’t? Yer never goin’ ter prove nothin’ now!”
“I daresay not. I’d just like to know.”
“Then ’e could a’ bin. Or not.”
“Thank you.”
About Newell he could learn nothing. Reasons of health were given for his resignation, but no one had any knowledge of what illness it might be. Newell himself refused to see or speak to Matthew, claiming that he was not well enough, and had nothing relevant to say.
Blackmail again? Possibly. Its particular nature did not matter. Matthew was now certain in his own mind that there was a concerted plan to get rid of ministers who were individually able to affect the course of war, through diplomatic skill or connections, whether it was the Peacemaker who was behind it or not. The nation was exhausted with the loss of men, with shortages of food, fuel, and luxuries of all sorts, with the drabness and ever-present fear of bombing. They dreaded even greater hunger, and ultimately invasion and conquest. Perhaps after that might come civil war, Briton against Briton as some surrendered, believing it the lesser evil, and others fought on until the slaughter and defeat were total.
But Matthew still found he was striding out even more rapidly, with his anger against the Peacemaker, alive or dead, so hard inside him it hurt his chest to breathe.
Now he had enough information to report his findings to Calder Shearing, the head of his branch of Intelligence.
“Morning, Reavley,” Shearing said as Matthew came into his office. “Anything on the sabotage in the factory in Bury St. Edmunds yet?” He looked up from his desk. He was a man of barely average height. His black hair was receding severely, but his face was so dominated by his dark eyes and powerful, expressive brows that one did not notice the expanse of his forehead. His nose was aquiline, his lips delicate and unusually sensitive.
“Yes, sir,” Matthew replied, still standing at attention. One did not relax until Shearing gave his permission to. “I have sufficient evidence for the police to deal with it now.”
“Then
Except that perhaps it was not. The removal from office of four junior but highly effective members of the government was exactly the sort of thing the Peacemaker would do, and the skill and subtlety of the method suited his style. It was only by chance that the plot had come to Matthew’s notice. Now he realized with a chill that there may have been other plots during the year since Jutland, successful ones that he had not recognized because his assumption that the Peacemaker was dead had blinded him to even considering such a thing. He would have to rectify that fault urgently.
The next day he began inquiries about the death of Kemp in the zeppelin raid. No one had considered it suspicious at the time. There had been many deaths in such raids; his was simply more notable because of his position. Where he had lived was a matter of public record.
“Could it have been murder?” Matthew asked the fire warden who had been first on the scene.
“Murder?” the man looked startled, as if Matthew had said something in bad taste. “Call it that if you like, sir, but it’s better just to say it’s the war. Murder’s sort o’ personal. It’s this way for everybody at the moment.”
“What I mean, Mr. Barker, is could he have been killed by some other means and left with the casualties, to hide the fact that in his case it was murder?” Matthew explained.
Barker was taken aback. “Oo’d want ter do a thing like that?”
“Most people who have power also have enemies,” Matthew said evasively. “Is it possible?”
Barker still looked confused. “’Ow would I know, sir?”
“Where was he found? Inside the house? Under rubble? With other people or alone?” Matthew elaborated.
“Alone. In the street just outside the ’ouse,” Barker replied thoughtfully. “You sayin’ as ’e were put there, an’ we reckoned as it were the bombs wot killed ’im, but it weren’t? Yer never goin’ ter prove nothin’ now!”
“I daresay not. I’d just like to know.”
“Then ’e could a’ bin. Or not.”
“Thank you.”
About Newell he could learn nothing. Reasons of health were given for his resignation, but no one had any knowledge of what illness it might be. Newell himself refused to see or speak to Matthew, claiming that he was not well enough, and had nothing relevant to say.
Blackmail again? Possibly. Its particular nature did not matter. Matthew was now certain in his own mind that there was a concerted plan to get rid of ministers who were individually able to affect the course of war, through diplomatic skill or connections, whether it was the Peacemaker who was behind it or not. The nation was exhausted with the loss of men, with shortages of food, fuel, and luxuries of all sorts, with the drabness and ever-present fear of bombing. They dreaded even greater hunger, and ultimately invasion and conquest. Perhaps after that might come civil war, Briton against Briton as some surrendered, believing it the lesser evil, and others fought on until the slaughter and defeat were total.
But Matthew still found he was striding out even more rapidly, with his anger against the Peacemaker, alive or dead, so hard inside him it hurt his chest to breathe.
Now he had enough information to report his findings to Calder Shearing, the head of his branch of Intelligence.
“Morning, Reavley,” Shearing said as Matthew came into his office. “Anything on the sabotage in the factory in Bury St. Edmunds yet?” He looked up from his desk. He was a man of barely average height. His black hair was receding severely, but his face was so dominated by his dark eyes and powerful, expressive brows that one did not notice the expanse of his forehead. His nose was aquiline, his lips delicate and unusually sensitive.
“Yes, sir,” Matthew replied, still standing at attention. One did not relax until Shearing gave his permission to. “I have sufficient evidence for the police to deal with it now.”
“Then
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