to catch the light whichever way he moved. His face was long, his cast of expression a strange mixture of melancholy and humour, but both infused by a keen intelligence.
"Come in, Captain Reavley," he invited, waving to the chair opposite his own. "Can I offer you anything? Tea, or a glass of sherry?"
"Sherry would be excellent, thank you," Matthew accepted. "It's good of you to make time for me."
"Not at all. You said it was important. How can I help?" As he was speaking Thyer went to the cabinet, opened it and poured two glasses of light, dry sherry. He carried one back to Matthew, and sat down with the other. "Have you heard from Joseph lately?" he asked with interest. "He writes occasionally, but I can't help wondering if he is putting a brave face on it."
"I'm sure he is," Matthew answered. "Sometimes it is the only way to cope."
Thyer smiled bleakly. He was waiting for Matthew to explain his visit.
Matthew hesitated also. He would need to take great care; he could not be as forthright as he had been with Mary Allard. Thyer was less emotional and a far better judge of other men's characters. Sitting in this quiet drawing room, surrounded by the dust and stones, the wooden stairs hollowed by the feet of centuries of students, the strange mixture of wisdom and enthusiasm, he was acutely conscious that he might be facing a man who had deliberately plotted to betray and break it all on the wheel of idealistic militarism and bloodless surrender.
"I've been thinking about the deaths of my parents," Matthew began, and saw the twist of pity in Thyer's face. "We know probably as much of the facts as we ever will," he continued. "And perhaps now they don't matter. But I still find myself needing to understand. It seems unarguable that Sebastian Allard deliberately caused the accident, and the evidence is strong as to how." He was aware of sitting unnaturally still. The silence in the room seemed tangible. "I still have no idea why, and I find that I need to know." He waited for Thyer's response, trying to read his face.
Thyer looked startled. "My dear Matthew, if I knew why, I should have told you at the time. Or at least, to be more accurate, I should probably have told Joseph."
Matthew leaned back a little, steepling his fingers and gazing at Thyer over the top of them. "Would you? If it had been a painful reason, either to Joseph or to the Allards, for example? Or if maybe you had only guessed at something, perhaps later, in the light of other events?"
"I don't know," Thyer said, frowning. "The question is completely hypothetical. I know nothing about your family which could explain Sebastian's act, and I admit I have given it some thought myself and come to no conclusion at all. The little we know makes no sense."
"It wasn't personal and it could not have been financial," Matthew went on. He had weighed what to say on the drive from London. If he said too much he would betray to Thyer that he suspected him, yet if Thyer were the Peacemaker he would know exactly why Matthew was here and everything else that he knew about the document, and the murder of Reisenburg as well. The risk of learning nothing was too great to afford such caution.
"What are you suggesting?" Thyer prompted. His voice was level,
his diction perfect. He had sat here, questioned by some of the most brilliant minds of more than a generation, men who would go on to hold many of the highest positions in the land, in industry, science, finance and government. He moulded them, not they him.
"Perhaps political?" Matthew proposed carefully.
Thyer considered for a moment. "I know Sebastian had some very strong beliefs, but so do most young men. Heaven preserve us from those who have none." He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, I forgot for a moment what he did. I apologize. But knowing your family I find it extremely difficult to believe that your father held any conviction at all which would enrage anyone or make them feel threatened to the point of
"Come in, Captain Reavley," he invited, waving to the chair opposite his own. "Can I offer you anything? Tea, or a glass of sherry?"
"Sherry would be excellent, thank you," Matthew accepted. "It's good of you to make time for me."
"Not at all. You said it was important. How can I help?" As he was speaking Thyer went to the cabinet, opened it and poured two glasses of light, dry sherry. He carried one back to Matthew, and sat down with the other. "Have you heard from Joseph lately?" he asked with interest. "He writes occasionally, but I can't help wondering if he is putting a brave face on it."
"I'm sure he is," Matthew answered. "Sometimes it is the only way to cope."
Thyer smiled bleakly. He was waiting for Matthew to explain his visit.
Matthew hesitated also. He would need to take great care; he could not be as forthright as he had been with Mary Allard. Thyer was less emotional and a far better judge of other men's characters. Sitting in this quiet drawing room, surrounded by the dust and stones, the wooden stairs hollowed by the feet of centuries of students, the strange mixture of wisdom and enthusiasm, he was acutely conscious that he might be facing a man who had deliberately plotted to betray and break it all on the wheel of idealistic militarism and bloodless surrender.
"I've been thinking about the deaths of my parents," Matthew began, and saw the twist of pity in Thyer's face. "We know probably as much of the facts as we ever will," he continued. "And perhaps now they don't matter. But I still find myself needing to understand. It seems unarguable that Sebastian Allard deliberately caused the accident, and the evidence is strong as to how." He was aware of sitting unnaturally still. The silence in the room seemed tangible. "I still have no idea why, and I find that I need to know." He waited for Thyer's response, trying to read his face.
Thyer looked startled. "My dear Matthew, if I knew why, I should have told you at the time. Or at least, to be more accurate, I should probably have told Joseph."
Matthew leaned back a little, steepling his fingers and gazing at Thyer over the top of them. "Would you? If it had been a painful reason, either to Joseph or to the Allards, for example? Or if maybe you had only guessed at something, perhaps later, in the light of other events?"
"I don't know," Thyer said, frowning. "The question is completely hypothetical. I know nothing about your family which could explain Sebastian's act, and I admit I have given it some thought myself and come to no conclusion at all. The little we know makes no sense."
"It wasn't personal and it could not have been financial," Matthew went on. He had weighed what to say on the drive from London. If he said too much he would betray to Thyer that he suspected him, yet if Thyer were the Peacemaker he would know exactly why Matthew was here and everything else that he knew about the document, and the murder of Reisenburg as well. The risk of learning nothing was too great to afford such caution.
"What are you suggesting?" Thyer prompted. His voice was level,
his diction perfect. He had sat here, questioned by some of the most brilliant minds of more than a generation, men who would go on to hold many of the highest positions in the land, in industry, science, finance and government. He moulded them, not they him.
"Perhaps political?" Matthew proposed carefully.
Thyer considered for a moment. "I know Sebastian had some very strong beliefs, but so do most young men. Heaven preserve us from those who have none." He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, I forgot for a moment what he did. I apologize. But knowing your family I find it extremely difficult to believe that your father held any conviction at all which would enrage anyone or make them feel threatened to the point of
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