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Peter winced. It was a sickening thought. “You’re sure?”
“I believe so, but I need proof.”
“Are you thinking of taking it to the police?” Peter began.
“No, of course not!” Lucas said sharply. His face twisted with bitter humor. “Apart from the fact that I’m not sure whom I trust, there are some very odd political opinions around now. God knows I don’t want another war, but I think perhaps there are even worse things. Like slowly being eviscerated by lies and fear. Always being afraid and eventually losing your balance so that you don’t know what you believe anymore. Thinking it will be all right if you do as you’re told, until you believe any lie. Because you don’t know what the truth is anymore, you wake up afraid and go to sleep afraid. You don’t know who your enemies are when truth dies, and you are afraid of anything different. That’s worse, the ultimate defeat, when you become indistinguishable from your enemy. You look in the mirror and you don’t know who you see.”
Peter was too horrified to argue. And, in truth, he had no argument to give. “If your enemy has turned you into a copy of himself, he has won everything,” he said, as if perhaps he were repeating Lucas’s words back to him. “Find out who killed Stoney Canning,” he added quietly. “And you had better not trust anyone, even in MI6. It has to have started there.”
“What are you going to do?” Lucas asked. His face was pinched with worry, and in the deepening gold of the light and the darkening of the shadows, he looked desperately vulnerable.
“I’m going to Trieste,” Peter answered.
“Is Elena in danger?” Lucas’s voice almost choked on the words.
“Not that I know of,” Peter replied. “Although Strother is quick and highly intelligent, and very brave, he’s not my man.”
“He’s Bradley’s?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out.”
Lucas nodded, stood still, then turned and walked toward the shadows of the trees, too choked by emotion to speak. Toby bounded after him.
* * *
—
When Peter reached his home, he found Pamela standing in the middle of the drawing room, facing him. She looked lovely, her fair skin flushed, her hair shining. She was wearing a plain white dress that was not especially fashionable, but so beautifully cut it would never date.
“I called your office. They said you’d left.” Her voice was measured, quite soft. He knew she was holding in her temper with great difficulty. “I thought maybe you would remember that we had plans for tonight.” She looked at his shoes, which were dirty, a piece of straw caught in one of the laces. “But I see you have been God knows where.”
As always, he could not tell her. He should have been able to say something about secret work now, but he did not truly know her opinions. She had friends who believed cooperation with Hitler was the way to eventual peace. “I’m sorry,” he said, knowing it was not enough. He always said it, and it meant less each time.
“You’re always sorry,” she snapped. “But not sorry enough to change. And don’t tell me you had a late meeting! You’ve got straw in your shoes and dog hair on your clothes. I’ll call a taxi. I’m going to the Rutledges’ alone. I’ll see you when I get back, assuming you’re still here.”
He had to make an effort now. She had a right to be angry, years of right. “Stoney Canning is dead,” he said quietly. “I’ve known him since before the war. It looks as if he’s been murdered, but it’s not clear yet who did it.”
“Oh.” She looked bewildered. “I’m sorry.” That was genuine. It was in her eyes, the tone of her voice, the way she stood.
“I don’t think you knew him. He was a bit eccentric, very lonely, I think.” He didn’t know why he was talking like this. It didn’t make any difference now, except that it was part of th
e reason he had to find out who had done this. Perhaps he wanted someone to pay part of the debt that he himself owed for the years of quiet duty of an old man, a man who apparently had no one in his life outside MI6. “He had no one,” he said aloud.
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked, her voice softer.
“I don’t think so, but you might…”
“What?”
“You might…” Should he ask her? “Perhaps you would help Josephine Standish with organizing the funeral. Stoney had nobody. We should do it properly, with flowers and—”
“I will,” she said immediately. “You can tell me something about him, what he liked.”
“Thank you, Pamela.”
“You can’t know yet when it will be…”
“No. Lucas says he was murdered, but the police are treating the death as from natural causes.” Already he had said too much. He could see it in her face. “I say that because it might delay things.” He must say enough to explain. “I expect they just have to do a postmortem to be sure. Apparently, he wasn’t ill.”
