murder."
Was that a bait to provoke Matthew into proving himself correct. It was like a complicated game of chess, move and countermove, think three places ahead. Matthew had already considered that. "I wondered if it had anything to do with my father's German friends." He watched Thyer's face. His expression barely changed, only a flicker of the eyes.
"You mean some German connection with the war?" Thyer asked a trifle sceptic ally "I can't imagine what, unless it was built on a misconception. Your father was not for war, was he? I know Sebastian hated the thought. But then so did many young men. Since they are the ones who have always had to fight our wars, and give their lives and their friends to the slaughter, they can barely be blamed for that."
Matthew felt a faint prickling on his skin in the quiet room, so essentially English with its mahogany Pembroke table at the far side, its prints on the wall. He recognized one of Rievaulx Abbey in Yorkshire, ruins towering up like an unfinished sketch, more dream than stone. There were daffodils in the china vase, Connie Thyer's embroidery in a basket, the April sunlight on the flower garden beyond the french doors, centuries-old walls.
Beyond the quad in the other direction there would be students in cap and gown, exactly as they had been for hundreds of years, carrying piles of books, hurrying to class. Others would be crossing the Bridge of Sighs over the river, perhaps glancing through the stone fretwork at the punts drifting by, or the smooth, shaved green of the grass under the giant trees.
"Father was not for war," Matthew replied. "But he was not for surrender either. He would choose to fight, if pushed far enough." He kept his voice light, as if the words were quite casual.
"So would we all," Thyer said with a tight smile. "I really can't help you, Matthew. I wish I could. Your parents' deaths make no sense to me. Sebastian went to Germany last summer, I believe. Perhaps he became infected with strange ideas there. International Socialism has become a religion for some, and can carry all the irrationality and crusading zeal of a religion, even the martyr's crown for those in need of a cause to follow."
"You speak as if you have experience of it," Matthew observed. It seemed a world away from Cambridge, but ideas travelled as far as words could be carried.
Thyer smiled. "I'm Master of St. John's; it is my job to know what young men dream of, what they talk about, whom they listen to, and what they read, both prescribed and otherwise. The best of them always want to change the world. Didn't you?" His face was gentle, at a glance no more than politely interested, but his clear, light blue eyes penetrated unwaveringly.
Was he a man who wanted to change the world into an Anglo-German hegemony?
"It isn't the change that matters," Matthew answered, feeling his heart beat high in his throat. He must not give himself away. A clumsy word now would be enough. "It's the means they propose to use to bring it about," he finished.
"Sebastian was persistently against war," Thyer said with certainty. "He admired German science and culture, particularly music. But that does not make him unusual. Find me a civilized man anywhere who doesn't."
They were moving round and round each other like a medieval dance, never touching. Matthew was learning nothing, except the extraordinary power over minds that the Master of a college could exert something he knew already. Thyer was simply reminding him. Intentionally? Did it amuse him to play?
"You spoke to Sebastian the day before he killed my parents," he said aloud.
Thyer was jolted at last, though it showed only in the flicker of his eyes. "How did you know that?" he asked quietly.
"You took no trouble to conceal it," Matthew replied. "Was it meant to be secret?"
Thyer relaxed deliberately, the faintest touch of humour at the corners of his mouth. "No. not at all." His face was almost without expression. "I called to remind him
Was that a bait to provoke Matthew into proving himself correct. It was like a complicated game of chess, move and countermove, think three places ahead. Matthew had already considered that. "I wondered if it had anything to do with my father's German friends." He watched Thyer's face. His expression barely changed, only a flicker of the eyes.
"You mean some German connection with the war?" Thyer asked a trifle sceptic ally "I can't imagine what, unless it was built on a misconception. Your father was not for war, was he? I know Sebastian hated the thought. But then so did many young men. Since they are the ones who have always had to fight our wars, and give their lives and their friends to the slaughter, they can barely be blamed for that."
Matthew felt a faint prickling on his skin in the quiet room, so essentially English with its mahogany Pembroke table at the far side, its prints on the wall. He recognized one of Rievaulx Abbey in Yorkshire, ruins towering up like an unfinished sketch, more dream than stone. There were daffodils in the china vase, Connie Thyer's embroidery in a basket, the April sunlight on the flower garden beyond the french doors, centuries-old walls.
Beyond the quad in the other direction there would be students in cap and gown, exactly as they had been for hundreds of years, carrying piles of books, hurrying to class. Others would be crossing the Bridge of Sighs over the river, perhaps glancing through the stone fretwork at the punts drifting by, or the smooth, shaved green of the grass under the giant trees.
"Father was not for war," Matthew replied. "But he was not for surrender either. He would choose to fight, if pushed far enough." He kept his voice light, as if the words were quite casual.
"So would we all," Thyer said with a tight smile. "I really can't help you, Matthew. I wish I could. Your parents' deaths make no sense to me. Sebastian went to Germany last summer, I believe. Perhaps he became infected with strange ideas there. International Socialism has become a religion for some, and can carry all the irrationality and crusading zeal of a religion, even the martyr's crown for those in need of a cause to follow."
"You speak as if you have experience of it," Matthew observed. It seemed a world away from Cambridge, but ideas travelled as far as words could be carried.
Thyer smiled. "I'm Master of St. John's; it is my job to know what young men dream of, what they talk about, whom they listen to, and what they read, both prescribed and otherwise. The best of them always want to change the world. Didn't you?" His face was gentle, at a glance no more than politely interested, but his clear, light blue eyes penetrated unwaveringly.
Was he a man who wanted to change the world into an Anglo-German hegemony?
"It isn't the change that matters," Matthew answered, feeling his heart beat high in his throat. He must not give himself away. A clumsy word now would be enough. "It's the means they propose to use to bring it about," he finished.
"Sebastian was persistently against war," Thyer said with certainty. "He admired German science and culture, particularly music. But that does not make him unusual. Find me a civilized man anywhere who doesn't."
They were moving round and round each other like a medieval dance, never touching. Matthew was learning nothing, except the extraordinary power over minds that the Master of a college could exert something he knew already. Thyer was simply reminding him. Intentionally? Did it amuse him to play?
"You spoke to Sebastian the day before he killed my parents," he said aloud.
Thyer was jolted at last, though it showed only in the flicker of his eyes. "How did you know that?" he asked quietly.
"You took no trouble to conceal it," Matthew replied. "Was it meant to be secret?"
Thyer relaxed deliberately, the faintest touch of humour at the corners of his mouth. "No. not at all." His face was almost without expression. "I called to remind him
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