Ashworth Hall (15 page)

Pitt could not help smiling also. He could see O’Day’s frustration quite plainly. Also, his information bore out what Lorcan had said. At least it reduced the suspects by three, and three who would not willingly protect each other.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “You have been most helpful.”

O’Day grunted and bit his lip.

Kezia was horrified when Pitt told her as they walked across the gravel drive, the damp wind in their faces. It smelled of newly turned earth, wet raked leaves and clippings from the last mowing of the grass. She swung around to face him, the fresh color fading from her cheeks, her eyes bright.

“I suppose you’re sure? You couldn’t be wrong?”

“Not about the wound, Miss Moynihan.”

“You were to begin with! You thought it was an accident then. Who suggested it wasn’t?”

“No one. When I examined it more closely, I saw that the wound could not have been caused by falling and striking the edge of the bath.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“You think murder is impossible?”

She turned away. “No, I just wish it were.”

She could not help. She had been in her bedroom at the time, alone except for her lady’s maid corning and going.

Tellman met him as he was returning to the house.

“Hennessey says he was in McGinley’s doorway talking to him about shirts,” he said tartly. “Saw O’Day in his room also. That puts them out. Wheeler seems to have been where he said. Footman and housemaid both saw him about downstairs, and he couldn’t have got back up again in time to do anything. They confirm the time he took the water up too.”

“What about the other servants?” Pitt walked beside him across the gravel and up the steps to the stone terrace.

Tellman looked resolutely ahead of him, refusing to admire the sweep of the stone balustrade or the broad facade of the house.

“Ladies’ maids were upstairs, of course. Seems there’s not one of the women can get out of their clothes by themselves.”

Pitt smiled. “If you were married, Tellman, you’d know better what is involved, and why it would be exceedingly difficult to do it oneself.”

“Shouldn’t wear clothes you can’t get in and out of,” Tellman responded.

“Is that all?” Pitt opened the door and went through it first, leaving it to swing.

Tellman caught it. “Your Gracie was up there on the landing. Says she saw Moynihan go to his room about ten past ten. Saw Wheeler go downstairs when he said he did. She was coming back with hot water at about half past ten and passed one of the maids carrying towels.”

“Which maid?”

“She didn’t know. Only saw her back. But all the maids are accounted for. None of ’em were absent from their duties. It wasn’t an outsider who killed Greville, and it wasn’t a servant.”

Pitt did not reply. It was what he had supposed—and feared. Now he could no longer put off speaking to Greville’s family. He gave Tellman instructions to continue learning all he could and check the accounts of the valets and maids against each other to see if anything further could be learned or deduced, then went upstairs to find Justine.

She was in the small sitting room which served the guest rooms of the north wing. Piers was close beside her and looked anxious. He started up as soon as Pitt entered, his face full of question.

“I am sorry to intrude,” Pitt began. “But there are certain things I need to ask you.”

“Of course.” Piers started as if to leave. “There is no need to distress Miss Baring with details. I’ll come with you.”

Pitt remained in front of the door, blocking it. “They are not medical details, Mr. Greville, they are just factual observations. And I need to ask Miss Baring as well.”

“Why?” Piers looked at him more closely, sensing something further wrong. “Surely …” He stopped again.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Greville, but your father did not die by accident,” Pitt said quietly. “I am with the police.”

“The police!” Involuntarily Justine started, then put her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I thought—” She stopped, turning to Piers. “I’m so sorry!”

Piers moved closer to her. “I was here to try to protect him,” Pitt went on. “I am afraid I failed. Now I need to know what happened and who was responsible.”

Piers was stunned. “You mean … you mean he was … deliberately killed? But how? He fell against the bath! I saw the wound.”

“You saw what was intended to look like an accident,” Pitt pointed out. He glanced at Justine. She looked very white and still, but she was watching Piers, not Pitt. After that momentary outburst, she showed not the slightest sign of hysterics or faintness.

“You expected … murder?” Piers had difficulty even saying the word. “Then why did he come? Why didn’t you …”

Justine stood up and put her hand on his arm. “One can only do so much, Piers. Mr. Pitt could hardly go into the bathroom with him.” She looked at Pitt. “Did someone break in?”

“No. I’m sorry, it was someone resident in the house. My sergeant has established that. All the windows and doors were locked and there are men regularly watching the outside of the house, night as well as day. The gamekeeper has dogs out.”

“Someone here?” Piers was startled. “You mean one of the guests? You expected this? They are all Irish, I realize that now, but really …” Again he stopped. “Was this a political weekend? Is that what you are saying? And I intruded, without knowing?”

“I would not have phrased it so abruptly, but yes. Where were you at that time, Mr. Greville?”

“In my bedroom. I’m afraid I didn’t hear anything.” It did not occur to him that Pitt could suspect him of involvement. He took his own innocence for granted, and Pitt was inclined to do the same. He thanked them both and went to conduct the last and worst interview.

He knocked on Eudora’s door and Doyle answered it. He looked weary, although it was barely midday. His dark hair was ruffled and his tie was a trifle crooked. “I haven’t called anyone to make arrangements yet,” he said on seeing Pitt. “I shall ask Radley to send for the local doctor. There is no point in calling his own man. The situation is tragically apparent. We’ll send a message to his own vicar, though. He should be buried in the family vault. I’m afraid it seems the end of an endeavor for peace in Ireland, at least for the time being. We must make suitable arrangements for everyone to go home. I’ll accompany my sister.”

“Not yet, Mr. Doyle. I am afraid, although it seemed apparent what had happened, it was not so. It was murder, and Assistant Commissioner Cornwallis has asked me to take charge of the enquiry.”

“What competence have you to decide such a thing?” Doyle said very carefully. “Just who are you, Mr. Pitt?”

“Superintendent of the Bow Street Station,” Pitt replied.

Doyle’s face tightened. “I see. Probably here from the beginning in your official capacity?” He did not make any reference to Pitt’s lack of success, but the knowledge of it was in his eyes and the very slight lift of the corners of his lips.

“Yes. I’m sorry.” Pitt was apologizing for the failure, not his calling.

“I suppose there is no doubt of your facts?”

“No.”

“You said an accident in the beginning. What changed your mind?”

They were still in the doorway. The room beyond was dimmed by half-drawn curtains. Eudora was sitting in one of the large chairs. Now she stood up and came towards them. She looked profoundly shocked. She had the kind of papery paleness and the hollow eyes of someone who has sustained a blow beyond her comprehension.

“What is it?” she asked. Apparently she had overheard none of their conversation. “What has happened now, Padraig?”

He turned to her, ignoring Pitt. “You must be very strong, sweetheart. The news is bad. Mr. Pitt is from the police, sent here to protect us during the conference. He says that Ainsley was murdered after all. It wasn’t an accident as we thought.” He put both hands on her shoulders to steady her. “We have no alternative but to face it. It was always danger, and he knew it. We did not expect it here in Ashworth Hall.” He half turned back to Pitt. “Was there a break-in?”

“No.”

“You sound very sure of that.”

“I am.”

“Then it was one of us?”

“Yes.”

Eudora stared at him with hurt, frightened eyes.

Doyle tightened his grip on her.

“Thank you for doing your duty in informing us,” he said firmly. “If there is anything we can do to help, of course we will, but for the time being Mrs. Greville would like to be alone. I’m sure you understand that?”

“I do,” Pitt agreed without moving. “I wouldn’t disturb her at all if it were not necessary. I am sorry, but no one may leave until we have learned as much as we can and, I hope, proved who is responsible. The sooner that is done, the sooner Mrs. Greville can return to her home and mourn in peace.” He felt acutely sorry for her, but he had no alternative. “This was more than the death of your husband, Mrs. Greville, it is a far-reaching political murder. I cannot extend you the sensitivity I would like to.”

She lifted her head very slightly. Her eyes were full of tears.

“I understand,” she said huskily. “I have always known there was a danger. I suppose I didn’t think it would really happen. I love Ireland, but sometimes I hate it too.”

“And don’t we all,” Doyle said, almost in a whisper. “It’s a hard mistress, but we’ve paid too much to leave her now, and when we were so close!”

“What do you want of me, Mr. Pitt?” Eudora asked.

“When did you last see Mr. Greville?”

She thought for
a
moment. “I don’t remember. He often reads late. I go to bed quite early. About ten o’clock, I think. But you can ask my maid, Doll, if you like. She might know. She was here when Ainsley came in to say good-night.”

“I will. Thank you. And you, Mr. Doyle?”

“I went to my room, also to read,” Doyle replied. “If you remember, it was not an evening when any of us wished to stay up late. The Moynihan business was most uncomfortable.”

Pitt flashed him a look of agreement. “I would be most grateful if you would not tell anyone outside Ashworth Hall what happened for the time being.”

“If you wish.”

“Was your manservant with you, Mr. Doyle?”

Dry, sad amusement flashed in Doyle’s face. “You suspect me? Yes, he was, part of the time. He left about half past ten. Have you any idea when Ainsley was killed?”

“Between twenty past ten and twenty to eleven.”

“I see. Then no, Mr. Pitt, I cannot account for all that time.”

“Padraig … don’t!” Eudora said desperately. “Don’t say that, even lightly!”

“It’s not lightly, my dear.” He tightened his arm around her again. “I imagine Mr. Pitt is going to be thorough, and that means ruthless, doesn’t it?”

“It means very literal, Mr. Doyle,” Pitt replied. “Very exact.”

“Sure it does. And I didn’t kill Ainsley. We differed over a lot of things, but he was my sister’s husband. Go and look at some of those fierce, judgmental Protestants, Mr. Pitt, full of the anger and vengeance of their God. You’ll find his killer there, never doubting he does God’s work … poor devil! That’s what’s wrong with Ireland—too many people doing the devil’s work in God’s name!”

Emily had an appalling day. She had known from the beginning that there was a possibility of danger to Ainsley Greville, but she had assumed it was remote and would come from outside. And, of course, Pitt and the menservants would deal with it. When Jack had told her Greville was dead, she, like everyone else, had assumed it was accidental.

Her first thought had been for the failure of the conference and what it would mean to Jack’s career. Then immediately she was ashamed of that and thought of the grief of the family, especially his wife. She knew the shock of violent bereavement herself only too well. She thought of what she could do to offer any comfort. But fortunately it seemed Padraig Doyle was Mrs. Greville’s brother, and he was happy to take control. Why had he not been open about that before? The answer was presumably political. Perhaps they thought others might assume Greville would be biased in his brother-in-law’s favor. Or possibly they did not wish everyone to know Eudora was Irish, from the south, and therefore likely to be Catholic, even if not devoutly so. Emily had little patience with such passion over other people’s personal beliefs.

But at least Doyle’s presence relieved her of the immediate need to spare time offering comfort to someone in such shock or distress. Instead she must try to keep some calm and order among the household staff. Whatever she did, in no time everyone would know there had been murder committed in the house, and there would be hysterics, weeping, fainting and quarreling, and inevitably, at least one person would want to give notice and not be allowed to because no one could leave the hall until the investigation was over.

It would be better to tell them herself and at least be given credit for courtesy and honesty. Jack was occupied with the wreckage of the conference, and anyway, the servants were really her responsibility. She had inherited Ashworth Hall and its staff, and the income to run it, from her first husband, and it was held in trust for her son. The staff all treated Jack with respect, but they still looked to her ultimately, from habit.

She went downstairs and told the butler that she would like to speak to the senior staff in the housekeeper’s room immediately. They assembled with due haste and solemnity.

“You all know that Mr. Ainsley Greville died in the bath late yesterday evening.” She did not use any of the common euphemisms for death, as she did when speaking to most people. It would be absurd to say that someone who had been murdered had “passed over” or “gone beyond the veil.”

“Yes, m’lady,” Mrs. Hunnaker said gravely. She still used Emily’s title, even though she no longer possessed it because she had remarried. “Very sad indeed, I’m sure. Will that mean the guests will be leaving?”

“Not yet,” Emily replied. “I am sorry, but I cannot say how much longer they will be with us. It depends on circumstances—and upon Mr. Pitt, to some extent.” She took a deep breath and looked at their polite, attentive faces with a sinking heart. “As most of you know, I daresay, Mr. Pitt is with the police. I am afraid Mr. Greville did not meet his death by accident, as we had first supposed. He was murdered—”