Ashworth Hall (17 page)

Piers glanced at Justine, then at Pitt. “Would you like me to come with you?” he offered. “That would make it much easier. It would be very difficult indeed to describe to you the best way there, or even to draw a map.”

“Thank you,” Pitt accepted without hesitation. Apart from the convenience of it, he would welcome the opportunity to speak less formally to Piers, and perhaps learn more of Ainsley Greville. Without realizing it, Piers might know something of meaning.

“What can you learn from his papers?” Justine asked with obvious doubt. “Will they not be state papers anyway, and confidential?” She looked from Piers to Eudora, and back at Pitt. Her voice dropped. “He was killed in this house, and you said it was someone here. No one broke in. Shouldn’t we … shouldn’t we leave him his privacy?”

“It is only Mr. Pitt looking at them, my dear,” Eudora said, blinking a little, as if the concern puzzled her. “There won’t be any government papers that matter at Oakfield, they would all be at Whitehall. There may be the unpleasant letters which I know he received, and perhaps that will help us”—she took a deep breath—“to learn who is behind this.” She looked at Pitt, her eyes wide and dark. “There must be more than one person, mustn’t there? There was the incident with the carriage.” She was clenching her hands together.

“Of course,” Piers agreed. “We should look at those letters. And there may be other things that he didn’t mention ….”

Justine rose to her feet, taking Piers’s arm. “Your father is no longer here to protect himself, his privacy,” she said to him, turning a little away from Pitt. “He may have private or personal financial papers, or other letters which it would be preferable were not seen outside the family. He was a great man. He must have dealt with many matters which were confidential. There will have been friends who trusted him, wrote to him of issues which might be embarrassing if they were to become public. We all have … indiscretions ….” She left it in the air, but she turned to Pitt and met his eyes with a wide stare.

“I shall be discreet, Miss Baring,” he assured her. “I imagine he was privy to much information that was sensitive, but I doubt it will be committed to paper in his home. But as has been pointed out, the tragedy was not an isolated incident. There was an attempt to kill Mr. Greville a few weeks ago—”

She turned to Eudora. “You must have been so afraid for him. And then to have this happen. I imagine it was just … the sort of threats people make when they want something, empty, bullying.” She looked back at Pitt. “Of course, you must find out who sent them. They may very well be behind this, since they have actually attempted before.” She looked at Piers. “What happened?”

“Someone tried to drive him off the road. I wasn’t there, I was up at Cambridge. Mama was in London.” He put his arm around her gently, his eyes on her face. “Will you be all right here if I go with Mr. Pitt?”

She smiled back at him. “Yes, of course I will. And I will look after your mother. I think with the other tensions there are, poor Mrs. Radley could do with all the assistance any of us can offer.” A ghost of amusement, and perhaps pity, crossed her eyes and vanished. “I did hear rumors of what the trouble is between the Moynihans and the McGinleys, but I shall pretend I didn’t. I think it will be the only way to get through the day, which threatens to feel like a week.”

“Surely they will forget all that now?” Piers looked startled. “The future of Ireland may be altered here if Mr. Radley can keep the conference going. After all that has happened, how can anyone care about something so—”

She smiled at him, touching his cheek with her finger. “My dear, we are quite capable of worrying about our own personal grievances and private habits while the whole world is collapsing around us. Perhaps it is easier to think on that scale. I don’t doubt the Last Trump will find some of us bickering about the price of a piece of ribbon, or who forgot to pinch out the candle. The end of the world would seem too much to grasp in the mind.” She glanced at Pitt. “Don’t worry about us, Mr. Pitt, we shall manage the day.”

He found himself liking Justine far more than he had expected to. She was anything but ordinary. He wondered what she saw in Piers that so attracted her. He seemed so young compared with her mature humor and balance. But then he was judging on the slightest acquaintance, and it was unfair. He knew very little about any of them, beyond the superficial.

He thanked Eudora and took his leave, arranging to meet Piers in the stables in fifteen minutes.

It was cold but not unpleasant as they set out on two excellent horses, traveling first across the parkland at a brisk canter, then turning along the edge of plowed fields and towards a lane which wound through a patch of woodland. It had been years since Pitt had ridden. One does not forget the feel of the animal. The creak of leather, the smell, the rhythmic movement were all familiar, but he knew he would be painfully stiff the next day. He was using muscles unstretched in a decade. He could imagine Tellman’s comments, and see the discreet smile on Jack’s face.

They could not converse while they were moving swiftly, but when they were obliged to slow to a walk between the trees it came quite naturally. Piers rode well, with the grace of a man who is both used to the saddle and fond of his animals.

“Will you look for a city practice?” Pitt asked, as much for
something
uncontentious to say as because he was interested.

“Oh no,” Piers replied quickly, lifting his head to look at the bare branches above. “I really don’t like London. And I know Justine would prefer a country life.”

“I imagine your father’s death will change your plans?” They were moving more slowly now along a winding path, Piers a little ahead as they crossed a stream and the horses scrambled up the farther bank, sending a scatter of stones back into the water. The wind caught a flurry of fallen leaves with a rustling sound, and far away to the left a dog barked.

“I hadn’t thought of it,” Piers said frankly. “Mama will stay on in Oakfield House, of course. It hasn’t anything like the lands of Ashworth. There are no farms to manage. She won’t need me. Justine and I will find somewhere, perhaps near Cambridge. Of course, financially I will be more fortunately placed, I suppose.”

“You probably will not need to practice medicine,” Pitt pointed out.

Piers swiveled quickly to stare at him. “But I want to! I know my father would have liked me to stand for Parliament, but I have no interest in it whatever. I am interested in public health.” There was a sudden enthusiasm in his face, a light in his eyes which made him quite different from the rather bland young man he had been even moments before. “I care about diseases of nutrition especially. Have you any idea how many English children suffer from rickets? The medical textbook even calls it the English disease! And scurvy. It isn’t only seamen who get scurvy. And night blindness. There are too many things we are on the brink of being able to treat, but we don’t quite manage it.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to be in Parliament?” Pitt said wryly, catching up to ride beside him as they emerged into an open field.

Piers was perfectly serious. “You can’t make laws until you have proved your case. First you must make them believe, then understand, then care. After that it is time for legislation. I want to work with people who need help, not argue with politicians and make compromises.”

Pitt dismounted and opened the gate at the side of the field and held it while Piers took both horses through, then closed it behind them. He remounted a trifle more elegantly than he had mounted the first time.

“That makes me sound very arrogant, doesn’t it?” Piers said more moderately. “I know compromise is necessary in a lot of things. I just have no skills at it. My father was brilliant. He could charm and persuade people into all sorts of things. If anyone could have succeeded with the Irish Problem, it would have been he. He had a sort of power, almost an invulnerability. He wasn’t afraid of people the way most of us are. He always knew what he wanted out of any situation and how much he was prepared to yield or to pay for it. He never changed his mind.”

Pitt thought about it as they moved forward into a canter again over a long stretch of pasture land. He had seen that assurance in Greville, the quiet ruthlessness of a man who can keep his purpose in mind and never waver from it. It was a very necessary quality in his chosen profession, but it was not entirely attractive. Piers had not said that directly, but he had allowed it to be inferred. There was no warmth when he spoke of his father, and very little regret.

Oakfield House was, as he had said, considerably smaller than Ashworth, but it was still a very handsome residence. Approaching it from the west, it looked to be of a size to have ten or twelve bedrooms, and numerous stables and other outbuildings. It was the country home of a man of both taste and position, discreet but of considerable wealth.

They left the horses with the groom and went in through the side door. Pitt was already feeling his leg muscles pull a little. By the next day he would be regretting this.

The butler came across the hall looking disconcerted, his white hair ruffled.

“Master Piers! We weren’t expecting you. I’m afraid Mr. and Mrs. Greville are away at the moment. But of course …” He saw Pitt and his expression became colder and more formal. “Good morning, sir. May I be of any assistance?”

“Thurgood,” Piers said quietly. He walked towards him and took him by one elbow. “I’m sorry, but there has been a tragedy. My father has been killed. Uncle Padraig is with Mama, but it was necessary that I come here with Mr. Pitt.” He indicated Pitt while still steadying the swaying butler with the other hand. “We need to look at Papa’s papers and letters, and find the threats that were sent recently. If there is anything you know which might be of help, please make sure you tell us.”

“Killed?” Thurgood looked startled. Suddenly his slight officiousness vanished and he looked elderly and rather rumpled.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Piers continued. “But please tell the staff there will be no changes, and they are to continue as usual. They must not discuss it yet, because it has not been in the newspapers, and we have not informed the other members of the family.”

It rose to Pitt’s tongue to ask Thurgood not to mention it at all, but he realized before he spoke that that would be an impossibility. The man’s shock was all too apparent. Others would draw the news from him even if he were unwilling. The air of tragedy and fear was already in the house.

“Perhaps you would arrange a hot toddy for us,” Piers went on. “It’s been a long ride. And then luncheon at about one. We’ll take it in the library. A little cold meat or pie, whatever you have.”

“Yes sir. I’m very sorry, sir. I’m sure the other staff will wish me to convey their sympathies also,” Thurgood said awkwardly. “When shall we expect the mistress home, sir? And of course there will be … arrangements ….”

“I don’t know yet. I’m sorry.” Piers frowned. “Do you understand, Thurgood, this is a government secret at the moment? I think perhaps you had better tell the housekeeper and no one else. Treat it as a family embarrassment, if you like.” He glanced at Pitt and smiled with a little twist of the mouth. “Use the same discretion you would if you had overheard a confession to something shameful.”

Thurgood obviously did not understand, but his face reflected bland obedience.

When he had withdrawn. Piers led the way to the library, with his father’s large desk in one corner. The room was cold, but the fire was laid, and Piers bent and lit it without bothering to call a servant. As soon as he was sure it had caught, he straightened up and produced keys to open the desk drawers.

The first one yielded personal accounts, and Pitt read through them without expecting to find anything of interest. There were tailors’ bills, and shirtmakers’; receipts for two pairs of very expensive boots, onyx-faced shirt studs and a fan of carved ivory and lace, an enameled pillbox with a painting of a lady on a swing, and three bottles of lavender water. They were all dated within the last month. It seemed Greville had been a very generous husband. It surprised Pitt. He had not observed such affection or imagination in him. Eudora was going to find the loss bitter. The private man had obviously been more sensitive and far more emotional than the public politician.

He stood still, holding the papers in his hand, looking around the well-furnished library with its book-lined walls, a few excellent paintings, mostly of scenes from Africa, water-colors of Table Mountain and the sweeping skies of the Veldt. The books in the cases were largely sets of volumes, uniformly bound in leather, but one case seemed to hold odd ones, and from the armchair it was the most easily accessible. He would look at them if he had time. Greville had suddenly become more interesting as a man, a sharper loss now that Pitt had seen his humanity, a sense of his inner emotion.

Piers was looking through the drawers on the further side of the desk. He straightened up, several letters in his hand.

“I think I have them,” he said grimly, holding them forward. “Some of them are threatening.” He looked puzzled, hurt. “Only two are anonymous or sound political.” He stared at Pitt, uncertain what he wanted to say. Twice he started, stopped again, and then simply put out his hand with the papers.

Pitt took them and looked at the first. It was printed in block letters and extremely simple.

Do not betray Ireland or you will be sorry. We will win our freedom, and no Englishman is going to defeat us this time. It will be a simple matter to kill you. Remember that.

Not surprisingly, it was unsigned and undated.

The next was utterly different. It was written in a strong, clear hand, and it was both dated and carried a sender’s address.

Oct 20th. 1890.

Dear Greville,

I find it most repugnant to have to address any gentleman on a matter such as this, but your behaviour leaves me no alternative. Your attentions to my wife must cease immediately. I do not propose to enlarge upon the subject. You are aware of your transgression and it needs no detail from me.