Ashworth Hall (27 page)

He admired her courage and her unselfishness, that she had borne it not only with dignity but considerable charm. Piers had found a remarkable woman. Pitt was not surprised he was determined to marry her—and had informed his parents rather than sought their permission. He respected Piers for that more than he had previously realized.

“Mr. Pitt,” Justine began quietly, “Mrs. Greville told me what you have been obliged to tell her about her maid, Doll Evans.” She breathed in deeply. He could see the fabric of her gown tighten as her body stiffened. She seemed to be weighing her words with intense care, uncertain even now whether to say this or not.

“I wish it had not been necessary,” he said. “There is much I wish she did not have to hear.”

“I know.” The ghost of a smile crossed Justine’s face. “There are many truths it would be better to hide. Life can be difficult enough with what we have to know. Things can be rebuilt more easily if we do not shatter them before we have the strength to cope with the magnitude of it. When you see the whole task, it can be too much. One loses the courage even to try, and then you are defeated from the beginning.”

“What is it you want to say, Miss Baring? I cannot take back what I told her. I would not have spoken at all without having done all I could to make sure it was true.”

“I understand that. But are you sure it was, Mr. Pitt, really sure?”

“Doll told Mrs. Pitt’s maid. Gracie hated breaking the confidence, but she realized that it might be at the core of this crime. It is a very real motive for murder. Surely you can see that?” he asked gently.

“Yes.” Her face was tight with emotion. “If he really did that to her, then I can … I can see how she might have felt he deserved to die. And it seems he did … have affairs with other women, acquaintances … but, Mr. Pitt, they are none of them here in this house now! Isn’t all that matters who is here now, and could have killed Mr. Greville? Can’t you let all the past indiscretions be buried with him, for Mrs. Greville’s sake, and Piers … and even for poor Doll? After all, Doll was with Mrs. Greville almost all the time you are speaking about. And …”

“And what?”

Again she stiffened, her face tight with anxiety.

“And you do not know that the story is true. Yes, of course Doll was with child, and unspeakable as it is”—her eyes were hard with suppressed fury—“she had little chance but to have the child aborted. That would be a better death than any other it faced. But you don’t know that Mr. Greville was responsible.”

He stared at her, for a moment taken aback.

“But she said it was Greville. Who … what are you saying? That she blamed him when it was someone else? Why? Greville’s dead … murdered. To blame him makes her a suspect when no one would have thought of her otherwise. It makes no sense.”

She looked back at him with wide eyes, almost black, her body tense like an animal ready to fight. Was she so in love with Piers she must defend his father with this fierceness and determination? He admired her for it. The uniqueness of her face was no accident, the sudden strength where one had expected only beauty.

“Yes it does,” she argued. “If she had already said it was Greville, before, she couldn’t go back on it now. And better she tell someone first, before anyone else did, and she appear to have hidden it and lied. So she told Gracie, knowing it would come back to you.”

“She didn’t know it would. Gracie very nearly didn’t tell me.”

She smiled with a flash of humor. “Really, Mr. Pitt! Gracie’s loyalty to you would always win in the end, for a dozen reasons. I know that. Doll must know it too.”

“But Doll didn’t know that anyone else was aware of her tragedy,” he argued back.

“She said so?” Her eyebrows arched delicately.

“Perhaps that is not true,” he conceded. “At least one other servant knew, although I doubt she told him.”

“Him?” she said quickly. “No, more likely she confided in another woman, or they guessed. It is one of the first things that would come to a woman’s mind, Mr. Pitt. They would know something was wrong at the time she was raped … if it was rape. Or seduced, which is more likely. Women are very observant, you know. We notice the slightest change in other people, and we can read our own sex very clearly. I would be surprised if the cook and the housekeeper didn’t know, at least.”

“So she told them it was the master, rather than say who it really was?” He still found the idea difficult, but it was making more sense all the time. “Why? Wouldn’t that be a very dangerous thing to say? What if it were reported back to him?”

“Who would do that?” she asked. “And if it were one of the menservants, surely they would be willing to protect their own? After all, she didn’t say it outside the house. Mr. Greville himself never knew of it, and certainly neither Mrs. Greville nor Piers did.”

He thought about it a little more seriously. It was not impossible.

She saw his indecision in his face.

“Do you really think a politician and diplomat of Mr. Greville’s standing is going to seduce a maid in his own household?” she urged. “Mr. Pitt, this is a political murder, an assassination. Mr. Greville was brilliant at his task. For the first time in a generation it seems there may really be some improvement in the Irish Problem, and he was responsible for that. It was his skill at diplomacy, his genius at the conference table that was bringing it about. This is what was unique about him. Surely that was why he was killed … here … and now?”

Her face became suddenly more grave. There was a new and greater tension in her body. “Perhaps he did not tell you—he may have wished not to frighten anyone further—but there was a very unpleasant happening yesterday when an urn was crashed onto the terrace only a yard away from Mr. Radley. If it had struck him he would unquestionably have been killed. That can only be because he has been out to step into Mr. Greville’s place in the conference. It is political, Mr. Pitt. Please give his family the opportunity to recover from their grief, and mourn for him, without destroying the memories they have.”

He looked at her earnest face. She meant passionately what she said, and it was easy to understand. He would like to protect Eudora himself.

“You have a high opinion of Mr. Greville,” he said gravely.

“Of course. I know a lot about him, Mr. Pitt. I am going to marry his son. Look for the person who envied his brilliance, who was afraid of what he could achieve … and above all, in whose interest it is to keep the Irish Problem unsolved.”

“Miss Baring—”

He got no further. There was an explosive crash. The walls shook, the ground trembled. The looking glass above the mantel shattered outwards, and suddenly the air was full of dust.

The gas mantles fell in shards onto the floor, and out in the hall someone started screaming over and over again.

8

T
HE NOISE DIED AWAY.
For seconds Pitt did not move, too dazed to realize what had happened. Then he knew. A bomb! Someone had exploded dynamite in the house. He spun around and lunged out the door.

The hall was full of smoke and dust. He could not even see who was screaming, but the door of Jack’s study was hanging on one hinge and the small table that had stood outside was lying in splinters on the floor. The dust was clearing already. The cold draft which came from the shattered windows was blowing it in billows through the doorway. Finn Hennessey was lying on the floor, crumpled and dazed.

The woman was still screaming.

Jack!

Sick at heart, Pitt staggered in without even bothering to steady the remains of the door. He could see shards of wood everywhere, and smell gas and burning wool. The curtains were flapping into the room, filled like sails and then snapped empty, their bottoms torn. Books lay in piles and heaps on the carpet. The burning was getting worse. The coals must have been thrown out of the fire by the blast.

There was someone on the carpet behind the ruins of the desk, spread-eagled, one leg bent under him. There was blood all over his chest and stomach, bright scarlet blood.

Pitt could barely force himself to pick his way through the debris, treading on papers and the wreckage of furniture and ornaments.

The jaw was broken, the throat torn, but the rest of the face was remarkably undisfigured. It was Lorcan McGinley. He looked faintly surprised, but there was no fear in him, no horror at all. He had not seen death coming.

Pitt climbed to his feet slowly and turned back to the door. The wind filled the curtains and sent them flying up. One caught a picture swinging on its broken hook and sent it crashing to the floor, glass exploding.

Emily was standing in the doorway, her body shaking, her face gray.

“It’s McGinley,” he said clearly, walking over towards her, slipping on books, loose papers, glass, splintered wood.

Emily shook more violently. She was gasping for breath as if she were choking, unaware that she was beginning to sob.

“It’s McGinley!” Pitt said again, taking hold of her shoulders. “It’s not Jack!”

She raised her fists, tightly clenched, and started to beat against him, lashing out blindly, terrified, wanting to hurt him, to share some of the intolerable pain inside her.

“Emily! It’s not Jack!” He did not wish to shout. His throat was sore with the dust and smoke. Somewhere behind him the study carpet was beginning to burn. He took her shoulders and shook her hard. “It’s Lorcan McGinley! Stop it! Emily, stop it! I’ve got to put the fire out before the whole damn house is alight!” He raised his voice to a shout, coughing violently. “Somebody get a bucket of water! Quickly! You!” He pointed to a dim figure through the settling dust. The maid had stopped screaming at last. Other people were coming, frightened, not knowing what to do. One of the footmen stood as if paralyzed, his livery filthy. “Get a bucket of water!” Pitt shouted at him. “The carpet’s on fire in there.”

The footman moved suddenly, swinging around as if to escape.

Emily was still shaking and crying, but she had stopped hitting him. Her hair was coming undone and she looked ashen pale.

“Where’s Jack?” she said hoarsely. “What have you done with Jack? You were supposed to look after him! Where is he?” She jerked back as if to strike at him again.

There was a clatter of feet, and loud voices.

“What is it?” O’Day demanded. “Oh, my God! What happened? Is anyone hurt?” He swung around. “Radley?”

“I’m here.” Jack pushed his way past Doyle and Justine. Other people were coming down the stairs, and more from the baize door at the far end of the hall.

Emily did not even hear Jack. She was still furious with Pitt, and he had to hold her hard to prevent her from hurling herself at him again.

One of the footmen was cradling Hennessey in his arms, and he appeared to be slowly regaining his senses.

Jack strode forward, glancing at the wreckage of the study, and his face paled.

“McGinley,” Pitt said, meeting his eyes. “There was an explosion—dynamite, I should think.”

“Is he … dead?”

“Yes.”

Jack put his arm around Emily and held her, and she began to cry, but softly, as of relief, the terror slipping out of her.

O’Day came forward to stand almost between them, his face grim. They must all be able to smell the smoke now.

“Where the devil is the footman with the water?” Pitt shouted. “Do you want the whole house on fire?”

“Here, sir!” The man materialized almost at his elbow, staggering a little under the weight and awkwardness of two buckets of water. He moved past Pitt to where the curtain was now rising slightly and gusting out towards them on the draft from the broken windows, and they heard the furious hiss of steam as he threw the water, then the smoke belched and lessened. He came out covered in smut and with his face scalded bright pink.

“More water!” he gasped, and two other footmen ran to obey.

Pitt stood in the doorway, shielding the sight behind him. Everyone seemed to be present, white-faced, shocked and frightened. Tellman came forward.

“McGinley,” Pitt said again.

“Dynamite?” Tellman asked.

“I think so.” Pitt looked to see Iona. She was standing between Fergal and Padraig Doyle. Perhaps she had already guessed the truth from Pitt’s face, and the fact that Lorcan was not in the hall while everyone else was.

Eudora moved towards her.

Iona stood still, shaking her head from side to side. Padraig put his arm around her.

“What happened?” Fergal asked, frowning, trying to see beyond Pitt. “Is it a fire? Is anyone hurt?”

“For God’s sake, man, didn’t you hear the noise?” O’Day demanded angrily. “It was an explosion! Dynamite, by the sound of it.”

Fergal looked startled. For the first time he noticed Iona’s fear. He swung around to glare at Pitt, the question in his face.

“I am afraid Mr. McGinley is dead,” Pitt said grimly. “I don’t know what happened beyond the fact that the explosion seemed to center behind Mr. Radley’s desk. The fire is incidental. The blast blew the coals out of the grate and they fell onto the carpet.”

As he spoke a footman came struggling back with more water, and he stood aside for him to pass.

“Are you sure there is nothing I can do for McGinley?” Piers asked anxiously.

“Quite sure,” Pitt assured him. “Perhaps you could help Mrs. McGinley.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” He moved back and approached Iona gently, talking to her as if there were no one else there, his voice quivering only very slightly.

Padraig Doyle walked over to Pitt, his face creased with concern.

“A bomb in Radley’s study,” he said with his back to the others so they could not hear. “And it exploded and caught poor Lorcan. It is a very bad business, Pitt. In the name of the devil, who put it there?”

“In the same name, Doyle, what was McGinley doing in there?” O’Day said grimly, looking around each in turn as if he thought someone might answer him.

Iona was silently clenching and unclenching her hands. Fergal had moved closer to her and surreptitiously slid his arm around her shoulders.

“Looking for Radley?” Padraig suggested, his eyes sharp and dark. “Borrowing paper, ink, wax, who knows?” He turned to Finn Hennessey, who was struggling to his feet with the assistance of the same footman who had held him before. “Do you know why Mr. McGinley was in Mr. Radley’s study?” Padraig asked.

Finn was still dizzy, blinking; his face was dark, smudged with dust, and his clothes were covered in it. He seemed barely able to focus.

“Yes sir,” he said huskily. “The dynamite …” He swiveled to stare at the shattered study door and the clouds of dust and smoke.

“He knew the dynamite was there?” Padraig said incredulously.

“Is he … dead?” Finn stammered.

“Yes,” Pitt answered him. “I’m sorry. Are you saying McGinley knew the dynamite was there?”

Finn turned towards him, blinking. It was obvious he was still dazed and probably suffering physical as well as emotional shock. He nodded slowly, licking dry lips.

“Then why in God’s name didn’t he send for help?” O’Day said reasonably. “Anyway, how did he know?”

Finn stared at him. “I don’t know how he knew, sir. He just told me … to stand guard, not to let anyone go into the study. He said he knew more about dynamite than anyone else here. He’d be the best person to deal with it.” He looked at O’Day, then at Pitt.

“Then who put it there?” Kezia asked, her voice rising towards panic. She swung around, staring at each of them.

“The same person who murdered Mr. Greville,” Justine answered her, her face pale and tight. “It was obviously intended for Mr. Radley because he has had the courage to take his place. Someone is determined that this conference shall not succeed and is prepared to commit murder after murder to see that it doesn’t.”

The fire in the study was out now. There was no more smoke, but the wind blowing through carried the rank smell of wet, charred wool and the still-settling dust.

“Of course it was intended for Mr. Radley,” Eudora said with a gulp. “Poor Lorcan saw someone put it there, or realized someone had, we shall never know now, and he went in there to try and disarm it before it could explode … only he failed.”

Iona looked up sharply, her eyes wide and suddenly filled with tears.

“He was betrayed, like all of us! He was one of the immortal Irishmen who died fighting for peace and trying to bring it to reality.” She faced Emily and Jack, standing close to each other. “You have a terrible responsibility, Mr. Radley, a debt of honor, incurred in blood and sacrifice. You cannot let us down.”

“I will do anything in my power not to, Mrs. McGinley,” Jack replied, meeting her gaze steadily. “But no sacrifice buys my conscience. I wish Lorcan McGinley were the only man who had died for Irish peace, but tragically he is only one of thousands. Now, there is much to do. Superintendent Pitt has another crime to investigate—”

“He hasn’t achieved much with the last one,” O’Day said with sudden bitterness, uncharacteristic of him until now. “Perhaps we should call in more help? This is lurching from bad to worse. McGinley’s is the second death in three days—”

“The third in a week,” Pitt cut across him. “There was a good man murdered in London because he had penetrated the Fenians and learned something of their plans—”

O’Day swung around, his face coloring, his eyes sharp. “You never mentioned that before! You never said you had information that the Fenians were planning all this. You knew that … and still you didn’t prevent it?”

“That’s unfair!” Charlotte intervened for the first time, coming forward from the shadows, where she had been standing near Emily and Jack. “This house wasn’t broken into by Fenians. Whoever did this”—she gestured towards the open study door and the wreckage within—“is one of us here. You brought murder with you!”

Someone gave a little cry. It was impossible to tell who. The room was as thick with fear and grief as it was with dust and the smell of burning.

“Yes, of course,” O’Day apologized, composing himself with difficulty. “I am sorry, Mrs. Pitt, Superintendent. I had hoped so much of this conference, it is hard to see one’s dreams dashed and not want to blame someone you can see and name. But it is nonetheless unworthy.” He looked around them, especially at Padraig. “Come. I think we should all leave Mr. Pitt to his gruesome duty, and ourselves return and see what we can do to foil this madman’s violence by preparing to continue the best we may.”

“Bravo.” Padraig applauded, raising his hands as if to clap, then turning to walk away.

“Certainly,” Jack agreed, after glancing at Pitt. “We shall all go to the morning room, when the fire is lit, and have Dilkes bring us a hot punch with a little brandy in it. I’m sure we could all do with it. Emily …”

She was still ghostly white, but she made an effort to respond.

“Yes … yes …” she said hesitantly, walking as if she were not sure of the ground under her feet. She went straight past Iona. It was Justine who took Iona by the arm and offered to go with her up to her room, fetch her maid and have a tisane sent up, with brandy if she wished, and to sit with her. Charlotte was Standing beside Finn Hennessey, talking to him quietly, gently, trying to help his shock and confusion. He was still staring around him as if he barely knew where he was and could not comprehend what had happened or what he was doing there. Gracie was there also, white-faced.