Ashworth Hall (33 page)

“I’ve no idea,” Charlotte answered. “Probably some, not all. The thing is that hatred can become a habit until you do it for its own sake, long after you’ve forgotten the reason. You begin to look for reasons to justify the way you feel, and then you create them. Don’t let them make you feel guilty for something that has nothing to do with you, Gracie. And don’t accept that all the songs and stories are true.”

“Do you think that if they knew the truth, Mr. Doyle and Mr. O’Day would feel better about each other?” Gracie asked with a very faint lift of hope in her voice.

“No,” Charlotte answered without hesitation. “Their families were in the wrong. Nobody ever feels better for knowing that.”

“Even if it’s the truth?”

“Especially if it’s the truth.”

Nevertheless, when she had time, after breakfast, Gracie went up to Charlotte’s room and took the two pieces of newspaper, then went to look for Finn Hennessey. Surely he would want to know the truth? Charlotte might be right about some people hating from habit, but Finn was not like that. He hurt for the real suffering of his people, not the imaginary.

She found him in the boot room, but she waited until Mr. O’Day’s valet had gone and he was alone before she went in. He still looked pale after his concussion, and he was very grave. He had no job anymore, no reason to polish boots or brush coats or see to any of the other tasks of a gentleman’s gentleman, but he did it automatically. It was better than standing around idle. He had a pair of boots now. Perhaps they were somebody else’s and he was merely helping.

“ ’Ow yer feelin’?” she asked, standing in the doorway and looking at him anxiously. “I bet yer got a crackin’ ’eadache.”

He smiled thinly. “Sure I have, Gracie. Like a dozen little men with hammers were shut in there an’ trying to get out. But it’ll pass. That’s a lot more than can be said for some.”

“Yer got anythin’ for it?” she asked sympathetically. “I’ll get yer summink if yer like.”

“No, thank you,” he declined, relaxing rather more. “I took something already.”

“I’m terribly sorry about Mr. McGinley,” she said, looking at him as he leaned against the bench, the light shining on his dark head. There was a grace in him unlike that in anyone else, almost a kind of music. And he cared so much. There was nothing in him that was lukewarm, nothing indifferent or callous to the pain of others. It must be terrible to be part of a people who had suffered so much, being the victim of such deep wrongs. She admired him for his compassion, his anger and his courage. He was a bit like Pitt, really, fighting for justice in his own way. Perhaps she should care for her own people more, be concerned to fight for better things for them? Who were her own people? The poor in London? Those who had grown up cold and hungry and ignorant like herself, fighting for every scrap of food, for a place of shelter and a little warmth, fighting to stay alive without stealing or going into prostitution?

Here she was in Ashworth Hall, living like a lady and trying her best to forget about them. Would Finn despise her if he knew that? She did not want to go back to Clerkenwell or anything like the people she had left behind. How do you fight for change for them, except by changing yourself?

“Mrs. Pitt went up ter town yesterday, ter see ’er great-aunt,” she said aloud. Thinking of Vespasia always gave her a little lift of excitement, like a beam of sunshine.

Finn looked surprised. “Did she? All the way up to London, after what happened yesterday morning?” Perhaps he did not mean there to be, but there was criticism in his voice, as if he thought she had somehow abandoned her duty and she should have remained here with them at Ashworth.

Gracie was immediately defensive.

“Lady Vespasia’s very special indeed! She’s one o’ the greatest ladies in the ’ole country. Wot she don’t know in’t worth bothering wif.”

“Well, if she knows how to get us out of this mess, I wish Mrs. Pitt had brought her back here,” he said grimly.

“In’t nobody can get us out o’ this mess ’ceptin’ Mr. Pitt,” she answered with more conviction than she felt—and was ashamed of herself; of course Pitt would succeed … sooner or later. “ ’E’ll find out ’oo killed Mr. Greville and ’oo put the bomb there wot killed poor Mr. McGinley,” she added forcefully.

He smiled. “You’re loyal, Gracie. I wouldn’t have expected any less from you.”

She took a deep breath. “But ’e can’t sort out the way you all ’ate each other. But Lady Vespasia did some o’ it. She told Mrs. Pitt the truth about that story o’ Neassa Doyle and Drystan O’Day, an’ it in’t wot yer bin told all them years.”

He stood very still.

Outside someone walked along the passage and went on to the knife room. A footman swore under his breath as he lifted a heavy coal bucket.

“And what would an English lady in London know about a murder on an Irish hillside thirty years ago?” he asked carefully, his voice soft, his eyes steady.

She saw the defensiveness in him. But he was not weak enough to prefer a lie to the truth.

“Just wot anybody knows wot can read,” she replied, her eyes not wavering from his.

“And you believe it, Gracie? Written where? By whom?”

“In the newspaper,” she replied without wavering. “It’s writ in the newspaper. I read it meself.”

He almost laughed. “What newspaper? An English newspaper?” There was derision and contempt in his face and his voice. “Would you really expect them to print the truth? That one of their own, a soldier in their army, a lieutenant, raped and murdered an Irish girl and betrayed his own best friend. Of course they wouldn’t say that! I’m sorry the truth is hard, Gracie, but you have to face it!” He came towards her, his eyes gentle. He lowered his voice and it was sad rather than angry, but he did not waver. “Gracie, sometimes our own do things that we’re so ashamed of we can hardly bear to think of it, and it’s like a little bit of us dying to have to admit it’s true. But if it is … then running away or saying it isn’t doesn’t change anything, it just makes us part of whatever it was, because we haven’t the courage to face the truth, however terrible it is. You don’t want to be part of a lie, Gracie. That’s not you. However it hurts, be part of the truth. It’s a cleaner wound, and it heals.”

“Yeah,” she whispered. “But it in’t easy, Finn. It ’urts like yer tearin’ yerself apart, sometimes.”

“Be strong.” He smiled and held out his hand.

She did not take it. She hesitated even more. She had the two pieces of newspaper clenched in her pocket. She closed her eyes. It was easier to say it not looking at him, but she did not turn her face away.

“You said Neassa Doyle were raped and murdered on the night of the eighth o’ June.”

“Yes. It’s a date none of us will ever forget. Why?”

“By Alexander Chinnery, an Englishman wot were the best friend o’ Drystan O’Day, or pretended to be?”

“Yes. You know that!”

“Yeh. It says so in the newspaper wot Mrs. Pitt got up in London.”

“So what is it you’re saying? It’s true! We all know it’s true!”

“I got another piece.” Now she opened her eyes. She did not mean to, it just happened. “A Liverpool newspaper o’ sixth o’ June, two days before.”

He looked a trifle puzzled.

“Saying what?”

“Sayin’ as ’ow Lieutenant Alexander Chinnery jumped into the ’arbor o’ Liverpool ter try ter save a young lad wot was drownin’—”

“So he was brave when it suited him,” Finn said quickly. “I never said he was a coward. Only a betrayer and a murderer and a rapist.”

“An’ a bleedin’ miracle.” She nearly choked on the words. “ ’E were dead, Finn! ’E din’t save the boy, nor ’isself! They was both drowned. They got the bodies out, but it were too late. When Neassa Doyle were killed, Finn, Chinnery were two days dead. An’ there were dozens o’ people wot saw ’im. Dozens of ’em were tryin’ ter get ’em out an’ save ’em.”

“That’s not true!” His face was blank with shock. “It isn’t! It’s a lie to try to protect him.”

“From wot?” she demanded. “ ’E’adn’t done nothin’!”

“That’s what you say!” He stepped back, his cheeks flushed now, his eyes brilliant and angry. “The English would say that. They’re hardly going to admit it was one of their own.”

“One o’ their own done wot?” Her voice was rising higher, and she had to try hard not to shout. “That were two days before Neassa got killed. There weren’t nuffink to protect ’im from. You sayin’ they drowned ’im in Liverpool ’arbour ter save ’im from bein’ blamed fer summink wot ’adn’t ’appened yet?”

“No! Of course I’m not. But it can’t be the truth. It’s a lie somewhere. It’s a very clever one—”

“It in’t a lie, Finn! The only ones wot’s lyin’ is Neassa Doyle’s brothers, wot really killed ’er an’ shaved ’er ’ead fer bein’ an ’ore an’ goin’ after a Protestant. They blamed Chinnery ’cos they din’t ’ave the stomach ter stand up an’ be counted for wot they believed in.”

“No! No, they didn’t—”

“Then ’oo did? ’cos it weren’t Chinnery, lessn’n ’e come back from the grave an’ scared ’er ter death.”

“Don’t speak about it like that!” he shouted, raising his hand as if to strike her. “It isn’t funny, God damn you!” His voice was thick with emotion. Anger and confusion were all but choking him. “Haven’t you even a decent respect for the dead?”

“What dead? Only Irish dead?” she shouted back, refusing to retreat. “Course I ’ave! Enough ter want the truth fer ’em. But I got respect fer English dead too—if Chinnery didn’t do it then I won’t stand ’ere an’ ’ave anyone say as ’e did! It in’t honest.” She drew in her breath in a gasp. There were tears running down her cheeks, but she could not stop. “You told me ter face the truth, no matter ’ow much it ’urt. You said it were like a little bit of us dyin’ if we ’ad to admit our own ’as done sum-mink terrible.” She waved her arm in the air, pointing at him. “Well, you gotta do it! Them Doyles killed ’er an’ let Chinnery take the blame ’cos they ’adn’t the guts ter say as they done it to ’er theirselves ’cos she let ’em down by fallin’ in love wi’ O’Day. Well, they did, an’ you denyin’ it in’t going ter make it different.”

“It’s a lie,” he repeated, but there was no belief left in his voice, only anger and hurt and confusion. “It can’t be true.” She fished in her pocket and brought out the newspaper clippings. She pushed them at him without letting go of them. “Look fer yerself. Can yer read?”

“Of course I can read.” He stared at them without touching them. “We’ve known all about it for years! Everybody knows!”

“Everybody knowin’ don’t make it true,” she argued. “They only know it ’cos someone said so. They weren’t there, were they?”

“No, don’t be stupid!” he said with scalding disgust. “That’s an idiotic thing to say—”

“Then ’ow could they know?” Her reasoning was impeccable. “They know ’cos them Doyle brothers said so. Drystan O’Day must a’ thought it were them, or ’e wouldn’t a’ gorn an’ attacked them, would ’e?”

“He was a Protestant,” he said with vicious logic. “Of course he would.”

“No, ’e wouldn’t! Not if ’e thought it were Chinnery. ’E’d a’ gorn after Chinnery. Be honest! Wouldn’t you?”

“I’m not a Protestant!” His chin jerked up and his eyes blazed generations of loathing.

“Yer just the same!” she retorted with agonized conviction. “There in’t no difference, lyin’ and ’atin’ and killin’ each other—”

His reaction was instant.

“There’s all the difference in the world, you stupid girl!” he shouted thickly. “Don’t you listen to anything? You’re so … English! You can’t see Ireland at all.” He took a step forward, jabbing his finger at her. “You’re just typical, arrogant English, thinking all Ireland is the same, there for you to rob and plunder and then rum your back on and ignore when the people starve and die and the hate goes on from generation to generation and century to century! You make me sick! No wonder we hate you!”

Suddenly she saw the tragic stupidity of it, and the rage disappeared out of her, leaving her choked with grief.

“I in’t sayin’ we’re right,” she answered him with a quiet level voice, completely in control. “I’m sayin’ Alexander Chinnery din’t kill Neassa Doyle an’ you bin lyin’ ter yerselves all them years because the lie served you better than the truth, ’cos yer want ter blame somebody else, an’ best be it’s the English.” She shook her head. “Yer’d sooner live in a dream. An’ yer in’t never goin’ ter get peace wif each other long as yer’d sooner feed yer old ’atreds ’cos yer think yer some kind o’ romantic victims o’ somebody else.”

He made as if to fight back, but she drew in her breath and shouted over him. “I don’t know why yer want ter be somebody else’s victim! If it in’t yer own fault, yer can’t even fight it! Can yer? I don’t want all me troubles ter be someone else’s fault. Wot do that make me but an ’elpless little article pushed all over the place? I in’t ’elpless. I makes me own mistakes an’ I takes the truth an’ I puts ’em right or I lives wif ’em.” And she turned on her heel and ran out, gasping for breath, throat aching, hardly seeing where she was going for the tears, the cuttings still clutched in her hand.

She was running down the corridor towards the women’s stairs when she pitched full tilt into Tellman. He caught hold of her to prevent her from falling.

“What’s the matter?” he said immediately.

“Nuffink!” she shouted back, but her voice caught in a sob. Tellman was the last person she wanted to see just then. “In’t nuffink wrong! Let go o’ me!”

He kept hold of her, searching her face. “You’re upset. Something has happened. What is it? Did someone hurt you?” He sounded anxious.

She snatched at her wrists, trying to drag away from his hand, but he refused to let go. Surprisingly for the firmness of his grip, he was quite gentle.

“Gracie?”

“Nobody ’urt me,” she said desperately. She knew the tears were running down her cheeks. She could hardly see him through them. She was bursting with rage and grief and loneliness over Finn and the whole idiotic business. She did not want Tellman to know that she could ever be hurt, let alone see it in her. He was a useless creature, full of anger and resentment himself. “And it in’t nuffink ter do wif yer if they ’ad. It in’t p’lice business, if that’s wot yer thinkin’.”

“Course it isn’t police,” he said awkwardly. “Are you frightened, Gracie?”