Ashworth Hall

by Anne Perry

  “One of those?” Pitt suggested. “Perhaps that pink one. It looks about the right size.” He stood up and went over to it, leaving Tellman still holding the corpse. He looked at the jar closely without touching it. As far as he could see, there was no mark on it, no smudges of soap to indicate it had been picked up. He put his hand around it experimentally. It was quite easy to grasp. It was also heavy. It would have made an efficient weapon, if wielded with a swing and any weight behind it.

  He took it back to the end of the bath and held it carefully against the back of Greville’s head. It was the right width, and it was straight.

  “Murder?” Tellman said dourly, pursing his lips.

  “I think so. Let him down slowly, and I’ll see if there is any way the edge of the bath could fit the wound.”

  Tellman obliged awkwardly, his shoulders hunched to take the weight, his sleeves getting even wetter. “Well?” he repeated sharply.

  “No,” Pitt replied. “He didn’t fall onto the edge of the bath. It was either this jar or one very like it”

  “Anything on it?” Tellman asked. “Any blood? Any hair? He’s got a good head of hair, poor devil. Not that I liked him!”

  Pitt turned the jar over very slowly, pulling a wry face at Tellman’s remark.

  “No,” he said at last. “But this is a bathroom, it wouldn’t be very difficult to wipe it clean. And no one would find soap or water odd on ajar of bath salts. Plenty of people must reach for them with wet hands.”

  Tellman let the body go and it fell back, stiff and clumsy, sliding under the water again, feet sticking out.

  “Someone came in an’ hit him from behind?” Tellman thought aloud.

  “He’s facing the door,” Pitt pointed out. “So whoever it was, he was not afraid. He didn’t cry out, and he allowed the person to pick up the jar of salts and walk behind him.”

  Tellman gave a sharp little bark of derision.

  “Can’t imagine it! What kind of man lets someone walk in on him in the bath? Isn’t decent, apart from dangerous.”

  “Gentlemen aren’t as prudish as you are,” Pitt said with bitter amusement. He saw the look of incredulity in Tellman’s face, and the beginning of total confusion. “Who do you think brings the hot water to add to the bath when it gets cold?” he went on.

  “I don’t know! A valet? A footman? You’re saying one of the servants killed him?”

  “I think as often as not it’s the maids who carry the water or the hot towels,” Pitt replied. Then, seeing Tellman’s expression, he went on, “Not for me. I am as big a prude as you are. I’d sooner sit in cold water. But Greville may have been used to being waited on by the maids.”

  “Some maidservant came in with a bucket of hot water and hit him over the head with ajar of salts?” Tellman said in patent disbelief.

  “People don’t look at the faces of servants, Tellman,” Pitt said seriously. “One servant looks pretty much like another, especially in livery, or in a plain black dress, white apron and white lace cap. In some houses the junior servants are even trained to turn their faces to the wall if one of the family passes by.”

  Tellman was filled with too much anger to speak. His eyes were dark. His lips compressed.

  “It could have been anyone, dressed in livery,” Pitt concluded.

  “You mean an assassin from outside?” Tellman’s chin jerked up.

  “I don’t know. We’ll need to ask a lot of questions. At the time Greville had his bath, this house should have been locked up. And the outside staff were watching the grounds.”

  “I’ll speak to all of them,” Tellman promised. “You going to tell them who we are?”

  “Yes.” He had no choice.

  “And it’s murder?” Tellman went on.

  “Yes.”

  Tellman squared his shoulders.

  “We’ll have to take the body out of here,” Pitt went on. “There’ll be an icehouse. Have one of the valets help you carry him there.”

  When Pitt opened the door Jack was standing outside waiting. His handsome face, with its wide eyes and extraordinary lashes, looked unusually grave, and there were signs of strain around his mouth.

  “I’ll have to call the Home Office,” he said grimly, nodding to Tellman as he passed them and went down the stairs. “And ask them what they want to do. I suppose it’s the end of the conference and any chance of success.” His voice dropped. “It’s damnable! What a wretched mischance. It seems as if the devil is really in the Irish Problem. Just when there was a real hope.” He looked at Pitt intently. “Greville was brilliant, you know. He had Doyle and O’Day, at least, talking to each other about issues that matter. There was hope!”

  “I’m sorry, Jack, it’s worse than that.” Unconsciously, Pitt put his hand on Jack’s arm. “It was not an accident. He was murdered.”

  “What?” Jack stared at him as if he refused to comprehend what he had said.

  “It was murder,” Pitt repeated quietly. “Meant to look like an accident. I think most people would have taken it for such, and I presume whoever did it did not expect to have police on the scene so quickly, if at all.”

  “What … what happened?”

  “Someone came in and hit him on the back of the head, possibly with ajar of bath salts, then pushed him under the water. It looked very much as if he had slipped getting out and struck himself on the rim of the bath.”

  “Are you sure he didn’t?” Jack pressed. “Absolutely sure? How can you know it wasn’t that?”

  “Because in the wound the edge of the bone is straight, and the bath is curved.”

  “Is that proof?” Jack persisted. “Does the wound have to fit the instrument exactly?”

  “No, but it can’t be as wrong as this. A curved instrument is going to make a curved indentation when it strikes hard enough to break the bone.”

  “Who? One of us in this house?” He faced the worst immediately.

  “I don’t know. Tellman’s gone to get help to move the body to the icehouse, then he’s going to see if it was possible that anyone came in from outside, but it isn’t likely.”

  “I can’t see Greville letting anyone he didn’t know into the bathroom without raising an alarm,” Jack said grimly. “In fact, what reason would anyone give for interrupting a man in his bath?”

  “Well, if I wanted to get in without causing any alarm, I’d dress as a servant,” Pitt thought as he spoke. “Carry a pitcher of hot water or one or two towels.”

  “Of course. So it could be anyone.”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Get dressed, then call Cornwallis, then, I imagine, begin an investigation. Where is the telephone?”

  “In the library. I’d better go and see Emily.” His face was pinched with anxiety, and there was bitter laughter in his eyes. “God in heaven, I thought yesterday that this house party was as bad as it could be.”

  Pitt had no answer, but went back to his bedroom. Charlotte was not there. She must be comforting Kezia still, or perhaps helping Emily. He shaved hurriedly and put on his clothes, then went downstairs to the library and placed a call to London to Assistant Commissioner Cornwallis’s office.

  “Pitt?” Cornwallis’s clear, very individual voice sounded worried already.

  “Yes sir.” Pitt hesitated only a moment, dreading having to say it. It was such a mark of failure. “I am afraid the worst has happened ….”

  There was silence at the far end of the line. Then he heard Cornwallis breathing.

  “Greville?”

  “Yes sir. In the bath, last night. Didn’t find out until this morning.”

  “In the bath!”

  “Yes.”

  “Accident?” He said it as if he were willing it to be true. “His heart?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean someone caused it? Do you know who?”

  “No. At this point it could be almost a
nyone.”

  “I see.” He hesitated. “What have you done so far?”

  “Ascertained the medical facts, as far as his son can tell me—”

  “Whose son?”

  “Greville’s son. He arrived unexpectedly the day before yesterday to tell his parents he is betrothed. She came yesterday.”

  “How tragic,” Cornwallis said with feeling. “Poor young man. I assume he is a doctor?”

  “Almost qualified. Down from Cambridge. There was really very little to say.”

  “Time of death. Cause?”

  “Time fixed by the fact he was in the bath. Cause, being struck by a rounded, blunt instrument, probably a jar of bath salts, then held under the water until he drowned.”

  “You found him under the water?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  Again there was silence.

  “Sir?”

  “Yes,” Cornwallis said with resolve. “Take charge of the investigation, Pitt. You have Tellman. If you can, do it without letting the news out for the time being. The Parnell-O’Shea divorce is coming to a climax. If they find against Parnell, it could ruin his career. The Irish Nationalists will be without a leader—until they find a new one. It could very well be one of the men now at Ashworth Hall. What have you told people?”

  “Nothing yet, but I shall have to.”

  “Where’s Radley?”

  “With Emily.”

  “Have him telephone me. You can’t proceed with the conference for the moment, out of decency, if nothing else. But neither must we abandon it if there is any way whatever of continuing.”

  “Without Greville?” Pitt was startled.

  “I’ll speak to the Home Office. Don’t let anyone leave.”

  “Of course not.”

  “You won’t need force to keep them there; to leave would be diplomatic suicide. But if you need assistance from the village police, you have the authority to require it. Have Radley call me in half an hour.”

  “Yes sir.” He hung up the receiver feeling hollow and extraordinarily alone. His sole purpose there had been to keep Greville safe. He could hardly have failed more absolutely. And he had no idea who had killed him. He would have been better to have stayed in London and looked for Denbigh’s murderer.

  He left the library and went back upstairs. Charlotte was nowhere in sight. Perhaps she was still helping Emily keep some sort of order among the guests, who were all aware of Greville’s death but not that it was anything other than a tragic accident … except perhaps one of them.

  He saw the young Irish valet of Lorcan McGinley closing a bedroom door, a coat over his arm and a pair of boots in his hand. He looked very pale.

  “Do you know where Mr. Greville’s man is?” Pitt asked him.

  “Yes sir, I passed him not two minutes ago, making a cup o’ tea, sir. Two doors back that way.” He pointed.

  Pitt thanked him and followed his directions to the small room where there was a kettle and gas ring for making tea. The man attending to it was in his middle forties, grave and ordinarily very much in command of events. His dark hair was smoothed off his brow and his cravat was perfectly tied, but he looked distinctly ill. He started when he heard Pitt’s voice and nearly spilled the jug of hot water he was holding.

  “I’m sorry,” Pitt apologized. “What is your name?”

  “Wheeler, sir. Can I get you something?”

  “I’m a superintendent of police, Wheeler. The assistant commissioner has asked me to investigate Mr. Greville’s death.”

  Wheeler set the jug down before he could spill it. His hands were shaking. He licked his lips.

  “Yes … sir?”

  “What time did you draw Mr. Greville’s bath yesterday evening?” Pitt asked.

  “Ten twenty-five, sir.”

  “And did Mr. Greville go to it immediately, do you know?”

  “Yes sir, within a few moments. He has a great dislike … had a great dislike for a cold bath, and water cools off very fast in a big bathroom.”

  “You saw him?”

  Wheeler frowned. “Yes sir. Is there some problem, sir? I understood he slipped as he was getting out.” He clenched and unclenched his hands. “I should have been there. I blame myself. He didn’t ask for assistance, but if I’d been there, he’d never have slipped.”

  Pitt hesitated only a moment. There was nothing to be gained by pretending.

  “He didn’t slip. He was struck by someone.”

  Wheeler stared at him as if he did not understand.

  “How long did Mr. Greville usually spend in a bath before either getting out or sending for more hot water?” Pitt asked him.

  “What? You mean … deliberate? Why?” Wheeler’s voice rose. “Who’d do such a fearful thing? One o’ them dammed Irish!” He struggled for breath as the full realization came to him of what Pitt was saying. “They murdered him! What are you going to do about it? You’re going to arrest them!”

  “Not until I know what happened,” Pitt said gently.

  “The murdering devils! They tried once before, you know, once that I know of for sure!” Wheeler’s voice was losing control, getting louder.

  Pitt put his hand on the man’s arm, holding him hard.

  “I’m going to find out who did it, then I shall arrest him,” he promised. “But I need your help. You must keep calm and think very clearly. What you saw and heard may be vital.”

  “They should be hanged,” Wheeler said between his teeth.

  “I daresay they will be,” Pitt replied with no pleasure. “When we catch them and prove it. How long did Mr. Greville usually spend in a bath before getting out or sending for more water? Did he send for more?”

  Wheeler controlled himself with an effort.

  “No, sir. It wasn’t his habit, especially if he took a bath in the evening. Not more than fifteen minutes. He wasn’t a man who liked to lie and soak, except when he’d been riding, which he didn’t do often. Soak the ache out of his bones if he’d had a hard day’s ride.”

  “So there would be roughly a fifteen-minute space of time during which one might find him alone in the bath,” Pitt deduced. “In this instance between approximately twenty-five past ten and twenty to eleven?”

  “Yes sir, that’s right.”

  “You are sure? How do you know the time so exactly?”

  “It’s my job, sir. You can’t look after a gentleman properly if you aren’t organized.”

  “But you didn’t notice that he hadn’t come out of the bathroom?”

  Wheeler looked profoundly unhappy.

  “No sir. It was late and I was tired. I knew Mr. Greville wouldn’t want more water, because he never did, so I went downstairs to clean the boots he’d taken off and brush his coat ready for the morning. Everything else was already laid out for the day.” He stared at Pitt. “When I came back upstairs I was rather later than I expected. I couldn’t find the tray. Someone must have moved it. Happens in a big house full of guests. It was long after the time Mr. Greville would have spent in the bath. I knocked on the bathroom door and there was no answer, and when he wasn’t in his room, I assumed …” He colored faintly. “I assumed he had gone to Mrs. Greville’s room, sir.”

  “Not unnatural,” Pitt said with the shadow of a smile. “No one would expect you to pursue it. What time would that have been?”

  “About ten minutes to eleven, sir.”

  “Who else did you see on the landing or corridor?”

  Wheeler thought very hard. Pitt could see his desire to be able to blame someone, but racking his memory did not help him, and he could not bring himself to lie.

  “I saw that little maid of Mrs. Pitt’s going along towards the stairs up to the servants’ bedrooms,” he said at last. “And I saw that young valet of Mr. McGinley’s, Hennessey. He was Standing in the doorway of one of the bedrooms along that way.”

  He pointed. “I think it was Mr. Moynihan’s room.”

  “No one else?”


  “Yes, Mr. Doyle said good-night and went to his room. That’s all.”

  “Thank you.” Pitt went to look for Jack. He must deliver Cornwallis’s message. Jack would have been busy trying to salvage the goodwill of the conference, and Emily would be coping with the domestic catastrophe of death—the house and the bereavement of one of her guests.

  He saw Gracie in the hall, looking pale and wide-eyed. There was fear in the stiff, rather proud angle of her head. Just beyond her he saw the slender figure of McGinley’s valet. Pitt smiled at Gracie, and she forced herself to smile back, as if everything were all right and she knew he could solve it all in the end.

  He passed the open dining room door and glanced in. Charlotte was there, standing still as Iona paced back and forth speaking quietly in great urgency.

  Charlotte looked at Pitt and very slightly shook her head, then turned back to Iona, taking a step towards her.

  Pitt found Jack in his study with a pile of papers. He had barely closed the door when it opened again and Emily came in. She looked flustered, her color was high and her usually beautiful hair was hastily dressed, as if she could not sit still for the maid. From her expression it was obvious Jack had told her that Greville’s death was murder. She was torn between sympathy and fury.

  Jack waited for Pitt to speak. “Cornwallis asked me to conduct the investigation,” Pitt began, looking at Jack. “Will you telephone him in about fifteen minutes? He will have spoken to the Home Office by then. We have to keep everybody here ….”

  Emily let out a little groan and went over to stand beside Jack.

  “I’m sorry,” Pitt apologized. “I know it will be appalling, but I can’t let them go. Unless there was a break-in, and Tellman is looking at that now, then someone already here was responsible.”

  “Even if there was a break-in, it could still involve someone here,” Jack said grimly. He put his hand up to Emily’s arm and gripped her. “We have no alternative, my dear, except to do everything we can to discover the truth as quickly as possible. At least Mrs. Greville has her brother and son here to care for her. It could have been worse. And Charlotte will help you with the others.” He turned to Pitt. “I suppose there is no further danger, is there?”