Ashworth Hall

by Anne Perry

  Emily stiffened till she was almost rigid.

  Pitt hesitated. There was nothing they could guard against. Frightening them would serve no purpose.

  “Certainly not for the moment. And we’ll do all we can to solve it as quickly as possible.”

  Emily looked at him with disbelief. “Where can you even start?”

  “Well, we know he was killed between twenty-five past ten and twenty to eleven, because of his valet’s evidence—”

  “And you believe it?” Jack cut in.

  “The man’s been with him nineteen years. But I will have Tellman check. It will be easy enough to know what time the water was taken up for the bath. And he couldn’t stay in it longer than a quarter of an hour before sending for more hot.”

  “Why kill him in the bath?” Jack said, pulling a rueful face. “It seems to add indignity to death, poor devil.”

  “Best place to be sure of finding him alone.” Emily had gathered her wits from her distress and begun to think. “And pretty defenseless. Anywhere else and he could have a valet with him, or someone catching a moment to put some point to him, or be with Eudora. It is the one place a person is alone, and with the door unlocked so more water could be brought. It makes sense, when you consider it. It wasn’t a break-in, was it, Thomas?” She said it with certainty. “It was someone here who chose their time very well.”

  “Do you know where you were?” Pitt asked

  “In my own bath,” Jack said with a shiver.

  “So you don’t know where anyone else was?”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “Emily?”

  “In my bedroom, with the door closed. After that awful day …” She smiled tightly, possibly thinking of the day before, then the present. “I was tired. I’m sorry, I can’t help either.”

  Jack looked up at Pitt.

  “Don’t forget to call Cornwallis.” Pitt smiled briefly, then went out again and almost bumped into Tellman. “No break-in,” he said, looking at Tellman’s expression.

  “No break-in,” Tellman agreed.

  Pitt told him what he had learned from the valet about the time of death.

  “Narrows it a bit.” Tellman began to look a little more cheerful. At least he was now engaged in his proper employment, not pretending to be some servant. Pitt could see it in his eyes.

  “We’ll leave Mrs. Greville until last, give her a little time to compose herself,” Pitt directed. Questioning the bereaved was one of the worst parts of an investigation. At least this time he did not have to break the news to her. And it was also a political matter, not a personal one, so she should fear no disclosure of ugly relationships and secrets she had not known. There would be no public revelations of dishonor. “See what you can learn from the servants.”

  Tellman’s jaw set hard. “I’ll need to tell them who I am!” His look defied Pitt to order him otherwise.

  Pitt nodded and Tellman took his leave, moderately satisfied.

  Pitt went to find the first of the guests to question.

  As he passed the dining room he saw Charlotte was no longer there, nor was Iona.

  He went slowly upstairs and knocked on the McGinleys’ door. On hearing Lorcan’s voice, he opened the door and went in. Iona had returned and was standing by the window, apparently much more composed than when he had seen her in the dining room. Lorcan was sitting over a breakfast tray on the small center table. He had eaten quite well, judging by the empty plate.

  “What can we do for you, Mr. Pitt?” Lorcan asked, a little more coolly. His thin face, with its very blue eyes, was full of nervous energy. There were hollows at the bridge of his nose and small lines beside his mouth. Pitt had not thought before of the weight of responsibility which must rest on each of the representatives of the sectarian interests, and the burden of criticism they would bear whatever they achieved, or failed to achieve. And now with Greville’s death it was all wasted. It could only be failure and disappointed hopes.

  “I am afraid it is very unpleasant news,” he said, looking from one to the other of them. “I am with the—”

  “I know Greville is dead.” Lorcan stood up, almost unfolding himself. He was painfully thin. “That is the end of the conference. We’re finished. Another disaster. We should be used to them, but each one still hurts.”

  “That is not my decision, Mr. McGinley,” Pitt replied. “Another chairman might be found ….”

  “Rubbish! Please don’t patronize me, Mr. Pitt! You cannot just substitute someone else at this point, even if you could find anyone with the courage and the skill of Ainsley Greville.”

  “The courage might be hard,” Pitt agreed. “Especially when they know, as they will have to, that Mr. Greville was murdered.”

  Iona froze, her eyes wide and suddenly truly afraid.

  Lorcan looked up at Pitt slowly, as if trying to think of the right thing to say.

  “Who told you that?” he asked. “And who the hell are you to come in here saying such a thing?”

  “I’m with the police. And nobody told me, I saw it for myself.”

  Lorcan’s eyes did not move from Pitt’s. “Are you … indeed?”

  “What are you going to do?” Iona asked him. “Did someone break in after all? I thought there were men around to make sure we were safe. It’s the Protestants. They don’t want us to achieve Home Rule. It’s the same old thing! When they can’t win by reason or the law, they murder us. God knows, the soil of Ireland is steeped in the blood of martyrs—”

  “Be quiet,” Lorcan said immediately. “If Mr. Pitt’s a policeman it’s surely a shame he didn’t manage to protect Greville, but since he didn’t, it is not for us to go flinging blame around. Keep a still tongue. At least you can do that much … unless, of course, you know something you should be telling him?” His lip curled. “Your friend Moynihan, for example?” His tone was cruel, sarcastic, but Pitt could hardly blame him for that.

  Iona blushed furiously but did not retaliate.

  “What time did you retire last night?” Pitt asked.

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Lorcan replied.

  “No one broke in, Mr. McGinley. Mr. Greville was killed by someone in this house. What time did you retire?”

  “About quarter past ten, or close enough.” He looked back at Pitt with a cold, defiant stare. “I didn’t come out of my room again.” He swiveled to look at his wife, waiting for her to answer as well.

  “Were you alone?” Pitt pressed, not hoping for any very helpful answer. A man’s wife could not be made to testify against him, and unsubstantiated testimony from her was of no value.

  “No,” Lorcan said abruptly. “Hennessey, my manservant, was here some of the time.”

  “Do you know when?”

  “About quarter past ten until ten minutes to eleven,” Lorcan replied.

  “You are very exact?”

  “There is a longcase clock on the landing,” Lorcan replied. “I can hear it from in here.”

  “That’s a long time for your valet to be here,” Pitt observed. “What was he doing for over half an hour?”

  Lorcan looked slightly surprised, but he answered readily enough. “We were talking about a shooting jacket I have. I’m fond of it. He thinks I should have it replaced. We also discussed the relative merits of London and Dublin shirtmakers.”

  “I see. Thank you.”

  “Does that help?”

  “Yes, thank you. Mrs. McGinley?”

  “I told you.” She regarded him coldly. “I remained in my room. My maid was with me for a while. She helped me to prepare for the night, and of course put away my gown.”

  “Do you know what time she left you?”

  “No, I don’t. But if I had seen anything, I should tell you. I didn’t.”

  Pitt left the subject. There was no reason now to doubt her. But he would check up on Hennessey. He thanked them and went to see Fergal Moynihan.

  He found him alone in the billiard room. He looked extremely unhappy a
nd in a considerable temper.

  “Police?” he said angrily when Pitt explained who he was. “I think you might have been a little more candid with us, Superintendent. The deception wasn’t necessary.”

  Pitt did not bother to hide a slight smile.

  Fergal flushed, but Pitt had the feeling it was more annoyance than embarrassment. He might have been disconcerted at being caught publicly with Iona McGinley, but he was not ashamed of his feelings for her. If anything, he was defensive of them, almost proud. That was part of being wildly in love.

  He could account for part of his time between twenty-five past ten and quarter to eleven, but not all of it. He had had opportunity to leave his room unobserved and go as far as Greville’s bathroom.

  “But I did not,” he said firmly.

  Pitt next found O’Day

  He was standing in front of the fire, his hands in his pockets. He did not add any comment as to Pitt’s lack of success, but it was there in the carefully blank expression in his face. “I don’t know how I can assist you. You say it is not an accident? Therefore you are implying that it was murder?”

  “Yes, I am afraid so.”

  “I see. Well, I have no knowledge as to who killed him, Superintendent. Why is not difficult. The conference seemed to have every chance of genuine success. There are many among the more radical and violent of the Nationalist factions who did not want that.”

  “You mean those Mr. Doyle represents, or those Mr. McGinley does?” Pitt asked. “Or do you believe other factions have infiltrated their staff, perhaps? One of them is unknowingly employing a Fenian disguised as a valet?”

  “There is no reason why a valet should not also be a Fenian, Superintendent.”

  “No, naturally. Why would they wish the conference to fail?”

  O’Day smiled. “You are politically naive, Superintendent. Of necessity, any agreement would be a compromise. There are those who would regard even a single concession to the enemy as a betrayal.”

  “Then why have they come here?” Pitt asked. “Surely their own supporters would consider them traitors?”

  “Quite true,” O’Day conceded with a flicker of appreciation. “But not everyone is precisely what they seem, or what they affect to be. I don’t know who killed Greville, but if I can help you to find out, I shall do everything I can. Although with the conference effectively over, I am not sure how that may be accomplished.” His face was smooth, a little grayer than Pitt had thought in the lamplight, and he looked tired and disappointed, as if all his effort were over, and it had left him drained.

  “It is not necessarily over,” Pitt replied. “We have yet to hear from Whitehall.”

  O’Day’s smile was bitter. There was a lifetime’s emotion behind it, passionate, complex, unreadable.

  “Yes it is, Mr. Pitt. Tell me, when and how was Greville killed? I thought originally he slipped when preparing to get out of the bath. Now you tell me this is not so.”

  “He was struck while still in it,” Pitt amended. “And then probably pushed under the water. His valet says he drew the bath at twenty minutes past ten, and Mr. Greville would not have been more than five minutes going to it, at the most. Nor would he have remained in it longer than ten or fifteen minutes without calling for additional hot water, which he was not in the habit of doing. When Wheeler returned upstairs from an errand at quarter to eleven, he knocked on the bathroom door. On receiving no answer, he assumed Mr. Greville had gone to bed. We now know he was dead.”

  “I see. Then he was killed between quarter past ten and quarter to eleven.”

  “Probably nearer half past ten. There was a certain amount of soap in the water. He had time to wash.”

  “I see.” O’Day bit his lip on the ghost of a smile, self-mocking. “Unfortunately, I can account at least for McGinley’s valet, and for McGinley himself, which is irritating. I came along the corridor and saw the valet standing in the doorway talking to McGinley. He was there for at least twenty minutes. I know, because I left my own door open and I heard him. They were discussing shirtmakers. I confess, I listened with a certain interest. I admire McGinley’s linen, but I should dislike him to know it.”

  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 hi
m 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.