by Anne Perry
“Very dark,” O’Day said appreciatively, passing the orange marmalade to Charlotte. “A truly heroic voice is required, and immense stamina.”
“And a fine actor too, I should have thought,” Justine added.
“Oh, indeed.” O’Day nodded, helping himself to more tea. “And for lago also.”
Kezia glanced across at Charlotte, as if about to speak, then hesitated. Her thoughts on adultery, betrayal, jealousy and villains in general were plain in her eyes.
“An equally great baritone role,” Justine said with a smile, looking to left and right. “I assume Othello is the tenor?”
“Naturally.” Padraig laughed. “The heroes are always tenor!”
“In Rigoletto the tenor is appalling!” Emily rejoined, then blushed with anger at herself.
“Quite,” Kezia agreed. “A hypocritical womanizer with no morals, no honor, and no compassion.”
“But sings like an angel,” Padraig interrupted almost before she had finished speaking.
“If angels sing,” Fergal said dryly, “perhaps they dance, or paint pictures.”
“Is there paint and canvas in heaven?” Lorcan asked. “I thought it was all insubstantial … no body, parts or passions?” He looked sideways at Fergal, and then at Iona. “Sounds like hell to me … at least for some.”
“They take messages,” Charlotte stated decisively. “Which would be very difficult to make clear if you had to dance them!”
Justine burst out laughing, and almost everyone else did also, at the release in tension if nothing else. Absurd pictures of mime filled the imagination, and one or two offered suggestions in good humor. When they sobered a little, O’Day asked Jack about the local countryside.
Charlotte wondered as she watched them all if O’Day would be the next leader of the Nationalist cause if Parnell were forced to resign.
He seemed far more open to reason and to compassion. And yet he had a heritage, just as they all had, and a powerful man’s shoes to step into. His elder brother was crippled by tuberculosis, or it would have been his duty; now Carson had to achieve it for both of them. It was a heavy burden.
She looked sideways at his face, with its straight angles, smooth, rather heavy cheeks and level brows. It was in every way different from the face of Padraig Doyle; there was imagination in it, but not the wit or sudden laughter. Instead there was a directness, a concentration and a clarity. He would be a very difficult man to get to know, but she felt that once you had it, his loyalty would be complete. She would have understood it had Iona ever pursued him for the challenge. Except that challenges were no fun unless you believed there were some chance of success, however remote. Charlotte did not think anyone manipulated Carson O’Day, except for his own inner compulsions to succeed.
Pitt also found breakfast difficult, but not for the same reasons as Charlotte. He felt no duty to try to ease the social difficulties, although he was sorry for Emily’s predicament. He would not willingly have distressed her. His mind was absorbed in the problems of who had killed Ainsley Greville, and his fear that in spite of her protestations, Eudora did know something that she resolutely refused to say, perhaps even to herself.
He could not blame her. She had been hurt so very much; if she chose to be loyal to her brother, even in thought, it was easy to understand.
Pitt looked around the table also, weighing and judging. Doyle was talking eloquently, his face full of concentration, his hands held a little up from the white linen cloth with the Ashworth crest embroidered in self-color on the edges. He used his hands to emphasize what he was saying.
Fergal Moynihan was listening as if he were interested, but every few moments his eyes would go to Iona. He was not very good at covering his feelings.
If Lorcan McGinley noticed, he was far cleverer. His thin face with its intense expression and almost-cobalt-blue eyes stared into the far distance, then when Padraig made some especially telling point he would smile suddenly, illuminating his face, making himself dazzlingly alive. When the moment was past, he would relapse into his private world again, but it did not seem one of pain so much as dream, and not one which hurt or displeased him.
Pitt caught Charlotte’s eye several times. She looked lovely in the sharp, autumn light, her skin the warm color of honey, her cheeks very slightly flushed, her eyes dark with anxiety. She seemed to be worried for everyone. Many times she looked at Kezia, nervous of what she might say in her still-smoldering temper. She was busy supporting Emily, guiding the conversation, attempting to be cheerful and avoid the pitfalls of controversy.
He was delighted when he could acceptably excuse himself and go to look for Tellman, who would be curt and still ruffled by his situation, by the house and its wealth, by the fact that four-fifths of the people in it were servants, but Pitt would not have to defer to his feelings. He could be blunt.
He was followed from the room almost immediately by Jack, and he stopped until Jack drew level with him at the foot of the stairs.
Jack pulled a slight face and smiled at him ruefully. He looked tired. Standing close to him now as Pitt was, he could see the fine lines about Jack’s eyes and mouth. He was not the same elegantly fashionable young man with whom Emily had fallen in love, and whose easy charm had rather frightened her, fearing him too shallow. His eyes were just as beautiful, his lashes as long and dark, but there was a substance to him that had been lacking before. Earlier in his life he had had no money, only a silken tongue, a quick wit, and the ability to flatter with sincerity and to entertain without ever appearing to have to try. He had moved from one home to another, always a welcome guest. He had made it his business to be liked, and taken no responsibility.
Now he had Ashworth Hall to worry about, a seat in Parliament, and far deeper than that, a standard he had set himself to live up to. He was discovering the exact nature of its weight this weekend, and Pitt had not heard him complain once. He had accepted the burden of it with unobtrusive grace. If it frightened him he gave no sign, except now, as Pitt met his eyes, there was a shadow in their depths, something he was hiding even from himself.
“My collar’s too high,” Jack said with self-mockery. He ran his finger around inside it, pulling it away from his throat. “Feels as if it’s strangling me.”
“Is it as bad in conference as it is around the meal table?” Pitt asked.
Jack hesitated and then shrugged. “Yes. You need the patience of Job even to bring them to the point where they will discuss anything that actually matters. I don’t know what Greville thought could be accomplished by this. Every time I think I have them to the brink of some kind of agreement, one of them will change direction and it all falls apart again.” He put his hand on the newel post and leaned a little against it. “I never realized the power of old hatreds until now, how deep they run. They are in the blood and the bone of these people. It is part of who they are, as if they have to cling to the old feuds or they would lose part of their identity. What do I do about that, Thomas?”
“If I knew, I would have told you already,” Pitt answered quietly. He put his hand on Jack’s arm. “I don’t think Greville could have done any better. Gladstone didn’t!” He wanted to say something better, something that would let Jack know the warmth of respect he felt for him, but none of the words that came to his mind seemed appropriate. They were too light, too flippant for the reality of the hatred and the loss that filled the conference room, and which Jack had to fight alone every morning and every afternoon.
He took his hand away and pushed it into his pocket.
“I don’t know where I am either,” he confessed.
Jack laughed abruptly. “Trying to keep our heads above a sea of insanity,” he replied. “And probably swimming in the wrong direction. I must get a better collar. By the way, yours is crooked, but don’t bother to straighten it. It’s a touch of familiarity in a world that is frighteningly unfamiliar. Don’t do up your cuff either, or take the string out of your pocket.” He smiled quickly, as light
ly and easily as used to be characteristic, then before Pitt could say anything further, went up the stairs two at a time.
Pitt moved away, but as he was crossing the hall and about to turn towards the green baize door to the servants’ quarters, he heard quick footsteps on the wood behind him and his name called.
He turned to see Justine coming towards him, her face filled with concern. Instantly he was afraid it was for Eudora. She had not been at breakfast, but of course no one had expected her.
Justine caught up with him.
“Mr. Pitt, may I speak with you for a few moments, please?”
“Of course,” he agreed. “What is it?”
She indicated the morning room, which was opposite where they stood and next to Jack’s study.
“May we go in there? No one else will wish to use it so early, I think.”
He obeyed, walking ahead of her and holding the door while she went in. She moved with a unique kind of grace, head high, back very straight, and yet with more suppleness than most women, as if dancing for sheer, wild pleasure would come easily to her.
“What is it?” he asked when the door was closed.
She stood in front of him, very earnest. For the first time he noticed signs of strain in her, a momentary hesitation, a small muscle working in the side of her jaw. This must be appalling for her. She had arrived at the house of strangers, at the invitation of the man she intended to marry, in order to meet his parents. They had stumbled into a political conference of the most delicate and volatile nature. And the very next morning they had awoken to the murder of Greville, and then the long, draining task of trying to comfort and sustain Eudora when Justine should have been the center of attention and happiness herself.
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
THE 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.