by Anne Perry
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 look
ed 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.
Pitt watched Charlotte with a sudden admiration which was oddly painful. She was so competent, so strong. She did not seem to need support from anyone else. If she was frightened, she hid it. Her back was straight, her head high; her concern was all for Hennessey and Gracie.
He turned back to the business in hand. Tellman was at his elbow. He had been unaware of him until now.
Everyone else followed Jack to the morning room—except Eudora and Tellman, standing close to the study door. Eudora was staring at Pitt, her face white, smudged across the cheek with dust.
“Mr. Pitt, I’m so sorry,” she said gently. “What Mr. O’Day said was unforgivable. No one can defend us from each other. This is terrible, but it does look as if we have great goodness among us, as well as evil. Lorcan gave his life trying to defuse the bomb. Perhaps we have still the will to succeed, if you can find who … who it was who laid it there.” She stared at him fixedly. “Can … can you? I mean, is there anything? Can anyone tell from what is left?”
“Not from the study,” he replied. “Anyone in the house could have done that, but we shall question the servants and everyone else, and see who came this way, where everybody was. We may learn something.”
“But … but we could all have come across the hall,” she protested. “That doesn’t prove … I mean—” She stopped, her throat tight, her voice thin and high. “I mean …” She shook her head quickly and walked after the others, her dark skirts pale with dust.
Tellman sighed and stared into the study, hesitated a moment, then started to pick his way through the debris towards the desk and the body of Lorcan McGinley. He squatted down and peered at it thoughtfully, then at what was left of the desk.
“I think the dynamite was in the top drawer on the left, or the second,” Pitt said, following after him.
“That’s what it looks like,” Tellman agreed, chewing his lip. “Judging from the way all the splinters and debris are lying. It would all fall outward from the blast, I suppose. What a mess. Whoever put it here wanted to be sure an’ kill Mr. Radley, no mistake. I wouldn’t be a politician trying to sort this lot out.” He moved his attention from the desk to Lorcan’s body. “He must’ve been right in front of it, poor devil.”
Pitt stood with his hands in his pockets, brow furrowed. “It would have been on a wire of some sort, rather than a clock,” he said thoughtfully. “No one could be sure when Jack would come in here. It might simply have blown up with no one, or if it were on top of the desk, under papers and books, it might have been moved by a servant tidying up.”
“D’you think that lot would care?” Tellman said bitterly. “What’s one English servant more or less?”
“Possibly nothing,” Pitt agreed. “But it would achieve no purpose. It would be a risk and an outrage that would serve no end. No, it would have been designed specifically for Jack, put in one of the drawers no one else would open.”
He reached over and searched among the debris for the remains of the drawers. He found one and examined it without success, then a second. He turned it over very carefully, feeling it with his fingertips. There was one side, and a shard of the bottom left more or less attached. He examined the underneath. Across the bottom was a straight line of flat-topped furniture tacks. There was a broken piece of wire under one of them.
“I think we have found where the mechanism was,” Pitt said quietly. “Pinned under the drawer to detonate when the drawer was opened. It must have taken a few minutes to do this. Empty the drawer out, tack this across the bottom, and then replace it all.”
Tellman’s eyes widened and he stood up, his knees cracking as he straightened them. “It’s a great pity McGinley’s dead,” he said slowly. “He could answer some important questions.”
“He was a very brave man.” Pitt shook his head. “I would dearly like to know what he deduced, and we didn’t.”
“Damn fool should’ve told us,” Tellman said angrily. “That’s our job!” Then he colored very faintly. “Not that we’ve exactly done it well this time. I don’t know anything about dynamite. Do you?”
“No,” Pitt confessed. “I’ve never dealt with a murder by dynamite before. But somebody put it here and set it up to explode when the drawer was opened. We ought to be able to find out who that was. McGinley did.”
“Same person as killed Greville,” Tellman replied. “An’ we know that wasn’t McGinley, O’Day, or the valet Hennessey, but it could be just about anyone else.”
“Then we had better find out when the bomb was placed here. Obviously it was after the last time Jack used the drawer. Speak to the servants, housemaids, butler, footmen, anyone who came in here or was around the hall. See where everyone was all morning, who can substantiate it, who they saw and when, especially Finn Hennessey. I’ll go and speak to Mr. Radley
, and then to the other guests. But before you do that, you had better have someone help you put poor McGinley in the icehouse.” He turned around. “You can carry him on the door. It’s only hanging by one hinge. Then we’d better see if anyone can at least tack a curtain over the doorway, something to keep the sight from distressing anyone still further. And board up the window too, in case of rain.”
“Mess, isn’t it …” Tellman said, puckering his brow. He disapproved of wealth, but he hated to see beauty spoiled.
Gracie had heard the blast, as had almost everyone else in the house. At first she thought of some domestic accident, but only for a moment. Then her better sense told her something was very seriously wrong. She put the jug of water in her hand on the marble-topped table bench in the stillroom, where she was helping Gwen prepare a remedy for freckles, there being no mending to do.
“What’s that?” Gwen said nervously. “That wasn’t trays or pans dropped.”
“I dunno, but I’m goin’ ter see,” Gracie replied without hesitation. She almost ran out of the stillroom door past the coal room and the room where the footmen cleaned the knives and along the passageway towards the baize door.
Tellman came out of the boot room, his face pale, his eyes wide and bright. He ran after her and caught her just short of the baize door, taking her by the arm.
“Stop, Gracie! You don’t know what it is.”
She was swung around by the strength of his hold.
“I know it didn’t oughter be,” she said breathlessly. “It’s summink bad. Is it a gun?”
“Guns don’t make that noise,” he argued, still gripping her arm. “That’s more like dynamite. You wait here. I’ll go through and see what’s happened.”
“I in’t waitin’ ’ere! Mr. Pitt could be ’urt!”
“There’s nothing you can do if he is,” he said briskly. “Just wait here. I’ll tell you—”
She wrenched herself away and flung the baize door open. Immediately she saw the dust and the shattered door of the study. Her heart lurched so violently she thought she would suffocate. Then she saw Pitt standing up and the relief was almost too much. Dizziness overwhelmed her. She was going to faint like some silly little housemaid if she wasn’t careful. She had to hold on to the side table for a moment.