by Anne Perry
“McGinley’s valet took the papers to be ironed before you were seen in the hall by my wife’s maid,” Pitt explained. He glanced at Eudora and back again. “You have made a mistake in your account …. You had better think again, Mr. Doyle. Did you go into Mr. Radley’s study?”
Padraig stared at him.
Pitt thought for a moment he was going to refuse to answer. The blood rose hot in his face.
“Yes, I did … and I swear before God there was nothing in the drawer when I was there. Whoever put the dynamite in there did it after I left. I was only there a minute or so. I took a piece of paper from the drawer. I’d used all mine. I was making notes for the conference.”
Eudora moved over to stand beside him, slipping her arm through his, but she was shaking, and whether Padraig knew it or not, Pitt knew she did not believe him. She would be on the brink of tears if she had had the emotional energy left, but she was exhausted. He longed to be able to help her, but he could not except by pursuing the proof against Padraig and finding a flaw in it.
“Did you pass the conservatory?” Pitt asked.
A bitter smile flashed across Padraig’s face. “Yes. Why?”
“You saw Fergal Moynihan and Iona McGinley?”
“Yes. But I doubt they saw me. They were extremely occupied with each other.”
“Doing what?”
“For God’s sake, man!” Padraig exploded, his arm tightening around his sister’s shoulders.
“What were they doing?” Pitt repeated. “Exactly! If it’s not fit for Mrs. Greville’s ears, then I’m sure she will excuse us.”
“I am not leaving you,” Eudora stated, staring at Pitt and at the same time tightening her grasp on Padraig’s arm.
“When I passed to go to the study they were having a rather heated argument,” Padraig said, watching Pitt closely, his eyes narrowed.
“Describe it,” Pitt commanded. “What did you see?”
At last Padraig understood. “Moynihan was standing in front of the camellia bush and leaning forward a little with both his hands spread wide. I could not hear what he was saying, but he appeared to be exasperated. He was speaking with very exaggerated care, as one does when one is about to lose patience. He waved his arms around and hit an orchid. He knocked off a stem of flowers and was very annoyed. He picked it up and threw it behind one of the potted palms. She was standing in front of him. That is all I saw.”
“And on the way back, with the paper?”
“They had obviously made up the disagreement. They were in each other’s arms and kissing very … intimately. Her clothes were in considerable disarray, especially her bodice.” He winced with distaste and glanced at Eudora and away again, perhaps sensitive to the fact that she might find passionate adultery a painful subject. “I have no intention of describing it further.”
“Thank you,” Pitt acknowledged it. Then he saw Eudora’s smile and hoped profoundly that Fergal Moynihan would bear out what Padraig had said.
He found Moynihan in the morning room with Carson O’Day. He was profoundly embarrassed but faced Pitt rather belligerently.
“Yes, I did break the orchid, quite accidentally. We had a … a slight disagreement. It lasted only a moment. It was nothing at all, really.”
“You made it up again very quickly?” Pitt asked.
“Yes. Why? How do you know about it? What in heaven’s name does one broken orchid matter?”
“Quite a bit, Mr. Moynihan. You made it up very quickly? How long after you broke the orchid? Five minutes? Ten minutes?”
“No, not at all! More like two or three minutes—why?” He was growing angrier because he did not understand, and he plainly hated having the discussion in front of O’Day. His color was heightening with every moment, and he moved jerkily, as though eager to escape, even physically. It made Pitt more inclined to believe Padraig’s account. It was acutely embarrassing behavior in which to be observed—and to later have described to a man who was, after all, from the police.
“Would you please tell me how you made it up, Mr. Moynihan?” Pitt requested with some satisfaction. There was something supercilious in Moynihan he did not like.
Fergal glared at him. “Really, Mr. Pitt! I have no intention of satisfying your prurience. I will not.”
Pitt met his eyes squarely. “Then you leave me no alternative but to ask Mrs. McGinley, which will be considerably more indelicate. I would have thought in view of your professed affection for her you might have spared her that necessity.” He ignored the look of loathing in Moynihan’s face. “Particularly now that her husband has just been murdered, whether she cared for him or not.”
“You’re despicable!” Fergal said.
Pitt raised his eyebrows. “Because I require you to describe your actions in order to vindicate others from suspicion of murder, or not? Are you not as eager as the rest of us to discover the truth?”
Moynihan swore at him under his breath, briefly and viciously.
“If you please?” Pitt smiled back.
“We kissed,” Fergal ground between his teeth. “I … I think I opened the bodice of her … of her gown ….” His eyes were daggers.
“You think?” Pitt said curiously. “You don’t find it something you remember?”
“I did!” He turned to give O’Day, who was clearly amused, a look of loathing.
“Thank you,” Pitt acknowledged it. “It seems, from the other description I have already heard, that McGinley could not have been in the study long enough to have wired up the dynamite.”
“I hope you appreciate that it also means I didn’t?” Fergal said sarcastically.
“Of course I appreciate it.” Pitt still smiled. “That is of the utmost importance. You were naturally the first in my mind to suspect. You have a classic motive.”
Fergal blushed scarlet.
“And Mrs. McGinley too.” Pitt opened his eyes very wide. “A trifle ungallant for me to have to remind you it also removes her from suspicion.”
Fergal was incredulous. “You couldn’t have thought … that she …”
“She would not be the first woman to murder an unwanted husband in order to elope with someone else,” Pitt pointed out reasonably. “Or to conspire with a lover to that end.”
Fergal was too angry to reply, nor could he think of an argument, which was plain in his face.
“Then who did?” O’Day asked, wrinkling his brow. “You seem to have reasoned yourself into an impasse, Mr. Pitt.”
It was true, although it was not pleasant having O’Day point it out.
Fergal smiled for the first time.
“Then we shall just have to go over everyone’s movements again,” Pitt replied. “And verify them again. Obviously there is a mistake somewhere.” And with that he left and went to search for Tellman.
Charlotte left the scene of the explosion and found herself physically shaking and a little dizzy. Her eyes stung from the dust in the air and she was gulping, which made the dust catch in her throat as well, and she started to cough. For a moment the hallway swayed around her and she thought she was going to fall. She grasped the arm of a big wooden settle and sat down hard. She was obliged to lean forward and lower her head until the swimming sensation cleared.
She straightened up slowly, her eyes prickling with tears. This was ridiculous. She wished Pitt were beside her, warm and strong and concerned, to comfort her fear and assure himself she was all right, not frightened, not distraught. But of course he was trying to do his job, not look after a wife who ought to be strong enough to look after herself. There was nothing in coping with death or fear of death which a woman should not be able to do just as well as a man … even violent death and the blasting apart of a room. It did not require any physical strength or specialized knowledge, just self-control and a greater concern for others than a concentration upon oneself. She should be supporting Pitt, helping, not looking for him to help her.
And Emily. She should be thinking how to comfort Emily, who w
as obviously terrified, and with good reason. That dynamite had been intended to kill Jack. It was only the most extraordinary chance that Lorcan McGinley had gone to the study and, without asking, opened the drawer.
Or had he known the dynamite was there and, as some people were already suggesting, tried to defuse it—and given his life in the attempt?
Poor Iona. She must be feeling riddled with guilt. And even worse than that, did she even wonder if Fergal had had something to do with it?
The most helpful thing Charlotte could do would be to discover who had killed Greville and tried to kill Jack, but she had no idea where to begin. Pitt had confided unusually little in her this time. Perhaps that was because he had not discovered much of meaning, but more probably it was because she had been so preoccupied with trying to help Emily with this ghastly party that she had seen him so seldom, and then for only moments.
She had not asked him about Greville’s death. She only knew that he had been hit over the head and then pulled under the water in the bath, and everyone knew that by now. She also knew that the valet Finn Hennessey, whom Gracie had mentioned several times, Carson O’Day and Lorcan McGinley all accounted for each other, so they could not be guilty. Eudora was obviously afraid it was Padraig Doyle, and after Charlotte had found how Greville had behaved towards Eudora, it would not be surprising if her brother had a powerful hatred of him. Although killing him would not necessarily make Eudora’s life easier or happier. But how often did people with violent and uncontrolled tempers ever think like that?
And Eudora did seem to be a woman who awoke in men a strong desire to protect her. She looked so feminine and so vulnerable. Of course, some women could affect that when actually they were as capable of defending themselves as anyone. But she did not doubt the reality of Eudora’s pain and fear, or the sincerity of her behavior. It might have been easier if she had.
Eudora’s need for comfort was real, and Pitt was responding to it as he always did. It was part of the reason Charlotte loved him so much. Were he to lose that quality it would be as if a coldness had entered her life, a darkness that would shadow everything and take the heart from the happiness she possessed.
Pitt needed to give, to support and help and protect. Charlotte sat on the settle and looked across the dust-clouded hall and saw Pitt’s concern as he looked at Eudora. It was so much of what was best in him. And yet she wished it was she he was comforting, not Eudora. But he did not see Charlotte as in need of him. And in truth she was not. Wanting was different.
Should she pretend to need? Would he be happier, love her more, if she pretended to be more fragile, more dependent than she was? Was she pushing him away by her independence? Was Eudora weaker or only cleverer—and more lovable?
But it was dishonest to pretend. Would Pitt not hate her if she affected to need him when she really could have managed and been useful, instead of an additional burden to him?
Perhaps she could do both if she were only a little subtler? Emily always seemed to manage it … which was a humbling thought.
But she had to be herself, at least for the time being. She was too uncertain to try anything else yet. If she could only help solve this wretched crime, then things could return to something like normal. Eudora Greville would go away. Pitt would have helped her, and that would be the end of her need of him.
Charlotte wished there was someone she could talk to, but Emily had walked past her without even seeming to see her. She had no time to give attention to Charlotte or be bothered with her emotions. All her thoughts were centered on Jack. In her place Charlotte would have been the same.
No one was threatening Pitt’s life, but this miserable failure would not help his career. He would be held responsible for not preventing Greville’s death. Never mind that nobody could have. No policeman in the world, no matter how brilliant, would have followed Greville into the bath to stop someone from coming in and drowning him. It was hopelessly unfair!
She wished Great-Aunt Vespasia were there. But of course she was in London.
Pitt had been to London yesterday on the train. There was no reason why she should not go on the train today. She stood up and walked towards the library and the telephone.
9
HAVING MADE THE DECISION to go to London, Charlotte wasted no time whatever in completing the necessary arrangements. She told Pitt she was going to visit Vespasia.
“Now?” he said incredulously.
“Yes. There are things with which I think she may be able to help.” She could not tell him what. If he pressed her, she would have to invent something.
“What about Emily?” he argued. “She needs you here. She’s terrified for Jack. And with reason.” He stopped suddenly. “I think you should be here.”
“I’ll come straight back.” She would not be persuaded out of it. The scene with Eudora was sharp in her mind. If she were going to fight, she needed to talk with someone first, and Vespasia was the only person who might understand. She felt just as vulnerable as Eudora or Emily, although for entirely different reasons. “I won’t be long,” she promised, then kissed him quickly on the cheek and turned and left.
Emily was occupied, which was excellent. Charlotte left a message with Gwen. Then, after having spoken briefly to Gracie, she requested Emily’s second-best carriage to take her to the railway station for the next train. At the station she made enquiries as to the hour of the return trains in the evening and arranged to have the carriage meet her from the one which arrived in Ashworth at three minutes before ten.
* * *
“Well, my dear,” Vespasia said with interest, regarding her carefully. Charlotte was very smart in her deep hunting green traveling suit and cape with fur trim, borrowed from Emily. Although the chill wind had stung some color into her cheeks, Vespasia was quite capable of seeing the anxiety beneath the surface well-being.
“How are you, Aunt Vespasia?” Charlotte enquired, going forward into the withdrawing room with its warm, delicate colors and old-fashioned, almost Georgian lines. There was far more light in it, more simplicity, than the modern design fashionable ever since the Queen came to the throne fifty-three years before.
“I am as well as I was when you spoke to me on the telephone this morning,” Vespasia replied. “Sit down and warm yourself. Daisy can bring us tea, and you can tell me what concerns you so much you are prepared to leave Ashworth Hall and return to London for a day.” Her eyes narrowed a little and she regarded Charlotte with some gravity. “You do not look at all yourself. I can see that something exceedingly unpleasant has happened. You had better tell me about it.”
Charlotte realized she was still trembling very slightly at the memory of it, even though she had exercised her mind on other things for the entire duration of the journey on the train, but the effort had been immense. Now it was all as vivid as the moment after it happened. She even found her voice a little high.
“Someone exploded a bomb at Ashworth Hall this morning, in Jack’s study ….”
Vespasia went very pale.
“Oh, my dear, how dreadful!”
Charlotte should have been more thoughtful. She should never have told Vespasia like this. She clasped her quickly.
“It’s all right! Jack isn’t hurt! He wasn’t there at the time.”
“Thank you,” Vespasia said with some dignity. “You may let go of me, my dear. I am not going to faint. I presume if Jack were hurt, you would have told me so immediately and not in this roundabout fashion. Was anyone else injured? Who was it who did such a fearful thing, and why?”
“Someone was killed, an Irishman named Lorcan McGinley.” She took a deep breath, steadying herself with an effort of will. “And we don’t know who did it. It is all part of a long story.”
Vespasia indicated the large chair to one side of the fire, burning high up in the grate and sending warmth throughout the room.
Charlotte sat down gratefully. Now that she was there it was less easy to put her fears into words. As always, Ve
spasia sat upright, straight-backed, her silver hair curled and braided in a coronet, her silver-gray eyes under their hooded lids bright with intelligence and concern. Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould was an aristocrat from an ancient family with many lands, obligations, and knowledge of honor and privilege. She could freeze an impertinence at twenty feet and make the unfortunate trespasser wish he or she had never spoken. She could trade wit with philosophers, courtiers, and playwrights. She had smiled at dukes and princes and made them feel honored by it. In her eighties the bones of her face were still exquisite, her coloring delicate, her movements a good deal stiffer but not without the pride and assurance of the past. One could easily believe that half a century ago she had been the greatest beauty of the age. Now she was old enough and rich enough not to care in the slightest what society thought of her, and she was enjoying the exquisite freedom it gave her to be utterly herself.
It was Charlotte’s immense good fortune that Emily’s first husband had been Vespasia’s great-nephew. Vespasia had become fond of both Emily and Charlotte, and more remarkably, considering the chasm between their situations, of Pitt as well.
Vespasia was looking more closely at Charlotte. “Since it is apparently so serious,” she said gravely, “perhaps you had better begin at the beginning, wherever you believe that to be.”
That was easy. “It started with going to Ashworth Hall to protect Ainsley Greville,” Charlotte replied.
“I see.” Vespasia nodded. “For political reasons, I assume? Yes, of course. One of our more notable Catholic diplomats; discreetly Catholic, naturally. He is not a man to allow his religion to get in the way of his career. He married Eudora Doyle, a very beautiful woman from one of the outstanding Irish Catholic Nationalist families, but they have always lived here in England.” A ghost of irony crossed her features. “Is it to do with this absurd Parnell-O’Shea business?”
“I don’t know,” Charlotte replied. “I don’t think so. Although perhaps indirectly it is. I’m not sure ….”
Vespasia put her long, thin hand with its moonstone rings very gently on Charlotte’s lap.