Ashworth Hall (35 page)

“O’Day?” Tellman asked.

“Not Greville,” Pitt replied. “Both McGinley and his valet saw him in his own room at the relevant time. And he overheard their conversation about shirts.”

“Doyle,” Tellman said again. “Makes sense. That’s how McGinley knew about the dynamite, because they’re on the same side. Doyle must have said something and given himself away. Either that, or McGinley was in it from the beginning, then he had second thoughts … changed his mind.”

Pitt said nothing. Tellman was right, it did make sense—much as he fought against the thought, for Eudora’s sake. They were at the far side of the cedar now and the sun shone through the cloud in bars making a glittering surface on the wet grass.

“Can’t prove it, mind,” Tellman added irritably. “Could be they’d all lie to protect each other. Even Mrs. Greville maybe, though it was her husband. If she knew anything about his goings-on, she can’t have had any love for him. And she’s Irish, isn’t she? Catholic … and Nationalist.”

“I don’t know,” Pitt said crossly. “She may have wanted peace just as much as Greville did himself.” He sighed. “I’d like to know who the maid was that Gracie saw on the landing.”

“No one that I can find,” Tellman said bluntly. “I’ve asked them all, and no one admits to being there.”

“Might be frightened.” Pitt stared at the grass thoughtfully. They were approaching the rugosa hedge and the fields beyond, rolling gently towards a stand of elms, most of their leaves gone now. Over to the west a shaft of sunlight shone silver on the wet village roofs, and the spire of the church stood out darkly against the sky.

“Because they saw something?” Tellman asked, looking at Pitt skeptically. “Didn’t say anything then, and scared now?”

“Possibly. More likely didn’t see anything, just frightened of being involved at all. I refuse to say this is unsolvable. There’s only a limited number of people it could be. We’ve got another two days at least. We’re going to find the answer, Tellman.”

Tellman smiled, but there was no humor in it at all.

Pitt turned around and faced the gracious mass of Ashworth Hall again. It really was very beautiful in the autumn light. On the west facade the creeper was a scarlet stain against the warm color of the stone. It was a pleasure just to look at it. He glanced sideways to see Tellman’s face and was satisfied to catch a moment’s softness in it, as the loveliness moved him, in spite of himself.

They started back to the house together, roughly in step over the grass, feet soaked and now thoroughly cold.

“Gracie, I want you to remember exactly what you saw on the landing the evening Mr. Greville was killed,” Pitt said half an hour later when he found her alone in the ironing room. She looked terribly unhappy, as if she had been crying and would like nothing more than to creep away and be alone, had her duties allowed. He guessed it was something to do with the fondness he had seen her show for the young Irish valet, Finn Hennessey. Charlotte had warned him to be careful about that, and he had resented the fact that she thought such a warning necessary. Then he realized afterwards that he had not honestly been aware of it. He liked Gracie profoundly. He would hate to have hurt her, and he was unnecessarily angry that Hennessey should have, however unintentionally. He was not sure whether to let her know he was aware of her misery, or if it would be more tactful to pretend he had not noticed.

She sniffed and attempted to concentrate.

“I already told Mr. Tellman wot I saw. Din’t ’e tell yer? ’E’s a useless valet, ’e is. In’t ’e no good as a policeman neither?”

“Yes, he is good,” Pitt replied. “Although I daresay you are a better detective than he is a valet.”

“I in’t no use this time.” She stared down at the iron, although it was cold and she was not even pretending to use it. “We in’t none of us no use to yer this time. I’m really sorry, sir.”

“Don’t worry, Gracie, we’ll solve it,” he said with a certainty he did not feel. “Tell me about the maid you saw with the towels.”

She looked up at him with surprise. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and he had no doubt she had been crying.

“In’t yer found ’er yet? Stupid article! She in’t got nuffink ter be afraid of. She weren’t doin’ no wrong … just carryin’ towels, like I said.”

“But perhaps she saw something, or someone,” he pointed out. “She is the only person we can’t account for. Try and remember, Gracie. We haven’t got much to go after at the moment. Almost anyone could have put the dynamite in Mr. Radley’s study … except Mr. McGinley, I suppose … or Hennessey.”

She sniffed. “Yeah, I s’pose.” She brightened considerably. “I dunno ’oo she were, sir, or I’d ’a said.”

“Describe her, as exactly as you can.”

“Well, she were taller’n me. But then I s’pose everyone is. She stood tall, proud like, ’ead very straight—”

“What color hair?”

She screwed up her face. “I don’ remember seein’ ’er ’air. She ’ad a lace cap on. Real big sort o’ cap, not like mine wot sits on top o’ me ’ead. ’Ers were allover lace. Too big, if yer ask me, but some folks like ’em like that. She could ’e bin any color underneath it.”

“Have you seen any of the maids wearing caps like that?”

“Yeah. Mrs. McGinley’s maid wears one like it.” Then the eagerness died from her face. “But it weren’t ’er. Least, I don’t think it were. She’s sort o’ got narrow shoulders, like a bottle, an ’er wot I saw ’ad good shoulders, more square.”

“Was she large or small, Gracie? Slender or plump?”

“I’m thinkin’!” She screwed up her face, eyes closed, trying to bring back the picture.

“Start at the top,” he encouraged. “What after the lace cap and the shoulders? Neat waist or plump? Did you see her hands? How was her apron tied? Anything you can think of.”

“Din’t see ’er ’ands.” She kept her eyes closed. “She were ’oldin’ a pile o’ towels. Goin’ ter someone’s bath, I s’pose. Not a bad waist, but not as good as some. She weren’t slender, not real slender. Solid enough, I’d ’a’ said. Come ter think on it, ’er apron weren’t tied real well. Not like Gwen’s, say. She showed me ’ow ter tie ’em real pretty. I’m goin’ ter keep on doin’ that w’en I get ’ome again.” She looked at him hopefully.

“Good.” He smiled. “We’ll impress Bloomsbury. So she didn’t tie her apron well?”

“No. Mrs. ’Unnaker’d ’ave torn strips orff anyone ’oo’d done a sloppy job like that, so it weren’t one o’ the Ashworth ’All maids.”

“Good!” he said enthusiastically. “Very good. What else?”

Gracie said nothing but stood with a look of fierce inner thought on her face, her eyes wide open, staring beyond him into the distance.

“What?” he demanded.

“Boots,” she whispered.

“Boots? What about them?”

“She weren’t wearin’ boots!”

“She was barefoot?” he said with disbelief.

“No, o’ course she weren’t barefoot. She were wearin’ slippers, like wot ladies wear. She’d took someone’s slippers!”

“How do you know? What did you see … exactly?”

“She were facin’ away from me, like she was going inter the doorway. I just seen the side o’ one foot, an’ the ’eel o’ the other.”

“But it was a slipper? What color? How do you know it wasn’t a boot?”

“ ’Cos the foot were stitched. It were embroidered, like a slipper, an’ the ’eel were blue.” Her eyes widened. “Yeah, the ’eel were blue.”

Pitt smiled. “Thank you.”

“It ’elps?” she said hopefully.

“Oh, yes, I think so.”

“Good.”

Pitt left the ironing room with the feeling that for the first time since he had found Ainsley Greville’s body he had a real and tangible piece of evidence to follow. One of the women was part of the conspiracy. It was not hard to believe. In fact, it made excellent sense, only too excellent. His mind was weighed down with it. Eudora Greville, born Eudora Doyle, Irish to the blood and bone, helping her brother Padraig to fight for the freedom of their country in the way he thought would work. Her hatred for Greville would make it easy. And how could she not hate him, if she had had the slightest idea how he had treated Doll. Pitt could imagine the way Charlotte would feel towards anyone who treated Gracie that way! He would be lucky if a crack over the head and a slide under the water was the worst that happened to him.

Eudora could easily have slipped out of her room in Doll’s dress and a cap, perhaps borrowed earlier from the laundry room.

The large lace cap was an obvious choice, to hide the vivid color of her hair should anyone see her. She would be too easily recognizable by that alone. She would walk along the landing with a pile of towels, perhaps her own towels, and be virtually invisible. It was only the slightest chance that Gracie, the most observant of maids, had seen her, and noticed her feet, and then remembered them afterwards.

She could have gone into the bathroom, keeping her face averted. Greville would have taken no notice until it was too late. If he had seen her, realized who it was, he would have wondered what on earth she was doing in a maid’s dress and cap, but he would still not have been afraid, not have cried out, attracted attention, or called her name.

But Padraig could not have placed the bomb in Jack’s study. Pitt’s heart sank. Could that have been Eudora also? Why not? It required nerve and dexterity, not any physical strength. Why should Eudora not care as passionately or as bravely about the fate of her country as any politician—or Fenian sympathizer?

He must speak with Charlotte. She would be able to look at the slippers of the various women in the house without arousing the sort of suspicion which would make someone seek to hide or destroy them. She might even know already whose they were. She would remember what people had worn, who might have blue heels.

But he did not find the opportunity to speak with her alone until an hour before luncheon, when she was about to go for a short walk with Kezia, who looked surprisingly gentle, as if the anger had slipped from her. He wondered what Charlotte had managed to say to her that she forgave Fergal at last. He would ask her later.

“Charlotte!”

She turned, and was about to reply when she must have seen the anxiety in his face, and perhaps the sadness.

“What is it?”

“I have discovered something which I need to discuss with you,” he said quietly enough he hoped Kezia did not hear him. It could be her. Perhaps conspiring with Fergal. The other brother and sister. It was a hope!

Charlotte turned back to Kezia, just outside the door on the terrace.

“Please excuse me,” she called. “I must take this chance to speak with Thomas. I’m so sorry!”

Kezia smiled and lifted her hand in acknowledgment, then walked onto the grass and away.

“What is it?” Charlotte said quickly. “I can see it is unpleasant.”

“Discovering who committed a crime is usually unpleasant,” he answered a little bleakly. Then, seeing her eyes widen, he added, “No, not completely, just an excellent piece of observation by Gracie. She remembered more about the ‘maid’ she saw on the landing about the time Greville was killed.”

“What? Who was it?” She gulped, her face suddenly wretched. “Not—Doll?”

“No,” he said quickly. “No, it wasn’t Doll. It was someone wearing slippers with stitched fabric sides and blue heels.”

“What?” For a moment she looked confused; the instant after, understanding flew to her. He knew she also thought of Eudora. He watched the conflicting emotions in her face, a light of relief, almost satisfaction, as swiftly overtaken by pity, and then wiped clean again. He found he understood, or thought he did. He was surprised. Was she more vulnerable, underneath the independence, than he had assumed?

“Oh,” she said soberly. “You mean it was one of the guests, wearing a maid’s dress over her own? Then she had to be involved.”

“Over her own?” He was momentarily puzzled.

“Of course,” she said quickly. “Thomas, it takes ages to get in and out of a dinner gown. They all do up at the back, for a start! She could get a maid’s dress large enough to put on top of her own and long enough to cover it completely. An inch or two of satin underneath it would give her away in a second. It was only coincidence that Gracie saw a piece of the shoe and that she remembered it, but satin anyone would have seen.”

He should have thought of that.

“Which means she was probably slimmer than she appeared to be to Gracie,” Charlotte went on. “Two dresses would make a lot of difference. Blue slippers?”

“Yes. Can you remember who wore blue that evening?”

She smiled weakly. “No. But Emily might. I’ll ask her. If not, we’ll have to start looking. We’ll find a way.”

“Without them knowing,” he warned. “If they know before we get to them, they’ll hide them or destroy them. There’s a furnace for the conservatory heaters, at least. Then we’d never have proof.”

“I’ll start by asking Emily. And don’t worry, I’ll be discreet. I can, you know!”

“Yes, I know.” But nevertheless he watched her with anxiety, although he was not quite sure why. Perhaps it had more to do with the emotion he sensed in her, and his sudden awareness of it, than any danger she could be in or misjudgment she might make regarding the slippers.

“Blue-heeled slippers,” Emily said quickly. “Then it was one of us! I mean, it wasn’t a maid. Oh … I see. You mean that was who killed Greville.” She looked startled and very sober. Charlotte had found her coming back from the kitchens, where she had been consulting with Mrs. Williams about the next day’s dinner and how much longer the guests were likely to be there, which of course she did not know. Now they were walking across the hall towards the long gallery overlooking the formal garden, a place where there was unlikely to be anyone else at this time of the afternoon. The men were back to their discussions, for any good it might serve, and the women were all about their separate pastimes. Since two of them were very newly widowed, any attempt at social entertainment was impossible.

Emily opened the door to the gallery, a long room with ranks of windows to the south, and at the moment filled with a wavering light as the wind chased the clouds across the sun and away again.

“Who wore blue?” Charlotte pressed, closing the door behind them.