Ashworth Hall

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.

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 looked 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.

There was another crash and she nearly jumped out of her skin. It was only a looking glass falling and breaking. There was a horrible smell, and dust everywhere, clouds of it. It would take weeks to get rid of all this.

People were coming from every direction. Thank heaven there was Mr. Radley. Mrs. Radley was flying at Mr. Pitt, shouting at him. Understandable, perhaps, but she still didn’t ought to do it.

Tellman was standing close behind her. “You all right?” he demanded.

“Yes, course I’m all right!” she assured him with an effort. Pitt was safe, and Charlotte was coming across the hall, white-faced but unhurt. “Thank you,” she added.

“There’s nothing you can do here,” he went on. “There’ll be a lot of tidying up to do later, but for now we need to know what happened, and we don’t want anything moved.”

“I know that!” she said hotly. Of course she knew it. Did he think she was stupid?

Someone spoke McGinley’s name.

Doyle’s valet was standing next to the stairs.

There was a smell of burning. Someone was calling for water.

Suddenly Gracie saw Finn half sitting on the floor, a footman supporting him and Charlotte close by. Her stomach lurched. She slipped past Miss Moynihan and Miss Baring and went over to Charlotte.

“Wot ’appened?” she asked as loudly as she dared. “Is ’e … all right?” She was looking at Finn.

“Yes, he’s all right,” Charlotte whispered back. “Mr. McGinley went into the study and somehow triggered off a bomb made of dynamite.”

“Is ’e dead?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. He must have been right by the blast.”

Gracie caught her breath and nearly choked from the dust in the air.

“That’s terrible! Them Irish is mad! ’Oo’s this goin’ ter ’elp?”

“No one,” Charlotte said softly. “Hennessey says Mr. McGinley knew it was there and was trying to make it safe, but it must have been so finely balanced it went off anyway.”

“Poor soul.” Gracie was wrenched by sadness for him. “Per’aps ’e were so brave ’cos o’ Mrs. McGinley bein’ off wi’ Mr. Moynihan, like? Maybe ’e were ’urt so bad—” She stopped. She should not have said that. It was not her place.

“ ’E were very brave,” she added. She looked at Charlotte, then at Finn.

Charlotte gave her a little nudge.

Gracie went over and knelt down beside Finn. He seemed stunned, still only partially sensible of where he was. His face and clothes were filthy from the dust and smoke, and beneath the soot he was ashen skinned.

“I’m ever so sorry,” she said softly. She put her hand out and slid it over his, and he gripped it gratefully. “Yer gotta be brave, like ’e were,” she went on. “ ’E were a real ’ero.”

He stared at her, his eyes wide, almost hollow with shock and hurt.

“I don’t understand it!” he said desperately. “It shouldn’t have happened! He knew dynamite! He should …” He shook his head as if to clear it. “He should have been able to … to make it all right.”

“D’yer know ’oo put it there?” she asked.

“What?”

“D’yer know ’oo put the dynamite there?” she repeated.

“No. No, of course I don’t,” he replied. “Or I’d have said, wouldn’t I?”

“ ’Ow’d poor Mr. McGinley know it were there?”

He turned away. “I don’t know.”

Instantly she was ashamed. She should not be asking him all these questions when he was shocked and bruised and grieved. She should be trying to comfort him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “ ’cos you don’t understand it. I don’t s’pose nobody does, ’ceptin’ ’im wot put it there, an’ maybe not even ’im neither. Yer’d better come away and sit down for a while, quiet like. Mr. Dilkes won’t mind if yer ’ave a drop o’ ’is brady. Gawd knows, yer need it. Everybody needs time an’ a spot o’ ’elp ter get an ’old o’ themselves.”

He looked back at her. “You’re very sweet, Gracie.” He swallowed, took a very deep, shaky breath, and swallowed again. “I just don’t know how it could have happened!”

“Mr. Pitt’ll find out,” she answered him, trying to convince herself as well. “Come back ter Mrs. Hunnaker’s room an’ sit down. There’ll be lots o’ things ter do soon enough.”

“Yes …” he agreed. “Yes, of course.” And he allowed her to help him to his feet and, after thanking the footman, to lead him out of the dusty hall back through the green baize door and to Mrs. Hunnaker’s sitting room, where there was nobody to give or deny them entrance. She made him sit down, and then in the absence of the butler to grant her brandy, went to the cooking cupboard and helped herself to a stiff glass of sherry and took it back. Let Mrs. Williams quarrel about that later. She sat opposite him, watching him carefully, trying to comfort him, aching for his confusion and his loss.

By the time Tellman came to ask both of them where they had been all morning, and what they had seen, Finn was almost himself again.

Tellman stood just inside the doorway, his body angular, his shoulders stiff. He looked thoroughly disapproving as he stared at Gracie, sitting perched on the housekeeper’s second-best chair, and Finn, slumped in the best.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hennessey,” he said grimly. “I don’t like having to ask you when you just lost someone you’re close to, but we got to know what happened. Someone put that dynamite there. Probably the same person as killed Mr. Greville.”

“Of course …” Finn agreed, looking up at him. “I don’t know who it was.”

“Maybe not outright, or you’d have said.” Tellman was holding a pencil and paper in his hands, ready to write down what was said. “But you may ’ave seen more than you realize. What did you do from seven o’clock this morning?”

“Why seven?”

“Just answer, Mr. Hennessey.” Tellman’s temper was shorter than he was willing to have known. There was a muscle flicking on his temple and his lips were white. Gracie realized with sudden surprise what a weight of responsibility Tellman had and how worried he must be. He knew exactly how far he and Pitt were from finding a solution, what a failure this whole task had been so far, and how it was getting no better even as the minutes passed. She should be helping him. After all, he was Pitt’s assistant. That was her real duty. She certainly should not be allowing his manner to put her off.

“You want to know who done that to Mr. McGinley, don’t yer?” she said urgently to Finn. “Any of us may ’ave seen summink.” She turned back to Tellman.

“I din’t come down till long after seven. First off, o’ course, I got up and dressed meself, then I made sure the mistress’s dressin’ room fire were lit an’ burnin’ proper. Then I fetched ’ot water for ’er ter wash in. I asked ’er if she wanted a cup o’ tea, but she didn’t. Then I got a cup o’ tea for Mr. Pitt, seein’ ’is valet were neglectful.” She gave him a meaningful look. He glared back at her but refrained from saying anything, although she could see his response in his eyes.

“And …” he prompted.

“An’ I ’elped ’er ter dress an’ do ’er ’air ….”

“How long did that take?” he asked with what she was sure was an edge of sarcasm.

“I don’ sit an’ watch the clock, Mr. Tellman. But since I were doin’ the work fer two,* longer than most.”

“You never helped the superintendent to dress?” he said with final incredulity.

“Course I didn’t! But I fetched water and brushed ’is shoes an’ ’is jacket, seein’ as ’is valet’s a useless article and were nowhere ter be seen. Then I came downstairs ter bring down the laundry an’ I passed Doll, that’s Mrs. Greville’s maid, on the stairs an’ ’ad a word wif ’er—”

“That doesn’t help,” Tellman interrupted.

“An’ about quarter ter nine I go to find Mrs. Pitt ter ask ’er about what she’d like ter wear for dinner, an’ I sees Miss Moynihan come down the front stairs and go ter the mornin’ room, an’ Mrs. McGinley in the conservatory wi’ Mr. Moynihan, standin’ much too close ter the door for the likes o’ wot they were doin’….”

Tellman pulled a face, from which his contempt was obvious.

Finn smiled as if he saw some bitter humor in that love affair.

“Go on,” Tellman said sharply. “Did you see anyone else?”

“Yeh. Mr. Doyle were leavin’ the ’all an’ goin’ ter the side door.”

“To where?”

“Ter the garden, o’ course.”

“What time?”

“I dunno. Ten minutes afore nine, mebbe?”

“You sure it was Mr. Doyle?”

“Don’ look funny at me like that! I know better than to say it were if I wasn’t sure. You jus’ remember I work in Mr. Pitt’s ’ouse, an’ I know as much about some of ’is cases as whatever you do.”

“Rubbish,” he said derisively.

“Oh, yes I do! ’cos I knows wot Mrs. Pitt does, an’ Mrs. Radley … an’ that’s more’n wot you do.”

He glared at her. “You got no business meddlin’ in police cases. Like as not you’ll do more harm than good and get yourself hurt, you stupid little girl!”

Gracie was cut to the core. She could think of no retaliation which was even remotely adequate to the insult, but she would remember it, so when the opportunity arose, she would crush him.

Tellman turned to Finn. “Mr. Hennessey, would you please tell me what you did, and anybody you saw, from seven o’clock onwards, and when you saw them. And don’t forget Mr. McGinley himself. That may help us to know how he learned about the dynamite but no one else did.”

“Yes …” Finn still looked very shaky. He had to make a considerable effort to keep his voice steady. “Like Gracie, the first thing I did was get up and shaved and dressed, then I went to Mr. McGinley’s dressing room to make sure the housemaid had lit the fire, which she had, and it was all cleaned and dusted properly. The servants here are very good.”

He did not see Tellman’s lip curl or see him take a long breath and let it out in a sigh.

“I prepared the washstand, laid out the hairbrush, nail brush, toothbrush, and fetched the ewer of hot water, laid out the dressing gown and slippers in front of the fire to warm. Then I sharpened the razor on the strop as usual, but Mr. McGinley likes to shave himself, so I just left it all ready for him.”

“What time was this?” Tellman said sourly.

“Quarter before eight,” Finn replied. “I told you.”

Tellman wrote it down. “Do you know when Mr. McGinley left his room?”

“For breakfast?”

“For anything.”

“He went down for breakfast about quarter past eight, I imagine. I don’t know because I left him just before that to clean his best boots. I needed to make more blacking.”

“Make it? Don’t you buy it, like anyone else?”

Finn’s face showed his disdain. “Bought polish has sulfuric acid in it. It rots leather. Any decent gentleman’s gentleman knows how to make it.”

“Not being a gentleman’s gentleman, I wouldn’t know,” Tellman responded.

“Twelve ounces each of ivory black and treacle, four ounces each of spermaceti oil and white wine vinegar,” Finn informed him helpfully. “Mix them thoroughly, of course.”

“Where did you do this?” Tellman was unimpressed.

“Boot room, of course.”

“You went down the men’s stairs at the back?”

“Naturally.”

“See anyone?”

“Wheeler, Mr. Doyle’s man, the buüer Dükes, and two footmen whose names I don’t know.”

“Did you go into the front of the house at all?” Tellman persisted.

“I went across the hall to fetch the newspapers to iron.”

“What?”

“I went across the hall to fetch the newspapers to iron them,” Finn repeated. “I wanted to see if there was anything in them about Mr. Parnell. I saw Mr. Doyle coming downstairs.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Where did he go? Into the dining room?”

“No. He went in the other direction, but I don’t know where to. I went back through the baize door with the newspapers.”

“Then what?” Tellman had his pencil poised, his eyes on Finn.

Finn hesitated.

“Yer gotta tell ’im,” Gracie urged. “It’s important.”

Finn looked wretched.

Gracie longed to lean forward and touch his hands again, but she could not do it in front of Tellman.

Tellman licked the end of his pencil.

“Mr. McGinley sent for me,” Finn said shakily.

“From where? Where was he?” Tellman asked.

“What? Oh, in his room, I expect. Yes, in his room. But I met him as he was coming across the landing. He told me to go with him and to stand in the hall while he went into Mr. Radley’s study. He said someone had put dynamite there and he was going to … to make it safe.”

“I see. Thank you.” Tellman took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about Mr. McGinley. Looks like he died a hero.”

“Somebody murdered him,” Finn said between his teeth. “I hope you get the son of the devil who did it and hang him as high as Nelson’s column.”

“I expect we will.” Tellman looked at Gracie as if he wanted to say something further, but he changed his mind and went out. Gracie turned back to Finn, longing to be able to help. She could guess at the grief and shock which must be tearing at him, and soon it would be fear for himself also. With McGinley dead he would have no position. He would have to start looking for a new place, with all the difficulty, hardship and anxiety that was. She smiled at him tentatively, not to mean anything, except that she understood and she cared.

He smiled back and reached up with his hand to touch hers.

* * *

Pitt found Tellman about an hour later, standing in the havoc of the study.

“What did you learn?” he asked quietly. The door had not yet been replaced.

Tellman recounted to Pitt what Finn had told him.

“That’s more or less what we know.” Pitt nodded. “Anything else?”

“Maid came in and lit the fire just after seven this morning,” Tellman replied, consulting his notebook. “She dusted the desk and refilled the inkstand and checked there was enough paper, wax, sand, tapers, and so on. She opened the drawer down this side because that’s where they’re kept. There was nothing wrong with it then. And she’s been with the house since Lord Ashworth’s time.”

“So it was after seven this morning, and the bomb went off at about twenty-five to ten. That’s two and a half hours.”

“All the servants were either upstairs or in the servants’ hall having their own breakfast,” Tellman replied. “Or else about their duties in the laundry, the stillroom or wherever it is they do these things. I never imagined there was so much to do to keep half a dozen ladies and gentlemen turned out as they like to be, and fed, housed and entertained.” His face expressed very clearly his opinion of the morality of that.

“Could any of them have come through and put the dynamite in here?” Pitt made no comment on the number of the servants.

“No. It’d take a fair while to set up a bomb with dynamite, and something to trigger it off when Mr. Radley opened the drawer. You couldn’t just put it in and run away.”

“It seems all the women were either with their maids or else at breakfast, and then with each other,” Pitt said slowly. He had spoken to them all, although he had never seriously thought that it would turn out to be a woman who had put the dynamite in Jack’s study. “Except Mrs. Greville. Not unnaturally, she still likes to spend some time alone.”

Tellman said nothing.

“That leaves the men,” Pitt said somberly. “Which means either Moynihan or Doyle. Piers Greville was with Miss Baring.”

“Moynihan was in the conservatory with Mrs. McGinley,” Tellman said with a shake of his head. “Your Gracie saw them there. Of course, there’s nothing to say they didn’t do it together, to get rid of McGinley so they could marry each other … if that sort like to marry.”

“They’d marry,” Pitt said dryly, “if they could ever settle on which church … if either would have them. I gather both sides feel very strongly about not marrying the other.”

Tellman rolled his eyes very slightly. “He’s daft enough about her he would have killed her husband, and I wouldn’t swear she’d not have helped him. Then there is Doyle,” Tellman pointed out. “He was seen in the hall twice, once by Hennessey and once by Gracie.”

“I think I had better go and speak to Mr. Doyle,” Pitt said with reluctance. He knew Eudora was afraid for her brother. She had been since Greville’s death. With McGinley’s death she would be more so … perhaps with cause. Pitt did not want to think so, for he had liked the man. But the fact that McGinley had been the only one aware of the dynamite, apart from whoever placed it there, made it look more and more as if it could have been Doyle. Had they quarreled about the ways of bringing about the ends they both sought? And had Doyle been prepared to use more violence, and McGinley guessed it?

They met in the boudoir, Eudora standing by the window. She watched them both, her eyes going from Padraig’s face to Pitt’s and back again.

“Yes, I crossed the hall,” Padraig admitted, a flash of anger in his eyes. “I did not go into the study. I went from the front door to the side door to see what the weather was like, then I went back upstairs.”

“No, you didn’t, Mr. Doyle,” Pitt said quietly. “You were seen in the hall after Hennessey collected the papers to iron them.”

“What?” Doyle demanded.

Eudora looked terrified. She stood like a cornered animal, as if she would flee if there were only a way past them. She looked at Padraig, then at Pitt, and he felt the force of her plea for help even though she did not speak it.

“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 was 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.