Ashworth Hall

10

EMILY KNEW that she had been unfair to both Charlotte and Pitt after the explosion. Part of her had realized it even as she was striking out, but she was so terrified and angry and overwhelmed with immediate relief that she had lost control of her emotions. Now, a day later, she knew she must apologize.

She went to look for Pitt first. There was a sense in which he would be the easier. It was he whom she had attacked. It was Charlotte, on his behalf, because he was vulnerable in that he had so far failed, who would find it harder to forgive. She was walking along the passage towards the stillroom and laundry rooms, where Dükes had said Pitt was, when she was waylaid by the kitchen maid, carrying an empty basket.

“I in’t goin’ in there, m’lady, if we’re ’ungry the rest o’ the week. I in’t goin’ in there if we starve, an’ that’s a fact.” She stood with her feet apart and one hand on her hip, fist clenched, almost as if she expected someone to try to carry her forcibly wherever it was.

“Where aren’t you going, Mae?” Emily asked reasonably. She was used to the vagueness of maids. It could almost certainly be sorted out with a little reason and a great deal of firmness.

“Ter fetch the meat,” Mae answered resolutely. “I absolutely in’t.” She stared at Emily, and her eyes did not waver, which was a bad sign. Servants did not defy their employers like that if they wanted to keep their places.

“It’s your job,” Emily pointed out. “If Cook sent you. Did she?”

“I don’t care if God hisself sent me, I in’t going!” Mae stood her ground without blinking.

This was not the time to be having to dismiss a kitchen maid, especially a good one. And Mae had been good until now. What on earth had got into the girl? Perhaps there was some point in trying reason.

“Why not? You always have before.”

“In’t bin corpses o’ dead men in the ice’ouse afore,” Mae answered in a husky voice. “Men as was murdered an’ don’t lie easy. Dead wot went afore their time an’ wants vengeance.”

Emily had forgotten the bodies were there.

“No,” she said as calmly as she could. “Of course not. Anyway, you don’t have the keys. I expect Superintendent Pitt has them. I’ll go and fetch the meat myself.”

“You can’t do that!” Mae was horrified.

“Well, somebody has to,” Emily replied. “I didn’t kill anyone, so I’m not afraid of dead bodies. I must offer my guests food. Go back to the kitchen and tell Mrs. Williams I’ll bring the meat.”

Mae stood motionless.

“Go on,” Emily ordered her.

Mae was white-faced.

“Yer can’t carry meat, m’lady.” She took a huge gulp of air. “It in’t fittin’. I’ll come an’ carry it, if yer swear yer’ll come in wi’ me? I’ll be all right if yer come wi’ me.”

“Thank you,” Emily said gravely. “That is very brave of you, Mae. We’ll get the keys from Mr. Pitt and go together.”

“Yes, m’lady.”

They found Pitt five minutes later, returning from speaking with Padraig’s valet and going to look for Kezia.

“Thomas,” Emily said quickly. She could not apologize for her earlier behavior in front of the kitchen maid. She smiled at him as meekly as she could and saw the surprise in his eyes. “Thomas, we have run out of meat in the kitchen and need to fetch some from the icehouse. I believe you have the keys, since …” She let the sentence hang unfinished. “Would you please come with us? Mae is nervous to go alone, and I promised to stay beside her.”

Pitt looked at her steadily for a moment without answering, then slowly he smiled back. “Of course. I’ll take you there now.”

“Thank you, Thomas,” she said softly. She did not need to say more. He knew that was an apology.

Finding Charlotte proved more difficult, and when she did, knowing what to say was even harder. Charlotte was obviously still angry and upset. She had been up to London, without telling anyone why, and returned so late everyone else had already been in bed. Normally, of course, at a country house weekend like this they would remain up enjoying themselves, possibly until two or three in the morning. But there was nothing usual about this weekend. No one wished to be in general company any longer than was obligatory for the most basic good manners.

Now they were standing in the first open space in the conservatory between the potted palms and the orchid which Fergal had broken, although they did not know it. Emily had been passing in the hall when she had glanced across and seen Charlotte, and gone in. Now she did not know how to begin.

“Good morning,” Charlotte said a trifle stiffly.

“What do you mean ‘Good morning’?” Emily responded. “We saw each other at breakfast.”

“What else would you like me to say?” Charlotte asked, raising her eyebrows. “It doesn’t seem the time for light conversation, and I’m not going to discuss the case with you. We will only end up quarreling again. If you don’t know what I think of your treatment of Thomas, then I’ll tell you.” It was a threat; it was implicit in every angle of her body and line of her face.

Emily’s heart sank. Could Charlotte not understand how terrified she was for Jack, not only for his life—which must be obvious to anyone—but that he would fail the challenge of making some kind of success of this conference and his career would be over before it began? They had asked too much of him far too soon. It was grossly unfair. Pitt was not the only one faced with failure, and no one was threatening his life. She needed Charlotte’s help and companionship, her support, not her anger. But if it had to be begged for, it was of no use. Suddenly she felt more in sympathy with Kezia Moynihan than she would have thought possible.

“No, thank you,” she said stiffly. This was not the apology she had intended. “You have already made it quite plain in your manner.” Nothing was going the way she had planned.

They stood in stiff silence facing each other, neither sure what to say next, temper and pride dictating one thing, deeper emotion another.

Fifteen feet away, on the farther side of a dense, tangled vine with yellow trumpet flowers, one of the outside doors of the conservatory opened. Emily turned instantly, but she could not see anyone through the foliage, although their footsteps were plain.

“You’re being unreasonable!” Fergal Moynihan’s voice came heatedly.

The door closed with a sharp snap.

“Because I won’t agree with you?” Iona’s voice retorted, equally hard and angry.

“Because you won’t be realistic,” he answered, lowering his tone a little. “We both have to make accommodations.”

“What ‘accommodations,’ as you put it, are you making?” she demanded. “You won’t listen to me about the core and the soul of it. You just say they are mysteries, folklore. You laugh at the most sacred things of all.”

“I don’t laugh at them,” he protested.

“Yes, you do! You mock them. You pay lip service, because you don’t want to make me angry, but in your heart you don’t believe—”

Emily and Charlotte glanced at each other, eyes wide.

“Now you’re accusing me not for what I say or do but for what you imagine I believe?” Fergal was growing angry again. “It’s impossible to please you! You are just looking for a quarrel. Why can’t you be honest—”

“I am honest! It’s you who’s lying, not only to me but to yourself ….” Iona’s voice retaliated.

“I am not lying!” he shouted. “I’m telling you the truth! That’s the problem. You don’t want truth because it doesn’t fit with your myths and fairy stories and the superstitions you let govern your life—”

“You don’t understand faith!” she shouted back. “All you know is rules and how to condemn people. I should have known better ….” There was a sound of quick clattering footsteps and the door opening.

“Iona!” Fergal called out.

Silence.

“What?”

His footsteps followed hers to the door.

“I love you.”

“Do you?” she asked quietly.

“You know I do. I adore you.”

There was a long silence, again broken only by sighs and the rustle of fabric, and then eventually two lots of footsteps, and the outside door closing.

Emily looked at Charlotte.

“Not so smooth a path,” Charlotte said very quietly. “Kissing isn’t a resolution to an argument, not a real one.”

“Kissing isn’t an answer at all,” Emily agreed. “It’s something you do if you want to, not to resolve a problem. In a way it only clouds the issue. It can be very nice to kiss someone, but it can stop you thinking clearly. When you’ve finished and pull apart, what is left?”

“In their case, I don’t think they know yet.” Charlotte shook her head. “And it will be very sad if they pay too much for their chance together and then discover it isn’t what they really want and it won’t work. Then they’ll have nothing.”

“I don’t think they want to hear that,” Emily pointed out.

Charlotte smiled for the first time. “I’m sure they don’t. I wonder how Kezia will feel? I hope she can find it in herself not to be too satisfied.”

Emily was surprised. “Why? Do you like him? I thought you didn’t much.”

“I don’t. I think he’s cold and pompous. But I like her. And whatever he is, he’s the only brother she has, the only family. She’ll hurt herself horribly if she doesn’t offer him some gentleness, whatever he does with it”

“Charlotte …”

“What?”

Now it was not so hard. There would never be a better time. “I’m sorry I flew at Thomas yesterday. I know it was unfair. I’m terrified for Jack.” She might as well say it all now. “Not only in case they try again to kill him, but because they’ve given him an impossible task and they might blame him if he can’t succeed.”

Charlotte held out her hand. “I know you are. The whole situation is horrible. But don’t worry about Jack not solving the Irish Problem. In three hundred years nobody else ever has. They might hate him if he did!”

Emily almost laughed, but she might too easily cry if she let go her control right at that moment. Instead she took Charlotte’s hand and held it tightly, then put her arms around her and hugged her.

After helping get the meat out of the icehouse for Emily, Pitt changed his mind about seeing Kezia and instead went to find Tellman. They needed to start again from the beginning.

“Back to Greville?” Tellman said with raised eyebrows. “I’d like to go back to Denbigh, myself, but I don’t suppose they’ll let us do that. I hate conspiracies.”

“What do you like?” Pitt asked wryly. “A nice domestic murder where the people have known each other for years, perhaps all their lives, lived under the same roof in open love and secret hate? Or someone who has been abused beyond bearing and has finally retaliated the only way they knew how?”

They were walking outside through the stable yard entrance and across the gravel path to the long lawn. The grass was wet, but the feel and smell of it was clean, and the air was still and not unpleasantly cold.

“How about simple greed?” Tellman replied grudgingly. “Someone hit over the head and robbed, then I can work out who did it and be happy to take them in and see them hanged. Well, not happy, but satisfied.”

“I shall be extremely satisfied to see this one taken,” Pitt rejoined.

“And hanged?” Tellman asked, looking sideways at him. “That’s not like you.”

Pitt shoved his hands into his pockets. “I might make an exception for people who plot political overthrow and random violence,” he replied. “I take no joy in it, but I think I can grant the necessity.”

“Got to catch him first.” With a faint smile Tellman put his hands in his pockets also.

“Who killed Greville?” Pitt said.

“I think Doyle,” Tellman replied. “He had the best reason, personal as well as political … at least as much sense in the political reason as any of them. It’s all stupid to me.” He frowned. His boots were soaking in the heavy dew on the grass, but he was used to wet feet. “Besides, Doyle has a weight about him, a passion which could carry through his beliefs.”

“Moynihan’s daft enough,” Pitt said, mimicking Tellman’s tone of a few moments earlier.

Tellman shrugged. “His sister has more real nerve than he has.”

“I agree.” Pitt nodded as they walked under the shadow of the huge cedar, their feet falling softly on the bare earth. “And I don’t suppose he killed McGinley. That looks like an accident, the bomb meant for Mr. Radley.”

“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.

“I can’t remember,” Emily answered. “Anyway, you might wear blue slippers under another color, if it was the closest you had, or the most comfortable. None of them, except perhaps Eudora, have enough money to buy slippers for every dress.”

“How do you know?”

Emily gave her a sideways look. “Don’t be naive. Because I’m observant. You may not, but I know what is this season’s fashion and what is last … and what things cost. And I know good silk from cheap, or wool from bombazine or mixture.”

“So who wore blue?”

“I’m trying to think!”

“I don’t think it was Kezia.”

“Why not? Because you like her? I think she could have just the nerve to do it,” Emily argued. “I don’t think Iona McGinley would. She’s all dreams and romantic notions. She’d rather talk about things and prompt other people than do them herself.”

“Maybe,” Charlotte conceded. “Although that could be a pose. But I had a rather more practical reason for thinking it was not Kezia. She’s rather well built. With a maid’s dress over her own she’d look … well, pretty enormous. Gracie would have noticed her size. Anyway, whose dress would go over hers? Are any of the ladies’ maids really stout?”

“No. Maybe you’re right. That leaves Eudora herself, which is very likely, or Iona.”

“Or Justine,” Charlotte added.

“Justine? Why on earth would Justine kill Ainsley Greville?” Emily said derisively, her eyes wide. “She isn’t Irish. She’d never even met him before the previous day, and she was going to marry his son, for heaven’s sake!”

“I can’t think of any reason at all. I don’t think there is even very much money.”

“Don’t be squalid.” Emily’s mouth turned down at the corners.

“People have been known to kill for money,” Charlotte pointed out.

Emily ignored her, which expressed her opinion very clearly.

“Blue gown,” Charlotte repeated.

“I’m thinking! I haven’t seen Eudora in blue. She prefers warm colors and greens. I don’t think blue would suit her.” She shrugged. “Not that that means she wouldn’t wear it, of course. People wear the most awful things sometimes. Do you remember Hetty Appleby, with the mouse-colored hair, wearing yellow? She looked like a cheese!”

“No.”

“Really, you are so unobservant sometimes,” Emily said in disgust. “I don’t know how you are ever the least use to Thomas.”

“Justine wore cream with blue,” Charlotte replied.

“I think we agreed Justine had no earthly reason. And I remember now, Iona wore blue, dark blue like the sea at night. All very romantic. Fergal Moynihan could hardly take his eyes off her.”

“He’d have been like that whatever she wore. We’d better go and look at their shoes.”

“Now?”

“Why not?”

“Because Iona will be in her room, for a start,” Emily pointed out. “We can hardly interrupt her and say ‘Please may we look through your wardrobe to see if we can find a pair of blue-heeled slippers, because we think you were wearing them when you killed Ainsley Greville in his bath?’ ”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You go when we are all at luncheon,” Emily commanded. “I shall keep everyone occupied at the table. You excuse yourself, blame a headache or something.”

“What do you mean ‘keep everybody occupied’?” Charlotte said with a touch of sarcasm. “If they are at luncheon, they will be occupied anyway.”

“I’ll see they don’t leave. I can’t very well plead a headache, even if I have a real one. What’s the matter? Are you afraid?”

“No, of course not,” Charlotte replied indignantly. “I don’t want it to be Eudora, for Thomas’s sake, and I don’t want it to be Justine, because I like her.”

“I don’t want it to be anybody,” Emily agreed. “Because I think Ainsley Greville was a complete bounder. But wanting has nothing to do with it.”

“I know that! I’ll find the slippers during luncheon.”

When Pitt had left her, Grade’s brief moment of feeling better vanished. There was only one good thing about it. She was quite sure the “maid” she had seen was not Doll Evans. She had not been tall enough for Doll, she was sure of that now. And she did not think Doll would take anyone’s shoes, but if she had worn slippers with heels like that, she would have been even taller. Only now did she realize how afraid she had been that Doll had gone into the bathroom and hit Greville over the head and then pulled him under the water. She had certainly had provocation. Gracie had no sympathy with Ainsley Greville at all. Anyone who could do that to a girl, and to his own child, deserved a lot of pain in return. It was just a pity so many other people had to suffer as well. But maybe nobody ever suffered without taking other people with them.

She could not keep Finn from her mind. His pain engulfed her. Disillusion was one of the hardest things to bear. If he had been so wrong about the murder of Neassa Doyle and what he believed of his own people, then what else had he been wrong about? What else was lies? If they could murder their own sister, who and what were they? What was the cause they were really fighting for? If Finn had given so much of his emotional loyalty to them, how could he cope with it if they were unworthy of him, or of anyone? How much of it all was lies?

He must be asking himself that now. He would be terribly alone and confused. In one brief quarter hour or so, she had robbed him of his lifetime’s beliefs, belonging to his people, loyalties, angers, all that he thought he was. She should not have done that. Some truths should be told gently, maybe even little by little.

She had no urgent jobs. Charlotte’s clothes were all in excellent repair. And Charlotte certainly did not want Gracie to sit and talk to her, read to her, which was sometimes a real lady’s maid’s job. Charlotte always had more to do than she had time for anyway. But then her life was not like that of a lady. Gracie would find it terrible to look after real gentry after the excitement of being with the Pitts. How did people like Gwen and Doll bear the sameness of it?

She should go and find Finn and make up her quarrel with him. He would need all the friendship she could offer now. And she wanted to apologize. She had acted without thinking hard enough.

The decision was made. She left the ironing room and went to look for him.

He was not in any of the places where he would normally be carrying out his duties. She did not like to ask for him. It was bad enough to imagine people knew how she felt. She was painfully self-conscious. She knew how observant she was of other people’s behavior. There was rather a lot to be said for working with only a casual woman who came in to do the “heavy,” as she did at home. One had a great deal more privacy, even if there was less company, and most of the time less day-to-day interest in others. All told, it was better.

After three quarters of an hour searching, inside and out, there was only one place left, his bedroom. She had never been there, of course. But perhaps on this extraordinary occasion it would be the best place. Even if she were caught, Charlotte would not dismiss her for such a thing when Gracie explained to her why she had gone there. And McGinley couldn’t dismiss Finn because he was dead anyway, poor creature. The worst thing that could happen would be the others whispering and laughing. And even that would be better than leaving Finn to suffer his loss and disillusion without telling him she was sorry.

She looked very carefully to see there was no one around before she ran up the first staircase. The regular Ashworth Hall servants had the rooms nearest the stairhead; the senior ones had the best, naturally. The footmen, bootboy and the like had the smaller ones, further away. Visiting valets and other servants were another floor up again, right under the roof.

But which was Finn’s room? Think! Everything in the servants’ hall went by order of precedence. The servants went in to dinner, sat down, were served, even served the sweet, in order of the importance of their masters. That would make Mr. Wheeler the most senior up here. He belonged to Mr. Greville, the chairman of this miserable conference. Who was next? Be quick! Mustn’t get caught up here. No one was going to believe she was stupid enough to be lost.

Mr. Doyle and Mr. O’Day. That meant Finn and Mr. Moynihan’s valet would be further away, then probably Tellman. The thought of running into Tellman by mistake was enough to knot up her stomach so tight she could hardly breathe!

Maybe it was not worth it after all?

Come on! Don’t be a coward! Take a chance. Try one. Don’t just stand here like one of the pieces of statuary in the garden! Knock!

There was no answer.

She tried the next one, her hands shaking.

There was a moment’s silence, then footsteps.

Her heart was beating so loudly it seemed to pound in her ears.

The door opened. It was Finn.

Thank heavens! Now, what was she going to say?

“I’m sorry!” she burst out.

“Gracie!” He looked startled, and momentarily confused, uncertain what to say or do.

“I’m sorry I told you about Chinnery,” she explained. If she did not say it now she might lose her courage. “I shouldn’t oughter said it out like that. Perhaps maybe I shouldn’t oughter said it at all. One lie don’t make the ’ole cause wrong.”

He stared at her, his dark eyes wide and puzzled.

There was nothing more she could say. She could not deny the truth, and he had no business to expect that. Perhaps it was not such a good idea to have come. But he did look so miserable, surely there was something she could do? Love had to be worth something?

He smiled very slowly.

“You’d better come in.” He stood aside. “If they catch you up here you’ll be in trouble.”

She hesitated only a moment. They had not said all there was to say between them yet. And he was right. Anyone else could possibly go up there at this time in the afternoon. If she were caught it would be very embarrassing. She stepped past him into the room. It was simple, like her own, a place made comfortable for a short time, almost warm enough, a bed with sheets and blankets, a wooden chair, cotton curtains at the garret window, a washstand with a jug and basin, a small cupboard for coats and trousers, a three-drawer chest for underclothes and anything else which might fold. There was a knotted rag mat on the floor. There was a small desk against the wall to the right and a second wooden chair in front of it. There was a paper on the desk now, with writing like a short letter, and beside it an envelope, an open book, a leather satchel, some blue paper and a heap of candles.

He stood still, looking at her.

“I don’t care what anyone says the Doyle brothers did, or what it looks like,” he said a little stiffly. “Perhaps they were wrong when they said it was Chinnery, but the spirit is true. The hunger and the tragedy is real.” He faced her as if she were denying that, his eyes bright and hard, his chin raised a little, jaw tight.

She must be patient. She must remember how hurt he was. It was easy for her. No one had broken her dreams about her people, the ones she most admired and cared for, the people who defined who she was and what she had given her time and care to.

She took a deep breath.

“Course,” she agreed. “I spoke ’asty if I said diff’rent.”

He relaxed a trifle.

She must be careful she did not give so much away he thought she was weak, or disloyal to her own. He would not admire that, and she would not do it anyway. It was very painful to care so much about someone who was on the other side of such a division of beliefs, of honor, of loyalties which could not now be changed. There were too many debts, too many shared experiences, losses to be comforted and borne together, wept over. How were Mr. Moynihan and Mrs. McGinley ever going to manage?

“You don’t understand at all,” he said thoughtfully. “You can’t, and that isn’t your fault. You’d have to be Irish to have seen it, the suffering and the injustice.”

“Everybody suffers, one way or another,” she said reasonably. “It in’t just the Irish wot gets cold and ’ungry, or scared, or lonely, or wot gets put out on the street, or locked in gaol for summink they din’t do, or couldn’t ’elp doin’. It ’appens to all sorts. Sometimes even English gents gets ’ung for summink wot they din’t do.”

He regarded her with open disbelief.

“Course they do!” she said urgently. “I work for a policeman. I know fings wot you don’t. You in’t got the Ole world’s lot o’ sufferin’ all to yerself, yer know.”

His face darkened.

“Not that yer in’t right ter fight for fings better!” she went on quickly. “Or that it in’t important that Ireland be free ter look arter itself any way it wants. But wot about folk like Mr. O’Day and Mr. Moynihan? They got ter be done fair ter as well. Yer wouldn’t want it unfair, would yer?”

“Irish freedom is not unfair,” he said with an effort to control the anger in his voice. “Gracie, listen to me!” He sat down on the edge of the bed and pointed to the chair for her to sit, which she did. “You can’t understand in a week, or in a year, all the stealing of land, the killing of people that has gone on in Ireland over the centuries, or why the hatred runs so deep.” He shook his head, his face pinched and tense. “I can’t tell it to you. You would need to see it to believe people could treat other living, breathing beings that way, people who are their own kind, who hunger and shiver like they do, who work and sleep and love their children the same, who have the same dreams and fears for the future. It’s inhuman but it happened for hundreds of years, and it’s still happening.” He leaned further forward, his eyes brilliant, his voice urgent and angry. “We’ve got to put a stop to it, for all time, whatever it costs. All the past cries out to us not just to think of ourselves, but to think of those who are children now, or who are to be our children in the future.”

She said nothing, staring at him.

“Listen, Gracie!” His hand trembled with emotion. “Nothing precious is bought without a price. If we care enough, we must be prepared to pay!”

“O’ course,” she said quietly. But his words troubled her the instant after she had agreed with them.

He was going on, not seeing the hesitation in her face.

“History can be cruel, Gracie.” He was smiling at her now, some of the shadows gone from his eyes. “We have to have the courage of our beliefs, and sometimes that can be very difficult, but great changes are not made by cowards.”

Privately she thought that sometimes they were made by men without consciences, but she did not say so.

“Thank you for coming,” he said warmly. “I didn’t like quarreling with you.” He held out his hand.

She put hers out and his fingers closed over it, strong and gentle. He pulled her towards him and she yielded willingly. Very softly he kissed her lips, then let her go. She sat back feeling a peace and happiness settle inside her. The argument was not over. She still thought he was wrong in some of his ideas, but the feeling was right, and other things would be dealt with later. Caring was what mattered. She smiled back at him, letting her fingers slip from his and sitting back on her chair. She put her hand on the table to steady herself and glanced sideways as she accidentally moved the blue paper and the candles.

“Don’t touch that!” Finn started forward, his face tight and hard, his body stiff.

She froze, staring at him. She had never seen him like this before, such anger in him, and something else, uglier and more alien. She had touched two of the candles. They had felt different from each other. One was waxy, like any candle she was used to. The other was vaguely sticky, not the same.

“Leave it alone,” he said between his teeth.

“Sorry,” she said shakily. “I didn’t mean no ’arm.”

“No … no, of course not.” He seemed to be struggling for words, driven by a consurning emotion that he fought against—and lost. “It … you just … you shouldn’t …”

A prickle of horror ran through her. Maybe it was not a candle, as she had assumed. She had seen no wick in it. Could that be what dynamite was like?

She looked at his face and knew with a sick misery that she was right. Were it just a candle, her seeing it, touching it, would never have made them suddenly strangers.

She folded her arms, unconsciously hiding her hands and the fact that she was trembling.

He was still watching her. He must have seen the change in her face. Did he guess the fearful thought that beat in her mind?

“Gracie?”

“Yes!” She had answered too quickly, she knew it the moment the word was out of her mouth. She saw it in his eyes. Finn had had the materials for the bomb which had exploded in the study and killed Lorcan McGinley, his own master. How could he be part of such a betrayal? Had he meant to kill him all the time, and not Mr. Radley at all?

She had stood up without realizing it.

“I gotta go,” she said, her voice almost choking her. She gulped and swallowed air. She scrambled towards the door and only remembered to stop and turn around to face him just as she touched the handle. She must explain herself, her flight. Anything but the truth. “If anyone come ’ere an’ finds me, we’ll both be in trouble,” she blurted. “I only wanted to say I were sorry. I shouldn’t ’a spoke.”

“Gracie …” He stood up too and moved towards her.

She forced herself to smile. It must have been sickly. She knew it was false, and he must know it too. But she had to get out … now … this minute. Her mind was in chaos. She could not believe it, it was too horrible. There must be another answer, but she could not stay there to ask him.

She pulled the door open, her hands shaking, and almost tripped over and fell, banging against the jamb as she went out.

“Gracie!” He came after her.

She fled without looking back, clattering down the steps to the main men’s landing, then down again to the corridor, and almost bumped into Doll.

“Sorry,” she gasped. “Didn’t mean ter tread on yer.”

“Gracie! You all right?” Doll asked anxiously. “You look awful.”

“Got an ’eadache,” Gracie said, putting her hand up as if in pain. She heard footsteps behind her. It must be Finn. But he would not come in here, not with Doll. “I’ll just go an’ get a … a bit o’ lavender oil, or summink. A cup o’ tea, p’raps.”

“I’ll get you one,” Doll offered immediately. “No wonder you’ve got a headache, with all that’s going on. Come with me, I’ll look after you.” She would not take a denial.

Gracie accepted, though she had no choice short of an argument, and her head was in too much fever of thought to master any reasoning. Obediently she followed Doll along to the pantry where the kettle was, and the small hob. She saw no one in the corridor. She sat down in the chair while Doll fussed over her.

What had Finn done? How had he gotten the dynamite? Had he made the bomb himself? Hadn’t Pitt proved he was not there? He would have thought of that, he thought of everything. And Finn could not have killed Mr. Greville. Mr. O’Day had been watching or listening to him all the time.

Doll was making tea. The kettle was singing.

She must think properly, she must have this straight in her mind. Her head was throbbing like a drum. Finn must be helping someone. It made most sense if it was Mr. Doyle. He was on the same side. Finn must be only pretending to be on Mr. McGinley’s side.

“Gracie?”

She did not hear Doll’s voice. There must be some other explanation. Finn was not the kind of person to want something so violent and so cruel. Someone far more wicked was using him, telling him these false stories about people like Neassa Doyle, Drystan O’Day, and getting him to do terrible things without understanding what the end of it would be.

“Gracie?”

She looked up. Doll was standing in front of her with a cup of tea in her hand, her face creased with worry.

“Thank you.” She took it gingerly. It was very hot and it smelled like daisies.

“It’s chamomile,” Doll said. “It’s good for headaches and feeling upset. You really do look poorly. Now, you better go and lie down for a while. I’ll look after Mrs. Pitt for you, if she needs anything, if you like?”

Gracie forced herself to smile. “It’s all right, thank yer, I’ll be good in a minute or two. It’s just … all this … all the ’ating people, gets yer down. Yer don’t know ’oo yer can trust or Oo’s secretly plannin’ summink Orrible.”

“I know.” Doll sat down on the other chair, a cup of tea in her hands. “I think maybe we shouldn’t trust anyone, ’cepting maybe your Mr. Pitt.”

Gracie nodded, but in her mind she made the decision not to tell Pitt yet what she thought she had seen in Finn’s room. Perhaps she was wrong. She did not really know anything about dynamite. Maybe she had only imagined the look on Finn’s face.

She sipped the tea slowly. It was too hot, but it was rather nice, and gradually she began to feel a little better.

But for the rest of the afternoon she could not get the fear out of her mind. Should she tell Pitt after all? Maybe he should be the one to decide if it was dynamite, or whether Finn knew what he was doing or was being used by someone else. After all, Finn had seemed as shocked as anyone by Mr. McGinley’s death. Gracie knew that. She had seen his face. Surely if he knew that the bomb in the study would go off, he would not have stood so close to the door that he was caught by the blast when it exploded?

It all made no sense.

She was in the laundry rinsing petticoats when she looked up and saw Finn in the doorway. There was no one else around just at the moment. Gwen had been and gone, the laundry maids were at tea. She had chosen the time on purpose, not wanting to have to talk to anyone. Now she ached for there to be someone else there, anyone at all.

“Gracie!” He took a step forward; his face was dark, his eyes troubled. “We have to talk about things ….”

“This isn’t the place,” she said quietly, gulping, realizing with a kind of sick misery that she was actually afraid of him. It was not just that she did not want to face the truth, or hear him try to explain with what might be lies, she was actually physically afraid. “Someone might come in.” She heard her voice, high-pitched, almost a squeak. “Them other girls is only ’avin’ tea. They’ll be back any second now.”

“No they won’t,” he said levelly, coming further towards her. “They only went five minutes ago, and they’ll take half an hour easy, longer if they don’t have much work waiting for them.” He glanced around and saw a few items of personal linen, a little repairing, no sheets, no towels. They had all been done earlier, and it was a windy day. Everything was blown nearly dry and brought in and hung on the rails. The room smelled of clean cotton.

“Yeah, they will,” she lied, holding on to the wet petticoat and wringing it as hard as she was able, as if she could somehow use it to protect herself.

He was coming closer. There was a curious expression in his face, as if he hated what he was doing but could find no way of avoiding it.

She backed away from the tub, still holding the petticoat in her hands.

“Gracie …” he said reasonably. “Stop …”

“It in’t the place,” she said again, still moving backwards. The petticoat was wrung hard. Maybe it would have been better wet?

“I only want to talk to you,” he said earnestly.

She edged around the wooden tubs towards the farther door, past the copper boilers, still warm.

He was still corning towards her.

She picked up the big wooden pole the laundry maids used to stir the sheets.

“Gracie!” He looked hurt, as if she had struck him already.

It was ridiculous! She should have pretended she had seen nothing and conducted herself with some dignity. What did she imagine? That he was going to strangle her there in the laundry room?

Yes, she did! Why not? Mr. Greville had been drowned in his own bath, and Mr. Radley would have been blown up sitting at his desk in his study if Mr. McGinley hadn’t been blown up first!

She threw the pole at him, then turned and fled, her feet clattering on the stone floor, her skirts flying, tangling around her legs, slowing her down. He must be behind her, chasing her. She could hear him, hear his feet, hear his voice calling out behind her. What would he do if he caught her? He was angry now, and hurt. She could hear that too.

She had never known she could run so fast. Her feet were sliding over the linoleum of the passageway. She barged around a corner, lurching against the wall, regained her balance with difficulty, arms flailing, and cannoned straight into someone. She let out a shriek of terror.

“Hey now! What’s the matter with you? Anyone’d think the devil himself was behind you!” It was a man’s voice, an Irish voice. He was holding on to her.

She looked up. Her heart almost stopped. It was Mr. Doyle. He had hold of her wrists and he was smiling.

She swung the wet petticoat hard and caught him across the side of the face, then kicked him as hard as she could on the shins.

He let go of her with a gasp of pain and astonishment.

She snatched her arms away and fled, charging through the green baize door into the hallway, leaving the door swinging on its hinges.

A footman looked at her in amazement.

“You all right, miss?” he said with a frown.

Grace was still holding the wet petticoat. Her cap had gone and she must be scarlet in the face.

“Yeah, perfickly,” she said with as much dignity as possible. “Thank yer, Albert.” She took a deep breath and decided to go upstairs to Charlotte’s room. It was probably the only place where she was safe.