Ashworth Hall

1

PITT STARED DOWN at the body of the man lying on the stones of the alley. It was a gray October dusk. A few yards away on Oxford Street the carriages and hansoms were whirling by, wheels hissing on the wet road, horses’ hooves clattering. The lamps were already lit, pale moons in the gathering darkness.

The constable shone his lantern on the dead face.

“ ’E’s one o’ ours, sir,” he said with tight anger straining his voice. “Least ’e used ter be. I know’d ’im. That’s why I sent for you personal, Mr. Pitt. ’E went orff ter summink special. Dunno wot. But ’e were a good man, Denbigh were. I’d swear ter that.”

Pitt bent down to look more closely. The dead man—his name was Denbigh, according to the constable—looked to be about thirty and was fair skinned, dark haired. Death had not marred his features. He looked only slightly surprised.

Pitt took the lantern and shone it slowly over the rest of him. He was dressed in very ordinary cheap fabric trousers, plain cotton collarless shirt and poorly cut jacket. He could have been a laborer or factory worker, or even a young man come in from the country looking for employment. He was a little thin, but his hands were clean, his nails well cut.

Pitt wondered if he had a wife and children, parents, someone who was going to grieve for him with the deep, hurting pain of love, more than the respect this constable beside him felt.

“What station was he from?” he asked.

“Battersea, sir. That’s w’ere I knew ’im. ’E weren’t never in Bow Street, which is w’y you don’t know ’im, sir. But this in’t no ordinary murder. ’E’s bin shot, an’ street robbers don’ carry guns. They uses knives or a garrote.”

“Yes, I know that.” Pitt looked through the dead man’s pockets gently, his fingers searching. He found only a handkerchief, clean and mended carefully on one corner, and two shillings and nine-pence ha’penny in change. There were no letters or papers to identify the body.

“You’re sure this is Denbigh?”

“Yes sir, I’m sure. I know ’im quite well. Only for a short time, but I remember that mark wot ’e got on one ear. Unusual, that is. I remember people’s ears. Yer can make a lot of things look different, if yer wants ter pass unnoticed, but almost everyone forgets their ears stays the same. Only thing yer can do is get ’air wot ’ides ’em. I wish as I could say as it wasn’t, but that’s Denbigh, poor soul.”

Pitt straightened up. “Then you were right to call me, Constable. The murder of a policeman, even one off duty, is a very serious thing. We’ll start as soon as the surgeon comes and takes the body. I doubt you’ll find any witnesses, but try everyone. Try again tomorrow at the same time. People may pass regularly on their way home. Try the street traders, cab drivers, try the nearest public houses, and of course all the buildings around with a window onto the alley, any part of it.”

“Yes sir!”

“And you’ve no idea who Denbigh was working for now?”

“No sir, but I reckon as it were still some department o’ the police, or the gov’ment.”

“Then I think I had better find out.” Pitt rammed his hands into his pockets. He was cold standing still. The chill of the place, islanded in death as it was, only yards from the rattle and bustle of traffic, seeped into his bones.

The mortuary wagon pulled up at the end of the alley and turned awkwardly to come down, the horses whinnying and swinging shy at the smell of blood and fear in the air.

“And you’d better search the alley for anything that might be of meaning,” Pitt added. “I don’t suppose the gun is here, but it’s possible. Did the bullet go right through him?”

“Yes sir, looks like it.”

“Then look and see if you can find it. Then at least we’d know if he was shot here or brought here after he was dead.”

“Yes sir. Immediately, sir.” The constable’s voice was still harsh with anger and hurt. It was all too close, too very real.

“Denbigh.” Assistant Commissioner Cornwallis looked very unhappy. His strong features made him appear particularly bleak with his overlong nose and wide mouth. “Yes, he was still on the force. I can’t tell you precisely what he was doing, because I don’t know, but he was involved with the Irish Problem. As you know, there are a great many organizations fighting for Irish independence. The Fenians are only one of them, perhaps the most infamous. Many of them are violent. Denbigh was an Irishman. He’d worked his way into one of the most secret of these brotherhoods, but he was killed before he could tell us what he’d learned, at least more than the sort of thing we already know or take for granted.”

Pitt said nothing.

Cornwallis’s mouth tightened. “This is more than an ordinary murder, Pitt. Work on this one yourself, and use your best men. I would dearly like to find whoever did this. He was a good man, and a brave one.”

“Yes sir, of course I will.”

But four days later, with the investigation progressing only slowly, Pitt was visited in his office by Cornwallis again. He brought with him Ainsley Greville, a minister from the Home Office.

“You see, Inspector Pitt, it is of the utmost importance it should have every appearance of being a perfectly ordinary late-autumn country house party. Nothing that can be helped should detract from that, which is why we have come especially to you.” Ainsley Greville smiled with considerable charm. He was not a handsome man, but he had great distinction. He was tall with slightly receding, wavy hair, and a long, rather narrow face and regular features. It was his bearing and the intelligence in his eyes which made him unusual.

Pitt stared back at him, still without understanding.

Cornwallis leaned forward in his chair, his face grave. He had been in the position only a short time, but Pitt knew him well enough to realize he was uncomfortable in the role he was being required to play. He was an ex-naval captain, and the reasonings of politics were strange to him. He preferred ways far more direct, but he, like Greville, was answerable to the Home Office, and he had been given no alternative.

“There really is hope of some degree of success,” he said earnestly. “We must do everything we can to assist. And you are in the ideal position.”

“I am fully involved with the Denbigh case,” Pitt replied. He had no intention of handing it over to anyone else, regardless of this new issue.

Greville smiled. “I personally would appreciate your assistance, Superintendent, for reasons which I shall explain.” He pursed his lips slightly. “And which I regret profoundly. But if we can move even a single step forward in this matter, the whole of Her Majesty’s government will be in your debt.”

Pitt thought he was overstating the case.

As if he had read Pitt’s thoughts, Greville shook his head slightly. “The conference is to sound out opinions on certain reforms in legislation concerning land laws in Ireland, a further Catholic emancipation. Now perhaps you perceive both the importance of what we hope to achieve and the necessity for secrecy?”

Pitt did. It was most unpleasantly clear. The Irish Question, as it had been known, had plagued successive governments since the time of Elizabeth I. It had brought down more than one. The great William Ewart Gladstone himself had fallen on the issue of Home Rule only four years before, in 1886. Still, the murder of Denbigh was of more urgency to him, and certainly more suited to his skills.

“Yes. I see,” he replied with a chill. “But—”

“Not entirely,” Greville cut across him. “No doubt you appreciate that every effort to struggle with our most intractable domestic problem should be made discreetly. We don’t wish to trumpet our failure abroad. Let us wait and see if it succeeds, and to what degree, before we choose what to tell the world.” His face darkened a little, a shadow of anxiety in his eyes which he could not conceal. “There is another reason, Superintendent. Obviously the Irish are aware of the conference. It would hardly be of any purpose if they did not attend, and I shall personally inform you of all I know which is relevant regarding those who will be present. But we are not certain how far the information has gone. There are circles beyond circles, betrayals, secret loyalties—the whole society is riddled with them. We have done the best we can, but we still cannot trust entirely.”

His expression became even bleaker, and his mouth pulled tight at the corners. “We had placed a man within one of the secret societies, hoping to learn the source of their information.” He let out his breath slowly. “He was murdered.”

Pitt felt the coldness settle inside him.

“I believe you are investigating the case.” Greville looked very steadily in Pitt’s eyes. “James Denbigh. A good man.”

Pitt said nothing.

“And I have also received threats to my life, and one attempt, some three weeks ago now, but nonetheless most unpleasant,” Greville continued. He spoke quite lightly, but Pitt could see the tension in his body. His long, lean hands were stiff where they lay, one on his knee, the other on the arm of his chair. He concealed it well, but Pitt understood fear.

“I see.” This time he did. “So you wish a discreet police presence.”

“Very discreet,” Greville agreed. “The conference is to be held at Ashworth Hall ….” He saw Pitt stiffen. “Precisely,” he said with a flicker of appreciation. “The country home of your wife’s sister, sometime Viscountess Ashworth, now Mrs. Jack Radley. Mr. Radley is one of our brighter young members of Parliament and will be a most excellent asset in the discussions. And Mrs. Radley, of course, will be the ideal hostess. It will not be unnatural for you and your wife to attend also, being family members.”

It would be most unnatural. Emily Ellison had married well above herself in Lord Ashworth. Her sister, Charlotte, had horrified genteel society by marrying as far below. Young ladies in good families did not marry policemen. Pitt spoke well. He was the son of a gamekeeper on a large country estate, and Sir Arthur Desmond, the owner of the estate, had seen fit to educate him with his own son, to give Matthew a companion and someone against whom to measure himself. But Pitt was not a gentleman. Greville must know that, in spite of Pitt’s promotion … surely?

Pitt must not allow himself to imagine Greville mistook him for one of his own station just because he sat behind this elegant desk with its green leather inlay. His predecessor, Micah Drummond, had been a gentleman, ex-army. Cornwallis most certainly was also, if perhaps of a lesser standing. He had risen through merit on active service. Did Greville think Pitt of the same mold? It was a flattering thought … but a delusion. He wanted Pitt in order to protect his conference without it being apparent.

“And you believe this threat to you is in connection with your work with the Irish Conference?” Pitt said aloud.

“I know it,” Greville replied, watching Pitt closely. “There are many factors and individuals who would not wish us to succeed. That is surely clear enough in Denbigh’s murder?”

“You are threatened by letter?” Pitt asked.

“Yes, from time to time.” Greville shrugged very slightly, a gesture of dismissal. Giving it words seemed to have left him less isolated. He relaxed a little. “One expects a certain amount of opposition, even threats. Usually they are of no consequence at all. Had there not been an actual attempt, I should have ignored them as someone simply airing their feelings in a particularly distasteful manner, if not uncommon. The Irish Problem, as you must know, is one of a violent nature.”

That was an understatement of phenomenal proportions. It was impossible to estimate the number of people who had died in battles, riots, famine and murder in a greater or lesser way connected with the problem of Irish history. Pitt was fairly familiar with the Murphy riots in the north of England, where a rabid Protestant had traveled around the countryside stirring up fanatical anti-Catholic feeling which had ended in looting, fires, the destruction of whole streets of houses, and several deaths.

“You had better take someone thoroughly reliable with you,” Cornwallis said gravely. “Naturally we will have men around the hall and the village, posing as gamekeepers or farm laborers and so on. But you should have someone inside also.”

“Another guest?” Pitt said in surprise.

Cornwallis smiled bleakly. “A servant. It is quite usual when going to a country house party to take two or three of your own servants. We shall simply send one of our best men as your valet. Who would you suggest—Tellman? I know you do not particularly like him, but he is intelligent, observant and not without physical courage, if it should be needed. Please God, it will not.”

Pitt would have preferred someone else be sent to Ash worth Hall, but he realized that by virtue of his relationship to the Radleys he was uniquely suited. However, he could at least leave Tellman, his best man, in charge of the Denbigh investigation. He did not actually dislike Tellman, not now that he knew him rather better, but he thought Tellman still disliked him. Tellman had made no secret of the fact that he resented Pitt’s promotion. Pitt was from the ranks, no better than the others. He should not aspire to ape his superiors, let alone try to be one. Positions like that previously held by Micah Drummond were for gentlemen. Rank was the only acceptable qualification for authority. Ambition was not, and Tellman thought that Pitt was ambitious.

He was mistaken. Pitt would have remained where he was and been perfectly happy had he not a family who deserved of him the best he could provide. But that was none of Tellman’s concern.

“I cannot imagine Tellman acquiescing to being a valet,” he said to Cornwallis. “Even for a week! Least of all to me … Can I tell him about Denbigh?”

A very powerful humor flashed in Cornwallis’s dark eyes, but he kept it from his mouth.

“Not yet. I am sure when Mr. Greville explains to him the importance of your mission he will be happy to do it to the best of his ability. You will have to have patience with his inexperience as a valet.”

Pitt forbore from replying.

“Who are the guests to be?” he asked instead.

Greville leaned back in his chair again and crossed his legs. He did not need to ask if Pitt had accepted the task. Pitt had no choice.

“In order to keep the appearance of a perfectly ordinary weekend, my wife will accompany me, as would be natural on a social occasion,” he began. “As perhaps you are aware, the factions in Irish politics are not simply Catholic and Protestant, although those are the two principal divisions. There are always class divisions also, between those who own land and those who do not.”

He moved very slightly in a gesture of resignation and regret. “That used to be directly according to religion. For decades all Catholics were banned from owning property; they could only rent, and as you may be aware, some of the landlords exercised their power in the most brutal fashion. Others, of course, were the very opposite. Many bankrupted themselves trying to take care of their dependents during the potato famine in the forties. But memory is subject to great distortion, even without the added twists of Nationalist propaganda and folklore perpetuated in story and song.”

Pitt was on the edge of interrupting. He only wished to know who was expected, how many people he would have to consider.

But Greville did not permit anyone to override him when he was in command of the situation.

“And all points of view have their moderates and their radicals who at times can hate each other even more than they hate the opposition,” he went on. “And those whose families have been part of the Protestant Ascendancy for generations, and have convinced themselves it is the will of God, can be harder to move in their opinions than any old-fashioned martyr, believe me. I think some of them would welcome a den of lions, and even a good stake to be burned at.”

Pitt could hear the exasperation in his voice, and caught a momentary glimpse of the years of frustration of the would-be peacemaker. He felt a surge of sympathy towards Greville which surprised him.

“There are four principal negotiators,” Greville continued. “Two Catholic and two Protestant. Their particular points of view do not need to interest you, at least at this juncture, and I think not at all. There is the very moderate Catholic Padraig Doyle. He has fought in the cause of Catholic emancipation and land reform for many years. But he is a respected figure; not, so far as we know, associated with any form of violence. He is my brother-in-law, in fact. But I would prefer that the other participants did not know that at this stage. They might consider me unduly partisan, which I am not.”

Pitt waited without interruption.

Cornwallis made his fingers into a steeple and listened attentively, although presumably he was already aware of all that Greville was saying.

“He will come alone,” Greville resumed. “The other Catholic representative is Lorcan McGinley, a younger and very different kind of man. He can be charming when he chooses, but lives in a state of permanent anger. He lost family in the potato famine, and land to the Protestant Ascendancy. He is quite openly an admirer of people like Wolfe Tone and Daniel O’Connell. He is for a free and independent Ireland under Catholic rule, and God knows what would happen to the Protestants then.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know myself how close his ties are to Rome. The dangers of reciprocal persecution of Protestants might be very real indeed, or equally it might be a great deal more extreme in talk than in fact. This is one of the things we need to find out in this conference. The last thing we want is civil war, and I assure you, Superintendent, it is not an impossibility.”

Pitt was chilled. He had enough schoolroom memory of what the English civil war was accounted to have been, the death and bitterness which took generations to heal. Ideological war had a brutality unlike any other.

“McGinley will bring his wife,” Greville went on. “I know very little about her, except that she is apparently a Nationalist poet. Therefore we may presume a romantic, one of those highly dangerous people who create stories of love and betrayal, heroic battles and splendid deaths that never happened, but they do it so well, and set it to music, that it becomes legend and people believe it.”

His face pinched with anger and distaste—and a shadow of frustration. “I’ve seen a whole roomful of grown men weeping over the death of a man who never lived and leaving the place swearing vengeance on his killers. Try to tell them the whole thing is an invention and they’d lynch you for blasphemy. You’d be trying to deny Ireland its history!” There was bitterness in his voice and a sharp downward curl to his lips.

“Then Mrs. McGinley is a dangerous woman,” Pitt agreed.

“Iona O’Leary,” Greville said quietly. “Oh yes, indeed. And her husband’s passion stems from just such stories as those she creates, although I’m not sure if either of them knows the truth anymore. There’s so much emotion twined through it I’m not sure that anyone does, and so much tragedy and very real injustices.”

“And McGinley has no prejudice against violence?” Cornwallis asked.

“None at all,” Greville agreed. “Except its possible failure. He is willing to live or die for his principles, as long as they provide the freedom he wants. I have no idea if he knows what sort of a country they will produce. I doubt he has thought so far.”

“The Protestants?” Pitt asked.

“Fergal Moynihan,” Greville answered. “Just as extreme. His father was one of the hellfire Protestant preachers, and Fergal has inherited the old man’s conviction that Catholicism is the work of the devil and priests are all leeches and seducers, if not actual cannibals as well.”

“Another Murphy,” Pitt said dryly.

“Of the same breed.” Greville nodded. “A little more sophisticated, at least outwardly, but the hatred is the same, and the unshifting belief.”

“Is he coming alone?” Pitt enquired.

“No, he is bringing his sister, Miss Kezia Moynihan.”

“So possibly she is of the same persuasion?”

“Very much so. I have never met her, but I am told, by men whose opinions I trust, that she is a very competent politician, in her own way. Had she been a man, she might have served her people most effectively. As it is, it is unfortunate she is not married, or she might be the intelligence behind some useful man. But she is close to her brother, and might well be a practical influence on him.”

“Hopeful,” Cornwallis observed, but his voice had no lift to it, and his face, with its long nose and wide mouth, held little light. He was a man of average height, of slender build but with broad, square shoulders. He was prematurely completely bald, but it suited him so naturally one realized it only with surprise.

Greville did not reply.

“The last representative is Carson O’Day,” he finished. “He is from a very distinguished Protestant landowning family and probably the most liberal and reasonable of them all. I think if Padraig Doyle and O’Day can reach some compromise, the others may be able to be persuaded at least to listen.”

“Four men and two women, apart from yourself and Mrs. Greville and Mr. and Mrs. Radley,” Pitt said thoughtfully.

“And yourself and your wife, Mr. Pitt,” Greville added. Of course Charlotte would go. There could never have been any question about it. Still, Pitt felt a lightning bolt of alarm at the thought of what danger, or sheer chaos, Charlotte could get herself into. The trouble she might cause with Emily to assist her brought a word of protest to his lips.

“And of course everyone’s servants,” Greville went on inexorably, ignoring him. “I imagine each person will bring at least one indoor servant—possibly more—and a coachman, groom or footman.”

Pitt could see it assuming nightmare proportions.

“That would be a small army!” he exclaimed. “You will have to make arrangements for them to come by train, and have them met by Mr. Radley’s carriage at the station. A valet for each man and a maid for each woman will be the maximum we can watch or protect.”

Greville hesitated, but the reasoning was overwhelming.

“Very well. I will arrange it. But you will come, with your own ‘valet’?”

There was no point in hesitation. He had no choice.

“Yes, Mr. Greville. But if I am to be of any service to you, I must ask you to take any advice I may give you regarding your safety.”

Greville smiled, a trifle tight-lipped.

“Within the bounds of fulfilling my duty, Mr. Pitt. I could remain at home with a constable at my entrance and be perfectly safe, and accomplish nothing at all. I shall weigh the danger against the advantage, and act accordingly.”

“You mentioned an attempt on your life, sir,” Pitt said quickly, seeing Greville about to rise. “What happened?”

“I was driving from my home to the railway station,” Greville recounted, keeping his voice deliberately very level, as though the matter were of no more than casual importance. “The road was through open countryside for the first mile, then a wooded stretch of about two miles before another similar distance through farmland to the village. It was during the drive where the road is concealed by trees that another very much heavier coach came out of a side turning and drew behind me at close to a gallop. I told my coachman to hasten to a place where he could get off the road safely to let it pass, but it quite quickly became apparent that the other driver had no intention of slowing down, let alone remaining behind me.”

Pitt noticed that Greville was sitting more rigidly as he recalled the event. In spite of his effort at calm, his shoulders had stiffened and his hand was no longer at ease on his knee. Pitt remembered the body of Denbigh in the London alley, and knew Greville had every cause to be afraid.

“My driver had moved to the left of the road,” Greville went on, “at some danger, since it was heavily rutted from recent bad weather, and reined in the horses to little more than a walk. However, the other vehicle came by still at a hectic pace, but instead of swerving to avoid us and swinging wide, the driver quite deliberately steered so that he crashed into the side of us and all but tipped us over. We broke a wheel, and one of the horses was injured, fortunately not critically. A neighbor passed by a few moments afterwards and took me to the village, while my coachman cared for the injured animal and I sent assistance back to him.”

He swallowed with slight difficulty, as if his mouth were dry.

“But had no other vehicle chanced to pass that way at that precise time, I do not know what would have happened. The other coach simply kept going, increasing speed again and disappearing.”

“Did you discover who they were?” Pitt asked.

“No,” Greville said flatly, a frown between his brows. “I had enquiries made, naturally, but no one else saw the men. They did not go on to the village. They must have turned off somewhere within the wood. I saw the driver’s face as he passed. He turned towards me. He had his animals under perfect control. He intended to push us off the road. I shall not forget the look in his eyes easily.”

“And no one else saw this coach before or afterwards, to assist in identifying it?” Pitt pressed, although he had no hope it would be of use. It was simply a matter of showing Greville he took him seriously. “It was not hired from a local stable, or even stolen from someone nearby, a farm or a large house?”

“No,” Greville answered. “We were unable to learn anything of use. Tinkers and traders of one sort or another come and go along the roads. One coach without a coat of arms looks much like another.”

“Would not a tinker or trader have a cart?” Pitt asked.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“But this was a coach, closed in, with a driver on a box?”

“Yes … yes, it was.”

“Anyone inside?”

“Not that I saw.”

“And the horses were at a gallop?”

“Yes.”

“Then they were good horses, and fresh?”

“Yes,” Greville said, his eyes on Pitt’s face. “I see what you mean. They had not come far. We should have pursued the matter further. We might have found out whose they were, and who owned or bred them for that occasion.” His lips tightened. “It is too late now. But if anything further should happen, it will be in your hands, Superintendent.” He rose to his feet. “Thank you, Commissioner. I am much in your debt also. I realize I have given you little notice, and you have accommodated me excellently.”

Pitt and Cornwallis both rose also and watched as Greville inclined his head, walked straight-backed to the door and left.

Cornwallis turned to Pitt.

“I’m sorry,” he said before Pitt could speak. “I only heard this morning myself. And I am sorry you will have to hand over the Denbigh case to someone else, but there is no help for it. You are obviously the only person who can go to Ashworth Hall.”

“I could leave it with Tellman,” Pitt said quickly. “Take someone else as ‘valet.’ There could hardly be anyone worse!”

A shadow of a smile crossed Cornwallis’s face.

“There could hardly be anyone who would dislike it more,” he corrected Pitt. “But he will make an excellent job of it. You need your best man there, someone you know well and who can think for himself in a new situation, adapt, have the personal courage if there should be another threat to Greville’s life. Leave Byrne in charge here. He’s a good, steady man. He won’t let it go.”

“But …” Pitt began again.

“There isn’t time to bring in anyone else,” Cornwallis said gravely. “For political reasons they have conducted it this way. This is a highly delicate time for the Irish situation altogether.” He looked at Pitt steadily to see if he understood. He must have realized that he did not, because he went on after only a moment’s hesitation. “You are aware that Charles Stewart Parnell is the most powerful and unifying leader the Irish have had for many years. He commands respect from almost all sides. There are many who believe that if there can be any lasting peace effected, he is the one man all Ireland will accept as leader.”

Pitt nodded slowly, although already he knew what Cornwallis was going to say. Memory came back like a tide.

Cornwallis looked tight-faced and a trifle confused. Moral matters of a personal nature were subjects he did not enjoy addressing. He was a very private man, not at ease with women because his long years at sea had deprived him of their company. He held women in a greater respect than most warranted, judging them to be both nobler and more innocent than they were, and a great deal less effectual. He believed, as did many men of his age and station, that women were emotionally fragile and free from the appetites that both fired and, at times, degraded men.

Pitt smiled. “The Parnell-O’Shea divorce,” he said for him. “I suppose that is going to be heard after all. That is what you are referring to?”

“Indeed,” Cornwallis agreed with relief. “It is all most distasteful, but apparently they are bent on pursuing it.”

“You mean Captain O’Shea is, I presume?” Pitt said. Captain O’Shea was not a very attractive character. According to the account which was more or less public, he seemed to have connived at his wife’s adultery with Parnell—indeed, to have put her in his way—for O’Shea’s own advancement. Then when Katie O’Shea had left him entirely for Parnell, he had made an open scandal of it by suing for divorce. The matter was to be heard any day now. The effect it would have on Parnell’s parliamentary and political career could only be guessed at.

What it would do to his support in Ireland was also problematical. He was of Anglo-Irish Protestant landowning descent. Mrs. O’Shea was born and raised in England, from a highly cultured family. Her mother had written and published several three-volume novels. She too was Protestant But Captain William O’Shea, looking and sounding like an Englishman, was Irish by lineage and an unostentatious Catholic. The possibilities of passion, betrayal and revenge were endless. The stuff of legend was in the making.

Cornwallis was embarrassed by it. It was something he could not ignore, but it was full of elements of personal weakness and shame which should have been kept decently private. If a man behaved badly in his personal life, he might be ostracized by his peers; one might cease even to recognize him in the street. He might be asked to resign from his clubs, and if he had a whit of decency left he would preempt that necessity by doing it beforehand. But he should not display his weakness to the public gaze.

“Does the O’Shea case have any bearing on the meeting at Ashworth Hall?” Pitt asked, returning them to the purpose at hand.

“Naturally,” Cornwallis replied with a frown of concentration. “If Parnell is publicly vilified and details of his affair with Mrs. O’Shea are disclosed which put him in an unsympathetic light, a betrayer of his host’s hospitality, rather than a hero who fell in love with an unhappy and ill-used wife, then the leadership of the only viable Irish political party will be open to anyone’s ambition. I gather from Greville that both Moynihan and O’Day would not be averse to grasping for it. Actually, O’Day at least is loyal to Parnell. Moynihan is far more intransigent.”

“And the Catholic Nationalists?” Pitt was confused. “Isn’t Parnell a Nationalist too?”

“Yes, of course. No one could lead an Irish majority if he were not. But he is still Protestant. The Catholics are for nationalism, but under different terms, far closer to Rome. That is a great deal of the issue: the dependence upon Rome; the religious freedom; old enmities dating back to William of Orange and the Battle of the Boyne, and God knows what else; unjust land laws; the potato famine and mass emigration. I am not honestly sure how much of it is just remembered hate. According to Greville, another major bone of contention is the Catholic demand for state-funded separate education for Catholic children, as compared to one school for all. I readily admit, I do not understand it. But I accept that the threat of violence is real. Unfortunately, history bears too excellent a record of it in the past.”

Pitt thought again of Denbigh. He would far rather have remained in London to find whoever had killed him than guard politicians at Ashworth Hall.

Cornwallis smiled with ironic appreciation. “There may be no more attempts made,” he said dryly. “I would imagine the danger to the representatives would be greater before they arrive, or after they leave. They are less vulnerable while actually at Ashworth Hall. So is Greville, for that matter. And we will have at least a dozen other men in the village and around the grounds of the hall. But I must oblige Greville, if he feels he is in any danger. If there were to be a political assassination of one of the Irish representatives while at Ashworth Hall because we do not take the matter seriously, then surely I do not need to explain to you the damage it could do? It could set back peace in Ireland by fifty years!”

“Yes sir,” Pitt conceded. “Of course I understand.”

Cornwallis smiled, for the first time real humor lighting his eyes.

“Then you had better go and inform Tellman of his new duties. They are to begin this weekend.”

“This weekend!” Pitt was staggered.

“Yes. I’m sorry. I told you it was short notice. But I am sure you will manage.”

Tellman was a dour man who had grown up in bitter poverty and still expected life to deal him further blows. He was hardworking, aggressive, and would accept nothing he had not worked for. As soon as he saw the look on Pitt’s face he regarded him suspiciously.

“Yes, Mr. Pitt?” He never used “sir” if he could avoid it. It smacked of respect and inferiority.

“Good morning, Tellman,” Pitt replied. He had found Tellman in one corner of the charge room and they were sufficiently private for the confidentiality of what he had to say. There was only one sergeant present and he was concentrating on writing in the ledger. “Mr. Cornwallis has been in. There is a job for you. We are needed for this coming weekend. In the country.”

Tellman raised his eyes. He had a lugubrious face, aquiline-nosed, lantern-jawed, not undistinguished in his own fashion.

“Yes?” he said doubtfully. He knew Pitt far too well to be duped by courtesy. He read the eyes.

“We are to guard the welfare of a politician at a country house party,” Pitt continued.

“Oh yes?” Tellman was on the defensive already. Pitt knew his mind was conjuring pictures of rich men and women living idly on the fat of the land, waited on by people every bit as good as they but placed by society in a dependent position—and kept there by greed. “Politician being got at, is ’e?”

“He’s been threatened,” Pitt agreed quietly. “And there has been at least one attempt.”

Tellman was unimpressed. “Did more than ‘attempt’ to poor Denbigh, didn’t they? Or don’t that matter anymore?”

The room was so quiet Pitt could hear the scribbling of the sergeant’s quill on the paper. It was cold, so the windows were closed against the noises of the street. Beyond the door two men were talking in the passageway, their words inaudible, only the murmur of voices coming through the heavy wood. “This is the same case, only the other end of it,” he said grimly. “The politician concerned is involved in the Irish Problem, and this weekend is an attempt at least to begin a solution. It is extremely important that there be no violence.” He smiled at Tellman’s challenging eyes. “Whatever you think of him personally, if he can bring Ireland a single step closer to peace, he’s worth the effort to preserve.”

The ghost of a smile flickered over Tellman’s face.

“I suppose so,” he said grudgingly. “Why us? Why not local police? They’d be far better at it. Know the area, know the locals. Spot a stranger where we wouldn’t. I’m good at solving murders once they’ve happened, and I want to catch the bastard who killed Denbigh. I dunno a thing about preventing one at political parties. And with respect, Mr. Pitt, neither do you!” He put the “with respect” into his words, but there was not a shred of it in his voice. His next question betrayed his thoughts. “I suppose you agreed to it? Didn’t ask for it, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. And it was an order,” Pitt replied with a smile which was at least half a baring of the teeth. “I have no choice but to obey orders given me by a superior, just as you have now, Tellman.”

This time Tellman’s amusement was real.

“Run out on Denbigh, are we, and going to skulk around some lordship’s house instead, keeping an eye on peddlers and footpads and strangers lurking in the flower beds? A bit beneath the superintendent o’ Bow Street Station, isn’t it … sir?”

“Actually,” Pitt replied, “the party is to be held at my sister-in-law’s country house, Ashworth Hall. I shall be going as a guest. That is why it has to be me. Otherwise I should stay here on the Denbigh case and send someone else.”

Very slowly Tellman looked up and down Pitt’s lanky, untidy figure, his well-tailored jacket pulled out of shape by the number of odd articles stuffed into his pockets, his clean white shirt with tie slightly askew, and his hair curling and overlong.

His face was almost expressionless. “Oh, yes?”

“And you will be going as my valet,” Pitt added.

“What?”

The sergeant dropped his pen and splurted ink all over the page.

“You will be going as my valet,” Pitt repeated, keeping all emotion from his voice.

For an instant Tellman thought he was joking, exercising his rather unreliable sense of humor.

“Don’t you think I need one?” Pitt smiled.

“You need a damn sight more than a valet!” Tellman snapped back, reading his eyes and realizing suddenly that he meant it. “You need a bleedin’ magician!”

Pitt straightened up, squared his shoulders and pulled his lapels roughly level with each other.

“Unfortunately, I shall have to make do with you, which will be a grave social disadvantage. But you might be more use to the politician concerned—at least in saving his life, if not his sartorial standards.”

Tellman glared at him.

Pitt smiled cheerfully. “You will report to my home by seven o’clock on Thursday morning in a plain dark suit.” He glanced down at Tellman’s feet. “And new boots, if those you are wearing are all you have. Bring with you clean linen for six days.”

Tellman stuck out his lean jaw.

“Is that an order?”

Pitt raised his eyebrows very high. “Good heavens, do you think I’d be taking you if it weren’t?”

“When?” Charlotte Pitt said in incredulity when she was told. “When did you say?”

“This coming weekend,” Pitt repeated, looking very slightly abashed.

“That’s impossible!”

They were standing in the parlor of their house in Keppel Street, Bloomsbury, where they had moved after Pitt’s recent promotion. Until this moment, for Charlotte at least, it had been a very ordinary day. This news was astounding. Had he no conception of the amount of preparation necessary for such a weekend? The answer to that was simple. No, of course he hadn’t. Growing up on a country estate had made him familiar with such houses, probably with the number and duties of the staff, and perhaps with the daily routine when there were guests. But it had not given him any knowledge of the number and type of clothes those guests were expected to bring. A lady might wear half a dozen dresses on any given day, and certainly not recognizably the same gown for dinner every evening.

“Who else will be there?” she demanded, staring at him in dismay.

The expression in his face made it obvious he still did not grasp what he was expecting of her.

“Ainsley Greville’s wife, Moynihan’s sister and McGinley’s wife,” he replied. “But Emily is the hostess. All the duties will fall on her. You haven’t any need to worry. You will be there simply to lend me credibility, because you are Emily’s sister, so it will seem natural for us to attend.”

Frustration boiled up inside her. “Oh!” She let out a cry of exasperation. “Thomas! What do you suppose I am going to wear? I have about eight autumn or winter dresses to my name! And most of those are rather practical. How on earth can I beg or borrow ten more between now and Thursday?” Not to mention jewelry, shoes, boots, an evening reticule, a shawl, a hat for walking, dozens of things which, if she did not have them, would instantly make her conspicuously not a guest but a poor relation. Cornwallis’s idea of making the party appear like any other would be defeated before it began.

Then she saw his concern, and his doubt, and instantly she wished she had bitten her tongue before she had spoken. She hated the thought that her blurted words had made him feel as if he should have provided better for her, to keep up with Emily. Occasionally she had longed for the same pretty things, the glamour, the luxury, but at that moment, nothing had been further from her mind.

“I’ll find them!” she said quickly. “I’ll call Great-Aunt Vespasia, and I daresay Emily herself can lend me something. And I’ll visit Mama tomorrow. How many days did you say it was for? Shall I take Gracie? Or shall we have to leave her here to care for Daniel and Jemima? We are not taking the children, are we? Is there any real danger, do you think?”

He still looked a trifle mystified, but the anxiety was clearing from his eyes.

“We need to take Gracie as your maid. Is your mother at home at present?”

Caroline had fairly recently remarried, most unsuitably—to an actor seventeen years her junior. She was extremely happy though she had lost several of her previous friends. She had made numerous new ones and traveled a great deal since Joshua’s profession took him out of London at times.

“Yes,” Charlotte said quickly, and then realized she had not actually spoken to her mother for over a fortnight. “I think so.”

“I don’t think there is any danger,” he said seriously. “But I am not sure. Certainly we shall not take Daniel and Jemima. If your mother cannot care for them, we shall leave them with Emily’s children in her town house. But you can call Aunt Vespasia tonight.”

Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould was Emily’s great-aunt by her first marriage, but she had become ever closer in friendship to both sisters—and also to Pitt, frequently involving herself in those cases which concerned high society, or social issues in which she had a crusading interest. In her youth she had been one of the outstanding beauties of her generation. Now in age she still preserved a timeless elegance and the bearing and dignity of one of England’s great ladies. She also had a tongue she no longer felt the need to curb, because her reputation was beyond damaging, and her spirit accepted no artificial bounds.

“I shall,” Charlotte agreed. “Right away. How many days did you say?”

“You had better prepare for five or six.”

She swept out, her head already whirling with ideas, problems, domestic details, plans and difficulties.

She picked up the telephone and had little trouble in establishing a connection with Vespasia’s house in London. Within three minutes she was talking to Vespasia herself.

“Good evening, Charlotte,” Vespasia said warmly. “How are you? Is all well?”

“Oh yes, thank you, Aunt Vespasia, everything is very well. How are you?”

“Curious,” Vespasia replied, and Charlotte could hear the smile in her voice. She had intended to be tactful and approach her request obliquely. She should have known better. Vespasia read her too well.

“About what?” she said airily.

“I don’t know,” Vespasia replied. “But once we have dispensed with the trivia of courtesy, no doubt you will tell me.”

Charlotte hesitated only a moment. “Thomas has a case,” she admitted, “which requires that we both spend several days in a country house.” She did not specify which one, not because she did not trust Vespasia absolutely, but she was never totally sure if the telephone operator could overhear any of the conversation.

“I see,” Vespasia replied. “And you would like a little counsel on your wardrobe?”

“I am afraid I would like a great deal!”

“Very well, my dear. I shall consider the matter carefully, and you may call upon me tomorrow morning at eleven.”

“Thank you, Aunt Vespasia,” Charlotte said sincerely.

“Not at all. I am finding society very tedious at the moment. Everything seems to be repeating itself. People are making the same disastrous alliances they always have, and observers are making the same pointless and unhelpful observations about it. I should welcome a diversion.”

“I shall be there,” Charlotte promised cheerfully.

Charlotte then telephoned her mother, who was delighted to have the children. She hung up the receiver and went upstairs briskly to start sorting out petticoats, stockings, camisoles—and of course there was the whole matter of what Pitt would take. He must look appropriate as well. That was most important.

“Gracie!” she called as soon as she reached the landing. “Grade!” She would have to explain at least the travel plans to Gracie, and what would be expected of her, if not yet anything of the reason. There were hundreds of things to be done. The children’s clothes must be packed, and the house be made ready to leave.

“Yes, ma’am?” Gracie appeared from the playroom, where she had been tidying up after the children had gone to bed. She was twenty now, but still looked like a child herself. She was so small Charlotte had to take up her dresses, but at least she had filled out a little bit and did not look so much like the waif she had been when she first came to them at thirteen. But the biggest change in her was her self-assurance. She could now read and write, and she had actually been of marked and specific assistance in more than one case. She had the most interesting master and mistress on Keppel Street, possibly in Bloomsbury, and she was satisfyingly aware of it.

“Gracie, we are all going away this coming weekend. Daniel and Jemima will go to my mother’s in Cater Street. Mrs. Standish will feed the cats. The rest of us are going to the country. You are coming with me as my maid.”

Grade’s eyes widened. This was a role she was untrained for. It was socially several stations above household, and she had begun life as a maid of all work. She had never lacked courage, but this was daunting, to say the least.

“I shall tell you what to do,” Charlotte assured her. Then, seeing the alarm in her eyes, “It is one of the master’s cases,” she added.

“Oh.” Gracie stood quite still. “I see. Then we in’t got no choice, ’as we!” She lifted her chin a trifle. “We’d best be gettin’ ready, then.”