Ashworth Hall

4

PITT SWUNG AROUND, barring the way with his body. “Take her and look after her,” he said to Charlotte, who was now on the landing. It was obvious he was referring to Doll, who still stood swaying a little, gasping for breath. He met Charlotte’s eyes. “Greville is dead.”

She hesitated only a moment, her face tightening, then she walked forward and took the unresisting Doll and, putting her arm around her, guided her away.

There were now several other people gathered, newly awoken, anxious, but still with yesterday’s embarrassment high in their minds.

“What is it now?” Padraig Doyle moved past Piers, who was standing, startled and disheveled, next to the banister. A step behind him, Eudora looked worried but not frightened.

Fergal Moynihan was coming out of his room, opposite Pitt’s, blinking, his hair poking in spikes as if he were newly awakened. He left the door wide open, and Iona was plainly not present.

“What is it?” Padraig repeated, looking from Pitt to Charlotte and back again.

“I am afraid there has been an accident,” Pitt said quietly. There was no point in supposing it was anything else yet. “There is nothing to be done to help at the moment.”

“You mean … it is fatal?” Padraig looked only momentarily startled. He was not a man to panic or lose control of his composure. “Ainsley?”

“I am afraid so.” As he spoke, Pitt was reaching for the bathroom door to close it.

“I see.” Padraig turned to Eudora, a great gentleness in him. He put his arm around her shoulders, and the very tenderness of it alarmed her.

“What is it?” she demanded. “Padraig?” She pulled away, turning to face him.

“Ainsley,” he answered, looking at her very directly. “There’s nothing you can do. Come away. I’ll take you back to your room and sit with you.”

“Ainsley?” For a moment it was as if she had not understood.

“Yes. He’s dead, sweetheart. You must be strong.”

Carson O’Day was coming along the passage from behind them, Iona from the other direction, wearing a beautiful midnight-blue robe. It billowed out behind her with her movement, like clouds of night.

Fergal looked startled, perhaps by Padraig’s choice of words.

“Mr. Doyle …” Pitt began.

Padraig misunderstood him. “She’s my sister,” he explained.

“I was going to ask you to help Mrs. Greville to her room”—Pitt shook his head a little—“and ask Mrs. Radley’s maid to go to her. I don’t think her own maid is in any state to help. And would you ask someone, Tellman, to come up here, please?” He looked around. Emily had arrived, her face harassed as she envisioned some new social breach. Jack was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had risen early again.

Emily looked at Pitt, and knew that this time it was no simple love affair. She took a deep breath and deliberately steadied herself.

“I’m sorry, but Ainsley Greville is dead,” Pitt said to everyone. “There is nothing that can be done to help him. It would be best if you all returned to your rooms and dressed as usual. We cannot be certain yet exactly what happened or what steps we should take next. Have someone find Mr. Radley and inform him.”

Padraig had already gone with Eudora.

“I’ll do that,” O’Day offered. He looked pale but in command of himself. “It’s a tragedy that it should happen now. He was a brilliant man. Our best hope for conciliation.” With a sigh he swiveled and went downstairs, tying his robe around his waist, his slippers soundless on the wooden stairs.

Piers came forward. “Can I help?” he offered, his voice husky but almost steady. His eyes were very wide and he shook a little, as if he had not yet fully understood. “I’ve almost completed my medical studies. It would be a lot quicker and more discreet than sending for someone from the village.” He gave a little cough. “Then I would like to go and be with my mother. Padraig’s marvelous, but I think I should … and Justine. She will feel dreadful when she hears. Perhaps I should be the one to tell her—”

“Later,” Pitt cut across him. “Now we need a doctor to look at your father.”

Piers was jolted. “Yes,” he agreed, his face tightening. “Yes, of course.”

Pitt pushed the door open and stepped back for Piers to follow him in. On the landing, people were moving away. Tellman should be there soon.

As soon as Piers was in, Pitt closed the door and watched as the young man walked over to the bath, which was full almost to the brim, and to the naked corpse of his father. He stood close behind him, in case the sight should cause him to feel faint. The strongest will is not always proof against sheer physical shock. However many bodies he had seen in the course of his studies, there would be no other like this.

Piers did sway for a moment or two, but he leaned forward and put his outstretched hands on the bath to steady himself. Slowly he knelt down and touched the dead face, then the arms and hands.

Pitt watched. He had never got used to it either, even when it seemed peaceful like this. He had known Ainsley Greville when he was alive, only hours before. He had been a man of unusual vigor and intelligence, a man of powerful personality. This shell lying half below the bathwater was so familiarly him, and yet not him at all. In a sense it was already no one. The will and intellect were somewhere else.

Pitt looked down at Piers’s hands. They were strong and slender. They could become a surgeon’s hands. They moved quite professionally, instinctively now, testing movement, temperature, exploring for injury without disturbing the body. How much effort did it cost him to be so composed? Whether he had loved him deeply or not, whether they had been close, the man was still his father, a unique relationship.

Pitt stared at the scene to mark in his memory every line, every aspect and detail of what he saw. There was no discoloration in the water.

Where the devil was Tellman?

“He’s been dead since last night,” Piers said, rising to his feet. “I suppose that’s really rather obvious. The bathwater is cold. I assume it must have been hot when he got into it. It will have delayed the onset of rigor, but I don’t suppose that is of any importance.” He straightened up and took a step backward. His face was very white and he seemed to be finding it difficult to catch his breath. “It is easy enough to see what must have happened. There is a very bad blow at the back of his head. I can feel the depression in the skull. He must have slipped when he was climbing in the bath, or maybe trying to get out.” His eyes deliberately avoided the bath. “Soap perhaps. I don’t see a tablet, but there is some dissolved in the water. Maybe you don’t need much? He struck his head and lost consciousness. People do drown in baths. It happens too often.”

“Thank you.” Pitt watched him closely. That calm might hide emotion almost beyond bearing, might give way to shock at any moment.

“You’ll have to get someone else for the certificate, of course,” Piers hurried on. “They wouldn’t accept it from me, even if I were not his … his son.” He swallowed. “I’m … I’m not qualified yet.”

“I understand.” Pitt was about to add more when there was a sharp rap on the door. He opened it and Tellman came in, looked hastily at Piers, then at the body in the bath. He turned back to Pitt.

“May I go to Justine?” Piers asked, frowning slightly at Tellman. He did not understand the intrusion of a manservant.

“Certainly,” Pitt answered. “And your mother, of course. Do I understand that Mr. Doyle is her brother?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I imagine he will help you in the arrangements that will need to be made, but I would be obliged if you could let me know before you contact anyone outside Ashworth Hall.”

“Why?”

“Your father was a government minister in a sensitive position, especially this weekend. The Home Office should be informed officially before anyone else.”

“Oh … yes, of course. I didn’t think ….” If he wondered why Pitt should consider such a thing, he did not say so. Probably his emotions were far too occupied for such trivialities.

As soon as he had gone Tellman bent forward and looked more closely at the body.

“Natural or accident?” he asked, although there was skepticism in his voice. “Odd, isn’t it, after all our fears and precautions.”

Pitt took the towel off the rail and spread it over the middle of the body in some sort of modesty.

“It looks as if he slipped and knocked himself unconscious on the back of the bath,” he said thoughtfully.

“What, then, drowned?” Tellman regarded the body with puckered brow. “I suppose so. Seems odd, first when he was threatened.” He walked over to the small window and examined it. It was about two feet square, the opening half that. They were twenty feet above the ground.

Pitt shook his head.

Tellman abandoned the idea. He returned to the bath.

“Any harm if we move him?” he asked.

“We’re going to have to,” Pitt conceded. “And long before we fetch any doctor from the village. I’ll have to call Cornwallis, but I want to know as much as I can before I do.”

Tellman snorted. “So we don’t have to play games anymore?”

Pitt looked at him with an ironic smile. “Let’s be discreet a little longer. Hold him up and I’ll have a closer look at the wound at the back of his head.”

“Suspicious?” Tellman glanced at him quickly.

“Careful,” Pitt replied. “Hold him up. Take his arms and pull him forward a bit, if you can. He’s very stiff still. I just want to see the wound.”

Tellman obliged, somewhat awkwardly, getting his cuffs wet to his considerable annoyance.

Pitt looked closely, then felt the wet hair very gently with the tips of his fingers. As Piers had said, the indentation of the crushed bone was easy to find, a long ridge at the very base of the skull, rounded, quite wide.

“Right?” Tellman asked.

Pitt felt it again. It was straight, absolutely regular, about the width of the rim of the back of the bath.

“What’s the matter?” Tellman said impatiently. “He’s very awkward to hold! He’s as stiff as a poker, and slipping. There must be soap in this water!”

“There often is in baths,” Pitt agreed. “But that suggests Piers was right, and he was about to get out when he slipped rather than getting in.”

“What does it matter?” Tellman was getting wetter, and the water was cold.

“It probably doesn’t,” Pitt conceded. “Just makes it more likely, that’s all. The soap, I mean. Slippery.”

“Should wash at a basin, like anyone else!” Tellman snapped. “Can’t drown yourself in a basin.”

“It’s not the right shape,” Pitt said very quietly.

Tellman was about to make a tart reply, then looked more closely at Pitt’s face. “What isn’t?”

“This wound. The back edge of the bath curves around. Look at it! The wound is straight.”

Tellman stared at him. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t think he hit himself on the rim of the bath.”

“What then?”

Pitt turned and looked around the room slowly. It was quite large, about ten feet by fourteen feet. The bath was in the center, opposite the door. There were two separate rails for towels, a washstand with basin and beside it a large, blue-and-white china ewer. Another smaller table held a vase with flowers and two or three ornaments. A screen against drafts was folded and stood near the door. Apparently Greville had not felt the need for it. There was a large mirror on the wall. On the opposite side of the room was a marble-topped table with brushes and jars of bath salts and oils.

“One of those?” Pitt suggested. “Perhaps that pink one. It looks about the right size.” He stood up and went over to it, leaving Tellman still holding the corpse. He looked at the jar closely without touching it. As far as he could see, there was no mark on it, no smudges of soap to indicate it had been picked up. He put his hand around it experimentally. It was quite easy to grasp. It was also heavy. It would have made an efficient weapon, if wielded with a swing and any weight behind it.

He took it back to the end of the bath and held it carefully against the back of Greville’s head. It was the right width, and it was straight.

“Murder?” Tellman said dourly, pursing his lips.

“I think so. Let him down slowly, and I’ll see if there is any way the edge of the bath could fit the wound.”

Tellman obliged awkwardly, his shoulders hunched to take the weight, his sleeves getting even wetter. “Well?” he repeated sharply.

“No,” Pitt replied. “He didn’t fall onto the edge of the bath. It was either this jar or one very like it”

“Anything on it?” Tellman asked. “Any blood? Any hair? He’s got a good head of hair, poor devil. Not that I liked him!”

Pitt turned the jar over very slowly, pulling a wry face at Tellman’s remark.

“No,” he said at last. “But this is a bathroom, it wouldn’t be very difficult to wipe it clean. And no one would find soap or water odd on ajar of bath salts. Plenty of people must reach for them with wet hands.”

Tellman let the body go and it fell back, stiff and clumsy, sliding under the water again, feet sticking out.

“Someone came in an’ hit him from behind?” Tellman thought aloud.

“He’s facing the door,” Pitt pointed out. “So whoever it was, he was not afraid. He didn’t cry out, and he allowed the person to pick up the jar of salts and walk behind him.”

Tellman gave a sharp little bark of derision.

“Can’t imagine it! What kind of man lets someone walk in on him in the bath? Isn’t decent, apart from dangerous.”

“Gentlemen aren’t as prudish as you are,” Pitt said with bitter amusement. He saw the look of incredulity in Tellman’s face, and the beginning of total confusion. “Who do you think brings the hot water to add to the bath when it gets cold?” he went on.

“I don’t know! A valet? A footman? You’re saying one of the servants killed him?”

“I think as often as not it’s the maids who carry the water or the hot towels,” Pitt replied. Then, seeing Tellman’s expression, he went on, “Not for me. I am as big a prude as you are. I’d sooner sit in cold water. But Greville may have been used to being waited on by the maids.”

“Some maidservant came in with a bucket of hot water and hit him over the head with ajar of salts?” Tellman said in patent disbelief.

“People don’t look at the faces of servants, Tellman,” Pitt said seriously. “One servant looks pretty much like another, especially in livery, or in a plain black dress, white apron and white lace cap. In some houses the junior servants are even trained to turn their faces to the wall if one of the family passes by.”

Tellman was filled with too much anger to speak. His eyes were dark. His lips compressed.

“It could have been anyone, dressed in livery,” Pitt concluded.

“You mean an assassin from outside?” Tellman’s chin jerked up.

“I don’t know. We’ll need to ask a lot of questions. At the time Greville had his bath, this house should have been locked up. And the outside staff were watching the grounds.”

“I’ll speak to all of them,” Tellman promised. “You going to tell them who we are?”

“Yes.” He had no choice.

“And it’s murder?” Tellman went on.

“Yes.”

Tellman squared his shoulders.

“We’ll have to take the body out of here,” Pitt went on. “There’ll be an icehouse. Have one of the valets help you carry him there.”

When Pitt opened the door Jack was standing outside waiting. His handsome face, with its wide eyes and extraordinary lashes, looked unusually grave, and there were signs of strain around his mouth.

“I’ll have to call the Home Office,” he said grimly, nodding to Tellman as he passed them and went down the stairs. “And ask them what they want to do. I suppose it’s the end of the conference and any chance of success.” His voice dropped. “It’s damnable! What a wretched mischance. It seems as if the devil is really in the Irish Problem. Just when there was a real hope.” He looked at Pitt intently. “Greville was brilliant, you know. He had Doyle and O’Day, at least, talking to each other about issues that matter. There was hope!”

“I’m sorry, Jack, it’s worse than that.” Unconsciously, Pitt put his hand on Jack’s arm. “It was not an accident. He was murdered.”

“What?” Jack stared at him as if he refused to comprehend what he had said.

“It was murder,” Pitt repeated quietly. “Meant to look like an accident. I think most people would have taken it for such, and I presume whoever did it did not expect to have police on the scene so quickly, if at all.”

“What … what happened?”

“Someone came in and hit him on the back of the head, possibly with ajar of bath salts, then pushed him under the water. It looked very much as if he had slipped getting out and struck himself on the rim of the bath.”

“Are you sure he didn’t?” Jack pressed. “Absolutely sure? How can you know it wasn’t that?”

“Because in the wound the edge of the bone is straight, and the bath is curved.”

“Is that proof?” Jack persisted. “Does the wound have to fit the instrument exactly?”

“No, but it can’t be as wrong as this. A curved instrument is going to make a curved indentation when it strikes hard enough to break the bone.”

“Who? One of us in this house?” He faced the worst immediately.

“I don’t know. Tellman’s gone to get help to move the body to the icehouse, then he’s going to see if it was possible that anyone came in from outside, but it isn’t likely.”

“I can’t see Greville letting anyone he didn’t know into the bathroom without raising an alarm,” Jack said grimly. “In fact, what reason would anyone give for interrupting a man in his bath?”

“Well, if I wanted to get in without causing any alarm, I’d dress as a servant,” Pitt thought as he spoke. “Carry a pitcher of hot water or one or two towels.”

“Of course. So it could be anyone.”

“Yes.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Get dressed, then call Cornwallis, then, I imagine, begin an investigation. Where is the telephone?”

“In the library. I’d better go and see Emily.” His face was pinched with anxiety, and there was bitter laughter in his eyes. “God in heaven, I thought yesterday that this house party was as bad as it could be.”

Pitt had no answer, but went back to his bedroom. Charlotte was not there. She must be comforting Kezia still, or perhaps helping Emily. He shaved hurriedly and put on his clothes, then went downstairs to the library and placed a call to London to Assistant Commissioner Cornwallis’s office.

“Pitt?” Cornwallis’s clear, very individual voice sounded worried already.

“Yes sir.” Pitt hesitated only a moment, dreading having to say it. It was such a mark of failure. “I am afraid the worst has happened ….”

There was silence at the far end of the line. Then he heard Cornwallis breathing.

“Greville?”

“Yes sir. In the bath, last night. Didn’t find out until this morning.”

“In the bath!”

“Yes.”

“Accident?” He said it as if he were willing it to be true. “His heart?”

“No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“You mean someone caused it? Do you know who?”

“No. At this point it could be almost anyone.”

“I see.” He hesitated. “What have you done so far?”

“Ascertained the medical facts, as far as his son can tell me—”

“Whose son?”

“Greville’s son. He arrived unexpectedly the day before yesterday to tell his parents he is betrothed. She came yesterday.”

“How tragic,” Cornwallis said with feeling. “Poor young man. I assume he is a doctor?”

“Almost qualified. Down from Cambridge. There was really very little to say.”

“Time of death. Cause?”

“Time fixed by the fact he was in the bath. Cause, being struck by a rounded, blunt instrument, probably a jar of bath salts, then held under the water until he drowned.”

“You found him under the water?”

“Yes.”

“I see.”

Again there was silence.

“Sir?”

“Yes,” Cornwallis said with resolve. “Take charge of the investigation, Pitt. You have Tellman. If you can, do it without letting the news out for the time being. The Parnell-O’Shea divorce is coming to a climax. If they find against Parnell, it could ruin his career. The Irish Nationalists will be without a leader—until they find a new one. It could very well be one of the men now at Ashworth Hall. What have you told people?”

“Nothing yet, but I shall have to.”

“Where’s Radley?”

“With Emily.”

“Have him telephone me. You can’t proceed with the conference for the moment, out of decency, if nothing else. But neither must we abandon it if there is any way whatever of continuing.”

“Without Greville?” Pitt was startled.

“I’ll speak to the Home Office. Don’t let anyone leave.”

“Of course not.”

“You won’t need force to keep them there; to leave would be diplomatic suicide. But if you need assistance from the village police, you have the authority to require it. Have Radley call me in half an hour.”

“Yes sir.” He hung up the receiver feeling hollow and extraordinarily alone. His sole purpose there had been to keep Greville safe. He could hardly have failed more absolutely. And he had no idea who had killed him. He would have been better to have stayed in London and looked for Denbigh’s murderer.

He left the library and went back upstairs. Charlotte was nowhere in sight. Perhaps she was still helping Emily keep some sort of order among the guests, who were all aware of Greville’s death but not that it was anything other than a tragic accident … except perhaps one of them.

He saw the young Irish valet of Lorcan McGinley closing a bedroom door, a coat over his arm and a pair of boots in his hand. He looked very pale.

“Do you know where Mr. Greville’s man is?” Pitt asked him.

“Yes sir, I passed him not two minutes ago, making a cup o’ tea, sir. Two doors back that way.” He pointed.

Pitt thanked him and followed his directions to the small room where there was a kettle and gas ring for making tea. The man attending to it was in his middle forties, grave and ordinarily very much in command of events. His dark hair was smoothed off his brow and his cravat was perfectly tied, but he looked distinctly ill. He started when he heard Pitt’s voice and nearly spilled the jug of hot water he was holding.

“I’m sorry,” Pitt apologized. “What is your name?”

“Wheeler, sir. Can I get you something?”

“I’m a superintendent of police, Wheeler. The assistant commissioner has asked me to investigate Mr. Greville’s death.”

Wheeler set the jug down before he could spill it. His hands were shaking. He licked his lips.

“Yes … sir?”

“What time did you draw Mr. Greville’s bath yesterday evening?” Pitt asked.

“Ten twenty-five, sir.”

“And did Mr. Greville go to it immediately, do you know?”

“Yes sir, within a few moments. He has a great dislike … had a great dislike for a cold bath, and water cools off very fast in a big bathroom.”

“You saw him?”

Wheeler frowned. “Yes sir. Is there some problem, sir? I understood he slipped as he was getting out.” He clenched and unclenched his hands. “I should have been there. I blame myself. He didn’t ask for assistance, but if I’d been there, he’d never have slipped.”

Pitt hesitated only a moment. There was nothing to be gained by pretending.

“He didn’t slip. He was struck by someone.”

Wheeler stared at him as if he did not understand.

“How long did Mr. Greville usually spend in a bath before either getting out or sending for more hot water?” Pitt asked him.

“What? You mean … deliberate? Why?” Wheeler’s voice rose. “Who’d do such a fearful thing? One o’ them dammed Irish!” He struggled for breath as the full realization came to him of what Pitt was saying. “They murdered him! What are you going to do about it? You’re going to arrest them!”

“Not until I know what happened,” Pitt said gently.

“The murdering devils! They tried once before, you know, once that I know of for sure!” Wheeler’s voice was losing control, getting louder.

Pitt put his hand on the man’s arm, holding him hard.

“I’m going to find out who did it, then I shall arrest him,” he promised. “But I need your help. You must keep calm and think very clearly. What you saw and heard may be vital.”

“They should be hanged,” Wheeler said between his teeth.

“I daresay they will be,” Pitt replied with no pleasure. “When we catch them and prove it. How long did Mr. Greville usually spend in a bath before getting out or sending for more water? Did he send for more?”

Wheeler controlled himself with an effort.

“No, sir. It wasn’t his habit, especially if he took a bath in the evening. Not more than fifteen minutes. He wasn’t a man who liked to lie and soak, except when he’d been riding, which he didn’t do often. Soak the ache out of his bones if he’d had a hard day’s ride.”

“So there would be roughly a fifteen-minute space of time during which one might find him alone in the bath,” Pitt deduced. “In this instance between approximately twenty-five past ten and twenty to eleven?”

“Yes sir, that’s right.”

“You are sure? How do you know the time so exactly?”

“It’s my job, sir. You can’t look after a gentleman properly if you aren’t organized.”

“But you didn’t notice that he hadn’t come out of the bathroom?”

Wheeler looked profoundly unhappy.

“No sir. It was late and I was tired. I knew Mr. Greville wouldn’t want more water, because he never did, so I went downstairs to clean the boots he’d taken off and brush his coat ready for the morning. Everything else was already laid out for the day.” He stared at Pitt. “When I came back upstairs I was rather later than I expected. I couldn’t find the tray. Someone must have moved it. Happens in a big house full of guests. It was long after the time Mr. Greville would have spent in the bath. I knocked on the bathroom door and there was no answer, and when he wasn’t in his room, I assumed …” He colored faintly. “I assumed he had gone to Mrs. Greville’s room, sir.”

“Not unnatural,” Pitt said with the shadow of a smile. “No one would expect you to pursue it. What time would that have been?”

“About ten minutes to eleven, sir.”

“Who else did you see on the landing or corridor?”

Wheeler thought very hard. Pitt could see his desire to be able to blame someone, but racking his memory did not help him, and he could not bring himself to lie.

“I saw that little maid of Mrs. Pitt’s going along towards the stairs up to the servants’ bedrooms,” he said at last. “And I saw that young valet of Mr. McGinley’s, Hennessey. He was Standing in the doorway of one of the bedrooms along that way.”

He pointed. “I think it was Mr. Moynihan’s room.”

“No one else?”

“Yes, Mr. Doyle said good-night and went to his room. That’s all.”

“Thank you.” Pitt went to look for Jack. He must deliver Cornwallis’s message. Jack would have been busy trying to salvage the goodwill of the conference, and Emily would be coping with the domestic catastrophe of death—the house and the bereavement of one of her guests.

He saw Gracie in the hall, looking pale and wide-eyed. There was fear in the stiff, rather proud angle of her head. Just beyond her he saw the slender figure of McGinley’s valet. Pitt smiled at Gracie, and she forced herself to smile back, as if everything were all right and she knew he could solve it all in the end.

He passed the open dining room door and glanced in. Charlotte was there, standing still as Iona paced back and forth speaking quietly in great urgency.

Charlotte looked at Pitt and very slightly shook her head, then turned back to Iona, taking a step towards her.

Pitt found Jack in his study with a pile of papers. He had barely closed the door when it opened again and Emily came in. She looked flustered, her color was high and her usually beautiful hair was hastily dressed, as if she could not sit still for the maid. From her expression it was obvious Jack had told her that Greville’s death was murder. She was torn between sympathy and fury.

Jack waited for Pitt to speak. “Cornwallis asked me to conduct the investigation,” Pitt began, looking at Jack. “Will you telephone him in about fifteen minutes? He will have spoken to the Home Office by then. We have to keep everybody here ….”

Emily let out a little groan and went over to stand beside Jack.

“I’m sorry,” Pitt apologized. “I know it will be appalling, but I can’t let them go. Unless there was a break-in, and Tellman is looking at that now, then someone already here was responsible.”

“Even if there was a break-in, it could still involve someone here,” Jack said grimly. He put his hand up to Emily’s arm and gripped her. “We have no alternative, my dear, except to do everything we can to discover the truth as quickly as possible. At least Mrs. Greville has her brother and son here to care for her. It could have been worse. And Charlotte will help you with the others.” He turned to Pitt. “I suppose there is no further danger, is there?”

Emily stiffened till she was almost rigid.

Pitt hesitated. There was nothing they could guard against. Frightening them would serve no purpose.

“Certainly not for the moment. And we’ll do all we can to solve it as quickly as possible.”

Emily looked at him with disbelief. “Where can you even start?”

“Well, we know he was killed between twenty-five past ten and twenty to eleven, because of his valet’s evidence—”

“And you believe it?” Jack cut in.

“The man’s been with him nineteen years. But I will have Tellman check. It will be easy enough to know what time the water was taken up for the bath. And he couldn’t stay in it longer than a quarter of an hour before sending for more hot.”

“Why kill him in the bath?” Jack said, pulling a rueful face. “It seems to add indignity to death, poor devil.”

“Best place to be sure of finding him alone.” Emily had gathered her wits from her distress and begun to think. “And pretty defenseless. Anywhere else and he could have a valet with him, or someone catching a moment to put some point to him, or be with Eudora. It is the one place a person is alone, and with the door unlocked so more water could be brought. It makes sense, when you consider it. It wasn’t a break-in, was it, Thomas?” She said it with certainty. “It was someone here who chose their time very well.”

“Do you know where you were?” Pitt asked

“In my own bath,” Jack said with a shiver.

“So you don’t know where anyone else was?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Emily?”

“In my bedroom, with the door closed. After that awful day …” She smiled tightly, possibly thinking of the day before, then the present. “I was tired. I’m sorry, I can’t help either.”

Jack looked up at Pitt.

“Don’t forget to call Cornwallis.” Pitt smiled briefly, then went out again and almost bumped into Tellman. “No break-in,” he said, looking at Tellman’s expression.

“No break-in,” Tellman agreed.

Pitt told him what he had learned from the valet about the time of death.

“Narrows it a bit.” Tellman began to look a little more cheerful. At least he was now engaged in his proper employment, not pretending to be some servant. Pitt could see it in his eyes.

“We’ll leave Mrs. Greville until last, give her a little time to compose herself,” Pitt directed. Questioning the bereaved was one of the worst parts of an investigation. At least this time he did not have to break the news to her. And it was also a political matter, not a personal one, so she should fear no disclosure of ugly relationships and secrets she had not known. There would be no public revelations of dishonor. “See what you can learn from the servants.”

Tellman’s jaw set hard. “I’ll need to tell them who I am!” His look defied Pitt to order him otherwise.

Pitt nodded and Tellman took his leave, moderately satisfied.

Pitt went to find the first of the guests to question.

As he passed the dining room he saw Charlotte was no longer there, nor was Iona.

He went slowly upstairs and knocked on the McGinleys’ door. On hearing Lorcan’s voice, he opened the door and went in. Iona had returned and was standing by the window, apparently much more composed than when he had seen her in the dining room. Lorcan was sitting over a breakfast tray on the small center table. He had eaten quite well, judging by the empty plate.

“What can we do for you, Mr. Pitt?” Lorcan asked, a little more coolly. His thin face, with its very blue eyes, was full of nervous energy. There were hollows at the bridge of his nose and small lines beside his mouth. Pitt had not thought before of the weight of responsibility which must rest on each of the representatives of the sectarian interests, and the burden of criticism they would bear whatever they achieved, or failed to achieve. And now with Greville’s death it was all wasted. It could only be failure and disappointed hopes.

“I am afraid it is very unpleasant news,” he said, looking from one to the other of them. “I am with the—”

“I know Greville is dead.” Lorcan stood up, almost unfolding himself. He was painfully thin. “That is the end of the conference. We’re finished. Another disaster. We should be used to them, but each one still hurts.”

“That is not my decision, Mr. McGinley,” Pitt replied. “Another chairman might be found ….”

“Rubbish! Please don’t patronize me, Mr. Pitt! You cannot just substitute someone else at this point, even if you could find anyone with the courage and the skill of Ainsley Greville.”

“The courage might be hard,” Pitt agreed. “Especially when they know, as they will have to, that Mr. Greville was murdered.”

Iona froze, her eyes wide and suddenly truly afraid.

Lorcan looked up at Pitt slowly, as if trying to think of the right thing to say.

“Who told you that?” he asked. “And who the hell are you to come in here saying such a thing?”

“I’m with the police. And nobody told me, I saw it for myself.”

Lorcan’s eyes did not move from Pitt’s. “Are you … indeed?”

“What are you going to do?” Iona asked him. “Did someone break in after all? I thought there were men around to make sure we were safe. It’s the Protestants. They don’t want us to achieve Home Rule. It’s the same old thing! When they can’t win by reason or the law, they murder us. God knows, the soil of Ireland is steeped in the blood of martyrs—”

“Be quiet,” Lorcan said immediately. “If Mr. Pitt’s a policeman it’s surely a shame he didn’t manage to protect Greville, but since he didn’t, it is not for us to go flinging blame around. Keep a still tongue. At least you can do that much … unless, of course, you know something you should be telling him?” His lip curled. “Your friend Moynihan, for example?” His tone was cruel, sarcastic, but Pitt could hardly blame him for that.

Iona blushed furiously but did not retaliate.

“What time did you retire last night?” Pitt asked.

“I didn’t hear anything,” Lorcan replied.

“No one broke in, Mr. McGinley. Mr. Greville was killed by someone in this house. What time did you retire?”

“About quarter past ten, or close enough.” He looked back at Pitt with a cold, defiant stare. “I didn’t come out of my room again.” He swiveled to look at his wife, waiting for her to answer as well.

“Were you alone?” Pitt pressed, not hoping for any very helpful answer. A man’s wife could not be made to testify against him, and unsubstantiated testimony from her was of no value.

“No,” Lorcan said abruptly. “Hennessey, my manservant, was here some of the time.”

“Do you know when?”

“About quarter past ten until ten minutes to eleven,” Lorcan replied.

“You are very exact?”

“There is a longcase clock on the landing,” Lorcan replied. “I can hear it from in here.”

“That’s a long time for your valet to be here,” Pitt observed. “What was he doing for over half an hour?”

Lorcan looked slightly surprised, but he answered readily enough. “We were talking about a shooting jacket I have. I’m fond of it. He thinks I should have it replaced. We also discussed the relative merits of London and Dublin shirtmakers.”

“I see. Thank you.”

“Does that help?”

“Yes, thank you. Mrs. McGinley?”

“I told you.” She regarded him coldly. “I remained in my room. My maid was with me for a while. She helped me to prepare for the night, and of course put away my gown.”

“Do you know what time she left you?”

“No, I don’t. But if I had seen anything, I should tell you. I didn’t.”

Pitt left the subject. There was no reason now to doubt her. But he would check up on Hennessey. He thanked them and went to see Fergal Moynihan.

He found him alone in the billiard room. He looked extremely unhappy and in a considerable temper.

“Police?” he said angrily when Pitt explained who he was. “I think you might have been a little more candid with us, Superintendent. The deception wasn’t necessary.”

Pitt did not bother to hide a slight smile.

Fergal flushed, but Pitt had the feeling it was more annoyance than embarrassment. He might have been disconcerted at being caught publicly with Iona McGinley, but he was not ashamed of his feelings for her. If anything, he was defensive of them, almost proud. That was part of being wildly in love.

He could account for part of his time between twenty-five past ten and quarter to eleven, but not all of it. He had had opportunity to leave his room unobserved and go as far as Greville’s bathroom.

“But I did not,” he said firmly.

Pitt next found O’Day

He was standing in front of the fire, his hands in his pockets. He did not add any comment as to Pitt’s lack of success, but it was there in the carefully blank expression in his face. “I don’t know how I can assist you. You say it is not an accident? Therefore you are implying that it was murder?”

“Yes, I am afraid so.”

“I see. Well, I have no knowledge as to who killed him, Superintendent. Why is not difficult. The conference seemed to have every chance of genuine success. There are many among the more radical and violent of the Nationalist factions who did not want that.”

“You mean those Mr. Doyle represents, or those Mr. McGinley does?” Pitt asked. “Or do you believe other factions have infiltrated their staff, perhaps? One of them is unknowingly employing a Fenian disguised as a valet?”

“There is no reason why a valet should not also be a Fenian, Superintendent.”

“No, naturally. Why would they wish the conference to fail?”

O’Day smiled. “You are politically naive, Superintendent. Of necessity, any agreement would be a compromise. There are those who would regard even a single concession to the enemy as a betrayal.”

“Then why have they come here?” Pitt asked. “Surely their own supporters would consider them traitors?”

“Quite true,” O’Day conceded with a flicker of appreciation. “But not everyone is precisely what they seem, or what they affect to be. I don’t know who killed Greville, but if I can help you to find out, I shall do everything I can. Although with the conference effectively over, I am not sure how that may be accomplished.” His face was smooth, a little grayer than Pitt had thought in the lamplight, and he looked tired and disappointed, as if all his effort were over, and it had left him drained.

“It is not necessarily over,” Pitt replied. “We have yet to hear from Whitehall.”

O’Day’s smile was bitter. There was a lifetime’s emotion behind it, passionate, complex, unreadable.

“Yes it is, Mr. Pitt. Tell me, when and how was Greville killed? I thought originally he slipped when preparing to get out of the bath. Now you tell me this is not so.”

“He was struck while still in it,” Pitt amended. “And then probably pushed under the water. His valet says he drew the bath at twenty minutes past ten, and Mr. Greville would not have been more than five minutes going to it, at the most. Nor would he have remained in it longer than ten or fifteen minutes without calling for additional hot water, which he was not in the habit of doing. When Wheeler returned upstairs from an errand at quarter to eleven, he knocked on the bathroom door. On receiving no answer, he assumed Mr. Greville had gone to bed. We now know he was dead.”

“I see. Then he was killed between quarter past ten and quarter to eleven.”

“Probably nearer half past ten. There was a certain amount of soap in the water. He had time to wash.”

“I see.” O’Day bit his lip on the ghost of a smile, self-mocking. “Unfortunately, I can account at least for McGinley’s valet, and for McGinley himself, which is irritating. I came along the corridor and saw the valet standing in the doorway talking to McGinley. He was there for at least twenty minutes. I know, because I left my own door open and I heard him. They were discussing shirtmakers. I confess, I listened with a certain interest. I admire McGinley’s linen, but I should dislike him to know it.”

Pitt could not help smiling also. He could see O’Day’s frustration quite plainly. Also, his information bore out what Lorcan had said. At least it reduced the suspects by three, and three who would not willingly protect each other.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “You have been most helpful.”

O’Day grunted and bit his lip.

Kezia was horrified when Pitt told her as they walked across the gravel drive, the damp wind in their faces. It smelled of newly turned earth, wet raked leaves and clippings from the last mowing of the grass. She swung around to face him, the fresh color fading from her cheeks, her eyes bright.

“I suppose you’re sure? You couldn’t be wrong?”

“Not about the wound, Miss Moynihan.”

“You were to begin with! You thought it was an accident then. Who suggested it wasn’t?”

“No one. When I examined it more closely, I saw that the wound could not have been caused by falling and striking the edge of the bath.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“You think murder is impossible?”

She turned away. “No, I just wish it were.”

She could not help. She had been in her bedroom at the time, alone except for her lady’s maid corning and going.

Tellman met him as he was returning to the house.

“Hennessey says he was in McGinley’s doorway talking to him about shirts,” he said tartly. “Saw O’Day in his room also. That puts them out. Wheeler seems to have been where he said. Footman and housemaid both saw him about downstairs, and he couldn’t have got back up again in time to do anything. They confirm the time he took the water up too.”

“What about the other servants?” Pitt walked beside him across the gravel and up the steps to the stone terrace.

Tellman looked resolutely ahead of him, refusing to admire the sweep of the stone balustrade or the broad facade of the house.

“Ladies’ maids were upstairs, of course. Seems there’s not one of the women can get out of their clothes by themselves.”

Pitt smiled. “If you were married, Tellman, you’d know better what is involved, and why it would be exceedingly difficult to do it oneself.”

“Shouldn’t wear clothes you can’t get in and out of,” Tellman responded.

“Is that all?” Pitt opened the door and went through it first, leaving it to swing.

Tellman caught it. “Your Gracie was up there on the landing. Says she saw Moynihan go to his room about ten past ten. Saw Wheeler go downstairs when he said he did. She was coming back with hot water at about half past ten and passed one of the maids carrying towels.”

“Which maid?”

“She didn’t know. Only saw her back. But all the maids are accounted for. None of ’em were absent from their duties. It wasn’t an outsider who killed Greville, and it wasn’t a servant.”

Pitt did not reply. It was what he had supposed—and feared. Now he could no longer put off speaking to Greville’s family. He gave Tellman instructions to continue learning all he could and check the accounts of the valets and maids against each other to see if anything further could be learned or deduced, then went upstairs to find Justine.

She was in the small sitting room which served the guest rooms of the north wing. Piers was close beside her and looked anxious. He started up as soon as Pitt entered, his face full of question.

“I am sorry to intrude,” Pitt began. “But there are certain things I need to ask you.”

“Of course.” Piers started as if to leave. “There is no need to distress Miss Baring with details. I’ll come with you.”

Pitt remained in front of the door, blocking it. “They are not medical details, Mr. Greville, they are just factual observations. And I need to ask Miss Baring as well.”

“Why?” Piers looked at him more closely, sensing something further wrong. “Surely …” He stopped again.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Greville, but your father did not die by accident,” Pitt said quietly. “I am with the police.”

“The police!” Involuntarily Justine started, then put her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I thought—” She stopped, turning to Piers. “I’m so sorry!”

Piers moved closer to her. “I was here to try to protect him,” Pitt went on. “I am afraid I failed. Now I need to know what happened and who was responsible.”

Piers was stunned. “You mean … you mean he was … deliberately killed? But how? He fell against the bath! I saw the wound.”

“You saw what was intended to look like an accident,” Pitt pointed out. He glanced at Justine. She looked very white and still, but she was watching Piers, not Pitt. After that momentary outburst, she showed not the slightest sign of hysterics or faintness.

“You expected … murder?” Piers had difficulty even saying the word. “Then why did he come? Why didn’t you …”

Justine stood up and put her hand on his arm. “One can only do so much, Piers. Mr. Pitt could hardly go into the bathroom with him.” She looked at Pitt. “Did someone break in?”

“No. I’m sorry, it was someone resident in the house. My sergeant has established that. All the windows and doors were locked and there are men regularly watching the outside of the house, night as well as day. The gamekeeper has dogs out.”

“Someone here?” Piers was startled. “You mean one of the guests? You expected this? They are all Irish, I realize that now, but really …” Again he stopped. “Was this a political weekend? Is that what you are saying? And I intruded, without knowing?”

“I would not have phrased it so abruptly, but yes. Where were you at that time, Mr. Greville?”

“In my bedroom. I’m afraid I didn’t hear anything.” It did not occur to him that Pitt could suspect him of involvement. He took his own innocence for granted, and Pitt was inclined to do the same. He thanked them both and went to conduct the last and worst interview.

He knocked on Eudora’s door and Doyle answered it. He looked weary, although it was barely midday. His dark hair was ruffled and his tie was a trifle crooked. “I haven’t called anyone to make arrangements yet,” he said on seeing Pitt. “I shall ask Radley to send for the local doctor. There is no point in calling his own man. The situation is tragically apparent. We’ll send a message to his own vicar, though. He should be buried in the family vault. I’m afraid it seems the end of an endeavor for peace in Ireland, at least for the time being. We must make suitable arrangements for everyone to go home. I’ll accompany my sister.”

“Not yet, Mr. Doyle. I am afraid, although it seemed apparent what had happened, it was not so. It was murder, and Assistant Commissioner Cornwallis has asked me to take charge of the enquiry.”

“What competence have you to decide such a thing?” Doyle said very carefully. “Just who are you, Mr. Pitt?”

“Superintendent of the Bow Street Station,” Pitt replied.

Doyle’s face tightened. “I see. Probably here from the beginning in your official capacity?” He did not make any reference to Pitt’s lack of success, but the knowledge of it was in his eyes and the very slight lift of the corners of his lips.

“Yes. I’m sorry.” Pitt was apologizing for the failure, not his calling.

“I suppose there is no doubt of your facts?”

“No.”

“You said an accident in the beginning. What changed your mind?”

They were still in the doorway. The room beyond was dimmed by half-drawn curtains. Eudora was sitting in one of the large chairs. Now she stood up and came towards them. She looked profoundly shocked. She had the kind of papery paleness and the hollow eyes of someone who has sustained a blow beyond her comprehension.

“What is it?” she asked. Apparently she had overheard none of their conversation. “What has happened now, Padraig?”

He turned to her, ignoring Pitt. “You must be very strong, sweetheart. The news is bad. Mr. Pitt is from the police, sent here to protect us during the conference. He says that Ainsley was murdered after all. It wasn’t an accident as we thought.” He put both hands on her shoulders to steady her. “We have no alternative but to face it. It was always danger, and he knew it. We did not expect it here in Ashworth Hall.” He half turned back to Pitt. “Was there a break-in?”

“No.”

“You sound very sure of that.”

“I am.”

“Then it was one of us?”

“Yes.”

Eudora stared at him with hurt, frightened eyes.

Doyle tightened his grip on her.

“Thank you for doing your duty in informing us,” he said firmly. “If there is anything we can do to help, of course we will, but for the time being Mrs. Greville would like to be alone. I’m sure you understand that?”

“I do,” Pitt agreed without moving. “I wouldn’t disturb her at all if it were not necessary. I am sorry, but no one may leave until we have learned as much as we can and, I hope, proved who is responsible. The sooner that is done, the sooner Mrs. Greville can return to her home and mourn in peace.” He felt acutely sorry for her, but he had no alternative. “This was more than the death of your husband, Mrs. Greville, it is a far-reaching political murder. I cannot extend you the sensitivity I would like to.”

She lifted her head very slightly. Her eyes were full of tears.

“I understand,” she said huskily. “I have always known there was a danger. I suppose I didn’t think it would really happen. I love Ireland, but sometimes I hate it too.”

“And don’t we all,” Doyle said, almost in a whisper. “It’s a hard mistress, but we’ve paid too much to leave her now, and when we were so close!”

“What do you want of me, Mr. Pitt?” Eudora asked.

“When did you last see Mr. Greville?”

She thought for a moment. “I don’t remember. He often reads late. I go to bed quite early. About ten o’clock, I think. But you can ask my maid, Doll, if you like. She might know. She was here when Ainsley came in to say good-night.”

“I will. Thank you. And you, Mr. Doyle?”

“I went to my room, also to read,” Doyle replied. “If you remember, it was not an evening when any of us wished to stay up late. The Moynihan business was most uncomfortable.”

Pitt flashed him a look of agreement. “I would be most grateful if you would not tell anyone outside Ashworth Hall what happened for the time being.”

“If you wish.”

“Was your manservant with you, Mr. Doyle?”

Dry, sad amusement flashed in Doyle’s face. “You suspect me? Yes, he was, part of the time. He left about half past ten. Have you any idea when Ainsley was killed?”

“Between twenty past ten and twenty to eleven.”

“I see. Then no, Mr. Pitt, I cannot account for all that time.”

“Padraig … don’t!” Eudora said desperately. “Don’t say that, even lightly!”

“It’s not lightly, my dear.” He tightened his arm around her again. “I imagine Mr. Pitt is going to be thorough, and that means ruthless, doesn’t it?”

“It means very literal, Mr. Doyle,” Pitt replied. “Very exact.”

“Sure it does. And I didn’t kill Ainsley. We differed over a lot of things, but he was my sister’s husband. Go and look at some of those fierce, judgmental Protestants, Mr. Pitt, full of the anger and vengeance of their God. You’ll find his killer there, never doubting he does God’s work … poor devil! That’s what’s wrong with Ireland—too many people doing the devil’s work in God’s name!”

Emily had an appalling day. She had known from the beginning that there was a possibility of danger to Ainsley Greville, but she had assumed it was remote and would come from outside. And, of course, Pitt and the menservants would deal with it. When Jack had told her Greville was dead, she, like everyone else, had assumed it was accidental.

Her first thought had been for the failure of the conference and what it would mean to Jack’s career. Then immediately she was ashamed of that and thought of the grief of the family, especially his wife. She knew the shock of violent bereavement herself only too well. She thought of what she could do to offer any comfort. But fortunately it seemed Padraig Doyle was Mrs. Greville’s brother, and he was happy to take control. Why had he not been open about that before? The answer was presumably political. Perhaps they thought others might assume Greville would be biased in his brother-in-law’s favor. Or possibly they did not wish everyone to know Eudora was Irish, from the south, and therefore likely to be Catholic, even if not devoutly so. Emily had little patience with such passion over other people’s personal beliefs.

But at least Doyle’s presence relieved her of the immediate need to spare time offering comfort to someone in such shock or distress. Instead she must try to keep some calm and order among the household staff. Whatever she did, in no time everyone would know there had been murder committed in the house, and there would be hysterics, weeping, fainting and quarreling, and inevitably, at least one person would want to give notice and not be allowed to because no one could leave the hall until the investigation was over.

It would be better to tell them herself and at least be given credit for courtesy and honesty. Jack was occupied with the wreckage of the conference, and anyway, the servants were really her responsibility. She had inherited Ashworth Hall and its staff, and the income to run it, from her first husband, and it was held in trust for her son. The staff all treated Jack with respect, but they still looked to her ultimately, from habit.

She went downstairs and told the butler that she would like to speak to the senior staff in the housekeeper’s room immediately. They assembled with due haste and solemnity.

“You all know that Mr. Ainsley Greville died in the bath late yesterday evening.” She did not use any of the common euphemisms for death, as she did when speaking to most people. It would be absurd to say that someone who had been murdered had “passed over” or “gone beyond the veil.”

“Yes, m’lady,” Mrs. Hunnaker said gravely. She still used Emily’s title, even though she no longer possessed it because she had remarried. “Very sad indeed, I’m sure. Will that mean the guests will be leaving?”

“Not yet,” Emily replied. “I am sorry, but I cannot say how much longer they will be with us. It depends on circumstances—and upon Mr. Pitt, to some extent.” She took a deep breath and looked at their polite, attentive faces with a sinking heart. “As most of you know, I daresay, Mr. Pitt is with the police. I am afraid Mr. Greville did not meet his death by accident, as we had first supposed. He was murdered—”

Mrs. Hunnaker blanched and reached for the back of one of the chairs to support herself.

Dilkes gasped, struggled for something to say, and failed to find it.

Jack’s valet shook his head. “That’ll be why Mr. Pitt was asking about where everyone was. And that Tellman, going around looking at all the windows.”

“Nobody never broke in?” the cook said, her voice rising in near panic already. “Gawd ’elp us all!”

“No!” Emily said sharply. “No one broke in.” Then she realized that the alternative was worse, and wished she had not been quite so vehement. “No,” she repeated. “It is a political assassination. It is all to do with the Irish Question. It has nothing to do with us. Mr. Pitt will deal with it. We must just behave as usual—”

“Behave as usual?” the cook said indignantly. “We could all be murdered in our beds! Beggin’ your—”

“Baths,” the housekeeper corrected punctiliously. “And we don’t take baths, Mrs. Williams. We wash in a basin, like most folks. You can’t fall out of a basin.”

“Well, I’m not having Irishmen in my kitchen or our hall!” the cook said. “And that’s flat!”

Emily was not often caught in two minds where servants were concerned. Once let them see you could be manipulated and you could never govern the house again. She had learned that long ago. But if Mrs. Williams refused to cook now, she would be in a desperate situation. Jack’s political career could suffer if his household was considered unreliable. She felt that the fact they had excellent reason would be of no importance whatever.

“They have no occasion to be in your kitchen, Mrs. Williams,” she said after a second’s hesitation. “And you will be in no danger cooking for everyone, as usual. I am sure you would not wish to judge the innocent along with the guilty, if there are any guilty—”

“They’re all guilty of hating each other,” Mrs. Williams said with a gleam in her eye. Her hands were shaking and her body began to quiver. “And the Good Book says that’s as bad as murder.”

“Rubbish,” Emily retorted briskly. “We are English, and we don’t panic because a collection of Irishmen dislike each other. We have a great deal more fortitude than that!”

Mrs. Williams straightened up noticeably.

“We don’t run away from our duty for any reason,” Emily went on, realizing she had said the right thing. “But if you prefer to seat the visiting staff separately, then by all means do so. For the sake of the younger maids who may be very naturally upset,” she added. “Not for you, of course. You will be perfectly all right. But you will have to look after the junior staff and ensure they don’t take fright or behave badly. We have a very important position to maintain.”

“Yes, m’lady,” Mrs. Hunnaker said, raising her chin. “We mustn’t let them Irish think we haven’t the stomach for it.”

“Certainly not,” the butler agreed. “Don’t worry, ma’am, we’ll make sure everything runs as usual.”

But such a task was beyond mortal ability to accomplish. Two of the younger housemaids had hysterics and had to be put to bed, one of them after she had tipped a bucket of water down the front stairs and soaked the hall carpet. One of the junior footmen almost set fire to the library, in absentminded-ness piling more and more coals into the grate. The bootboy got into a fight with Fergal Moynihan’s valet and they both ended up with black eyes, and three dishes were broken in the scullery, and then the scullery maid had hysterics. One of the laundry maids filled the copper too full and boiled it over, and the senior laundry maid flew at her, whereupon the first one gave notice. No one peeled any potatoes or carrots, and the pies for dessert were forgotten and got burnt.

One of the footmen got drunk, tripped over the kitchen cat, and fell over. The cat was furious but unhurt. Mrs. Williams was in a monumental temper, but she did not give notice. And no one at all was interested in luncheon, so the wreckage of the meal was unnoticed upstairs. Emily was the only person who was ever aware of it.

Gracie, Charlotte’s maid, was one sane head amid the domestic chaos, although Emily did observe that every time Lorcan McGinley’s very handsome young valet passed by her, which seemed more often than was necessary, she lost her concentration and became uncharacteristically clumsy. Emily was far too astute not to understand the signs.

And Pitt’s most disobliging assistant, Tellman, was very busy asking everyone a lot of questions and looking as if someone had broken a bad egg.

In the late afternoon Cornwallis telephoned back and asked to speak to Jack.

“What is it?” Emily demanded as soon as he had replaced the receiver on the cradle. “What did you just agree to?”

They were in the library. He had gone there to answer the call, and she had followed him when she knew from Dilkes who was on the other end.

Jack looked very stiff, his eyes wide. He lifted his chin a trifle, as if his collar were suddenly tight on his throat.

“What is it?” Emily repeated, her voice rising.

Jack swallowed. “Cornwallis has said the Home Office would like me to continue the conference,” he replied very quietly, his voice not much more than a whisper. He cleared his throat. “In Greville’s place.”

“You can’t!” Emily said instantly, almost choked with fear for him.

“Thank you.” He looked as if she had hit him. She opened her mouth to tell him not to be absurd. This was no time for childish pride. Greville had just been murdered, less than twenty-four hours ago, here in this house. Jack could be next! Then like a drenching of cold water she realized that he thought she had meant that he was not capable of it, he was not fit to take Greville’s place.

Was that what he feared himself? Had she pushed him too far, out of her own ambition, her expectations of him? Without meaning to, by her admiration for other people, her dreams, had she tacitly asked of him more than he could give? Was he reaching for this to prove himself to her, to please her, to be, in his own way, all he imagined George Ashworth had been? George had had money, title, charm, but no skills. He had not needed them.

Was Jack trying to excel in political life to match the Ashworth family?

And did he feel he had been driven to take on more than he was capable of fulfilling?

And did he really think she also doubted him?

She looked at him, his handsome face which had earned him his place in society, was now grave, his wide eyes fixed on hers.

He did think she doubted him!

“I mean it’s too dangerous!” she said hoarsely. “You must call Cornwallis back and tell him you can’t do it … until Thomas has found out who murdered Greville. They can’t expect you just to pick up where he left it the night he was killed.” She moved towards him. “Jack, don’t they understand what happened here? These people are murderers—or at least one of them is.” She put her hands up to his shoulders.

He took her by the wrists and put her arms down again, still keeping hold of her.

“I know that very well, Emily. I knew it when I accepted. One does not refuse a job because it may be dangerous. What do you think would happen to our country if a general was killed in battle and the next officer in turn refused to take command?”

“You are not in the army!”

“Yes, I am—”

“You’re not! Jack …” She stopped.

“Emily, don’t argue with me,” he said with a firmness she had never heard in his voice before. She knew she could not persuade him, and it frightened her, because she admired him more than she wished to. A certain element of control had slipped away from her. Her emotions were racing. There was a shivering of real fear inside her, and it was a terrible feeling. There was nothing exciting about it at all, just a sickness.

“Thank you,” he said gently. “You will have a great deal to do. This is about the worst house party I expect you will ever attend, let alone have to host. I shall not be able to help you. You will have to rely on Charlotte. I’m sorry.”

She forced herself to smile. She felt guilty. She had not known his courage, and she had thought him unequal to the task. Worse than that, she had allowed him to see it.

“Of course,” she said with far more confidence than she felt. “If you can take over the leadership of the conference, the least I can do is see that the party is … bearable. It can hardly be fun, but we can at least avoid any further social disasters.”

He smiled back at her with a flash of real humor. “With Iona McGinley in Moynihan’s bed, and Greville dead in his bath, unless the cook gives notice, I think we’ve achieved a full house! Unless of course someone decides to cheat at cards.”

“Don’t,” she said hoarsely. “Jack, don’t even whisper it!”

But her brave face did not last far beyond dinner, which she managed with supreme skill. Eudora took it in her room, but everyone else was present, and all behaved with dignity and passably civil conversation. It was afterwards, when she spoke to Pitt in the library, that she lost her composure and all her fear spilled through.

“What have you found out?” she asked sharply.

Pitt looked exhausted and deeply unhappy. His tie was coming undone, his jacket pockets were stuffed with bits of paper and his hair looked as if he had run his fingers through it a dozen times.

“It seems to have been Padraig Doyle, Fergal Moynihan, or one of the women,” he said wearily. “Or his son.”

“Doyle is his brother-in-law!” she exclaimed with disgust. “And it wouldn’t be his son, for heaven’s sake. It’s a political murder, Thomas. It must be Moynihan. Why not McGinley or O’Day?”

“Because they were seen elsewhere at the time.”

“Then it is Moynihan. He’s already been caught in bed with McGinley’s wife. What makes you think he wouldn’t stoop to murder? Arrest him! Then at least Jack will be safe.”

“I can’t arrest him, Emily. There’s no proof he’s guilty ….”

“You’ve just said he is!” she shouted. “It has to be him. Or else one of the servants. What is Tellman doing? Can’t he find out whether it was a servant? They all have duties. They ought to be able to account for where they were. What have you been doing all day?”

Pitt opened his mouth to speak.

Behind Emily the library door creaked, but she did not bother to turn to see who it was. Her mind was filled with fear for Jack.

“You were no use at looking after Greville, you could at least do something to protect Jack! You shouldn’t have let him accept the task. Why didn’t you tell Cornwallis how dangerous it was? Arrest Moynihan before you get Jack killed as well!”

Charlotte walked over to the vase of chrysanthemums on the small table and yanked the flowers out, holding the jug of water in her other hand. She stood opposite Emily, her face flushed, her eyes dark with rage.

“Hold your tongue,” she said with a low, barely controlled voice. “Unless you want this water all over you.”

“Don’t you dare!” Emily snapped back. “Jack’s in terrible danger, and Thomas won’t lift a—”

Charlotte threw the water and Emily was drenched. She gasped in sheer amazement.

Pitt put out his hand as if to restrain someone, then dropped it again, his eyes wide.

“Stop thinking of yourself!” Charlotte said. “Thomas can’t arrest anyone until he has proof who’s guilty. It might be someone else, and then where will we all be? Use your common sense, and try to think and watch!”

Emily was so furious she was speechless, most immediately because there was nothing at hand to throw back. She spun on her heel and stormed out of the room and strode upstairs, along the landing, and into her bedroom, slamming the door with a resounding crash. Then she threw herself onto her bed and lay there, wretched. She had been unfair to Jack, and now she had been unfair to Pitt as well. He must be feeling dreadful. He could not have foreseen a murder from inside the house, any more than anyone else could have. And she had quarreled with Charlotte, whom she needed more than ever before.

It had been one of the worst days of her life. And tomorrow would probably be no better.