Ashworth Hall

by Anne Perry

  “Why not? You always have before.”

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

  Emily had forgotten the bodies were there.

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

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

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

  Mae stood motionless.

  “Go on,” Emily ordered her.

  Mae was white-faced.

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

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

  “Yes, m’lady.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Good morning,” Charlotte said a trifle stiffly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  The door closed with a sharp snap.

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

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

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

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

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

  Emily and Charlotte glanced at each other, eyes wide.

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

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

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

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

  “Iona!” Fergal called out.

  Silence.

  “What?”

  His footsteps followed hers to the door.

  “I love you.”

  “Do you?” she asked quietly.

  “You know I do. I adore you.”

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

  Emily looked at Charlotte.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Charlotte …”

  “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Who killed Greville?” Pitt said.

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

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

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

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

  “O’Day?” Tellman asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She sniffed and attempted to concentrate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Describe her, as exactly as you can.”

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

  “What color hair?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “What?” he demanded.

  “Boots,” she whispered.

  “Boots? What about them?”

  “She weren’t wearin’ boots!”

  “She was barefoot?” he said with disbelief.

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