Ashworth Hall Read online

  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.”