Ashworth Hall Read online

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

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

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

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

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

  Pitt waited without interruption.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “The Protestants?” Pitt asked.

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

  “Another Murphy,” Pitt said dryly.

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

  “Is he coming alone?” Pitt enquired.

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

  “So possibly she is of the same persuasion?”

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

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

  Greville did not reply.

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

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

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

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

  Pitt could see it assuming nightmare proportions.

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

  Greville hesitated, but the reasoning was overwhelming.

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

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

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

  Greville smiled, a trifle tight-lipped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

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

  “Yes … yes, it was.”

  “Anyone inside?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “And the horses were at a gallop?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then they were good horses, and fresh?”

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

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

  Cornwallis turned to Pitt.

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

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

  A shadow of a smile crossed Cornwallis’s face.

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

  “But …” Pitt began again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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