Ashworth Hall Read online

  “How do you know? What did you see … exactly?”

  “She were facin’ away from me, like she was going inter the doorway. I just seen the side o’ one foot, an’ the ’eel o’ the other.”

  “But it was a slipper? What color? How do you know it wasn’t a boot?”

  “ ’Cos the foot were stitched. It were embroidered, like a slipper, an’ the ’eel were blue.” Her eyes widened. “Yeah, the ’eel were blue.”

  Pitt smiled. “Thank you.”

  “It ’elps?” she said hopefully.

  “Oh, yes, I think so.”

  “Good.”

  Pitt left the ironing room with the feeling that for the first time since he had found Ainsley Greville’s body he had a real and tangible piece of evidence to follow. One of the women was part of the conspiracy. It was not hard to believe. In fact, it made excellent sense, only too excellent. His mind was weighed down with it. Eudora Greville, born Eudora Doyle, Irish to the blood and bone, helping her brother Padraig to fight for the freedom of their country in the way he thought would work. Her hatred for Greville would make it easy. And how could she not hate him, if she had had the slightest idea how he had treated Doll. Pitt could imagine the way Charlotte would feel towards anyone who treated Gracie that way! He would be lucky if a crack over the head and a slide under the water was the worst that happened to him.

  Eudora could easily have slipped out of her room in Doll’s dress and a cap, perhaps borrowed earlier from the laundry room.

  The large lace cap was an obvious choice, to hide the vivid color of her hair should anyone see her. She would be too easily recognizable by that alone. She would walk along the landing with a pile of towels, perhaps her own towels, and be virtually invisible. It was only the slightest chance that Gracie, the most observant of maids, had seen her, and noticed her feet, and then remembered them afterwards.

  She could have gone into the bathroom, keeping her face averted. Greville would have taken no notice until it was too late. If he had seen her, realized who it was, he would have wondered what on earth she was doing in a maid’s dress and cap, but he would still not have been afraid, not have cried out, attracted attention, or called her name.

  But Padraig could not have placed the bomb in Jack’s study. Pitt’s heart sank. Could that have been Eudora also? Why not? It required nerve and dexterity, not any physical strength. Why should Eudora not care as passionately or as bravely about the fate of her country as any politician—or Fenian sympathizer?

  He must speak with Charlotte. She would be able to look at the slippers of the various women in the house without arousing the sort of suspicion which would make someone seek to hide or destroy them. She might even know already whose they were. She would remember what people had worn, who might have blue heels.

  But he did not find the opportunity to speak with her alone until an hour before luncheon, when she was about to go for a short walk with Kezia, who looked surprisingly gentle, as if the anger had slipped from her. He wondered what Charlotte had managed to say to her that she forgave Fergal at last. He would ask her later.

  “Charlotte!”

  She turned, and was about to reply when she must have seen the anxiety in his face, and perhaps the sadness.

  “What is it?”

  “I have discovered something which I need to discuss with you,” he said quietly enough he hoped Kezia did not hear him. It could be her. Perhaps conspiring with Fergal. The other brother and sister. It was a hope!

  Charlotte turned back to Kezia, just outside the door on the terrace.

  “Please excuse me,” she called. “I must take this chance to speak with Thomas. I’m so sorry!”

  Kezia smiled and lifted her hand in acknowledgment, then walked onto the grass and away.

  “What is it?” Charlotte said quickly. “I can see it is unpleasant.”

  “Discovering who committed a crime is usually unpleasant,” he answered a little bleakly. Then, seeing her eyes widen, he added, “No, not completely, just an excellent piece of observation by Gracie. She remembered more about the ‘maid’ she saw on the landing about the time Greville was killed.”

  “What? Who was it?” She gulped, her face suddenly wretched. “Not—Doll?”

  “No,” he said quickly. “No, it wasn’t Doll. It was someone wearing slippers with stitched fabric sides and blue heels.”

  “What?” For a moment she looked confused; the instant after, understanding flew to her. He knew she also thought of Eudora. He watched the conflicting emotions in her face, a light of relief, almost satisfaction, as swiftly overtaken by pity, and then wiped clean again. He found he understood, or thought he did. He was surprised. Was she more vulnerable, underneath the independence, than he had assumed?

  “Oh,” she said soberly. “You mean it was one of the guests, wearing a maid’s dress over her own? Then she had to be involved.”

  “Over her own?” He was momentarily puzzled.

  “Of course,” she said quickly. “Thomas, it takes ages to get in and out of a dinner gown. They all do up at the back, for a start! She could get a maid’s dress large enough to put on top of her own and long enough to cover it completely. An inch or two of satin underneath it would give her away in a second. It was only coincidence that Gracie saw a piece of the shoe and that she remembered it, but satin anyone would have seen.”

  He should have thought of that.

  “Which means she was probably slimmer than she appeared to be to Gracie,” Charlotte went on. “Two dresses would make a lot of difference. Blue slippers?”

  “Yes. Can you remember who wore blue that evening?”

  She smiled weakly. “No. But Emily might. I’ll ask her. If not, we’ll have to start looking. We’ll find a way.”

  “Without them knowing,” he warned. “If they know before we get to them, they’ll hide them or destroy them. There’s a furnace for the conservatory heaters, at least. Then we’d never have proof.”

  “I’ll start by asking Emily. And don’t worry, I’ll be discreet. I can, you know!”

  “Yes, I know.” But nevertheless he watched her with anxiety, although he was not quite sure why. Perhaps it had more to do with the emotion he sensed in her, and his sudden awareness of it, than any danger she could be in or misjudgment she might make regarding the slippers.

  “Blue-heeled slippers,” Emily said quickly. “Then it was one of us! I mean, it wasn’t a maid. Oh … I see. You mean that was who killed Greville.” She looked startled and very sober. Charlotte had found her coming back from the kitchens, where she had been consulting with Mrs. Williams about the next day’s dinner and how much longer the guests were likely to be there, which of course she did not know. Now they were walking across the hall towards the long gallery overlooking the formal garden, a place where there was unlikely to be anyone else at this time of the afternoon. The men were back to their discussions, for any good it might serve, and the women were all about their separate pastimes. Since two of them were very newly widowed, any attempt at social entertainment was impossible.

  Emily opened the door to the gallery, a long room with ranks of windows to the south, and at the moment filled with a wavering light as the wind chased the clouds across the sun and away again.

  “Who wore blue?” Charlotte pressed, closing the door behind them.

  “I can’t remember,” Emily answered. “Anyway, you might wear blue slippers under another color, if it was the closest you had, or the most comfortable. None of them, except perhaps Eudora, have enough money to buy slippers for every dress.”

  “How do you know?”

  Emily gave her a sideways look. “Don’t be naive. Because I’m observant. You may not, but I know what is this season’s fashion and what is last … and what things cost. And I know good silk from cheap, or wool from bombazine or mixture.”

  “So who wore blue?”

  “I’m trying to think!”

  “I don’t think it was Kezia.”

  “W
hy not? Because you like her? I think she could have just the nerve to do it,” Emily argued. “I don’t think Iona McGinley would. She’s all dreams and romantic notions. She’d rather talk about things and prompt other people than do them herself.”

  “Maybe,” Charlotte conceded. “Although that could be a pose. But I had a rather more practical reason for thinking it was not Kezia. She’s rather well built. With a maid’s dress over her own she’d look … well, pretty enormous. Gracie would have noticed her size. Anyway, whose dress would go over hers? Are any of the ladies’ maids really stout?”

  “No. Maybe you’re right. That leaves Eudora herself, which is very likely, or Iona.”

  “Or Justine,” Charlotte added.

  “Justine? Why on earth would Justine kill Ainsley Greville?” Emily said derisively, her eyes wide. “She isn’t Irish. She’d never even met him before the previous day, and she was going to marry his son, for heaven’s sake!”

  “I can’t think of any reason at all. I don’t think there is even very much money.”

  “Don’t be squalid.” Emily’s mouth turned down at the corners.

  “People have been known to kill for money,” Charlotte pointed out.

  Emily ignored her, which expressed her opinion very clearly.

  “Blue gown,” Charlotte repeated.

  “I’m thinking! I haven’t seen Eudora in blue. She prefers warm colors and greens. I don’t think blue would suit her.” She shrugged. “Not that that means she wouldn’t wear it, of course. People wear the most awful things sometimes. Do you remember Hetty Appleby, with the mouse-colored hair, wearing yellow? She looked like a cheese!”

  “No.”

  “Really, you are so unobservant sometimes,” Emily said in disgust. “I don’t know how you are ever the least use to Thomas.”

  “Justine wore cream with blue,” Charlotte replied.

  “I think we agreed Justine had no earthly reason. And I remember now, Iona wore blue, dark blue like the sea at night. All very romantic. Fergal Moynihan could hardly take his eyes off her.”

  “He’d have been like that whatever she wore. We’d better go and look at their shoes.”

  “Now?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Iona will be in her room, for a start,” Emily pointed out. “We can hardly interrupt her and say ‘Please may we look through your wardrobe to see if we can find a pair of blue-heeled slippers, because we think you were wearing them when you killed Ainsley Greville in his bath?’ ”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “You go when we are all at luncheon,” Emily commanded. “I shall keep everyone occupied at the table. You excuse yourself, blame a headache or something.”

  “What do you mean ‘keep everybody occupied’?” Charlotte said with a touch of sarcasm. “If they are at luncheon, they will be occupied anyway.”

  “I’ll see they don’t leave. I can’t very well plead a headache, even if I have a real one. What’s the matter? Are you afraid?”

  “No, of course not,” Charlotte replied indignantly. “I don’t want it to be Eudora, for Thomas’s sake, and I don’t want it to be Justine, because I like her.”

  “I don’t want it to be anybody,” Emily agreed. “Because I think Ainsley Greville was a complete bounder. But wanting has nothing to do with it.”

  “I know that! I’ll find the slippers during luncheon.”

  When Pitt had left her, Grade’s brief moment of feeling better vanished. There was only one good thing about it. She was quite sure the “maid” she had seen was not Doll Evans. She had not been tall enough for Doll, she was sure of that now. And she did not think Doll would take anyone’s shoes, but if she had worn slippers with heels like that, she would have been even taller. Only now did she realize how afraid she had been that Doll had gone into the bathroom and hit Greville over the head and then pulled him under the water. She had certainly had provocation. Gracie had no sympathy with Ainsley Greville at all. Anyone who could do that to a girl, and to his own child, deserved a lot of pain in return. It was just a pity so many other people had to suffer as well. But maybe nobody ever suffered without taking other people with them.

  She could not keep Finn from her mind. His pain engulfed her. Disillusion was one of the hardest things to bear. If he had been so wrong about the murder of Neassa Doyle and what he believed of his own people, then what else had he been wrong about? What else was lies? If they could murder their own sister, who and what were they? What was the cause they were really fighting for? If Finn had given so much of his emotional loyalty to them, how could he cope with it if they were unworthy of him, or of anyone? How much of it all was lies?

  He must be asking himself that now. He would be terribly alone and confused. In one brief quarter hour or so, she had robbed him of his lifetime’s beliefs, belonging to his people, loyalties, angers, all that he thought he was. She should not have done that. Some truths should be told gently, maybe even little by little.

  She had no urgent jobs. Charlotte’s clothes were all in excellent repair. And Charlotte certainly did not want Gracie to sit and talk to her, read to her, which was sometimes a real lady’s maid’s job. Charlotte always had more to do than she had time for anyway. But then her life was not like that of a lady. Gracie would find it terrible to look after real gentry after the excitement of being with the Pitts. How did people like Gwen and Doll bear the sameness of it?

  She should go and find Finn and make up her quarrel with him. He would need all the friendship she could offer now. And she wanted to apologize. She had acted without thinking hard enough.

  The decision was made. She left the ironing room and went to look for him.

  He was not in any of the places where he would normally be carrying out his duties. She did not like to ask for him. It was bad enough to imagine people knew how she felt. She was painfully self-conscious. She knew how observant she was of other people’s behavior. There was rather a lot to be said for working with only a casual woman who came in to do the “heavy,” as she did at home. One had a great deal more privacy, even if there was less company, and most of the time less day-to-day interest in others. All told, it was better.

  After three quarters of an hour searching, inside and out, there was only one place left, his bedroom. She had never been there, of course. But perhaps on this extraordinary occasion it would be the best place. Even if she were caught, Charlotte would not dismiss her for such a thing when Gracie explained to her why she had gone there. And McGinley couldn’t dismiss Finn because he was dead anyway, poor creature. The worst thing that could happen would be the others whispering and laughing. And even that would be better than leaving Finn to suffer his loss and disillusion without telling him she was sorry.

  She looked very carefully to see there was no one around before she ran up the first staircase. The regular Ashworth Hall servants had the rooms nearest the stairhead; the senior ones had the best, naturally. The footmen, bootboy and the like had the smaller ones, further away. Visiting valets and other servants were another floor up again, right under the roof.

  But which was Finn’s room? Think! Everything in the servants’ hall went by order of precedence. The servants went in to dinner, sat down, were served, even served the sweet, in order of the importance of their masters. That would make Mr. Wheeler the most senior up here. He belonged to Mr. Greville, the chairman of this miserable conference. Who was next? Be quick! Mustn’t get caught up here. No one was going to believe she was stupid enough to be lost.

  Mr. Doyle and Mr. O’Day. That meant Finn and Mr. Moynihan’s valet would be further away, then probably Tellman. The thought of running into Tellman by mistake was enough to knot up her stomach so tight she could hardly breathe!

  Maybe it was not worth it after all?

  Come on! Don’t be a coward! Take a chance. Try one. Don’t just stand here like one of the pieces of statuary in the garden! Knock!

  There was no answer.

  She tried the nex
t one, her hands shaking.

  There was a moment’s silence, then footsteps.

  Her heart was beating so loudly it seemed to pound in her ears.

  The door opened. It was Finn.

  Thank heavens! Now, what was she going to say?

  “I’m sorry!” she burst out.

  “Gracie!” He looked startled, and momentarily confused, uncertain what to say or do.

  “I’m sorry I told you about Chinnery,” she explained. If she did not say it now she might lose her courage. “I shouldn’t oughter said it out like that. Perhaps maybe I shouldn’t oughter said it at all. One lie don’t make the ’ole cause wrong.”

  He stared at her, his dark eyes wide and puzzled.

  There was nothing more she could say. She could not deny the truth, and he had no business to expect that. Perhaps it was not such a good idea to have come. But he did look so miserable, surely there was something she could do? Love had to be worth something?

  He smiled very slowly.

  “You’d better come in.” He stood aside. “If they catch you up here you’ll be in trouble.”

  She hesitated only a moment. They had not said all there was to say between them yet. And he was right. Anyone else could possibly go up there at this time in the afternoon. If she were caught it would be very embarrassing. She stepped past him into the room. It was simple, like her own, a place made comfortable for a short time, almost warm enough, a bed with sheets and blankets, a wooden chair, cotton curtains at the garret window, a washstand with a jug and basin, a small cupboard for coats and trousers, a three-drawer chest for underclothes and anything else which might fold. There was a knotted rag mat on the floor. There was a small desk against the wall to the right and a second wooden chair in front of it. There was a paper on the desk now, with writing like a short letter, and beside it an envelope, an open book, a leather satchel, some blue paper and a heap of candles.

  He stood still, looking at her.

  “I don’t care what anyone says the Doyle brothers did, or what it looks like,” he said a little stiffly. “Perhaps they were wrong when they said it was Chinnery, but the spirit is true. The hunger and the tragedy is real.” He faced her as if she were denying that, his eyes bright and hard, his chin raised a little, jaw tight.