Ashworth Hall Read online

  There was no one there.

  She slipped out just as Doll came around the corner. She looked prettier than Charlotte had seen her before, and for the first time she was smiling. Her head was high and she moved easily and lightly. Charlotte had no idea what had caused the change, but her start at being seen gave way immediately to a surge of happiness. If anyone in this house deserved a little joy, it was Doll.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Pitt,” Doll said cheerfully. “Can I help you? Do you need something?”

  Charlotte was a long way from her own room, and she could hardly claim to be lost. She scrambled for a he which would be credible—and failed to find one.

  “No, thank you,” she said simply, and then hurried past Doll towards the end of the corridor and the landing. It was a nuisance. She wanted to search Justine’s room, but Doll would still be around. They might be finishing luncheon, and Emily could not hold them indefinitely. Searching Eudora’s room had already taken some time, long enough for a complete course at least.

  She could not afford to hesitate. She had better try Iona’s room.

  She glanced around just to make sure there was no other servant in sight, then opened the door and went in. The floral curtains were drawn wide and the room was full of sunlight. Lorcan’s brushes and his personal effects like collar studs and cuff links were gone from the tallboy, but when she went across to the wardrobes his clothes were still hanging there, and his boots beneath. It was an unpleasant sensation, a reminder of the closeness of life and death. An instant and one was changed into the other. Yesterday morning he had been alive. He had been far braver, more selfless than she had imagined him. Now it was too late to get to know him or know anything of the man he had really been behind the rather brittle exterior and the passionate hatreds and ambitions behind which he had hidden his virtues. He had seemed so cold, and yet he could not have been.

  How did Iona feel now? Was that part of the beginning of the end of her romance with Fergal Moynihan? And it did seem as if they were feeling a sudden chill, a realization of the differences between them which no amount of fascination could overcome.

  She tried the next wardrobe. It held gowns, but not as many as she had expected. There were dark blues, dark greens, a rich, lush purple which she envied. They were dramatic colors, highly flattering to dark hair and blue eyes. Iona knew how to make the best of herself. From the shawls and blouses, she also knew how to make a relatively small wardrobe look much larger.

  There were three pairs of boots, brown, black and fawn, and one pair of slippers, mid-green.

  She closed the door and took another quick glance around. There was nothing else of interest. Her eye caught the waste-paper basket, a pretty thing of woven wicker with a flower motif on the side. There were pieces of torn paper in it. It was an appalling thing to do, but she went over and picked up two or three of them. She looked at them. It was inexcusable. They were part of a love letter from Fergal. There were only a few words, but it was unmistakable.

  She dropped them again quickly, her face hot. Kezia was going to have a lot to be generous over, if she could find it in her. Perhaps Fergal would have learned something about infatuation, and about love and loss, and how easy it is to follow one’s desires, and need the compassion of those you have treated lightly, when your own time of loneliness and defeat comes.

  Out on the landing there was nothing left but to go back to Justine’s room. Unless it was Kezia after all, it must be Justine.

  She looked very carefully from left to right to see if Doll were still anywhere in sight, but thank heaven she was not.

  Charlotte ran along the corridor and, after the very briefest rap on the door, threw it open and slipped inside, closing it behind her as quickly as she could.

  It was smaller, prepared in haste for an unexpected guest. The dressing room was barely big enough for the wardrobes, dressing table, and small central table with a lace cloth and a low easy chair beside it, and a pleasant fireplace. She looked in the first wardrobe. There were several dresses, all of very good quality and apparently bought within the last year or two. The colors varied but were suitable for a young, unmarried woman. Justine might lack family; she certainly was not without funds. Her parents, or some other relative, had left her very well provided for.

  She looked at the shoes and boots. They too were of very fine make and style. None were blue or had blue heels.

  She could not stay there any longer. Anyone could leave the table for a dozen different reasons, and she would be caught here. She would look like a petty thief at worst, or at best an unpleasantly nosy woman who snooped through other people’s clothes and personal belongings.

  On second thought, perhaps it was better simply to be thought a thief!

  She went out into the corridor and had only just reached the landing when she saw Justine at the head of the stairs.

  “Are you feeling better?” Justine asked solicitiously.

  Charlotte felt as if she must be blushing scarlet. “Yes … yes, thank you,” she stammered. “Much better. I … I wasn’t nearly as ill as I thought. Maybe the room was a little warm. A … a drink of water.” That was a stupid remark. There was plenty of water available in the dining room. It was the easiest place to find it. And the room had not been hot. Her guilt must be standing out like spilled wine on a clean tablecloth.

  Justine smiled.

  “I’m so glad. I expect it is just the distress of the last few days. I am sure it will affect all of us, one way or another.”

  “Yes,” Charlotte said gratefully. “Yes, that will be what it is.”

  Justine walked past her. She moved extraordinarily grace fully, back straight, head high, a very slight swing to her skirts. One side brushed against one of the chairs on the landing. Charlotte, who was staring after her, saw a glimpse of heel, blue heel. Justine’s gown was smoky gray-blue, with darker patterning on it. Blue slippers were right. On the first evening she had been there, when Greville had been killed, she had worn another blue dress.

  Charlotte stood on the spot as if she truly were faint. She found herself gripping the railing to steady herself. Perhaps Gracie had been mistaken? She had seen the heel only for an instant. Maybe it had been gray or green? Gaslight could be misleading. It could alter colors, everyone knew that, certainly every woman. There were colors which suited perfectly in the daylight, and by gaslight made one look a hundred and jaundiced into the bargain.

  She was still in the same spot when Emily came up the stairs towards her.

  “What’s the matter?” Emily demanded. “You look terrible. You aren’t really ill, are you?”

  “No. I saw the shoes ….”

  Emotion crowded Emily’s face—elation, fear, anxiety.

  “Good! Whose are they?” she demanded.

  “Justine’s. She’s wearing them right now.”

  Emily stared at her. “Are you sure?”

  “No … yes. No, I’m not sure. Except I am, because they aren’t anyone else’s.”

  Emily said nothing. She looked suddenly sad, hurt, as Charlotte felt.

  “I must go and tell Thomas,” Charlotte said after a moment or two. “I wish it were not her.”

  “Why?” Emily shook her head.

  “Because I like her ….” Charlotte said lamely.

  “No … I mean why would she kill Greville,” Emily clarified. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I know that.” Charlotte started to move at last. “But she had the shoes. That’s what I’m going to tell Thomas … just that she had the shoes.”

  As soon as Charlotte entered the withdrawing room Pitt stood up, excusing himself to the others, and came towards her, his face intent.

  “Are you all right?” he asked her in barely more than a whisper. “You do look rather pale. Did you find the shoes?”

  “Yes …”

  “Well? Where are they?” Now he looked pale as well, his eyes hollow, dark-ringed from lack of sleep. “Are they Eudora’s?”

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p; She managed the ghost of a smile. She would have preferred it if they were.

  “No … they are Justine’s. She’s wearing them now.”

  He stared at her. “Justine’s?” He said exactly what Emily had. “Are you sure? It makes no sense! Why on earth would Justine want to kill Ainsley Greville? She only met him—” he stopped.

  Padraig Doyle moved forward from the fire where he had been standing. “Are you all right, Mrs. Pitt?” he asked with some concern.

  “I’m sure she will be,” Pitt said quickly, putting his arm around Charlotte. “I think it would be better if she went upstairs and lay down. The long journey to London yesterday must have been too much for her. Please excuse us both?” And with a charming smile he guided Charlotte out of the room and closed the door behind them as Kezia also politely wished Charlotte restored health.

  “You make me sound like some drooping lily,” she said hotly the moment they went out of earshot. “One trip on the train and I faint all over the place. They’ll think I’m too feeble for words.”

  “We can’t afford to care what they think,” he replied impatiently. “Come on upstairs. We have to reason this through and make some kind of sense out of it.”

  She went obediently. She had no desire to sit through an afternoon’s polite conversation in the withdrawing room, and if Justine returned she would not be able to hide the confusion or the sadness she felt. She thought she was quite a good actress and could mask her feelings rather well, but Emily said she was awful. On reasonable consideration, with some honesty, it was possible Emily was right.

  Up on the landing Pitt turned not towards their room but in the opposite direction, towards the Grevilles’ bathroom. He opened the door and went in. She followed with a shiver, although in fact it was not cold, except to the mind.

  “Why in here?” she said quickly. “I can think just as well in the bedroom.”

  “I want to re-create exactly what happened,” he replied, closing and locking the door.

  “Will that help?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Perhaps not.” He looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Have you got a better idea?”

  She felt a kind of desperation welling up inside her. She tried to steady her mind. Whatever the outcome was, there must be reason in it, emotional reason. Nobody was mad, acting from unconnected, irrational motives, it was simply that there was something important that they did not know.

  “She must have had a reason,” she said, not directly in answer. “I don’t think it’s anything to do with Ireland. It must be personal. Perhaps we were wrong in assuming they don’t know each other?”

  “They neither of them showed the slightest sign of recognition when she came in that first time,” he pointed out, sitting on the edge of the bath.

  “Which only means that they did not want anyone else to know they knew each other,” she said reasonably. “Which in turn means it was not a relationship they could acknowledge.”

  He frowned. “But the types of women he was used to were servants and the looser-moraled wives of acquaintances. Justine doesn’t appear to be either of those.”

  “Well, if she did know him in that way,” she said with a shudder, “it would provide an excellent reason for her wanting him dead before he could perhaps tell Piers and ruin her prospects of marriage. Added to which, I think she really loves Piers, and I am certain he loves her.”

  Pitt sighed. “I have little doubt that Greville would have told him when he had the opportunity. He wouldn’t want his only son marrying a woman who used to be his own mistress, if that word could be used of the way he regarded women.”

  “Well, not for Doll Evans, poor creature,” she said bitterly. “And from what you said, possibly not for some of the others he discarded.”

  He bent forward and started to unfasten his boots.

  “What are you doing?” she asked him.

  “Going to reenact what happened,” he replied. “I don’t want to scratch the bath. I’ll take Greville’s part, you take Justine’s.” He took off his boot and began to undo the other.

  “I’ll start from the door,” she said. “I’m not going outside. You can pretend I have towels.”

  He looked up at her with a bleak smile and took off his other boot. He stood up and climbed into the bath. He lay down gingerly, trying to arrange himself as he remembered Greville.

  She watched from the door.

  “All right,” he said after a moment. “Come in as if you had a pile of towels.”

  She held up her arms and walked forward. He was looking straight at her.

  “This doesn’t work,” he answered. “You had better get towels and come in here properly, holding them in front of you. The screen wasn’t up; the room was just like this. He was lying with his head a little to one side, I think.”

  “Shouldn’t I get Tellman?” she suggested. “To make sure it was just the same? Maybe he could take Greville’s part and you could watch?”

  “He isn’t tall enough,” he agreed. “But yes, fetch him, by all means. And get the towels. If we are right about them knowing each other, he would have said something, surely, if she had come into the bathroom? Didn’t he suspect what she might do?”

  “I doubt it,” she said with a slight smile. “He was an arrogant man. He’d used and thrown aside a lot of women. Maybe he thought she was going to plead for his mercy or his discretion.”

  “Then she was a bigger fool than I take her for,” Pitt said grimly.

  She went out, leaving him lying in the bath looking glum, and went to find Tellman. It did not take her long, and she returned less than ten minutes later with him and also a pile of half a dozen towels.

  “Don’t see what it’ll accomplish,” Tellman observed with a shrug and a wary look at Pitt, who did look somewhat odd. Charlotte had told him about Justine and the blue slippers. He had been surprised, and she thought disconcerted also, but she was guessing from the expression in his face. He had not said anything.

  Pitt did not reply, but slid back down to the position he thought Greville had occupied and looked at Charlotte to begin again.

  She held the towels on one arm and closed the door behind her, as if she had just entered.

  “You’re not lying right,” Tellman criticized Pitt. “He had his head a bit more to that side.”

  “It wouldn’t make any difference,” Charlotte pointed out. “He could still see me unless I held the towels up in front of my face.” She did it in demonstration. “And I wouldn’t have to look towards him.”

  “You would as you passed him to go behind.” Tellman was thoroughly argumentative. He looked back at Pitt. “And you still aren’t in the right position. You are too straight.”

  Pitt obligingly slid further sideways.

  Tellman regarded him. “Now you’ve changed your shoulders as well. He had his head more to one side—”

  “Does it matter?” Charlotte interrupted. “It wouldn’t affect what he could see.”

  “Maybe he was asleep?” Tellman said without conviction. “That would account for why he didn’t react or call out.”

  “She couldn’t rely on that,” Pitt pointed out. “And Justine wouldn’t leave anything to that kind of chance.”

  “It was a crime of opportunity.” Tellman was still disposed to argue.

  “No it wasn’t,” Charlotte contradicted him. “She was dressed as a maid. That meant she thought about it and planned it. She must have brought the lace cap up from the laundry room, even if she took a dress from somewhere closer. She chose the only style of cap which would hide her own hair.”

  “Well, you still aren’t lying right.” Tellman was immovable. He went over to Pitt and put his hand on the side of Pitt’s head. “You should be another three inches over that way.” He pushed gently.

  “Oh!” Pitt let out a cry. “Three inches that way and my neck would be broken!” he said sharply.

  Tellman froze. Then he straightened very slowly, his body rigid.

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nbsp; Pitt let out a long sigh, then sat up in the bath, staring at Charlotte.

  “Are you sure?” Charlotte whispered. “Absolutely sure?”

  “Yes!” Tellman replied sharply, but his very stubbornness was a doubt.

  “Only one way.” Pitt climbed out of the bath, characteristically without bothering to straighten his clothes. “We’ll have to go to the icehouse and have a look at the body.” He walked towards the bathroom door.

  “Boots,” Charlotte said quickly.

  “What?”

  “Boots,” she replied, pointing to his boots at the end of the bath.

  He came back and put them on absentmindedly, smiling at her for a moment, then following Tellman.

  But he got no further than the landing when he met Gracie, her face pinched with anxiety, her cap gone, her apron crumpled.

  “Please sir, I gotter see yer!” she said desperately, her eyes on Pitt’s, completely ignoring Tellman beside him, and Charlotte standing in the bathroom doorway. “It’s private ….”

  He could see the importance of it to her, whether it proved to be real or not to anyone else. He did not hesitate.

  “Yes, of course. We’ll go back into the bathroom.” He turned and walked past Tellman, leaving him on the landing, and caught Charlotte’s eye, hoping she would understand. He closed the door after Gracie. “What is it?”

  She looked absolutely wretched, her small hands clenched in her apron, making it like a rag.

  “Wot does dynamite look like, sir?”

  He controlled his surprise with an effort, and the immediate leap of both hope and fear.

  “White and solid, a bit like candle tallow, only a bit different to touch.”

  “Sort o’… sweaty?” she asked, a catch in her voice.

  “Yes … that’s right. They sometimes wrap it in red paper.”

  “I seen some. I’m sorry, sir, I went there, but I can explain. It weren’t nothin’ wrong.” She looked thoroughly frightened.

  “I hadn’t thought it would be, Gracie,” he said, more or less honestly. This was sounding like Charlotte’s area of jurisdiction. He certainly was not going to interfere. “Where was it?”