“No they won’t,” he said levelly, coming further towards her. “They only went five minutes ago, and they’ll take half an hour easy, longer if they don’t have much work waiting for them.” He glanced around and saw a few items of personal linen, a little repairing, no sheets, no towels. They had all been done earlier, and it was a windy day. Everything was blown nearly dry and brought in and hung on the rails. The room smelled of clean cotton.
“Yeah, they will,” she lied, holding on to the wet petticoat and wringing it as hard as she was able, as if she could somehow use it to protect herself.
He was coming closer. There was a curious expression in his face, as if he hated what he was doing but could find no way of avoiding it.
She backed away from the tub, still holding the petticoat in her hands.
“Gracie …” he said reasonably. “Stop …”
“It in’t the place,” she said again, still moving backwards. The petticoat was wrung hard. Maybe it would have been better wet?
“I only want to talk to you,” he said earnestly.
She edged around the wooden tubs towards the farther door, past the copper boilers, still warm.
He was still corning towards her.
She picked up the big wooden pole the laundry maids used to stir the sheets.
“Gracie!” He looked hurt, as if she had struck him already.
It was ridiculous! She should have pretended she had seen nothing and conducted herself with some dignity. What did she imagine? That he was going to strangle her there in the laundry room?
Yes, she did! Why not? Mr. Greville had been drowned in his own bath, and Mr. Radley would have been blown up sitting at his desk in his study if Mr. McGinley hadn’t been blown up first!
She threw the pole at him, then turned and fled, her feet clattering on the stone floor, her skirts flying, tangling around her legs, slowing her down. He must be behind her, chasing her. She could hear him, hear his feet, hear his voice calling out behind her. What would he do if he caught her? He was angry now, and hurt. She could hear that too.
She had never known she could run so fast. Her feet were sliding over the linoleum of the passageway. She barged around a corner, lurching against the wall, regained her balance with difficulty, arms flailing, and cannoned straight into someone. She let out a shriek of terror.
“Hey now! What’s the matter with you? Anyone’d think the devil himself was behind you!” It was a man’s voice, an Irish voice. He was holding on to her.
She looked up. Her heart almost stopped. It was Mr. Doyle. He had hold of her wrists and he was smiling.
She swung the wet petticoat hard and caught him across the side of the face, then kicked him as hard as she could on the shins.
He let go of her with a gasp of pain and astonishment.
She snatched her arms away and fled, charging through the green baize door into the hallway, leaving the door swinging on its hinges.
A footman looked at her in amazement.
“You all right, miss?” he said with a frown.
Grace was still holding the wet petticoat. Her cap had gone and she must be scarlet in the face.
“Yeah, perfickly,” she said with as much dignity as possible. “Thank yer, Albert.” She took a deep breath and decided to go upstairs to Charlotte’s room. It was probably the only place where she was safe.
11
I
As soon as she was out of earshot of the dining room, she ran across the hall and up the stairs. A footman looked at her anxiously but said nothing. It was not his place to query the eccentric behavior of guests.
It had not been Kezia that Gracie had seen on the landing, of that Charlotte was almost certain. Kezia was too handsomely built. It could have been any other one of the three remaining female guests. She feared it was Eudora. She, above all, had a reason any woman could understand.
Charlotte already knew which was each person’s room. She would start with Eudora, who, thank goodness, had been persuaded to join everyone else for luncheon. It would have been dreadfully awkward if either of the two recently widowed women had decided to remain in their rooms, which they could well have done without needing to offer any further explanation. Emily had had to work hard to achieve that. But Emily was a good diplomat, and she was certainly fully persuaded of the necessity for solving this crime most urgently. She was still finding it very hard to keep her composure and not give way to her fear for Jack. At least there was something she could do, some oudet for her physical and mental energies, a way of helping.
Charlotte knocked on Eudora’s bedroom door, just in case Doll should be there.
There was no answer.
She opened the door and went in, and straight through to the dressing room. There was no time to consider anything now except which cupboard housed Eudora’s boots and shoes. She looked in the first and saw rows of gowns. It was horrible searching through another woman’s clothes without her knowledge. They were beautiful, heavy silks and taffetas, fine quality laces, smooth wools and gabardines. There was a rich fur collar on a traveling
