from her features. There was no sense of pain in her, no torment, no violence of emotions, certainly not the anger which so often accompanied loss. There was no struggle to deny the reality, to go back and recapture the past before the bereavement.
Did she really not care, feel no pain or grief at the heroic death of her husband? For all her romantic songs, her poetry and music, was she essentially quite cold inside, a lover of the beauty of art, but dead to reality? It was a peculiarly repellent thought. He found himself shivering although the gallery was not cold.
“Mrs. McGinley …” He wanted to break the moment.
She turned towards him, not startled, simply mildly surprised.
“Yes, Mr. Pitt?”
He saw sadness and confusion in her eyes. She was lost, uncertain what she felt, only that it hurt. There was no excitement, no relief that she was free to go to Moynihan, or even resolution that she wanted to. Perhaps her emotion in seeking him had not been love so much as loneliness?
“I am sorry, Mrs. McGinley, but I have had to arrest your manservant, Finn Hennessey. He was in possession of dynamite.”
Her eyes widened. “Dynamite? Finn was?”
“Yes. It was in his room. He has not denied it, simply refused to give any explanation or say where he got it, though he denies making the bomb or placing it in the study.”
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know, yet, but it is only a matter of time now.” That was a lie, he felt no such certainty, but he wanted her to believe he did. She might even have been the one behind Finn, although he doubted it. He knew she had not placed the bomb herself; her time was accounted for by Moynihan and by Doyle. “I am telling you simply so you know why he is no longer available to you. I’m sorry.”
She turned away from him, looking out again towards the dusk beyond the window where rain now spattered the panes.
“He was always passionate about Ireland, about our freedom. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. But I really never thought he would hurt Lorcan. He loved Ireland as much as anyone.”
She was silent for a moment and when she continued there was a different kind of pain in her voice. “As long as I knew Lorcan, it was what he cared about most … more, I think, than he ever loved me. Freedom for Ireland was what he talked about, planned for, worked for all his life. No sacrifice of time or money was too much. I know it was meant for Mr. Radley, but if Finn knew it was there, you would think he would have stopped Lorcan going to try to …” She shook her head. “No, I suppose not. Perhaps they quarreled. He may have tried to stop him, and Lorcan was determined to defuse it anyway. I don’t know. I don’t even know why.” She blinked. “I seem to find there is so much confuses me now … things I thought I was certain of.”
He did not know what to say. He wished there was something comforting, an assurance that it would pass, but there was none. It would not necessarily resolve.
She looked at him and suddenly smiled very slightly. “I thought you were going to say something trite. Thank you for not doing so.”
He found himself coloring, immensely relieved he had not spoken. He looked at her for a moment longer, then turned and went.
In the evening, after dinner, Pitt was obliged to face the necessity of looking more closely at the body of Ainsley Greville. If Tellman were correct and he had lain in the bath at the angle described, then his neck had been broken. Perhaps it was possible the blow to the back of his skull had accomplished that, but he found it hard to believe, and he would not accept it without detailed examination. The blow, as he had seen it, would have been enough to concuss but not to cause death—unless it were a great deal harder than it had appeared to him. It did not seem at the right angle. If Greville’s neck were broken, then he had not drowned. Pitt needed to resolve it. Perhaps it made no difference to the charge, or to Justine’s guilt, but it was unexplained, and he would not leave it so.
He needed Piers’s help. And if it were necessary to do more than examine from the surface, then it would have to be Piers who did so. He should have Eudora’s permission. That was something he dreaded, but there was no alternative.
Charlotte saw him as he was starting up the stairs.
“Where are you going?” she asked, catching up with him, searching his face anxiously.
“To ask Piers to help me look at the body again,” he answered. “He’s upstairs with his mother. Anyway, I need her permission, or more properly, I would rather not take the time and trouble to apply for a legal writ.”
Her face tightened. “An autopsy?” she said huskily. “Thomas, you can’t ask Piers to do an autopsy on his own father! And … and when are you going to tell him it was Justine? What are you going to do about her?”
“Nothing yet,” he answered, meeting her gaze. She looked frightened and worried, and still her composure was complete. If she wanted or needed comfort there was no sign of it.
“Do you want me to come with you?” she offered. “In case Eudora is very distressed? Some people find the invasion of an autopsy very dreadful … as if in some way the person they loved could know about the … the intimacy of it.”
Instinct told him to decline.
“No, thank you. I think this is something better done with as few people involved as possible. I won’t even take Tellman.” He changed the subject. “How is Gracie? She’s taken this matter of Hennessey very bad.”
“I know,” she said softly, her face bleak with sadness and anger. “It will be hard for her for a while. I think the best thing we can do is say as little as possible. It will just take time.”
“By the way, Charlotte.” He looked very directly at her. “Where did you get the newspaper cuttings that Gracie showed to Hennessey?”
“Oh …” She colored uncomfortably. “I think … all things considered … you might prefer not to know that. Please don’t ask, then I shall not have to tell you.”
