Tellman returned ten minutes later with a teapot on a tray, with milk jug, cups, sugar, and Suffolk rusks. He put down the tray with a grunt of satisfaction.
Pitt poured and stood with the steaming cup clasped in his hands, the saucer ignored.
“Go back over everything we know about what McGinley did the morning he died,” he said thoughtfully. “How did he know the dynamite was there? Hennessey didn’t tell him … which means Hennessey and his master were essentially on different sides … I suppose.”
“Doyle,” Tellman answered. “Hennessey was working for Doyle. He must have been.”
“Denbigh wasn’t killed by the Fenians,” Pitt said slowly. “Cornwallis just told me.”
Tellman’s face lit instantly. “Have they got who did it?”
“No … no, I’m afraid not, they just know he wasn’t one of the Fenians. He was an infiltrator, like Denbigh. The Fenians are just as keen to find him as we are.”
“Why’d he kill Denbigh?”
“Possibly Denbigh found out who he was.”
“How does that help us?” Tellman replied, and sipped at his tea. It was too hot and he took one of the rusks instead. “He isn’t here. We’d have seen him. No one broke in, I’m sure of that. It was either Doyle or Moynihan who killed Greville. And somehow or other they also put the dynamite there, or else somebody is lying and Hennessey put it there after all.”
Pitt said nothing. There was another idea in his mind, very vague, very uncertain indeed.
Tellman began his tea, drinking it gingerly, blowing on it now and then.
Pitt took a rusk, then another. They were excellent, crisp and very fresh, baked with a little butter. Then he drained his cup.
“I’m going to question Hennessey again,” he said when he had finished. “I want you there, and possibly a couple of footmen. It could be unpleasant. And I’ll ask Mr. Radley to be present, and Doyle, Moynihan and O’Day.”
Tellman stared at him, his eyes widening. He was on the verge of asking what Pitt was going to do, then he changed his mind, put down his cup and obeyed.
The questioning took place in the library. They sat in a semicircle and Tellman brought Finn Hennessey into the room and took the manacles off his wrists. He stood, head high, defiant, staring at Pitt. He studiously ignored everyone else.
“We know you brought the dynamite into Ashworth Hall,” Pitt began. “There is no point in your denying it, and to your credit, you have not tried. But you said you did not place it in Mr. Radley’s study, and I believe you, because from other evidence, it does not seem as if you had the opportunity. Who did put it there?”
Finn smiled. “I’ll never tell.”
“We ought to be able to deduce it.” Pitt looked around the room, first at Fergal Moynihan, sitting with his legs crossed, his fingers drumming on the leather arm of his chair. His fair skin was almost pasty, and he looked bored and in short temper. Beside him, Carson O’Day was eager, his eyes restless, flicking from Pitt to Doyle to Hennessey and back again. He was obviously impatient with Pitt’s approach and irritated because he did not believe it would achieve anything. Padraig Doyle leaned right back in his chair, but his expression was guarded. Jack simply looked profoundly worried.
“This is wasting time!” O’Day broke in. “Surely you’ve questioned everyone as to exactly where they were, what they were doing, who saw them there and whom they saw? That seems elementary.”
“Yes, of course we have,” Pitt agreed. “And with what we have learned, it appears impossible anyone placed the dynamite where it was. So someone must be lying.”
“There’s one answer which seems to have escaped you,” O’Day said with a touch of condescension. “McGinley put it there himself. He was not a hero trying to defuse it and save us all, as Hennessey would have us believe … he was an assassin placing it there to kill Radley. Only he was a clumsy assassin, and succeeded in blowing himself up instead. That solution would answer all your evidence, wouldn’t it?”
“All the evidence of the explosion, yes,” Pitt answered deliberately, a little tingle of excitement beginning in the center of the stomach. He must be very careful indeed. One slip and he would lose this. “But not the murder of Mr. Greville,” he went on. “McGinley couldn’t have done that because you yourself heard him talking to Hennessey at the relevant time.”
O’Day stared at him, his eyes growing wider, his body motionless.
No one else moved.
“Didn’t you?” Pitt said quietly.
O’Day looked as if he had received an astonishing revelation.
“No … he said almost under his breath. “No! I heard Hennessey talking to McGinley.” He swung around to stare at Finn. “I heard you. I never heard McGinley’s replies to you. I heard your voice. I heard you answer questions, I never heard McGinley’s voice. I don’t actually know if he was there … I assumed it. But you could be lying to cover for him, just as you did for the dynamite. He—” He stopped. There was no need to continue. The tide of color flooding up Finn’s cheeks made it unnecessary. O’Day swung to face Pitt. “There’s your murderer for you, Superintendent! Lorcan McGinley, acting for the Fenians, the saboteurs of Irish honor and dignity, prosperity and ultimate freedom to choose for themselves, not by bullet or dynamite, but by popular vote … the true voice of —”
“Liar!” Finn burst out. “You thieving, murdering liar! What freedom or honor is it to let women and children starve? To drive whole families off their land and steal it for yourselves? You hate the real people of Ireland. All you love is yourselves, your greed, your land and your dark, hypocritical, canting ways that deny the true Church of God! The Fenians are the fighters for Ireland!”
“Whether they are or not isn’t the point in this, Hennessey,” Pitt said clearly. “The Fenians weren’t behind the murders here.”
