As if he had read Pitt’s thoughts, Greville shook his head slightly. “The conference is to sound out opinions on certain reforms in legislation concerning land laws in Ireland, a further Catholic emancipation. Now perhaps you perceive both the importance of what we hope to achieve and the necessity for secrecy?”
Pitt did. It was most unpleasantly clear. The Irish Question, as it had been known, had plagued successive governments since the time of Elizabeth I. It had brought down more than one. The great William Ewart Gladstone himself had fallen on the issue of Home Rule only four years before, in 1886. Still, the murder of Denbigh was of more urgency to him, and certainly more suited to his skills.
“Yes. I see,” he replied with a chill. “But—”
“Not entirely,” Greville cut across him. “No doubt you appreciate that every effort to struggle with our most intractable domestic problem should be made discreetly. We don’t wish to trumpet our failure abroad. Let us wait and see if it succeeds, and to what degree, before we choose what to tell the world.” His face darkened a little, a shadow of anxiety in his eyes which he could not conceal. “There is another reason, Superintendent. Obviously the Irish are aware of the conference. It would hardly be of any purpose if they did not attend, and I shall personally inform you of all I know which is relevant regarding those who will be present. But we are not certain how far the information has gone. There are circles beyond circles, betrayals, secret loyalties—the whole society is riddled with them. We have done the best we can, but we still cannot trust entirely.”
His expression became even bleaker, and his mouth pulled tight at the corners. “We had placed a man within one of the secret societies, hoping to learn the source of their information.” He let out his breath slowly. “He was murdered.”
Pitt felt the coldness settle inside him.
“I believe you are investigating the case.” Greville looked very steadily in Pitt’s eyes. “James Denbigh. A good man.”
Pitt said nothing.
“And I have also received threats to my life, and one attempt, some three weeks ago now, but nonetheless most unpleasant,” Greville continued. He spoke quite lightly, but Pitt could see the tension in his body. His long, lean hands were stiff where they lay, one on his knee, the other on the arm of his chair. He concealed it well, but Pitt understood fear.
“I see.” This time he did. “So you wish a discreet police presence.”
“Very discreet,” Greville agreed. “The conference is to be held at Ashworth Hall ….” He saw Pitt stiffen. “Precisely,” he said with a flicker of appreciation. “The country home of your wife’s sister, sometime Viscountess Ashworth, now Mrs. Jack Radley. Mr. Radley is one of our brighter young members of Parliament and will be a most excellent asset in the discussions. And Mrs. Radley, of course, will be the ideal hostess. It will not be unnatural for you and your wife to attend also, being family members.”
It would be most unnatural. Emily Ellison had married well above herself in Lord Ashworth. Her sister, Charlotte, had horrified genteel society by marrying as far below. Young ladies in good families did not marry policemen. Pitt spoke well. He was the son of a gamekeeper on a large country estate, and Sir Arthur Desmond, the owner of the estate, had seen fit to educate him with his own son, to give Matthew a companion and someone against whom to measure himself. But Pitt was not a gentleman. Greville must know that, in spite of Pitt’s promotion … surely?
Pitt must not allow himself to imagine Greville mistook him for one of his own station just because he sat behind this elegant desk with its green leather inlay. His predecessor, Micah Drummond, had been a gentleman, ex-army. Cornwallis most certainly was also, if perhaps of a lesser standing. He had risen through merit on active service. Did Greville think Pitt of the same mold? It was a flattering thought … but a delusion. He wanted Pitt in order to protect his conference without it being apparent.
“And you believe this threat to you is in connection with your work with the Irish Conference?” Pitt said aloud.
“I know it,” Greville replied, watching Pitt closely. “There are many factors and individuals who would not wish us to succeed. That is surely clear enough in Denbigh’s murder?”
“You are threatened by letter?” Pitt asked.
“Yes, from time to time.” Greville shrugged very slightly, a gesture of dismissal. Giving it words seemed to have left him less isolated. He relaxed a little. “One expects a certain amount of opposition, even threats. Usually they are of no consequence at all. Had there not been an actual attempt, I should have ignored them as someone simply airing their feelings in a particularly distasteful manner, if not uncommon. The Irish Problem, as you must know, is one of a violent nature.”
That was an understatement of phenomenal proportions. It was impossible to estimate the number of people who had died in battles, riots, famine and murder in a greater or lesser way connected with the problem of Irish history. Pitt was fairly familiar with the Murphy riots in the north of England, where a rabid Protestant had traveled around the countryside stirring up fanatical anti-Catholic feeling which had ended in looting, fires, the destruction of whole streets of houses, and several deaths.
“You had better take someone thoroughly reliable with you,” Cornwallis said gravely. “Naturally we will have men around the hall and the village, posing as gamekeepers or farm laborers and so on. But you should have someone inside also.”
“Another guest?” Pitt said in surprise.
Cornwallis smiled bleakly. “A servant. It is quite usual when going to a country house party to take two or three of your own servants. We shall simply send one of our best men as your valet. Who would you suggest—Tellman? I know you do not particularly like him, but he is intelligent, observant and not without physical courage, if it should be needed. Please God, it will not.”
Pitt would have preferred someone else be sent to Ash worth Hall, but he realized that by virtue of his relationship to the Radleys he was uniquely suited. However, he could at least leave Tellman, his best man, in charge of the Denbigh investigation. He did not actually dislike Tellman, not now that he knew him rather better, but he thought Tellman still disliked him. Tellman had made no secret of the fact that he resented Pitt’s promotion. Pitt was from the ranks, no better than the others. He should not aspire to ape his superiors, let alone try to be one. Positions like that previously held by Micah Drummond were for gentlemen. Rank was the only acceptable qualification for authority. Ambition was not, and Tellman thought that Pitt was ambitious.
He was mistaken. Pitt would have remained where he was and been perfectly happy had he not a family who deserved of him the best he could provide. But that was none of Tellman’s concern.
