“Don’t forget to call Cornwallis.” Pitt smiled briefly, then went out again and almost bumped into Tellman. “No break-in,” he said, looking at Tellman’s expression.
“No break-in,” Tellman agreed.
Pitt told him what he had learned from the valet about the time of death.
“Narrows it a bit.” Tellman began to look a little more cheerful. At least he was now engaged in his proper employment, not pretending to be some servant. Pitt could see it in his eyes.
“We’ll leave Mrs. Greville until last, give her a little time to compose herself,” Pitt directed. Questioning the bereaved was one of the worst parts of an investigation. At least this time he did not have to break the news to her. And it was also a political matter, not a personal one, so she should fear no disclosure of ugly relationships and secrets she had not known. There would be no public revelations of dishonor. “See what you can learn from the servants.”
Tellman’s jaw set hard. “I’ll need to tell them who I am!” His look defied Pitt to order him otherwise.
Pitt nodded and Tellman took his leave, moderately satisfied.
Pitt went to find the first of the guests to question.
As he passed the dining room he saw Charlotte was no longer there, nor was Iona.
He went slowly upstairs and knocked on the McGinleys’ door. On hearing Lorcan’s voice, he opened the door and went in. Iona had returned and was standing by the window, apparently much more composed than when he had seen her in the dining room. Lorcan was sitting over a breakfast tray on the small center table. He had eaten quite well, judging by the empty plate.
“What can we do for you, Mr. Pitt?” Lorcan asked, a little more coolly. His thin face, with its very blue eyes, was full of nervous energy. There were hollows at the bridge of his nose and small lines beside his mouth. Pitt had not thought before of the weight of responsibility which must rest on each of the representatives of the sectarian interests, and the burden of criticism they would bear whatever they achieved, or failed to achieve. And now with Greville’s death it was all wasted. It could only be failure and disappointed hopes.
“I am afraid it is very unpleasant news,” he said, looking from one to the other of them. “I am with the—”
“I know Greville is dead.” Lorcan stood up, almost unfolding himself. He was painfully thin. “That is the end of the conference. We’re finished. Another disaster. We should be used to them, but each one still hurts.”
“That is not my decision, Mr. McGinley,” Pitt replied. “Another chairman might be found ….”
“Rubbish! Please don’t patronize me, Mr. Pitt! You cannot just substitute someone else at this point, even if you could find anyone with the courage and the skill of Ainsley Greville.”
“The courage might be hard,” Pitt agreed. “Especially when they know, as they will have to, that Mr. Greville was murdered.”
Iona froze, her eyes wide and suddenly truly afraid.
Lorcan looked up at Pitt slowly, as if trying to think of the right thing to say.
“Who told you that?” he asked. “And who the hell are you to come in here saying such a thing?”
“I’m with the police. And nobody told me, I saw it for myself.”
Lorcan’s eyes did not move from Pitt’s. “Are you … indeed?”
“What are you going to do?” Iona asked him. “Did someone break in after all? I thought there were men around to make sure we were safe. It’s the Protestants. They don’t want us to achieve Home Rule. It’s the same old thing! When they can’t win by reason or the law, they murder us. God knows, the soil of Ireland is steeped in the blood of martyrs—”
“Be quiet,” Lorcan said immediately. “If Mr. Pitt’s a policeman it’s surely a shame he didn’t manage to protect Greville, but since he didn’t, it is not for us to go flinging blame around. Keep a still tongue. At least you can do that much … unless, of course, you know something you should be telling him?” His lip curled. “Your friend Moynihan, for example?” His tone was cruel, sarcastic, but Pitt could hardly blame him for that.
Iona blushed furiously but did not retaliate.
“What time did you retire last night?” Pitt asked.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Lorcan replied.
“No one broke in, Mr. McGinley. Mr. Greville was killed by someone in this house. What time did you retire?”
“About quarter past ten, or close enough.” He looked back at Pitt with a cold, defiant stare. “I didn’t come out of my room again.” He swiveled to look at his wife, waiting for her to answer as well.
“Were you alone?” Pitt pressed, not hoping for any very helpful answer. A man’s wife could not be made to testify against him, and unsubstantiated testimony from her was of no value.
“No,” Lorcan said abruptly. “Hennessey, my manservant, was here some of the time.”
“Do you know when?”
“About quarter past ten until ten minutes to eleven,” Lorcan replied.
“You are very exact?”
“There is a longcase clock on the landing,” Lorcan replied. “I can hear it from in here.”
“That’s a long time for your valet to be here,” Pitt observed. “What was he doing for over half an hour?”
Lorcan looked slightly surprised, but he answered readily enough. “We were talking about a shooting jacket I have. I’m fond of it. He thinks I should have it replaced. We also discussed the relative merits of London and Dublin shirtmakers.”
