“Thurgood,” Piers said quietly. He walked towards him and took him by one elbow. “I’m sorry, but there has been a tragedy. My father has been killed. Uncle Padraig is with Mama, but it was necessary that I come here with Mr. Pitt.” He indicated Pitt while still steadying the swaying butler with the other hand. “We need to look at Papa’s papers and letters, and find the threats that were sent recently. If there is anything you know which might be of help, please make sure you tell us.”
“Killed?” Thurgood looked startled. Suddenly his slight officiousness vanished and he looked elderly and rather rumpled.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Piers continued. “But please tell the staff there will be no changes, and they are to continue as usual. They must not discuss it yet, because it has not been in the newspapers, and we have not informed the other members of the family.”
It rose to Pitt’s tongue to ask Thurgood not to mention it at all, but he realized before he spoke that that would be an impossibility. The man’s shock was all too apparent. Others would draw the news from him even if he were unwilling. The air of tragedy and fear was already in the house.
“Perhaps you would arrange a hot toddy for us,” Piers went on. “It’s been a long ride. And then luncheon at about one. We’ll take it in the library. A little cold meat or pie, whatever you have.”
“Yes sir. I’m very sorry, sir. I’m sure the other staff will wish me to convey their sympathies also,” Thurgood said awkwardly. “When shall we expect the mistress home, sir? And of course there will be … arrangements ….”
“I don’t know yet. I’m sorry.” Piers frowned. “Do you understand, Thurgood, this is a government secret at the moment? I think perhaps you had better tell the housekeeper and no one else. Treat it as a family embarrassment, if you like.” He glanced at Pitt and smiled with a little twist of the mouth. “Use the same discretion you would if you had overheard a confession to something shameful.”
Thurgood obviously did not understand, but his face reflected bland obedience.
When he had withdrawn. Piers led the way to the library, with his father’s large desk in one corner. The room was cold, but the fire was laid, and Piers bent and lit it without bothering to call a servant. As soon as he was sure it had caught, he straightened up and produced keys to open the desk drawers.
The first one yielded personal accounts, and Pitt read through them without expecting to find anything of interest. There were tailors’ bills, and shirtmakers’; receipts for two pairs of very expensive boots, onyx-faced shirt studs and a fan of carved ivory and lace, an enameled pillbox with a painting of a lady on a swing, and three bottles of lavender water. They were all dated within the last month. It seemed Greville had been a very generous husband. It surprised Pitt. He had not observed such affection or imagination in him. Eudora was going to find the loss bitter. The private man had obviously been more sensitive and far more emotional than the public politician.
He stood still, holding the papers in his hand, looking around the well-furnished library with its book-lined walls, a few excellent paintings, mostly of scenes from Africa, water-colors of Table Mountain and the sweeping skies of the Veldt. The books in the cases were largely sets of volumes, uniformly bound in leather, but one case seemed to hold odd ones, and from the armchair it was the most easily accessible. He would look at them if he had time. Greville had suddenly become more interesting as a man, a sharper loss now that Pitt had seen his humanity, a sense of his inner emotion.
Piers was looking through the drawers on the further side of the desk. He straightened up, several letters in his hand.
“I think I have them,” he said grimly, holding them forward. “Some of them are threatening.” He looked puzzled, hurt. “Only two are anonymous or sound political.” He stared at Pitt, uncertain what he wanted to say. Twice he started, stopped again, and then simply put out his hand with the papers.
Pitt took them and looked at the first. It was printed in block letters and extremely simple.
Do not betray Ireland or you will be sorry. We will win our freedom, and no Englishman is going to defeat us this time. It will be a simple matter to kill you. Remember that.
Not surprisingly, it was unsigned and undated.
The next was utterly different. It was written in a strong, clear hand, and it was both dated and carried a sender’s address.
Oct 20th. 1890.
Dear Greville,
I find it most repugnant to have to address any gentleman on a matter such as this, but your behaviour leaves me no alternative. Your attentions to my wife must cease immediately. I do not propose to enlarge upon the subject. You are aware of your transgression and it needs no detail from me.
If you see her again, other than as the ordinary demands of civilized society dictate, and in public, I shall take the necessary steps to sue her for divorce, and cite you as an adulterer. I am sure I do not need to spell out what this will do to your career.
I do not write this in idleness. Through her behaviour with you I have lost all regard for her, and while I would not willingly ruin her, I shall do so rather than continue to be betrayed in this fashion.
Yours most candidly
Gerald Easterwood
Pitt looked up at Piers. The image of Greville of only a few moments ago had been shattered.
“Do you know a Mrs. Easterwood?” he said quietly.
“Yes. At least by reputation. I’m afraid it is not much … not as good as perhaps Mr. Easterwood would like to imagine.”
“Was he a friend of your father’s?”
“Easterwood? No. Hardly the same social circle. My father—” he hesitated “—was a good friend to those he liked, or considered his equals. I can’t imagine him using another man’s wife, not if the man were someone he knew … I mean, as a friend. He was very loyal to his friends.” He started as if to repeat it again, and realized he had already stressed it.
