its four-poster bed and embroidered linen and a fire in the grate. He would not douse himself quickly in the icy water from the pump, but ring a bell, and a manservant would bring him ewers of steaming hot water, enough for a bath if he wanted it. He would have a separate room in which to dress, and then breakfast would be as much as he could eat, with a choice of half a dozen different dishes. He would have silver knives and forks to use, and a linen napkin. And he would sit with people for whom this was the usual and familiar way of life. They had never experienced anything else.
But after he had finished he would not leave for the schoolroom he had been permitted to share with Matthew Desmond, nor for the numerous small tasks around the estate, safely taught or supervised by someone older. He would bear the responsibility for solving the murder of a minister of government, a man whose life he had been sent to safeguard in the first place … and failed.
He leaned against the stable wall, his feet in the comfortable, familiar-smelling straw, and heard the horses moving contentedly in other stalls on the farther side.
He had already introduced himself to the coachman and explained to him that Greville was dead. He had wondered whether to try to keep it from him, and decided that if he were a loyal servant, he would tell a stranger little of meaning if he thought his master still alive.
“Describe for me the incident when you were driven off the road,” he asked.
The man spoke haltingly, searching for words, all the time his browned hands were working with the leather and soap, rubbing, relishing. His account was in all essentials, exactly the same as Greville’s. He also remembered the eyes of the other driver.
“Mad, they looked ter me,” he said with a shake of his head. “Starin’, like.”
“Pale or dark?” Pitt asked.
“Pale, like light coming off water,” he answered. “Never seen a face like it afore. Nor again, I ’ope!”
“But you had no success in finding where the horses came from?”
“No.” He looked down at the harness in his hands. “Din’ try ’ard enough, I reckon. If we ’ad, p’raps Mr. Greville’d be alive now. Lunatics, them Irish. Course, not all of ’em. Young Kathleen were a good girl. Couldn’t ’elp likin’ er. I were real sorry when she went.”
“Who was Kathleen?” It probably did not matter, but he would ask anyway.
“Kathleen O’Brien. She were a maid ’ere. Not unlike our Doll, she were, only dark; dark as night, wi’ them blue Irish eyes.”
“Was she from Ireland?”
“Oh yes! Voice as soft as melted butter, an’ sing real lovely.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Six month.” His face closed over and his shoulders tightened.
“Why did she leave?” Pitt could not dismiss the thought crossing his mind that she could have had relatives— brothers, even a lover—who were passionate Nationalists.
“There weren’t nothing wrong wi’ Kathleen,” the coachman said, keeping his eyes on his work. “If yer thinkin’ she ’ad summat ter do wi’ that, yer wrong.”
“Why would she have?” Pitt asked quietly. “Did she leave here with a bad feeling? Did she have cause?”
“I’ve got nothing to say, Mr. Pitt.”
“Did you drive Mr. Greville in London as well, or only here?”
“I bin up ter Lunnon lots o’ times. There in’t much proper carriage drivin’ ’ere when both the master and mistress is up in town. John can do all o’ that. Learn ’im a bit.”
“So you would drive Mr. Greville in London?”
“I said so.”
“Do you know Mrs. Easterwood?”
No answer was necessary. The hesitation gave him away, then the angle of his body, the way his fingers stopped on the leather, then started again, digging into it, knuckles white.
“Were there many like Mrs. Easterwood?” Pitt asked quietly.
Again there was silence.
“I understand your loyalty,” Pitt went on. “And I admire it … whether it is to Mr. Greville or his widow ….” He saw the man wince at the word. “But he was murdered, struck over the head and drowned in his own bath, left there all night for Doll to find him in the morning, naked, his face under the water—”
The coachman jerked his head up, his eyes narrow and angry.
“You got no call ter go tellin’ me that! It in’t decent for folks ter know—”
“Folks don’t know.” Pitt reached across and passed him a clean cloth. “But I mean to find out who did it. It wasn’t just one man, because the coach driver with the staring eyes isn’t at Ashworth Hall. There was also a good man murdered in London, a decent man with a family, to keep this secret. I want them all, and I mean to have them. If I have to learn some squalid details about a few women like Mrs. Easterwood, and a good deal about Mr. Greville that the public don’t need to know, then I will.”
“Yes sir.” It was grudging. He hated it, but he saw no alternative. His hands clenched over the harness and his shoulders were tight.
“Were there others like Mrs. Easterwood?” Pitt asked again.
“A few.” He kept his eyes on Pitt’s. He took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Mostly up Lunnon way. Never wi’ wives of a friend. He’d not take anything what’s theirs. Only take them as is willin’—” He stopped
