“No, that is perfectly true,” Pitt conceded. Expressed as she had, it dwindled into insignificance. “Mrs. Greville, do you know a Mrs. Easterwood?”
“Yes, slightly.” Her expression belied the cautious tone of her voice. She did not care for her. Either she knew about or suspected Greville’s connection with her, or she knew her reputation.
Perhaps sensing some nervousness in Eudora, Justine moved an inch or two closer and put an arm protectively across the back of the chair.
“Are these people who might have given information about Mr. Greville’s movements, Mr. Pitt?” Justine asked, her tone still polite but with a thread of warning in it. “Do you believe that knowing who they are will lead you to the person in this house who actually committed the murder? Or to whoever killed the poor man in London? Whatever they said was probably unwilling, and they won’t even remember to whom they spoke.” She smiled very faintly. “It was no intruder, that you already established through Mr. Tellman’s questioning of the other servants. It is a political crime, because of Mr. Greville’s stand for peace and the skill he brought to the conference table. Someone wants peace only on their terms, or continued violence.”
“I know, Miss Baring,” Pitt conceded. He could understand, even applaud, her desire to protect Eudora from any further distress. Possibly she guessed that Greville’s personal fife was not one which would be easy for Eudora to learn of. Pitt felt all the same emotions himself.
But a new and very ugly thought had entered his mind, and he could not dismiss it. If Eudora knew of Greville’s liaisons with Mrs. Easterwood and her kind, and suspected what had really happened to Kathleen O’Brien, then she had good cause to hate her husband. Perhaps her brother, Padraig Doyle, also knew these things. Might he see it as yet another betrayal of the Irish by the English? Might this be one wrong he had decided to avenge himself, under cover of a political threat? Or even as part of a political act? No one had broken into Ashworth Hall. Had Doyle been a very willing assassin in Fenian hands? Pitt had thought him less likely before simply because of the family relationship. But that was not now true.
“Mrs. Greville,” he said very quietly, “the letters we found, and the information given by the servants, much against their will, show that Mr. Greville had close, intimate ties with several other women. Unless you wish to know, I shall not tell you the details, but they are not capable of any other interpretation. I am sorry.”
Justine’s elegant body tightened as if he had struck Eudora a physical blow. She stared at him with disgust in her beautiful, wide eyes.
Eudora was very pale, and she had difficulty in finding her voice and keeping it steady. But the look in her eyes as she met Pitt’s gaze was not pain so much as fear.
“Many men have frailties, Mr. Pitt,” she said slowly. “Especially powerful men in high office. The temptation falls their way more easily, perhaps, and they need the pleasure of having been able for a little while to forget their responsibilities. Those affairs are brief and have no meaning. A wise woman learns very quickly to ignore them. Ainsley never allowed me to be embarrassed in any way. He was discreet. He did not flirt with my friends. Not every woman is so fortunate.”
“And Kathleen O’Brien?” He hated having to mention her again.
“She was a maid, you said!” Justine cut in with contempt. “Surely you are not suggesting a man of Mr. Greville’s dignity and station would be flirting with a maid, Mr. Pitt? That is insulting.”
Eudora turned and looked up at her.
“Thank you, my dear, for your loyalty. You have been extraordinarily helpful to me in this time. But perhaps you should go and be with Piers. He too must be feeling very shaken and disturbed by this. I would go to him myself, but I know he would prefer you.” A flicker of regret crossed her mouth and vanished. “You might make sure he has something to eat, after his long ride.”
Justine accepted her dismissal gracefully, leaving Pitt alone with Eudora.
Eudora leaned even closer to the fire, as if in spite of the now almost oppressive heat in the room, she were still cold. The yellow light from the flames lit her cheeks and the gentle angle of her chin, and cast the shadows of her lashes on her skin.
Pitt felt brutal, but he had no choice. He forced himself to remember Greville’s dead face under the water, the indignity of his body, Doll’s screaming; and Denbigh lying dead in a London alley.
“Was Kathleen O’Brien a thief, Mrs. Greville?” he asked.
“No, I don’t believe so,” she whispered.
“Was she dismissed for refusing to accommodate your husband’s wishes regarding her?”
“That … may have been part of the reason. She was … difficult.” She would not be drawn further. He could see it in the set of her shoulders. For all its softness under the draping of her dark dress, her body was rigid. There was much in her form, her auburn coloring, which was like Charlotte, except that she was so much more vulnerable.
“Was your brother, Mr. Doyle, aware of your husband’s tastes and his indulgences?”
“I never told him,” she said instantly. It was an answer of pride. It was also evasive. “One does not discuss such things. It would be embarrassing … and disloyal.” There was criticism in her voice, and a huskiness, as if she were close to tears.
He thought of all she had endured in the last few days, the tensions of the pressure upon Greville to succeed in an almost impossible task, the fear for his life which she knew was real. Then Piers had arrived and announced his betrothal, obviously without having even told his family he was deeply in love, let alone consulting them about his plans. The day after that, her husband had been murdered. Now Pitt was forcing her to realize that much of the entire life she had known was false, marred by ugliness and betrayal of her heart, her home, her innermost values. Her pain must be all but intolerable.
And yet she sat by the fire, blank-faced, and remained polite. A lesser woman would have wept, screamed, abused him for his cruelty. He hated being the instrument of her suffering. But it was far from impossible that Padraig Doyle had killed Greville. Greville’s treatment of Eudora would free Doyle from the constraints of family loyalties which might otherwise have held his hand. He was Irish, he was Catholic, he was a Nationalist. Greville would trust him above any other man in the house. They might easily have quarreled, but Greville would never have expected violence from him. He would have sat in the bath quite unafraid until the very last moment, when it was too late to cry out.
