Ashworth Hall

unquestionably have been killed. That can only be because he has been out to step into Mr. Greville’s place in the conference. It is political, Mr. Pitt. Please give his family the opportunity to recover from their grief, and mourn for him, without destroying the memories they have.”

He looked at her earnest face. She meant passionately what she said, and it was easy to understand. He would like to protect Eudora himself.

“You have a high opinion of Mr. Greville,” he said gravely.

“Of course. I know a lot about him, Mr. Pitt. I am going to marry his son. Look for the person who envied his brilliance, who was afraid of what he could achieve … and above all, in whose interest it is to keep the Irish Problem unsolved.”

“Miss Baring—”

He got no further. There was an explosive crash. The walls shook, the ground trembled. The looking glass above the mantel shattered outwards, and suddenly the air was full of dust.

The gas mantles fell in shards onto the floor, and out in the hall someone started screaming over and over again.

8

THE NOISE DIED AWAY. For seconds Pitt did not move, too dazed to realize what had happened. Then he knew. A bomb! Someone had exploded dynamite in the house. He spun around and lunged out the door.

The hall was full of smoke and dust. He could not even see who was screaming, but the door of Jack’s study was hanging on one hinge and the small table that had stood outside was lying in splinters on the floor. The dust was clearing already. The cold draft which came from the shattered windows was blowing it in billows through the doorway. Finn Hennessey was lying on the floor, crumpled and dazed.

The woman was still screaming.

Jack!

Sick at heart, Pitt staggered in without even bothering to steady the remains of the door. He could see shards of wood everywhere, and smell gas and burning wool. The curtains were flapping into the room, filled like sails and then snapped empty, their bottoms torn. Books lay in piles and heaps on the carpet. The burning was getting worse. The coals must have been thrown out of the fire by the blast.

There was someone on the carpet behind the ruins of the desk, spread-eagled, one leg bent under him. There was blood all over his chest and stomach, bright scarlet blood.

Pitt could barely force himself to pick his way through the debris, treading on papers and the wreckage of furniture and ornaments.

The jaw was broken, the throat torn, but the rest of the face was remarkably undisfigured. It was Lorcan McGinley. He looked faintly surprised, but there was no fear in him, no horror at all. He had not seen death coming.

Pitt climbed to his feet slowly and turned back to the door. The wind filled the curtains and sent them flying up. One caught a picture swinging on its broken hook and sent it crashing to the floor, glass exploding.

Emily was standing in the doorway, her body shaking, her face gray.

“It’s McGinley,” he said clearly, walking over towards her, slipping on books, loose papers, glass, splintered wood.

Emily shook more violently. She was gasping for breath as if she were choking, unaware that she was beginning to sob.

“It’s McGinley!” Pitt said again, taking hold of her shoulders. “It’s not Jack!”

She raised her fists, tightly clenched, and started to beat against him, lashing out blindly, terrified, wanting to hurt him, to share some of the intolerable pain inside her.

“Emily! It’s not Jack!” He did not wish to shout. His throat was sore with the dust and smoke. Somewhere behind him the study carpet was beginning to burn. He took her shoulders and shook her hard. “It’s Lorcan McGinley! Stop it! Emily, stop it! I’ve got to put the fire out before the whole damn house is alight!” He raised his voice to a shout, coughing violently. “Somebody get a bucket of water! Quickly! You!” He pointed to a dim figure through the settling dust. The maid had stopped screaming at last. Other people were coming, frightened, not knowing what to do. One of the footmen stood as if paralyzed, his livery filthy. “Get a bucket of water!” Pitt shouted at him. “The carpet’s on fire in there.”

The footman moved suddenly, swinging around as if to escape.

Emily was still shaking and crying, but she had stopped hitting him. Her hair was coming undone and she looked ashen pale.

“Where’s Jack?” she said hoarsely. “What have you done with Jack? You were supposed to look after him! Where is he?” She jerked back as if to strike at him again.

There was a clatter of feet, and loud voices.

“What is it?” O’Day demanded. “Oh, my God! What happened? Is anyone hurt?” He swung around. “Radley?”

“I’m here.” Jack pushed his way past Doyle and Justine. Other people were coming down the stairs, and more from the baize door at the far end of the hall.

Emily did not even hear Jack. She was still furious with Pitt, and he had to hold her hard to prevent her from hurling herself at him again.

One of the footmen was cradling Hennessey in his arms, and he appeared to be slowly regaining his senses.