“The same person who murdered Mr. Greville,” Justine answered her, her face pale and tight. “It was obviously intended for Mr. Radley because he has had the courage to take his place. Someone is determined that this conference shall not succeed and is prepared to commit murder after murder to see that it doesn’t.”
The fire in the study was out now. There was no more smoke, but the wind blowing through carried the rank smell of wet, charred wool and the still-settling dust.
“Of course it was intended for Mr. Radley,” Eudora said with a gulp. “Poor Lorcan saw someone put it there, or realized someone had, we shall never know now, and he went in there to try and disarm it before it could explode … only he failed.”
Iona looked up sharply, her eyes wide and suddenly filled with tears.
“He was betrayed, like all of us! He was one of the immortal Irishmen who died fighting for peace and trying to bring it to reality.” She faced Emily and Jack, standing close to each other. “You have a terrible responsibility, Mr. Radley, a debt of honor, incurred in blood and sacrifice. You cannot let us down.”
“I will do anything in my power not to, Mrs. McGinley,” Jack replied, meeting her gaze steadily. “But no sacrifice buys my conscience. I wish Lorcan McGinley were the only man who had died for Irish peace, but tragically he is only one of thousands. Now, there is much to do. Superintendent Pitt has another crime to investigate—”
“He hasn’t achieved much with the last one,” O’Day said with sudden bitterness, uncharacteristic of him until now. “Perhaps we should call in more help? This is lurching from bad to worse. McGinley’s is the second death in three days—”
“The third in a week,” Pitt cut across him. “There was a good man murdered in London because he had penetrated the Fenians and learned something of their plans—”
O’Day swung around, his face coloring, his eyes sharp. “You never mentioned that before! You never said you had information that the Fenians were planning all this. You knew that … and still you didn’t prevent it?”
“That’s unfair!” Charlotte intervened for the first time, coming forward from the shadows, where she had been standing near Emily and Jack. “This house wasn’t broken into by Fenians. Whoever did this”—she gestured towards the open study door and the wreckage within—“is one of us here. You brought murder with you!”
Someone gave a little cry. It was impossible to tell who. The room was as thick with fear and grief as it was with dust and the smell of burning.
“Yes, of course,” O’Day apologized, composing himself with difficulty. “I am sorry, Mrs. Pitt, Superintendent. I had hoped so much of this conference, it is hard to see one’s dreams dashed and not want to blame someone you can see and name. But it is nonetheless unworthy.” He looked around them, especially at Padraig. “Come. I think we should all leave Mr. Pitt to his gruesome duty, and ourselves return and see what we can do to foil this madman’s violence by preparing to continue the best we may.”
“Bravo.” Padraig applauded, raising his hands as if to clap, then turning to walk away.
“Certainly,” Jack agreed, after glancing at Pitt. “We shall all go to the morning room, when the fire is lit, and have Dilkes bring us a hot punch with a little brandy in it. I’m sure we could all do with it. Emily …”
She was still ghostly white, but she made an effort to respond.
“Yes … yes …” she said hesitantly, walking as if she were not sure of the ground under her feet. She went straight past Iona. It was Justine who took Iona by the arm and offered to go with her up to her room, fetch her maid and have a tisane sent up, with brandy if she wished, and to sit with her. Charlotte was Standing beside Finn Hennessey, talking to him quietly, gently, trying to help his shock and confusion. He was still staring around him as if he barely knew where he was and could not comprehend what had happened or what he was doing there. Gracie was there also, white-faced.
Pitt watched Charlotte with a sudden admiration which was oddly painful. She was so competent, so strong. She did not seem to need support from anyone else. If she was frightened, she hid it. Her back was straight, her head high; her concern was all for Hennessey and Gracie.
He turned back to the business in hand. Tellman was at his elbow. He had been unaware of him until now.
Everyone else followed Jack to the morning room—except Eudora and Tellman, standing close to the study door. Eudora was staring at Pitt, her face white, smudged across the cheek with dust.
“Mr. Pitt, I’m so sorry,” she said gently. “What Mr. O’Day said was unforgivable. No one can defend us from each other. This is terrible, but it does look as if we have great goodness among us, as well as evil. Lorcan gave his life trying to defuse the bomb. Perhaps we have still the will to succeed, if you can find who … who it was who laid it there.” She stared at him fixedly. “Can … can you? I mean, is there anything? Can anyone tell from what is left?”
“Not from the study,” he replied. “Anyone in the house could have done that, but we shall question the servants and everyone else, and see who came this way, where everybody was. We may learn something.”
“But … but we could all have come across the hall,” she protested. “That doesn’t prove … I mean—” She stopped, her throat tight, her voice thin and high. “I mean …” She shook her head quickly and walked after the others, her dark skirts pale with dust.
Tellman sighed and stared into the study, hesitated a moment, then started to pick his way through the debris towards the desk and the body of Lorcan McGinley. He squatted down and peered at it thoughtfully, then at what was left of the desk.
“I think the dynamite was in the top drawer on the left, or the second,” Pitt said, following after him.
“That’s what it looks like,” Tellman agreed, chewing his lip. “Judging from the way all the splinters and debris are lying. It would all fall outward from the blast, I suppose. What a mess. Whoever put it here wanted to be sure an’ kill Mr. Radley, no mistake. I wouldn’t be a politician trying to sort this lot out.” He moved his attention from the desk to Lorcan’s body. “He must’ve been right in front of it, poor devil.”
Pitt stood with his hands in his pockets, brow furrowed. “It would have been on a wire of some sort, rather than a clock,” he said thoughtfully. “No one could be sure when Jack would come in here. It might simply have blown up with no one, or if it were on top of the desk, under papers and books, it might have been moved by a servant tidying up.”
“D’you think that lot would care?” Tellman said bitterly. “What’s one English servant more or less?”
“Possibly nothing,” Pitt agreed. “But it would achieve no purpose. It would be a risk and an outrage that would
