She took a deep breath. “But ’e can’t sort out the way you all ’ate each other. But Lady Vespasia did some o’ it. She told Mrs. Pitt the truth about that story o’ Neassa Doyle and Drystan O’Day, an’ it in’t wot yer bin told all them years.”
He stood very still.
Outside someone walked along the passage and went on to the knife room. A footman swore under his breath as he lifted a heavy coal bucket.
“And what would an English lady in London know about a murder on an Irish hillside thirty years ago?” he asked carefully, his voice soft, his eyes steady.
She saw the defensiveness in him. But he was not weak enough to prefer a lie to the truth.
“Just wot anybody knows wot can read,” she replied, her eyes not wavering from his.
“And you believe it, Gracie? Written where? By whom?”
“In the newspaper,” she replied without wavering. “It’s writ in the newspaper. I read it meself.”
He almost laughed. “What newspaper? An English newspaper?” There was derision and contempt in his face and his voice. “Would you really expect them to print the truth? That one of their own, a soldier in their army, a lieutenant, raped and murdered an Irish girl and betrayed his own best friend. Of course they wouldn’t say that! I’m sorry the truth is hard, Gracie, but you have to face it!” He came towards her, his eyes gentle. He lowered his voice and it was sad rather than angry, but he did not waver. “Gracie, sometimes our own do things that we’re so ashamed of we can hardly bear to think of it, and it’s like a little bit of us dying to have to admit it’s true. But if it is … then running away or saying it isn’t doesn’t change anything, it just makes us part of whatever it was, because we haven’t the courage to face the truth, however terrible it is. You don’t want to be part of a lie, Gracie. That’s not you. However it hurts, be part of the truth. It’s a cleaner wound, and it heals.”
“Yeah,” she whispered. “But it in’t easy, Finn. It ’urts like yer tearin’ yerself apart, sometimes.”
“Be strong.” He smiled and held out his hand.
She did not take it. She hesitated even more. She had the two pieces of newspaper clenched in her pocket. She closed her eyes. It was easier to say it not looking at him, but she did not turn her face away.
“You said Neassa Doyle were raped and murdered on the night of the eighth o’ June.”
“Yes. It’s a date none of us will ever forget. Why?”
“By Alexander Chinnery, an Englishman wot were the best friend o’ Drystan O’Day, or pretended to be?”
“Yes. You know that!”
“Yeh. It says so in the newspaper wot Mrs. Pitt got up in London.”
“So what is it you’re saying? It’s true! We all know it’s true!”
“I got another piece.” Now she opened her eyes. She did not mean to, it just happened. “A Liverpool newspaper o’ sixth o’ June, two days before.”
He looked a trifle puzzled.
“Saying what?”
“Sayin’ as ’ow Lieutenant Alexander Chinnery jumped into the ’arbor o’ Liverpool ter try ter save a young lad wot was drownin’—”
“So he was brave when it suited him,” Finn said quickly. “I never said he was a coward. Only a betrayer and a murderer and a rapist.”
“An’ a bleedin’ miracle.” She nearly choked on the words. “ ’E were dead, Finn! ’E din’t save the boy, nor ’isself! They was both drowned. They got the bodies out, but it were too late. When Neassa Doyle were killed, Finn, Chinnery were two days dead. An’ there were dozens o’ people wot saw ’im. Dozens of ’em were tryin’ ter get ’em out an’ save ’em.”
“That’s not true!” His face was blank with shock. “It isn’t! It’s a lie to try to protect him.”
“From wot?” she demanded. “ ’E’adn’t done nothin’!”
“That’s what you say!” He stepped back, his cheeks flushed now, his eyes brilliant and angry. “The English would say that. They’re hardly going to admit it was one of their own.”
“One o’ their own done wot?” Her voice was rising higher, and she had to try hard not to shout. “That were two days before Neassa got killed. There weren’t nuffink to protect ’im from. You sayin’ they drowned ’im in Liverpool ’arbour ter save ’im from bein’ blamed fer summink wot ’adn’t ’appened yet?”
“No! Of course I’m not. But it can’t be the truth. It’s a lie somewhere. It’s a very clever one—”
“It in’t a lie, Finn! The only ones wot’s lyin’ is Neassa Doyle’s brothers, wot really killed ’er an’ shaved ’er ’ead fer bein’ an ’ore an’ goin’ after a Protestant. They blamed Chinnery ’cos they din’t ’ave the stomach ter stand up an’ be counted for wot they believed in.”
“No! No, they didn’t—”
“Then ’oo did? ’cos it weren’t Chinnery, lessn’n ’e come back from the grave an’ scared ’er ter death.”
“Don’t speak about it like that!” he shouted, raising his hand as if to strike her. “It isn’t funny, God damn you!” His voice was thick with emotion. Anger and confusion were all but choking him. “Haven’t you even a decent respect for the dead?”
“What dead? Only Irish dead?” she shouted back, refusing to retreat. “Course I ’ave! Enough ter want the truth fer ’em. But I got respect fer English dead too—if Chinnery didn’t do it then I won’t stand ’ere an’ ’ave anyone say as ’e did! It in’t honest.” She drew in her breath in a gasp. There were tears running down her cheeks, but she could not stop. “You told me ter face the truth, no matter ’ow much it ’urt. You said it were like a little bit of us dyin’ if we ’ad to admit our own ’as done sum-mink terrible.” She waved her arm in the air, pointing at him. “Well, you gotta do it! Them Doyles killed ’er an’ let Chinnery take the blame ’cos they ’adn’t the guts ter say as they done it to ’er theirselves ’cos she let ’em down by fallin’ in love wi’ O’Day. Well, they did, an’ you denyin’ it in’t going ter
