because they’ve given him an impossible task and they might blame him if he can’t succeed.”
Charlotte held out her hand. “I know you are. The whole situation is horrible. But don’t worry about Jack not solving the Irish Problem. In three hundred years nobody else ever has. They might hate him if he did!”
Emily almost laughed, but she might too easily cry if she let go her control right at that moment. Instead she took Charlotte’s hand and held it tightly, then put her arms around her and hugged her.
After helping get the meat out of the icehouse for Emily, Pitt changed his mind about seeing Kezia and instead went to find Tellman. They needed to start again from the beginning.
“Back to Greville?” Tellman said with raised eyebrows. “I’d like to go back to Denbigh, myself, but I don’t suppose they’ll let us do that. I hate conspiracies.”
“What do you like?” Pitt asked wryly. “A nice domestic murder where the people have known each other for years, perhaps all their lives, lived under the same roof in open love and secret hate? Or someone who has been abused beyond bearing and has finally retaliated the only way they knew how?”
They were walking outside through the stable yard entrance and across the gravel path to the long lawn. The grass was wet, but the feel and smell of it was clean, and the air was still and not unpleasantly cold.
“How about simple greed?” Tellman replied grudgingly. “Someone hit over the head and robbed, then I can work out who did it and be happy to take them in and see them hanged. Well, not happy, but satisfied.”
“I shall be extremely satisfied to see this one taken,” Pitt rejoined.
“And hanged?” Tellman asked, looking sideways at him. “That’s not like you.”
Pitt shoved his hands into his pockets. “I might make an exception for people who plot political overthrow and random violence,” he replied. “I take no joy in it, but I think I can grant the necessity.”
“Got to catch him first.” With a faint smile Tellman put his hands in his pockets also.
“Who killed Greville?” Pitt said.
“I think Doyle,” Tellman replied. “He had the best reason, personal as well as political … at least as much sense in the political reason as any of them. It’s all stupid to me.” He frowned. His boots were soaking in the heavy dew on the grass, but he was used to wet feet. “Besides, Doyle has a weight about him, a passion which could carry through his beliefs.”
“Moynihan’s daft enough,” Pitt said, mimicking Tellman’s tone of a few moments earlier.
Tellman shrugged. “His sister has more real nerve than he has.”
“I agree.” Pitt nodded as they walked under the shadow of the huge cedar, their feet falling softly on the bare earth. “And I don’t suppose he killed McGinley. That looks like an accident, the bomb meant for Mr. Radley.”
“O’Day?” Tellman asked.
“Not Greville,” Pitt replied. “Both McGinley and his valet saw him in his own room at the relevant time. And he overheard their conversation about shirts.”
“Doyle,” Tellman said again. “Makes sense. That’s how McGinley knew about the dynamite, because they’re on the same side. Doyle must have said something and given himself away. Either that, or McGinley was in it from the beginning, then he had second thoughts … changed his mind.”
Pitt said nothing. Tellman was right, it did make sense—much as he fought against the thought, for Eudora’s sake. They were at the far side of the cedar now and the sun shone through the cloud in bars making a glittering surface on the wet grass.
“Can’t prove it, mind,” Tellman added irritably. “Could be they’d all lie to protect each other. Even Mrs. Greville maybe, though it was her husband. If she knew anything about his goings-on, she can’t have had any love for him. And she’s Irish, isn’t she? Catholic … and Nationalist.”
“I don’t know,” Pitt said crossly. “She may have wanted peace just as much as Greville did himself.” He sighed. “I’d like to know who the maid was that Gracie saw on the landing.”
“No one that I can find,” Tellman said bluntly. “I’ve asked them all, and no one admits to being there.”
“Might be frightened.” Pitt stared at the grass thoughtfully. They were approaching the rugosa hedge and the fields beyond, rolling gently towards a stand of elms, most of their leaves gone now. Over to the west a shaft of sunlight shone silver on the wet village roofs, and the spire of the church stood out darkly against the sky.
“Because they saw something?” Tellman asked, looking at Pitt skeptically. “Didn’t say anything then, and scared now?”
“Possibly. More likely didn’t see anything, just frightened of being involved at all. I refuse to say this is unsolvable. There’s only a limited number of people it could be. We’ve got another two days at least. We’re going to find the answer, Tellman.”
Tellman smiled, but there was no humor in it at all.
Pitt turned around and faced the gracious mass of Ashworth Hall again. It really was very beautiful in the autumn light. On the west facade the creeper was a scarlet stain against the warm color of the stone. It was a pleasure just to look at it. He glanced sideways to see Tellman’s face and was satisfied to catch a moment’s softness in it, as the loveliness moved him, in spite of himself.
They started back to the house together, roughly in step over the grass, feet soaked and now thoroughly cold.
“Gracie, I want you to remember exactly what you saw on the landing the evening Mr. Greville was killed,” Pitt said half an hour later when he found her alone in the ironing room. She looked terribly unhappy, as if she had been crying and would like nothing more than to creep away and be alone, had her duties allowed. He guessed it was something to do with the fondness he had seen her show for the young Irish valet, Finn Hennessey. Charlotte had warned him to be careful about that, and he had resented the fact that she thought such a warning necessary. Then he realized afterwards that he had not honestly been aware of it. He liked Gracie profoundly. He would hate to have hurt her, and he was unnecessarily angry that Hennessey should have, however unintentionally. He was not sure whether to let her know he was aware of her misery, or if it would be more tactful to pretend he had not noticed.
