She sniffed and attempted to concentrate.
“I already told Mr. Tellman wot I saw. Din’t ’e tell yer? ’E’s a useless valet, ’e is. In’t ’e no good as a policeman neither?”
“Yes, he is good,” Pitt replied. “Although I daresay you are a better detective than he is a valet.”
“I in’t no use this time.” She stared down at the iron, although it was cold and she was not even pretending to use it. “We in’t none of us no use to yer this time. I’m really sorry, sir.”
“Don’t worry, Gracie, we’ll solve it,” he said with a certainty he did not feel. “Tell me about the maid you saw with the towels.”
She looked up at him with surprise. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and he had no doubt she had been crying.
“In’t yer found ’er yet? Stupid article! She in’t got nuffink ter be afraid of. She weren’t doin’ no wrong … just carryin’ towels, like I said.”
“But perhaps she saw something, or someone,” he pointed out. “She is the only person we can’t account for. Try and remember, Gracie. We haven’t got much to go after at the moment. Almost anyone could have put the dynamite in Mr. Radley’s study … except Mr. McGinley, I suppose … or Hennessey.”
She sniffed. “Yeah, I s’pose.” She brightened considerably. “I dunno ’oo she were, sir, or I’d ’a said.”
“Describe her, as exactly as you can.”
“Well, she were taller’n me. But then I s’pose everyone is. She stood tall, proud like, ’ead very straight—”
“What color hair?”
She screwed up her face. “I don’ remember seein’ ’er ’air. She ’ad a lace cap on. Real big sort o’ cap, not like mine wot sits on top o’ me ’ead. ’Ers were allover lace. Too big, if yer ask me, but some folks like ’em like that. She could ’e bin any color underneath it.”
“Have you seen any of the maids wearing caps like that?”
“Yeah. Mrs. McGinley’s maid wears one like it.” Then the eagerness died from her face. “But it weren’t ’er. Least, I don’t think it were. She’s sort o’ got narrow shoulders, like a bottle, an ’er wot I saw ’ad good shoulders, more square.”
“Was she large or small, Gracie? Slender or plump?”
“I’m thinkin’!” She screwed up her face, eyes closed, trying to bring back the picture.
“Start at the top,” he encouraged. “What after the lace cap and the shoulders? Neat waist or plump? Did you see her hands? How was her apron tied? Anything you can think of.”
“Din’t see ’er ’ands.” She kept her eyes closed. “She were ’oldin’ a pile o’ towels. Goin’ ter someone’s bath, I s’pose. Not a bad waist, but not as good as some. She weren’t slender, not real slender. Solid enough, I’d ’a’ said. Come ter think on it, ’er apron weren’t tied real well. Not like Gwen’s, say. She showed me ’ow ter tie ’em real pretty. I’m goin’ ter keep on doin’ that w’en I get ’ome again.” She looked at him hopefully.
“Good.” He smiled. “We’ll impress Bloomsbury. So she didn’t tie her apron well?”
“No. Mrs. ’Unnaker’d ’ave torn strips orff anyone ’oo’d done a sloppy job like that, so it weren’t one o’ the Ashworth ’All maids.”
“Good!” he said enthusiastically. “Very good. What else?”
Gracie said nothing but stood with a look of fierce inner thought on her face, her eyes wide open, staring beyond him into the distance.
“What?” he demanded.
“Boots,” she whispered.
“Boots? What about them?”
“She weren’t wearin’ boots!”
“She was barefoot?” he said with disbelief.
“No, o’ course she weren’t barefoot. She were wearin’ slippers, like wot ladies wear. She’d took someone’s slippers!”
“How do you know? What did you see … exactly?”
“She were facin’ away from me, like she was going inter the doorway. I just seen the side o’ one foot, an’ the ’eel o’ the other.”
“But it was a slipper? What color? How do you know it wasn’t a boot?”
“ ’Cos the foot were stitched. It were embroidered, like a slipper, an’ the ’eel were blue.” Her eyes widened. “Yeah, the ’eel were blue.”
Pitt smiled. “Thank you.”
“It ’elps?” she said hopefully.
“Oh, yes, I think so.”
“Good.”
Pitt left the ironing room with the feeling that for the first time since he had found Ainsley Greville’s body he had a real and tangible piece of evidence to follow. One of the women was part of the conspiracy. It was not hard to believe. In fact, it made excellent sense, only too excellent. His mind was weighed down with it. Eudora Greville, born Eudora Doyle, Irish to the blood and bone, helping her brother Padraig to fight for the freedom of their country in the way he thought would work. Her hatred for Greville would make it easy. And how could she not hate him, if
