“Divine justice?” Kezia raised her eyebrows. “I’m not sure that I believe in it.” She tightened her lips, more in self-knowledge than bitterness. “Anyway, I don’t think that I’m prepared to wait for that.”
“No, quite ordinary human guilt,” Charlotte corrected. “And that doesn’t usually take that long to come, even if it is not recognized as such immediately.’’
Kezia thought in silence.
“Do you really want to create a gulf between you that you cannot cross?” Charlotte asked. “Not for him, for yourself?”
Again it was a long time before Kezia replied.
“No …” She said at last, reluctantly. She smiled very slightly. “I suppose you are not quite as pompous as I thought. I apologize for that.”
Charlotte smiled back. “Good. Pomposity is such a bore, and so masculine, don’t you think?”
This time Kezia did actually laugh.
The rest of the evening was strained. Kezia did not return, which was probably as well, but even so, Lorcan’s presence was sufficient to keep the disaster in everyone’s minds. The subject of the Parnell-O’Shea divorce was studiously ignored, which meant a great deal of political speculation had also to be avoided. The conversation degenerated into platitudes, and everyone was glad to retire early.
Charlotte sat on the dressing stool in the sanctuary of her bedroom.
“This is ghastly,” she said, running a silk scarf over her hair to keep it smooth and make it shine. “With this atmosphere one hardly needs to worry about Fenian dynamiters or assassins from outside.”
Pitt was already sitting in bed.
“What did Kezia Moynihan say? Is she going to make scenes all weekend?”
“She has a certain amount of justice on her side.” She repeated what Kezia had told her.
“Perhaps I should be protecting him,” Pitt said dryly. “From Kezia and from Lorcan McGinley, who has even more justice on his side; from Iona, if they quarrel or he breaks it off or she wants to and he won’t … or from Carson O’Day, for his jeopardizing the Protestant cause.”
“Or Emily,” Charlotte added, “for making a bad party into a complete nightmare.” She put the scarf down and turned out the gas lamp above the dressing table, leaving no light in the room except the glow from the last embers of the fire. She climbed into bed beside him and snuggled down.
For a second morning in a row they were woken by a shrill, tearing screaming.
Pitt swore and stirred, burying his head in the pillow.
The scream came again, high and terrified.
Reluctantly Pitt got out of bed and stumbled across the floor, grasping for his robe. He opened the door and went out onto the landing. Twenty feet away the handsome maid, Doll, was standing in the open doorway of the Grevilles’ bathroom, her face ashen, her hands to her throat as if she could barely breathe.
Pitt strode over, put both hands on her shoulders to move her aside, and looked in.
Ainsley Greville lay in the bath, naked, his chest, shoulders and face under the water. There could be no question whatever that he was dead.
PITT SWUNG AROUND, barring the way with his body. “Take her and look after her,” he said to Charlotte, who was now on the landing. It was obvious he was referring to Doll, who still stood swaying a little, gasping for breath. He met Charlotte’s eyes. “Greville is dead.”
She hesitated only a moment, her face tightening, then she walked forward and took the unresisting Doll and, putting her arm around her, guided her away.
There were now several other people gathered, newly awoken, anxious, but still with yesterday’s embarrassment high in their minds.
“What is it now?” Padraig Doyle moved past Piers, who was standing, startled and disheveled, next to the banister. A step behind him, Eudora looked worried but not frightened.
Fergal Moynihan was coming out of his room, opposite Pitt’s, blinking, his hair poking in spikes as if he were newly awakened. He left the door wide open, and Iona was plainly not present.
“What is it?” Padraig repeated, looking from Pitt to Charlotte and back again.
“I am afraid there has been an accident,” Pitt said quietly. There was no point in supposing it was anything else yet. “There is nothing to be done to help at the moment.”
“You mean … it is fatal?” Padraig looked only momentarily startled. He was not a man to panic or lose control of his composure. “Ainsley?”
“I am afraid so.” As he spoke, Pitt was reaching for the bathroom door to close it.
“I see.” Padraig turned to Eudora, a great gentleness in him. He put his arm around her shoulders, and the very tenderness of it alarmed her.
“What is it?” she demanded. “Padraig?” She pulled away, turning to face him.
“Ainsley,” he answered, looking at her very directly. “There’s nothing you can do. Come away. I’ll take you back to your room and sit with you.”
“Ainsley?” For a moment it was as if she had not understood.
“Yes. He’s dead, sweetheart. You must be strong.”
Carson O’Day was coming along the passage from behind them, Iona from the other direction, wearing a beautiful midnight-blue robe. It billowed out behind her with her movement, like clouds of night.
Fergal looked startled, perhaps by Padraig’s choice of words.
“Mr. Doyle …” Pitt began.
Padraig misunderstood him. “She’s my sister,” he explained.
“I was going to ask you to help Mrs. Greville to her room”—Pitt shook his head a little—“and ask Mrs. Radley’s maid to go to her. I don’t think her own maid is in any state to help. And would you ask someone, Tellman, to come up here, please?” He looked around. Emily had arrived, her face harassed as she envisioned some new social breach. Jack was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he had risen early again.
Emily looked at Pitt, and knew that this time it was no simple love affair. She took a deep breath and deliberately steadied herself.
“I’m sorry, but Ainsley Greville is dead,” Pitt said to everyone. “There is nothing that can be done to help him. It would be best if you all returned to your rooms and dressed as usual. We cannot be certain yet exactly what happened or what steps we should take next. Have someone find Mr. Radley and inform him.”
Padraig had already gone with Eudora.
“I’ll do that,” O’Day offered. He looked pale but in command of himself. “It’s a tragedy that it should happen now. He was a brilliant man. Our best hope for conciliation.” With a sigh he swiveled and went downstairs, tying his robe around his waist, his slippers soundless on the wooden stairs.
Piers came forward. “Can I help?” he offered, his voice husky but almost steady. His eyes were very wide and he shook a little, as if he had not yet fully understood. “I’ve almost completed my medical studies. It would be a lot quicker and more discreet than sending for someone from the village.” He gave a little cough. “Then I would like to go and be with my mother. Padraig’s marvelous, but I think I should … and Justine. She will feel dreadful when she hears. Perhaps I should be the one to tell her—”
“Later,” Pitt cut across him. “Now we need a doctor to look at your father.”
Piers was jolted. “Yes,” he agreed, his face tightening. “Yes, of course.”
Pitt pushed the door open and stepped back for Piers to follow him in. On the landing, people were moving away. Tellman should be there soon.
As soon as Piers was in, Pitt closed the door and watched as the young man walked over to the bath, which was full almost to the brim, and to the naked corpse of his father. He stood close behind him, in case the sight should cause him to feel faint. The strongest will is not always proof against sheer physical shock. However many bodies he had seen in the course of his studies, there would be no other like this.