“Nothing yet, but I shall have to.”
“Where’s Radley?”
“With Emily.”
“Have him telephone me. You can’t proceed with the conference for the moment, out of decency, if nothing else. But neither must we abandon it if there is any way whatever of continuing.”
“Without Greville?” Pitt was startled.
“I’ll speak to the Home Office. Don’t let anyone leave.”
“Of course not.”
“You won’t need force to keep them there; to leave would be diplomatic suicide. But if you need assistance from the village police, you have the authority to require it. Have Radley call me in half an hour.”
“Yes sir.” He hung up the receiver feeling hollow and extraordinarily alone. His sole purpose there had been to keep Greville safe. He could hardly have failed more absolutely. And he had no idea who had killed him. He would have been better to have stayed in London and looked for Denbigh’s murderer.
He left the library and went back upstairs. Charlotte was nowhere in sight. Perhaps she was still helping Emily keep some sort of order among the guests, who were all aware of Greville’s death but not that it was anything other than a tragic accident … except perhaps one of them.
He saw the young Irish valet of Lorcan McGinley closing a bedroom door, a coat over his arm and a pair of boots in his hand. He looked very pale.
“Do you know where Mr. Greville’s man is?” Pitt asked him.
“Yes sir, I passed him not two minutes ago, making a cup o’ tea, sir. Two doors back that way.” He pointed.
Pitt thanked him and followed his directions to the small room where there was a kettle and gas ring for making tea. The man attending to it was in his middle forties, grave and ordinarily very much in command of events. His dark hair was smoothed off his brow and his cravat was perfectly tied, but he looked distinctly ill. He started when he heard Pitt’s voice and nearly spilled the jug of hot water he was holding.
“I’m sorry,” Pitt apologized. “What is your name?”
“Wheeler, sir. Can I get you something?”
“I’m a superintendent of police, Wheeler. The assistant commissioner has asked me to investigate Mr. Greville’s death.”
Wheeler set the jug down before he could spill it. His hands were shaking. He licked his lips.
“Yes … sir?”
“What time did you draw Mr. Greville’s bath yesterday evening?” Pitt asked.
“Ten twenty-five, sir.”
“And did Mr. Greville go to it immediately, do you know?”
“Yes sir, within a few moments. He has a great dislike … had a great dislike for a cold bath, and water cools off very fast in a big bathroom.”
“You saw him?”
Wheeler frowned. “Yes sir. Is there some problem, sir? I understood he slipped as he was getting out.” He clenched and unclenched his hands. “I should have been there. I blame myself. He didn’t ask for assistance, but if I’d been there, he’d never have slipped.”
Pitt hesitated only a moment. There was nothing to be gained by pretending.
“He didn’t slip. He was struck by someone.”
Wheeler stared at him as if he did not understand.
“How long did Mr. Greville usually spend in a bath before either getting out or sending for more hot water?” Pitt asked him.
“What? You mean … deliberate? Why?” Wheeler’s voice rose. “Who’d do such a fearful thing? One o’ them dammed Irish!” He struggled for breath as the full realization came to him of what Pitt was saying. “They murdered him! What are you going to do about it? You’re going to arrest them!”
“Not until I know what happened,” Pitt said gently.
“The murdering devils! They tried once before, you know, once that I know of for sure!” Wheeler’s voice was losing control, getting louder.
Pitt put his hand on the man’s arm, holding him hard.
“I’m going to find out who did it, then I shall arrest him,” he promised. “But I need your help. You must keep calm and think very clearly. What you saw and heard may be vital.”
“They should be hanged,” Wheeler said between his teeth.
“I daresay they will be,” Pitt replied with no pleasure. “When we catch them and prove it. How long did Mr. Greville usually spend in a bath before getting out or sending for more water? Did he send for more?”
Wheeler controlled himself with an effort.
“No, sir. It wasn’t his habit, especially if he took a bath in the evening. Not more than fifteen minutes. He wasn’t a man who liked to lie and soak, except when he’d been riding, which he didn’t do often. Soak the ache out of his bones if he’d had a hard day’s ride.”
“So there would be roughly a fifteen-minute space of time during which one might find him alone in the bath,” Pitt deduced. “In this instance between approximately twenty-five past ten and twenty to eleven?”
“Yes sir, that’s right.”
“You are sure? How do you know the time so exactly?”
“It’s my job, sir. You can’t look after a gentleman properly if you aren’t organized.”
“But you didn’t notice that he hadn’t come out of the bathroom?”
Wheeler looked profoundly unhappy.
“No sir. It was late and I was tired. I knew Mr. Greville wouldn’t want more water, because he never did, so I went downstairs to clean the boots he’d taken off and brush his coat ready for the morning. Everything else was already laid out for the day.” He stared at Pitt. “When I came back upstairs I was rather later than I expected. I couldn’t find the tray. Someone must have moved it. Happens in a big house full of guests. It was long after the time Mr. Greville would have spent in the bath. I knocked on the bathroom door and there was no answer, and when he wasn’t in his room, I assumed …” He colored faintly. “I assumed he had gone to Mrs. Greville’s room, sir.”
“Not unnatural,” Pitt said with the shadow of a smile. “No one would expect you to pursue it. What time would that have been?”
“About ten minutes to eleven, sir.”
“Who else did you see on the landing or corridor?”
Wheeler thought very hard. Pitt could see his desire to be able to blame someone, but racking his memory did not help him, and he could not bring himself to lie.
“I saw that little maid of Mrs. Pitt’s going along towards the stairs up to the servants’ bedrooms,” he said at last. “And I saw that young valet of Mr. McGinley’s, Hennessey. He was Standing in the doorway of one of the bedrooms along that way.”
He pointed. “I think it was Mr. Moynihan’s room.”
“No one else?”
“Yes, Mr. Doyle said good-night and went to his room. That’s all.”
“Thank you.” Pitt went to look for Jack. He must deliver Cornwallis’s message. Jack would have been busy trying to salvage the goodwill of the conference, and Emily would be coping with the domestic catastrophe of death—the house and the bereavement of one of her guests.
He saw Gracie in the hall, looking pale and wide-eyed. There was fear in the stiff, rather proud angle of her head. Just beyond her he saw the slender figure of McGinley’s valet. Pitt smiled at Gracie, and she forced herself to smile back, as if everything were all right and she knew he could solve it all in the end.
He passed the open dining room door and glanced in. Charlotte was there, standing still as Iona paced back and forth speaking quietly in great urgency.
Charlotte looked at Pitt and very slightly shook her head, then turned back to Iona, taking a step towards her.
Pitt found Jack in his study with a pile of papers. He had barely closed the door when it opened again and Emily came in. She looked flustered, her color was high and her usually beautiful hair was hastily dressed, as if she could not sit still for the maid. From her expression it was obvious Jack had told her that Greville’s death was murder. She was torn between sympathy and fury.