“Which maid?”
“She didn’t know. Only saw her back. But all the maids are accounted for. None of ’em were absent from their duties. It wasn’t an outsider who killed Greville, and it wasn’t a servant.”
Pitt did not reply. It was what he had supposed—and feared. Now he could no longer put off speaking to Greville’s family. He gave Tellman instructions to continue learning all he could and check the accounts of the valets and maids against each other to see if anything further could be learned or deduced, then went upstairs to find Justine.
She was in the small sitting room which served the guest rooms of the north wing. Piers was close beside her and looked anxious. He started up as soon as Pitt entered, his face full of question.
“I am sorry to intrude,” Pitt began. “But there are certain things I need to ask you.”
“Of course.” Piers started as if to leave. “There is no need to distress Miss Baring with details. I’ll come with you.”
Pitt remained in front of the door, blocking it. “They are not medical details, Mr. Greville, they are just factual observations. And I need to ask Miss Baring as well.”
“Why?” Piers looked at him more closely, sensing something further wrong. “Surely …” He stopped again.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Greville, but your father did not die by accident,” Pitt said quietly. “I am with the police.”
“The police!” Involuntarily Justine started, then put her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I thought—” She stopped, turning to Piers. “I’m so sorry!”
Piers moved closer to her. “I was here to try to protect him,” Pitt went on. “I am afraid I failed. Now I need to know what happened and who was responsible.”
Piers was stunned. “You mean … you mean he was … deliberately killed? But how? He fell against the bath! I saw the wound.”
“You saw what was intended to look like an accident,” Pitt pointed out. He glanced at Justine. She looked very white and still, but she was watching Piers, not Pitt. After that momentary outburst, she showed not the slightest sign of hysterics or faintness.
“You expected … murder?” Piers had difficulty even saying the word. “Then why did he come? Why didn’t you …”
Justine stood up and put her hand on his arm. “One can only do so much, Piers. Mr. Pitt could hardly go into the bathroom with him.” She looked at Pitt. “Did someone break in?”
“No. I’m sorry, it was someone resident in the house. My sergeant has established that. All the windows and doors were locked and there are men regularly watching the outside of the house, night as well as day. The gamekeeper has dogs out.”
“Someone here?” Piers was startled. “You mean one of the guests? You expected this? They are all Irish, I realize that now, but really …” Again he stopped. “Was this a political weekend? Is that what you are saying? And I intruded, without knowing?”
“I would not have phrased it so abruptly, but yes. Where were you at that time, Mr. Greville?”
“In my bedroom. I’m afraid I didn’t hear anything.” It did not occur to him that Pitt could suspect him of involvement. He took his own innocence for granted, and Pitt was inclined to do the same. He thanked them both and went to conduct the last and worst interview.
He knocked on Eudora’s door and Doyle answered it. He looked weary, although it was barely midday. His dark hair was ruffled and his tie was a trifle crooked. “I haven’t called anyone to make arrangements yet,” he said on seeing Pitt. “I shall ask Radley to send for the local doctor. There is no point in calling his own man. The situation is tragically apparent. We’ll send a message to his own vicar, though. He should be buried in the family vault. I’m afraid it seems the end of an endeavor for peace in Ireland, at least for the time being. We must make suitable arrangements for everyone to go home. I’ll accompany my sister.”
“Not yet, Mr. Doyle. I am afraid, although it seemed apparent what had happened, it was not so. It was murder, and Assistant Commissioner Cornwallis has asked me to take charge of the enquiry.”
“What competence have you to decide such a thing?” Doyle said very carefully. “Just who are you, Mr. Pitt?”
“Superintendent of the Bow Street Station,” Pitt replied.
Doyle’s face tightened. “I see. Probably here from the beginning in your official capacity?” He did not make any reference to Pitt’s lack of success, but the knowledge of it was in his eyes and the very slight lift of the corners of his lips.
“Yes. I’m sorry.” Pitt was apologizing for the failure, not his calling.
“I suppose there is no doubt of your facts?”
“No.”
“You said an accident in the beginning. What changed your mind?”
They were still in the doorway. The room beyond was dimmed by half-drawn curtains. Eudora was sitting in one of the large chairs. Now she stood up and came towards them. She looked profoundly shocked. She had the kind of papery paleness and the hollow eyes of someone who has sustained a blow beyond her comprehension.
“What is it?” she asked. Apparently she had overheard none of their conversation. “What has happened now, Padraig?”
He turned to her, ignoring Pitt. “You must be very strong, sweetheart. The news is bad. Mr. Pitt is from the police, sent here to protect us during the conference. He says that Ainsley was murdered after all. It wasn’t an accident as we thought.” He put both hands on her shoulders to steady her. “We have no alternative but to face it. It was always danger, and he knew it. We did not expect it here in Ashworth Hall.” He half turned back to Pitt. “Was there a break-in?”
“No.”
“You sound very sure of that.”
“I am.”
“Then it was one of us?”
“Yes.”
Eudora stared at him with hurt, frightened eyes.
Doyle tightened his grip on her.
“Thank you for doing your duty in informing us,” he said firmly. “If there is anything we can do to help, of course we will, but for the time being Mrs. Greville would like to be alone. I’m sure you understand that?”
“I do,” Pitt agreed without moving. “I wouldn’t disturb her at all if it were not necessary. I am sorry, but no one may leave until we have learned as much as we can and, I hope, proved who is responsible. The sooner that is done, the sooner Mrs. Greville can return to her home and mourn in peace.” He felt acutely sorry for her, but he had no alternative. “This was more than the death of your husband, Mrs. Greville, it is a far-reaching political murder. I cannot extend you the sensitivity I would like to.”
She lifted her head very slightly. Her eyes were full of tears.
“I understand,” she said huskily. “I have always known there was a danger. I suppose I didn’t think it would really happen. I love Ireland, but sometimes I hate it too.”
“And don’t we all,” Doyle said, almost in a whisper. “It’s a hard mistress, but we’ve paid too much to leave her now, and when we were so close!”
“What do you want of me, Mr. Pitt?” Eudora asked.
“When did you last see Mr. Greville?”
She thought for a moment. “I don’t remember. He often reads late. I go to bed quite early. About ten o’clock, I think. But you can ask my maid, Doll, if you like. She might know. She was here when Ainsley came in to say good-night.”
“I will. Thank you. And you, Mr. Doyle?”
“I went to my room, also to read,” Doyle replied. “If you remember, it was not an evening when any of us wished to stay up late. The Moynihan business was most uncomfortable.”
Pitt flashed him a look of agreement. “I would be most grateful if you would not tell anyone outside Ashworth Hall what happened for the time being.”
“If you wish.”
“Was your manservant with you, Mr. Doyle?”
Dry, sad amusement flashed in Doyle’s face. “You suspect me? Yes, he was, part of the time. He left about half past ten. Have you any idea when Ainsley was killed?”