“Between twenty past ten and twenty to eleven.”
“I see. Then no, Mr. Pitt, I cannot account for all that time.”
“Padraig … don’t!” Eudora said desperately. “Don’t say that, even lightly!”
“It’s not lightly, my dear.” He tightened his arm around her again. “I imagine Mr. Pitt is going to be thorough, and that means ruthless, doesn’t it?”
“It means very literal, Mr. Doyle,” Pitt replied. “Very exact.”
“Sure it does. And I didn’t kill Ainsley. We differed over a lot of things, but he was my sister’s husband. Go and look at some of those fierce, judgmental Protestants, Mr. Pitt, full of the anger and vengeance of their God. You’ll find his killer there, never doubting he does God’s work … poor devil! That’s what’s wrong with Ireland—too many people doing the devil’s work in God’s name!”
Emily had an appalling day. She had known from the beginning that there was a possibility of danger to Ainsley Greville, but she had assumed it was remote and would come from outside. And, of course, Pitt and the menservants would deal with it. When Jack had told her Greville was dead, she, like everyone else, had assumed it was accidental.
Her first thought had been for the failure of the conference and what it would mean to Jack’s career. Then immediately she was ashamed of that and thought of the grief of the family, especially his wife. She knew the shock of violent bereavement herself only too well. She thought of what she could do to offer any comfort. But fortunately it seemed Padraig Doyle was Mrs. Greville’s brother, and he was happy to take control. Why had he not been open about that before? The answer was presumably political. Perhaps they thought others might assume Greville would be biased in his brother-in-law’s favor. Or possibly they did not wish everyone to know Eudora was Irish, from the south, and therefore likely to be Catholic, even if not devoutly so. Emily had little patience with such passion over other people’s personal beliefs.
But at least Doyle’s presence relieved her of the immediate need to spare time offering comfort to someone in such shock or distress. Instead she must try to keep some calm and order among the household staff. Whatever she did, in no time everyone would know there had been murder committed in the house, and there would be hysterics, weeping, fainting and quarreling, and inevitably, at least one person would want to give notice and not be allowed to because no one could leave the hall until the investigation was over.
It would be better to tell them herself and at least be given credit for courtesy and honesty. Jack was occupied with the wreckage of the conference, and anyway, the servants were really her responsibility. She had inherited Ashworth Hall and its staff, and the income to run it, from her first husband, and it was held in trust for her son. The staff all treated Jack with respect, but they still looked to her ultimately, from habit.
She went downstairs and told the butler that she would like to speak to the senior staff in the housekeeper’s room immediately. They assembled with due haste and solemnity.
“You all know that Mr. Ainsley Greville died in the bath late yesterday evening.” She did not use any of the common euphemisms for death, as she did when speaking to most people. It would be absurd to say that someone who had been murdered had “passed over” or “gone beyond the veil.”
“Yes, m’lady,” Mrs. Hunnaker said gravely. She still used Emily’s title, even though she no longer possessed it because she had remarried. “Very sad indeed, I’m sure. Will that mean the guests will be leaving?”
“Not yet,” Emily replied. “I am sorry, but I cannot say how much longer they will be with us. It depends on circumstances—and upon Mr. Pitt, to some extent.” She took a deep breath and looked at their polite, attentive faces with a sinking heart. “As most of you know, I daresay, Mr. Pitt is with the police. I am afraid Mr. Greville did not meet his death by accident, as we had first supposed. He was murdered—”
Mrs. Hunnaker blanched and reached for the back of one of the chairs to support herself.
Dilkes gasped, struggled for something to say, and failed to find it.
Jack’s valet shook his head. “That’ll be why Mr. Pitt was asking about where everyone was. And that Tellman, going around looking at all the windows.”
“Nobody never broke in?” the cook said, her voice rising in near panic already. “Gawd ’elp us all!”
“No!” Emily said sharply. “No one broke in.” Then she realized that the alternative was worse, and wished she had not been quite so vehement. “No,” she repeated. “It is a political assassination. It is all to do with the Irish Question. It has nothing to do with us. Mr. Pitt will deal with it. We must just behave as usual—”
“Behave as usual?” the cook said indignantly. “We could all be murdered in our beds! Beggin’ your—”
“Baths,” the housekeeper corrected punctiliously. “And we don’t take baths, Mrs. Williams. We wash in a basin, like most folks. You can’t fall out of a basin.”
“Well, I’m not having Irishmen in my kitchen or our hall!” the cook said. “And that’s flat!”
Emily was not often caught in two minds where servants were concerned. Once let them see you could be manipulated and you could never govern the house again. She had learned that long ago. But if Mrs. Williams refused to cook now, she would be in a desperate situation. Jack’s political career could suffer if his household was considered unreliable. She felt that the fact they had excellent reason would be of no importance whatever.
“They have no occasion to be in your kitchen, Mrs. Williams,” she said after a second’s hesitation. “And you will be in no danger cooking for everyone, as usual. I am sure you would not wish to judge the innocent along with the guilty, if there are any guilty—”
“They’re all guilty of hating each other,” Mrs. Williams said with a gleam in her eye. Her hands were shaking and her body began to quiver. “And the Good Book says that’s as bad as murder.”
“Rubbish,” Emily retorted briskly. “We are English, and we don’t panic because a collection of Irishmen dislike each other. We have a great deal more fortitude than that!”
Mrs. Williams straightened up noticeably.
“We don’t run away from our duty for any reason,” Emily went on, realizing she had said the right thing. “But if you prefer to seat the visiting staff separately, then by all means do so. For the sake of the younger maids who may be very naturally upset,” she added. “Not for you, of course. You will be perfectly all right. But you will have to look after the junior staff and ensure they don’t take fright or behave badly. We have a very important position to maintain.”
“Yes, m’lady,” Mrs. Hunnaker said, raising her chin. “We mustn’t let them Irish think we haven’t the stomach for it.”
“Certainly not,” the butler agreed. “Don’t worry, ma’am, we’ll make sure everything runs as usual.”
But such a task was beyond mortal ability to accomplish. Two of the younger housemaids had hysterics and had to be put to bed, one of them after she had tipped a bucket of water down the front stairs and soaked the hall carpet. One of the junior footmen almost set fire to the library, in absentminded-ness piling more and more coals into the grate. The bootboy got into a fight with Fergal Moynihan’s valet and they both ended up with black eyes, and three dishes were broken in the scullery, and then the scullery maid had hysterics. One of the laundry maids filled the copper too full and boiled it over, and the senior laundry maid flew at her, whereupon the first one gave notice. No one peeled any potatoes or carrots, and the pies for dessert were forgotten and got burnt.
One of the footmen got drunk, tripped over the kitchen cat, and fell over. The cat was furious but unhurt. Mrs. Williams was in a monumental temper, but she did not give notice. And no one at all was interested in luncheon, so the wreckage of the meal was unnoticed upstairs. Emily was the only person who was ever aware of it.