It had been one of the worst days of her life. And tomorrow would probably be no better.
PITT WOKE with his head throbbing. He lay still in the dark. There was no sound except the tiptoe of a housemaid outside in the corridor. That meant it was past five in the morning.
Then he remembered what had happened the previous day, the screaming, and Ainsley Greville’s body with its face under the water. It was someone in the house who had killed him, one of the guests. McGinley had been in his room talking to the valet Hennessey; O’Day had seen them. That meant all three of them were excluded. Physically, it could have been any of the others, although a man was far more likely, which left Fergal Moynihan, brother-in-law Doyle, or Piers. It was beginning to look more and more like Moynihan, except that Moynihan seemed to have abandoned his passionate Protestantism and all its precepts in his affair with Iona McGinley.
Could a man possibly be so double in his thinking? Fergal was committing adultery, a violation of one of the strictest commandments of his faith, and with a Catholic woman. Was it conceivable he would commit murder, against the greatest commandment of all, to preserve his faith from the continuation of popery?
Or was the preservation of Protestantism nothing to do with religion in his mind? Was it simply land, money, and power?
There were factors, perhaps major ones, Pitt did not yet know.
Charlotte was still asleep, warm and huddled up. He had been half aware of her moving restlessly during the night, turning over, pushing the pillows around. She was frightened for him. She had not said so. She had pretended she was perfectly confident, but he knew her better than to be deceived. There were mannerisms she had, a way of twisting her rings and tightening her shoulders, when she was worried.
Emily was frightened too, for Jack. He could hardly blame her. Jack was possibly in danger.
He slid out of bed. The fire had long gone out and it was cold. What was worse was that this morning, with the revelation of identity, he could hardly expect Tellman to fetch him any hot water.
He walked barefoot into the dressing room, which was also bitter, and started to put on his clothes. He could shave later. Now he needed to think. A hot cup of tea would help wake him up and clear his head. He knew where the upstairs pantry was, and the kettle.
He was halfway through boiling it, and the sky was graying outside, when Wheeler came in.
“Good morning, sir,” he said quietly. He never spoke in a normal voice until the guests were up. “May I prepare that for you?”
“Thank you.” Pitt stepped back. He was perfectly competent to do it himself, but he sensed that Wheeler wanted to. He felt more at ease doing his job than permitting someone else to.
Wheeler began with deft hands to lay a tray, which Pitt had not been going to bother with. The valet moved with a kind of grace. Pitt wondered what kind of a man he was when the mask of service was removed. What emotions had he, what interests?
“Would Mrs. Pitt like a tray also, sir?” Wheeler asked.
“No, thank you, I think she’s still asleep.” Pitt leaned against the door lintel.
“I’m glad I have the chance to talk to you, sir,” Wheeler said, watching very carefully as the kettle came to the boil. “You know there was another attempt on Mr. Greville’s life, some four or five weeks ago?”
“Yes, he told me. He was run off the road, but he never found out who was responsible.”
“That’s right, sir. And the outside staff tried everything they could think of. But there were also threatening letters.” He poured the water over the tea, then looked at Pitt very directly. “The letters are still at Oakfield House, sir. They are in Mr. Greville’s study, in the desk drawer. That’s somewhere Mrs. Greville would never go, nor the maids touch.”
“Thank you. Perhaps I’ll ride over today and have a look. There may be something in them to indicate who is behind this. It is obviously more than one person, because Mr. Greville would have recognized the driver who ran him off the road. He said he had remarkable eyes, wide set, and very pale blue. That man is not here now.”
“No sir. I’d put it on the Fenians, myself, but that’d make it Mr. McGinley, and from what Hennessey says, it couldn’t have been him. I’d be disinclined to believe Hennessey, except that Mr. O’Day says so too, and knowing how the Protestants like Mr. O’Day feel about Catholics like Mr. McGinley, he’d not say that if he didn’t have to.”
Pitt nodded rueful agreement and accepted the tea with appreciation.
After having returned to the bedroom and finding Charlotte still asleep, he had an early breakfast. To begin with there was no one else at the table except Jack, and they were able to talk frankly.
“Do you expect to find anything useful?” Jack said with some skepticism. “Surely if the threatening letters implicated anyone, he would have brought them to you already?”
“Possibly nothing,” Pitt conceded. “But there is plenty of evidence which is meaningless by itself but makes sense joined with something else. I have to look. I might get a better description of the coachman. There may be something else in the house, letters, papers. One of the servants might know or remember something.”
He looked across the wide table at Jack. At a glance he appeared very composed. He was as well-groomed as usual. He was a very handsome man in a casual, dashing way. His gray eyes were long lashed, his smile full of laughter and light. One would have to observe carefully to see the stiffness in his body, the occasion when he hesitated, took a deep breath, and then hurried on with what he was saying, the angle of his head as if he were half listening to hear something beyond the room. Pitt did not blame him for being afraid, both of the physical danger which had already struck Greville, but from which perhaps Pitt and Tellman could save him, and of the danger of failure in a responsibility which was far beyond anything he had approached so far in his very new career.
Doyle came in and greeted them with a smile. He seemed to be a man whom no tragedy or embarrassment could rob of composure. There were times when that was admirable, and others when it was irritating. Pitt wondered if it was a natural lack of ability to feel anything deeply, a shallowness in his emotional nature, or if it were a superb courage and self-control springing from consideration for others, an innate capacity for leadership and a kind of dignity which was all too rare.
As Carson O’Day joined them Pitt excused himself and went to look for Tellman. He found him coming up from the servants’ hall, his face dour and pinched in concentration.
“Learned anything?” Pitt asked him quietly, not to be overheard by a housemaid carrying a broom and a pail of damp tea leaves for the carpets.
“How to clean silver knives,” Tellman said with disgust. “It’s like a madhouse down there. At least six of them have threatened to give notice. The cook’s drinking the Madeira as fast as the butler can fetch it up, and the scullery maid’s so frightened she screams every time anyone speaks to her. I wouldn’t run a household if you paid me a king’s ransom!”
“I’m going to Oakfield House,” Pitt said with a ghost of a smile. “Greville’s home. It’s about ten or eleven miles away. I need to look at his papers, especially the threatening letters he received over the past month or two.”
“You think there’ll be anything in there that matters?” Tellman asked doubtfully.
“Possibly. Even if it is Moynihan, and I’m not sure of that, he certainly didn’t act alone. I want to know who’s behind him.”