“Perhaps you would arrange a hot toddy for us,” Piers went on. “It’s been a long ride. And then luncheon at about one. We’ll take it in the library. A little cold meat or pie, whatever you have.”
“Yes sir. I’m very sorry, sir. I’m sure the other staff will wish me to convey their sympathies also,” Thurgood said awkwardly. “When shall we expect the mistress home, sir? And of course there will be … arrangements ….”
“I don’t know yet. I’m sorry.” Piers frowned. “Do you understand, Thurgood, this is a government secret at the moment? I think perhaps you had better tell the housekeeper and no one else. Treat it as a family embarrassment, if you like.” He glanced at Pitt and smiled with a little twist of the mouth. “Use the same discretion you would if you had overheard a confession to something shameful.”
Thurgood obviously did not understand, but his face reflected bland obedience.
When he had withdrawn. Piers led the way to the library, with his father’s large desk in one corner. The room was cold, but the fire was laid, and Piers bent and lit it without bothering to call a servant. As soon as he was sure it had caught, he straightened up and produced keys to open the desk drawers.
The first one yielded personal accounts, and Pitt read through them without expecting to find anything of interest. There were tailors’ bills, and shirtmakers’; receipts for two pairs of very expensive boots, onyx-faced shirt studs and a fan of carved ivory and lace, an enameled pillbox with a painting of a lady on a swing, and three bottles of lavender water. They were all dated within the last month. It seemed Greville had been a very generous husband. It surprised Pitt. He had not observed such affection or imagination in him. Eudora was going to find the loss bitter. The private man had obviously been more sensitive and far more emotional than the public politician.
He stood still, holding the papers in his hand, looking around the well-furnished library with its book-lined walls, a few excellent paintings, mostly of scenes from Africa, water-colors of Table Mountain and the sweeping skies of the Veldt. The books in the cases were largely sets of volumes, uniformly bound in leather, but one case seemed to hold odd ones, and from the armchair it was the most easily accessible. He would look at them if he had time. Greville had suddenly become more interesting as a man, a sharper loss now that Pitt had seen his humanity, a sense of his inner emotion.
Piers was looking through the drawers on the further side of the desk. He straightened up, several letters in his hand.
“I think I have them,” he said grimly, holding them forward. “Some of them are threatening.” He looked puzzled, hurt. “Only two are anonymous or sound political.” He stared at Pitt, uncertain what he wanted to say. Twice he started, stopped again, and then simply put out his hand with the papers.
Pitt took them and looked at the first. It was printed in block letters and extremely simple.
Do not betray Ireland or you will be sorry. We will win our freedom, and no Englishman is going to defeat us this time. It will be a simple matter to kill you. Remember that.
Not surprisingly, it was unsigned and undated.
The next was utterly different. It was written in a strong, clear hand, and it was both dated and carried a sender’s address.
Oct 20th. 1890.
Dear Greville,
I find it most repugnant to have to address any gentleman on a matter such as this, but your behaviour leaves me no alternative. Your attentions to my wife must cease immediately. I do not propose to enlarge upon the subject. You are aware of your transgression and it needs no detail from me.
If you see her again, other than as the ordinary demands of civilized society dictate, and in public, I shall take the necessary steps to sue her for divorce, and cite you as an adulterer. I am sure I do not need to spell out what this will do to your career.
I do not write this in idleness. Through her behaviour with you I have lost all regard for her, and while I would not willingly ruin her, I shall do so rather than continue to be betrayed in this fashion.
Yours most candidly
Gerald Easterwood
Pitt looked up at Piers. The image of Greville of only a few moments ago had been shattered.
“Do you know a Mrs. Easterwood?” he said quietly.
“Yes. At least by reputation. I’m afraid it is not much … not as good as perhaps Mr. Easterwood would like to imagine.”
“Was he a friend of your father’s?”
“Easterwood? No. Hardly the same social circle. My father—” he hesitated “—was a good friend to those he liked, or considered his equals. I can’t imagine him using another man’s wife, not if the man were someone he knew … I mean, as a friend. He was very loyal to his friends.” He started as if to repeat it again, and realized he had already stressed it.
Pitt looked at the next letter. It was another political threat, and very plainly concerning the future of Ireland, but seemed to be more in favor of the Protestant Ascendancy and the preservation of the estates which had been worked for and paid for by Anglo-Irish landlords. It also promised reprisals if Greville should betray their interests.
The one after was personal and signed.
My dear Greville,
I can never thank you sufficiently for the generosity you have extended to me in this matter. Without you it would have been a disaster for me—deserved perhaps, but nevertheless because of your intervention I shall survive, to behave with more circumspection in the future.
I am forever in your debt,
Your humble and grateful friend
Langley Osbourne
“Do you know him?” Pitt asked.
Piers looked blank. “No.”
There were three more. Another was an Irish threat, but so illiterately written it was hard to understand what was desired, except an ill-defined idea of justice. The threat of a most colorful death was constrastingly plain, and mention was made of an old story of lovers who had both been betrayed by the English.
The following one was quite long, and from a friend of some considerable intimacy and length of time. The tone was one of social arrogance, class loyalty, common memory and interest, and deep unquestioned personal affection and trust. Pitt instinctively disliked the writer, one Malcom Anders, and found himself judging Greville less kindly because of it.
The last letter was unopened, even though the postmark was dated almost two weeks before. Apparently it had been of little interest to him. Presumably he had recognized the writing and not bothered to read it. Perhaps he had received it when there was no fire burning and he had not wished to leave it in the wastepaper basket, where a curious housemaid or footman might see it and maybe have sufficient literacy to be able to understand it.
Pitt opened it carefully and read. It was a love letter from a woman who signed herself Mary-Jane. It spoke of an intimate relationship which Greville had ended, according to the writer, abruptly and without explanation, other than the assumption that he had become bored with her. There seemed a callousness about the whole matter which Pitt found repellent. Certainly there was an element of using, and nothing of love. Whether she had loved him, or simply used him also, in a different manner, he could only guess.
He handed the letters back to Piers.
“I can see why he felt the threats were probably irrelevant,” he said matter-of-factly. “They could be from anyone at all, and seem to come from Nationalist Catholic and Protestant Unionist alike. It doesn’t help us at all. Still, we’ll take them.”
“Just … the threats?” Piers said quickly.
“Yes, of course. Lock the others back in the drawer. You can destroy them later if we find they have nothing to do with the case.”
“They can’t have.” Piers still held them in his hand. “There’s nothing political about them. It’s simply a sordid affair … well, two. But both of them are over … were over … before this. Can’t you just burn them, and keep quiet? My mother has enough to bear without having to know about this.”