Cornwallis smiled. “Yes. Very beautiful. But even beautiful women can have powerful feelings at having been betrayed. In fact, especially so, because they do not think it will happen to them. The outrage is greater.”
“But he didn’t do anything at Ashworth Hall,” Pitt said sharply. “All we discussed was the past, and nothing which threatened her position as his wife. As you say, it was all simply indulgence of appetite, not love.”
“Then why should Doyle murder Greville on her account?”
Pitt had no reply.
Cornwallis narrowed his eyes. “What is it, Pitt? There’s something else, or you wouldn’t have raised it. You are as capable as I am of seeing the fallacy of your argument; more so.”
“I think she is afraid it was Doyle,” Pitt said slowly, putting words to it for the first time himself. “But maybe I have the motive wrong. Perhaps it is political … Irish nationalism, like everything else.”
“Not everything.” Cornwallis shrugged. He looked faintly embarrassed. There was a very slight flush in his lean cheeks. “The O’Shea divorce verdict is due in today.”
“What will it be, do you know?”
“Legally, I think they’ll grant Willie O’Shea’s petition. His wife was unquestionably guilty of a long-standing adultery with Parnell. The only question was did Captain O’Shea collude in the affair, or was he actually a deceived party.”
“And was he?” Pitt had read little of it. He had not had time, and until now, not the interest either. He was still uncertain what bearing it had upon events at Ashworth Hall.
“Thank God it’s not mine to judge,” Cornwallis replied unhappily. “But if it were …” He hesitated. This sort of thing made him acutely uncomfortable. He thought there were aspects of life a man should keep private. He was embarrassed by the exposure of that part of a man’s life which should be personal to himself.
“But I would find it hard to believe anyone as gullible as he claims to be,” he finished. “Even though some of the evidence seems to border upon the farcical.” His lips twitched in a curious mixture of irony and distaste. “Climbing out of fire escapes while the husband came in at the front door, then a few minutes later presenting yourself at the same front door as if you have just arrived, is beneath the dignity of anyone who would presume to lead a national movement for unity and represent his people in the Houses of Parliament.”
Pitt was astonished. It must have shown in his face.
Cornwallis smiled very slightly. “It isn’t even as if the man had a sense of humor and could be presented as a charming rogue who got away with it. He has done it with a sanctimoniously straight face and been caught!”
“Will it ruin him?” Pitt asked, watching Cornwallis closely.
“Yes,” Cornwallis replied unequivocally, then thought for a moment. “Yes, I am almost sure it will.”
“Then the Nationalist movement will be seeking a new leader?”
“Yes, if not immediately, then within a relatively short time. He may stagger on as long as he can, but his power is finished … I believe. Others must believe so too, if that is what you mean. But either way, the case will have set back the cause of Irish unity, unless the Ashworth Hall Conference can come to an agreement. That rests primarily upon Doyle and O’Day, helped or hurt by Moynihan and McGinley.”
Pitt took a deep breath. “The first morning I was there Moynihan’s sister went to talk to him about their strategy—apparently she is just as politically minded as he—and she found him in bed with McGinley’s wife.”
“What?” Cornwallis looked as if he had not understood.
Pitt repeated what he had said.
Cornwallis stared into the fire and rubbed his slim, strong hand over his head, then he turned and looked at Pitt.
“I’m sorry, but I cannot send you more men,” he said quietly. “We’re keeping Greville’s death secret for the moment. I hope by the time we have to make it public we will be able to say that we have also caught the man who killed him.”
Pitt had known he must say that, but it still tightened the knot inside him, the sense of being pressed into a steadily decreasing space.
“Any further information about Denbigh?” he asked.
“A little.” Now it was Cornwallis’s turn to look apologetic. “We’ve traced his movements for several days before he was killed, and we know that that evening he was at the Dog and Duck on King William Street. He was seen talking with a young man with fair hair, and then they were joined by an older man, broad-shouldered with an unusual walk, from the sound of it a bit bowlegged.” He looked at Pitt steadily. “The barkeeper said he had unusual eyes, very pale and bright.”
“Greville’s murderous coach driver …” Pitt let out his breath with a sigh. “That gives me two reasons for finding the devil.”
“Us, Pitt,” Cornwallis corrected. “We’ll find him in London. You put all your mind to proving which of those four Irishmen killed Ainsley Greville. We need to know that before they leave Ashworth Hall, and we can’t keep them there more than another few days.”
“Yes, sir.”
GRACIE ARRANGED the white chrysanthemums and placed the vase on the table in the dressing room, then drifted downstairs in a vague, delicious daydream. In the hallway she did not see the ancestral portraits or the wood paneling; she saw light on glass and smelled the earth and the damp leaves and rows and rows of flowers. One moment she wanted to remember every word of the conversation, the next it did not matter in the slightest; the way she felt, the warmth of it was everything. Examine it too closely and it might disappear, like taking a tune apart. She had seen the black notes written on the page, and they meant nothing. The magic was gone; it was not music anymore.
She had Charlotte’s dress for the evening over her arm, and it was difficult to hold it high enough to keep the long skirts at the back from trailing on the floor.
“Gracie!”
She only dimly heard the voice.
“Gracie!”
She stopped and turned.
Doll was running down the stairs after her, her face pinched with anxiety.
“What is it?” Gracie asked.
“What are you doing here?” Doll said, taking her by the arm. “We aren’t supposed to carry clothes along these stairs! What if someone came to the door! It’d look terrible. That’s what back stairs is for. You only come down these if you’re sent for to one of the front rooms.”
“Oh. Oh, yeh. O’ course.” She had known that. She was not thinking.
“Where’s yer wits?” Doll asked more gently. “Yer out woolgathering?”
“What? What’s woolgathering?” Without realizing it, her arms were lowering and the blue dress was trailing on the floor.
Doll took it from her. She was six inches taller and it was an easy task for her.
“Picking bits o’ sheep wool that’s got caught in the hedges. I mean your wits are wandering.” She shook her head. “Yer going to iron this? If you weren’t before, you’d better now … and clean the hem of that skirt train.” She looked at the silk appreciatively. “It’s a lovely color. I always imagine the sea looks like that ’round desert islands and such.”
Gracie had no time for desert islands. The best things happened in gardens in England, in the dying blaze of the year. Green and white were the most beautiful colors. She followed Doll obediently through the baize door, along the passageway, turned left, and then past the stillroom, the footmen’s pantry, the room where they hung the pheasants and other game, the coal room, and on to the various laundry rooms and ironing rooms.
Doll put the blue dress on a hanger and inspected it carefully, flicking off specks of dust, wringing out a cloth till it was barely damp, and then wiping the places where Gracie had inadvertently let the hem of the dress brush on the floor.