“No. It’d take a fair while to set up a bomb with dynamite, and something to trigger it off when Mr. Radley opened the drawer. You couldn’t just put it in and run away.”
“It seems all the women were either with their maids or else at breakfast, and then with each other,” Pitt said slowly. He had spoken to them all, although he had never seriously thought that it would turn out to be a woman who had put the dynamite in Jack’s study. “Except Mrs. Greville. Not unnaturally, she still likes to spend some time alone.”
Tellman said nothing.
“That leaves the men,” Pitt said somberly. “Which means either Moynihan or Doyle. Piers Greville was with Miss Baring.”
“Moynihan was in the conservatory with Mrs. McGinley,” Tellman said with a shake of his head. “Your Gracie saw them there. Of course, there’s nothing to say they didn’t do it together, to get rid of McGinley so they could marry each other … if that sort like to marry.”
“They’d marry,” Pitt said dryly, “if they could ever settle on which church … if either would have them. I gather both sides feel very strongly about not marrying the other.”
Tellman rolled his eyes very slightly. “He’s daft enough about her he would have killed her husband, and I wouldn’t swear she’d not have helped him. Then there is Doyle,” Tellman pointed out. “He was seen in the hall twice, once by Hennessey and once by Gracie.”
“I think I had better go and speak to Mr. Doyle,” Pitt said with reluctance. He knew Eudora was afraid for her brother. She had been since Greville’s death. With McGinley’s death she would be more so … perhaps with cause. Pitt did not want to think so, for he had liked the man. But the fact that McGinley had been the only one aware of the dynamite, apart from whoever placed it there, made it look more and more as if it could have been Doyle. Had they quarreled about the ways of bringing about the ends they both sought? And had Doyle been prepared to use more violence, and McGinley guessed it?
They met in the boudoir, Eudora standing by the window. She watched them both, her eyes going from Padraig’s face to Pitt’s and back again.
“Yes, I crossed the hall,” Padraig admitted, a flash of anger in his eyes. “I did not go into the study. I went from the front door to the side door to see what the weather was like, then I went back upstairs.”
“No, you didn’t, Mr. Doyle,” Pitt said quietly. “You were seen in the hall after Hennessey collected the papers to iron them.”
“What?” Doyle demanded.
Eudora looked terrified. She stood like a cornered animal, as if she would flee if there were only a way past them. She looked at Padraig, then at Pitt, and he felt the force of her plea for help even though she did not speak it.
“McGinley’s valet took the papers to be ironed before you were seen in the hall by my wife’s maid,” Pitt explained. He glanced at Eudora and back again. “You have made a mistake in your account …. You had better think again, Mr. Doyle. Did you go into Mr. Radley’s study?”
Padraig stared at him.
Pitt thought for a moment he was going to refuse to answer. The blood rose hot in his face.
“Yes, I did … and I swear before God there was nothing in the drawer when I was there. Whoever put the dynamite in there did it after I left. I was only there a minute or so. I took a piece of paper from the drawer. I’d used all mine. I was making notes for the conference.”
Eudora moved over to stand beside him, slipping her arm through his, but she was shaking, and whether Padraig knew it or not, Pitt knew she did not believe him. She would be on the brink of tears if she had had the emotional energy left, but she was exhausted. He longed to be able to help her, but he could not except by pursuing the proof against Padraig and finding a flaw in it.
“Did you pass the conservatory?” Pitt asked.
A bitter smile flashed across Padraig’s face. “Yes. Why?”
“You saw Fergal Moynihan and Iona McGinley?”
“Yes. But I doubt they saw me. They were extremely occupied with each other.”
“Doing what?”
“For God’s sake, man!” Padraig exploded, his arm tightening around his sister’s shoulders.
“What were they doing?” Pitt repeated. “Exactly! If it’s not fit for Mrs. Greville’s ears, then I’m sure she will excuse us.”
“I am not leaving you,” Eudora stated, staring at Pitt and at the same time tightening her grasp on Padraig’s arm.
“When I passed to go to the study they were having a rather heated argument,” Padraig said, watching Pitt closely, his eyes narrowed.
“Describe it,” Pitt commanded. “What did you see?”
At last Padraig understood. “Moynihan was standing in front of the camellia bush and leaning forward a little with both his hands spread wide. I could not hear what he was saying, but he appeared to be exasperated. He was speaking with very exaggerated care, as one does when one is about to lose patience. He waved his arms around and hit an orchid. He knocked off a stem of flowers and was very annoyed. He picked it up and threw it behind one of the potted palms. She was standing in front of him. That is all I saw.”
“And on the way back, with the paper?”
“They had obviously made up the disagreement. They were in each other’s arms and kissing very … intimately. Her clothes were in considerable disarray, especially her bodice.” He winced with distaste and glanced at Eudora and away again, perhaps sensitive to the fact that she might find passionate adultery a painful subject. “I have no intention of describing it further.”
“Thank you,” Pitt acknowledged it. Then he saw Eudora’s smile and hoped profoundly that Fergal Moynihan would bear out what Padraig had said.
He found Moynihan in the morning room with Carson O’Day. He was profoundly embarrassed but faced Pitt rather belligerently.
“Yes, I did break the orchid, quite accidentally. We had a … a slight disagreement. It lasted only a moment. It was nothing at all, really.”
“You made it up again very quickly?” Pitt asked.
“Yes. Why? How do you know about it? What in heaven’s name does one broken orchid matter?”
“Quite a bit, Mr. Moynihan. You made it up very quickly? How long after you broke the orchid? Five minutes? Ten minutes?”
“No, not at all! More like two or three minutes—why?” He was growing angrier because he did not understand, and he plainly hated having the discussion in front of O’Day. His color was heightening with every moment, and he moved jerkily, as though eager to escape, even physically. It made Pitt more inclined to believe Padraig’s account. It was acutely embarrassing behavior in which to be observed—and to later have described to a man who was, after all, from the police.
“Would you please tell me how you made it up, Mr. Moynihan?” Pitt requested with some satisfaction. There was something supercilious in Moynihan he did not like.
Fergal glared at him. “Really, Mr. Pitt! I have no intention of satisfying your prurience. I will not.”
Pitt met his eyes squarely. “Then you leave me no alternative but to ask Mrs. McGinley, which will be considerably more indelicate. I would have thought in view of your professed affection for her you might have spared her that necessity.” He ignored the look of loathing in Moynihan’s face. “Particularly now that her husband has just been murdered, whether she cared for him or not.”
“You’re despicable!” Fergal said.
Pitt raised his eyebrows. “Because I require you to describe your actions in order to vindicate others from suspicion of murder, or not? Are you not as eager as the rest of us to discover the truth?”
Moynihan swore at him under his breath, briefly and viciously.
“If you please?” Pitt smiled back.
“We kissed,” Fergal ground between his teeth. “I … I think I opened the bodice of her … of her gown ….” His eyes were daggers.