“Doyle,” Tellman said again. “Makes sense. That’s how McGinley knew about the dynamite, because they’re on the same side. Doyle must have said something and given himself away. Either that, or McGinley was in it from the beginning, then he had second thoughts … changed his mind.”
Pitt said nothing. Tellman was right, it did make sense—much as he fought against the thought, for Eudora’s sake. They were at the far side of the cedar now and the sun shone through the cloud in bars making a glittering surface on the wet grass.
“Can’t prove it, mind,” Tellman added irritably. “Could be they’d all lie to protect each other. Even Mrs. Greville maybe, though it was her husband. If she knew anything about his goings-on, she can’t have had any love for him. And she’s Irish, isn’t she? Catholic … and Nationalist.”
“I don’t know,” Pitt said crossly. “She may have wanted peace just as much as Greville did himself.” He sighed. “I’d like to know who the maid was that Gracie saw on the landing.”
“No one that I can find,” Tellman said bluntly. “I’ve asked them all, and no one admits to being there.”
“Might be frightened.” Pitt stared at the grass thoughtfully. They were approaching the rugosa hedge and the fields beyond, rolling gently towards a stand of elms, most of their leaves gone now. Over to the west a shaft of sunlight shone silver on the wet village roofs, and the spire of the church stood out darkly against the sky.
“Because they saw something?” Tellman asked, looking at Pitt skeptically. “Didn’t say anything then, and scared now?”
“Possibly. More likely didn’t see anything, just frightened of being involved at all. I refuse to say this is unsolvable. There’s only a limited number of people it could be. We’ve got another two days at least. We’re going to find the answer, Tellman.”
Tellman smiled, but there was no humor in it at all.
Pitt turned around and faced the gracious mass of Ashworth Hall again. It really was very beautiful in the autumn light. On the west facade the creeper was a scarlet stain against the warm color of the stone. It was a pleasure just to look at it. He glanced sideways to see Tellman’s face and was satisfied to catch a moment’s softness in it, as the loveliness moved him, in spite of himself.
They started back to the house together, roughly in step over the grass, feet soaked and now thoroughly cold.
“Gracie, I want you to remember exactly what you saw on the landing the evening Mr. Greville was killed,” Pitt said half an hour later when he found her alone in the ironing room. She looked terribly unhappy, as if she had been crying and would like nothing more than to creep away and be alone, had her duties allowed. He guessed it was something to do with the fondness he had seen her show for the young Irish valet, Finn Hennessey. Charlotte had warned him to be careful about that, and he had resented the fact that she thought such a warning necessary. Then he realized afterwards that he had not honestly been aware of it. He liked Gracie profoundly. He would hate to have hurt her, and he was unnecessarily angry that Hennessey should have, however unintentionally. He was not sure whether to let her know he was aware of her misery, or if it would be more tactful to pretend he had not noticed.
She sniffed and attempted to concentrate.
“I already told Mr. Tellman wot I saw. Din’t ’e tell yer? ’E’s a useless valet, ’e is. In’t ’e no good as a policeman neither?”
“Yes, he is good,” Pitt replied. “Although I daresay you are a better detective than he is a valet.”
“I in’t no use this time.” She stared down at the iron, although it was cold and she was not even pretending to use it. “We in’t none of us no use to yer this time. I’m really sorry, sir.”
“Don’t worry, Gracie, we’ll solve it,” he said with a certainty he did not feel. “Tell me about the maid you saw with the towels.”
She looked up at him with surprise. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and he had no doubt she had been crying.
“In’t yer found ’er yet? Stupid article! She in’t got nuffink ter be afraid of. She weren’t doin’ no wrong … just carryin’ towels, like I said.”
“But perhaps she saw something, or someone,” he pointed out. “She is the only person we can’t account for. Try and remember, Gracie. We haven’t got much to go after at the moment. Almost anyone could have put the dynamite in Mr. Radley’s study … except Mr. McGinley, I suppose … or Hennessey.”
She sniffed. “Yeah, I s’pose.” She brightened considerably. “I dunno ’oo she were, sir, or I’d ’a said.”
“Describe her, as exactly as you can.”
“Well, she were taller’n me. But then I s’pose everyone is. She stood tall, proud like, ’ead very straight—”
“What color hair?”
She screwed up her face. “I don’ remember seein’ ’er ’air. She ’ad a lace cap on. Real big sort o’ cap, not like mine wot sits on top o’ me ’ead. ’Ers were allover lace. Too big, if yer ask me, but some folks like ’em like that. She could ’e bin any color underneath it.”
“Have you seen any of the maids wearing caps like that?”
“Yeah. Mrs. McGinley’s maid wears one like it.” Then the eagerness died from her face. “But it weren’t ’er. Least, I don’t think it were. She’s sort o’ got narrow shoulders, like a bottle, an ’er wot I saw ’ad good shoulders, more square.”
“Was she large or small, Gracie? Slender or plump?”
“I’m thinkin’!” She screwed up her face, eyes closed, trying to bring back the picture.
“Start at the top,” he encouraged. “What after the lace cap and the shoulders? Neat waist or plump? Did you see her hands? How was her apron tied? Anything you can think of.”
“Din’t see ’er ’ands.” She kept her eyes closed. “She were ’oldin’ a pile o’ towels. Goin’ ter someone’s bath, I s’pose. Not a bad waist, but not as good as some. She weren’t slender, not real slender. Solid enough, I’d ’a’ said. Come ter think on it, ’er apron weren’t tied real well. Not like Gwen’s, say. She showed me ’ow ter tie ’em real pretty. I’m goin’ ter keep on doin’ that w’en I get ’ome again.” She looked at him hopefully.
“Good.” He smiled. “We’ll impress Bloomsbury. So she didn’t tie her apron well?”
“No. Mrs. ’Unnaker’d ’ave torn strips orff anyone ’oo’d done a sloppy job like that, so it weren’t one o’ the Ashworth ’All maids.”
“Good!” he said enthusiastically. “Very good. What else?”
Gracie said nothing but stood with a look of fierce inner thought on her face, her eyes wide open, staring beyond him into the distance.
“What?” he demanded.
“Boots,” she whispered.
“Boots? What about them?”
“She weren’t wearin’ boots!”
“She was barefoot?” he said with disbelief.
“No, o’ course she weren’t barefoot. She were wearin’ slippers, like wot ladies wear. She’d took someone’s slippers!”
“How do you know? What did you see … exactly?”
“She were facin’ away from me, like she was going inter the doorway. I just seen the side o’ one foot, an’ the ’eel o’ the other.”
“But it was a slipper? What color? How do you know it wasn’t a boot?”
“ ’Cos the foot were stitched. It were embroidered, like a slipper, an’ the ’eel were blue.” Her eyes widened. “Yeah, the ’eel were blue.”
Pitt smiled. “Thank you.”
“It ’elps?” she said hopefully.
“Oh, yes, I think so.”
“Good.”
Pitt left the ironing room with the feeling that for the first time since he had found Ainsley Greville’s body he had a real and tangible piece of evidence to follow. One of the women was part of the conspiracy. It was not hard to believe. In fact, it made excellent sense, only too excellent. His mind was weighed down with it. Eudora Greville, born Eudora Doyle, Irish to the blood and bone, helping her brother Padraig to fight for the freedom of their country in the way he thought would work. Her hatred for Greville would make it easy. And how could she not hate him, if she had had the slightest idea how he had treated Doll. Pitt could imagine the way Charlotte would feel towards anyone who treated Gracie that way! He would be lucky if a crack over the head and a slide under the water was the worst that happened to him.