Eudora could easily have slipped out of her room in Doll’s dress and a cap, perhaps borrowed earlier from the laundry room.
The large lace cap was an obvious choice, to hide the vivid color of her hair should anyone see her. She would be too easily recognizable by that alone. She would walk along the landing with a pile of towels, perhaps her own towels, and be virtually invisible. It was only the slightest chance that Gracie, the most observant of maids, had seen her, and noticed her feet, and then remembered them afterwards.
She could have gone into the bathroom, keeping her face averted. Greville would have taken no notice until it was too late. If he had seen her, realized who it was, he would have wondered what on earth she was doing in a maid’s dress and cap, but he would still not have been afraid, not have cried out, attracted attention, or called her name.
But Padraig could not have placed the bomb in Jack’s study. Pitt’s heart sank. Could that have been Eudora also? Why not? It required nerve and dexterity, not any physical strength. Why should Eudora not care as passionately or as bravely about the fate of her country as any politician—or Fenian sympathizer?
He must speak with Charlotte. She would be able to look at the slippers of the various women in the house without arousing the sort of suspicion which would make someone seek to hide or destroy them. She might even know already whose they were. She would remember what people had worn, who might have blue heels.
But he did not find the opportunity to speak with her alone until an hour before luncheon, when she was about to go for a short walk with Kezia, who looked surprisingly gentle, as if the anger had slipped from her. He wondered what Charlotte had managed to say to her that she forgave Fergal at last. He would ask her later.
“Charlotte!”
She turned, and was about to reply when she must have seen the anxiety in his face, and perhaps the sadness.
“What is it?”
“I have discovered something which I need to discuss with you,” he said quietly enough he hoped Kezia did not hear him. It could be her. Perhaps conspiring with Fergal. The other brother and sister. It was a hope!
Charlotte turned back to Kezia, just outside the door on the terrace.
“Please excuse me,” she called. “I must take this chance to speak with Thomas. I’m so sorry!”
Kezia smiled and lifted her hand in acknowledgment, then walked onto the grass and away.
“What is it?” Charlotte said quickly. “I can see it is unpleasant.”
“Discovering who committed a crime is usually unpleasant,” he answered a little bleakly. Then, seeing her eyes widen, he added, “No, not completely, just an excellent piece of observation by Gracie. She remembered more about the ‘maid’ she saw on the landing about the time Greville was killed.”
“What? Who was it?” She gulped, her face suddenly wretched. “Not—Doll?”
“No,” he said quickly. “No, it wasn’t Doll. It was someone wearing slippers with stitched fabric sides and blue heels.”
“What?” For a moment she looked confused; the instant after, understanding flew to her. He knew she also thought of Eudora. He watched the conflicting emotions in her face, a light of relief, almost satisfaction, as swiftly overtaken by pity, and then wiped clean again. He found he understood, or thought he did. He was surprised. Was she more vulnerable, underneath the independence, than he had assumed?
“Oh,” she said soberly. “You mean it was one of the guests, wearing a maid’s dress over her own? Then she had to be involved.”
“Over her own?” He was momentarily puzzled.
“Of course,” she said quickly. “Thomas, it takes ages to get in and out of a dinner gown. They all do up at the back, for a start! She could get a maid’s dress large enough to put on top of her own and long enough to cover it completely. An inch or two of satin underneath it would give her away in a second. It was only coincidence that Gracie saw a piece of the shoe and that she remembered it, but satin anyone would have seen.”
He should have thought of that.
“Which means she was probably slimmer than she appeared to be to Gracie,” Charlotte went on. “Two dresses would make a lot of difference. Blue slippers?”
“Yes. Can you remember who wore blue that evening?”
She smiled weakly. “No. But Emily might. I’ll ask her. If not, we’ll have to start looking. We’ll find a way.”
“Without them knowing,” he warned. “If they know before we get to them, they’ll hide them or destroy them. There’s a furnace for the conservatory heaters, at least. Then we’d never have proof.”
“I’ll start by asking Emily. And don’t worry, I’ll be discreet. I can, you know!”
“Yes, I know.” But nevertheless he watched her with anxiety, although he was not quite sure why. Perhaps it had more to do with the emotion he sensed in her, and his sudden awareness of it, than any danger she could be in or misjudgment she might make regarding the slippers.
“Blue-heeled slippers,” Emily said quickly. “Then it was one of us! I mean, it wasn’t a maid. Oh … I see. You mean that was who killed Greville.” She looked startled and very sober. Charlotte had found her coming back from the kitchens, where she had been consulting with Mrs. Williams about the next day’s dinner and how much longer the guests were likely to be there, which of course she did not know. Now they were walking across the hall towards the long gallery overlooking the formal garden, a place where there was unlikely to be anyone else at this time of the afternoon. The men were back to their discussions, for any good it might serve, and the women were all about their separate pastimes. Since two of them were very newly widowed, any attempt at social entertainment was impossible.
Emily opened the door to the gallery, a long room with ranks of windows to the south, and at the moment filled with a wavering light as the wind chased the clouds across the sun and away again.
“Who wore blue?” Charlotte pressed, closing the door behind them.
“I can’t remember,” Emily answered. “Anyway, you might wear blue slippers under another color, if it was the closest you had, or the most comfortable. None of them, except perhaps Eudora, have enough money to buy slippers for every dress.”
“How do you know?”
Emily gave her a sideways look. “Don’t be naive. Because I’m observant. You may not, but I know what is this season’s fashion and what is last … and what things cost. And I know good silk from cheap, or wool from bombazine or mixture.”
“So who wore blue?”
“I’m trying to think!”
“I don’t think it was Kezia.”
“Why not? Because you like her? I think she could have just the nerve to do it,” Emily argued. “I don’t think Iona McGinley would. She’s all dreams and romantic notions. She’d rather talk about things and prompt other people than do them herself.”
“Maybe,” Charlotte conceded. “Although that could be a pose. But I had a rather more practical reason for thinking it was not Kezia. She’s rather well built. With a maid’s dress over her own she’d look … well, pretty enormous. Gracie would have noticed her size. Anyway, whose dress would go over hers? Are any of the ladies’ maids really stout?”
“No. Maybe you’re right. That leaves Eudora herself, which is very likely, or Iona.”
“Or Justine,” Charlotte added.
“Justine? Why on earth would Justine kill Ainsley Greville?” Emily said derisively, her eyes wide. “She isn’t Irish. She’d never even met him before the previous day, and she was going to marry his son, for heaven’s sake!”