“Gracie …” He stood up too and moved towards her.
She forced herself to smile. It must have been sickly. She knew it was false, and he must know it too. But she had to get out … now … this minute. Her mind was in chaos. She could not believe it, it was too horrible. There must be another answer, but she could not stay there to ask him.
She pulled the door open, her hands shaking, and almost tripped over and fell, banging against the jamb as she went out.
“Gracie!” He came after her.
She fled without looking back, clattering down the steps to the main men’s landing, then down again to the corridor, and almost bumped into Doll.
“Sorry,” she gasped. “Didn’t mean ter tread on yer.”
“Gracie! You all right?” Doll asked anxiously. “You look awful.”
“Got an ’eadache,” Gracie said, putting her hand up as if in pain. She heard footsteps behind her. It must be Finn. But he would not come in here, not with Doll. “I’ll just go an’ get a … a bit o’ lavender oil, or summink. A cup o’ tea, p’raps.”
“I’ll get you one,” Doll offered immediately. “No wonder you’ve got a headache, with all that’s going on. Come with me, I’ll look after you.” She would not take a denial.
Gracie accepted, though she had no choice short of an argument, and her head was in too much fever of thought to master any reasoning. Obediently she followed Doll along to the pantry where the kettle was, and the small hob. She saw no one in the corridor. She sat down in the chair while Doll fussed over her.
What had Finn done? How had he gotten the dynamite? Had he made the bomb himself? Hadn’t Pitt proved he was not there? He would have thought of that, he thought of everything. And Finn could not have killed Mr. Greville. Mr. O’Day had been watching or listening to him all the time.
Doll was making tea. The kettle was singing.
She must think properly, she must have this straight in her mind. Her head was throbbing like a drum. Finn must be helping someone. It made most sense if it was Mr. Doyle. He was on the same side. Finn must be only pretending to be on Mr. McGinley’s side.
“Gracie?”
She did not hear Doll’s voice. There must be some other explanation. Finn was not the kind of person to want something so violent and so cruel. Someone far more wicked was using him, telling him these false stories about people like Neassa Doyle, Drystan O’Day, and getting him to do terrible things without understanding what the end of it would be.
“Gracie?”
She looked up. Doll was standing in front of her with a cup of tea in her hand, her face creased with worry.
“Thank you.” She took it gingerly. It was very hot and it smelled like daisies.
“It’s chamomile,” Doll said. “It’s good for headaches and feeling upset. You really do look poorly. Now, you better go and lie down for a while. I’ll look after Mrs. Pitt for you, if she needs anything, if you like?”
Gracie forced herself to smile. “It’s all right, thank yer, I’ll be good in a minute or two. It’s just … all this … all the ’ating people, gets yer down. Yer don’t know ’oo yer can trust or Oo’s secretly plannin’ summink Orrible.”
“I know.” Doll sat down on the other chair, a cup of tea in her hands. “I think maybe we shouldn’t trust anyone, ’cepting maybe your Mr. Pitt.”
Gracie nodded, but in her mind she made the decision not to tell Pitt yet what she thought she had seen in Finn’s room. Perhaps she was wrong. She did not really know anything about dynamite. Maybe she had only imagined the look on Finn’s face.
She sipped the tea slowly. It was too hot, but it was rather nice, and gradually she began to feel a little better.
But for the rest of the afternoon she could not get the fear out of her mind. Should she tell Pitt after all? Maybe he should be the one to decide if it was dynamite, or whether Finn knew what he was doing or was being used by someone else. After all, Finn had seemed as shocked as anyone by Mr. McGinley’s death. Gracie knew that. She had seen his face. Surely if he knew that the bomb in the study would go off, he would not have stood so close to the door that he was caught by the blast when it exploded?
It all made no sense.
She was in the laundry rinsing petticoats when she looked up and saw Finn in the doorway. There was no one else around just at the moment. Gwen had been and gone, the laundry maids were at tea. She had chosen the time on purpose, not wanting to have to talk to anyone. Now she ached for there to be someone else there, anyone at all.
“Gracie!” He took a step forward; his face was dark, his eyes troubled. “We have to talk about things ….”
“This isn’t the place,” she said quietly, gulping, realizing with a kind of sick misery that she was actually afraid of him. It was not just that she did not want to face the truth, or hear him try to explain with what might be lies, she was actually physically afraid. “Someone might come in.” She heard her voice, high-pitched, almost a squeak. “Them other girls is only ’avin’ tea. They’ll be back any second now.”
“No they won’t,” he said levelly, coming further towards her. “They only went five minutes ago, and they’ll take half an hour easy, longer if they don’t have much work waiting for them.” He glanced around and saw a few items of personal linen, a little repairing, no sheets, no towels. They had all been done earlier, and it was a windy day. Everything was blown nearly dry and brought in and hung on the rails. The room smelled of clean cotton.
“Yeah, they will,” she lied, holding on to the wet petticoat and wringing it as hard as she was able, as if she could somehow use it to protect herself.
He was coming closer. There was a curious expression in his face, as if he hated what he was doing but could find no way of avoiding it.
She backed away from the tub, still holding the petticoat in her hands.
“Gracie …” he said reasonably. “Stop …”
“It in’t the place,” she said again, still moving backwards. The petticoat was wrung hard. Maybe it would have been better wet?
“I only want to talk to you,” he said earnestly.
She edged around the wooden tubs towards the farther door, past the copper boilers, still warm.
He was still corning towards her.
She picked up the big wooden pole the laundry maids used to stir the sheets.
“Gracie!” He looked hurt, as if she had struck him already.
It was ridiculous! She should have pretended she had seen nothing and conducted herself with some dignity. What did she imagine? That he was going to strangle her there in the laundry room?
Yes, she did! Why not? Mr. Greville had been drowned in his own bath, and Mr. Radley would have been blown up sitting at his desk in his study if Mr. McGinley hadn’t been blown up first!
She threw the pole at him, then turned and fled, her feet clattering on the stone floor, her skirts flying, tangling around her legs, slowing her down. He must be behind her, chasing her. She could hear him, hear his feet, hear his voice calling out behind her. What would he do if he caught her? He was angry now, and hurt. She could hear that too.
She had never known she could run so fast. Her feet were sliding over the linoleum of the passageway. She barged around a corner, lurching against the wall, regained her balance with difficulty, arms flailing, and cannoned straight into someone. She let out a shriek of terror.
“Hey now! What’s the matter with you? Anyone’d think the devil himself was behind you!” It was a man’s voice, an Irish voice. He was holding on to her.
She looked up. Her heart almost stopped. It was Mr. Doyle. He had hold of her wrists and he was smiling.
She swung the wet petticoat hard and caught him across the side of the face, then kicked him as hard as she could on the shins.
He let go of her with a gasp of pain and astonishment.