Ashworth Hall (21 page)

They went on discussing bicycles for several more minutes, then Justine led the way, and she and Iona left to collect canes and shawls for their walk. Emily remained with Kezia, struggling to continue some kind of conversation.

After half an hour she excused herself and went to look for Charlotte. Why was she not there helping? She must know how appallingly difficult it was. Emily relied upon her, and she was off somewhere else, presumably comforting Eudora—as if anyone could.

But when she went upstairs to the sitting room which Eudora was using, she found not Charlotte with her, but Pitt. Eudora was sitting in one of the big chairs, and Pitt was bending in front of the fire, stoking it. He should not be doing that. That was what footmen were for.

“Good morning, Mrs. Greville,” Emily said solicitously. “How are you? Good morning, Thomas.”

Pitt straightened up with a wince as his aching muscles caught him, and replied.

“Good morning, Mrs. Radley,” Eudora said with a faint smile. She looked ten years older than she had when she arrived at Ashworth Hall. Her skin had no bloom to it. Her eyes were still wonderful, but the lids were puffed. She had had too little sleep, and her hair no longer shone with the same richness. It was remarkable how quickly shock and misery dulled the looks, as rapidly as any illness.

“Did you manage to sleep?” Emily asked with concern. “If you like, I can have Gwen make you something that will help a little. We have plenty of lavender, and the oil is most pleasant. Or perhaps you would like chamomile tea and a little honey with biscuits before retiring tonight?”

“Thank you,” Eudora said absently, barely looking at Emily, her attention upon Pitt.

He stood back from the fire and turned to Emily. He also looked strained, as if he were only too aware of Eudora’s distress.

“How about a little vervain tea?” Emily suggested. “Or if we don’t have it, basil or sage? I should have thought of it before.”

“I am sure Doll will take care of it, thank you,” Eudora replied. “You are very thoughtful, but you have so much to do.”

It was not dismissal, simply absentrnindedness. Her thoughts, even her eyes, were on Pitt.

“Is there anything I can offer which would help?” Emily must try. Eudora looked so deeply troubled, even though Pitt was obviously doing all he could, and seemed profoundly con cerned. There was an air of gentleness in him which was even greater than his characteristic compassion.

Eudora turned to Emily, at last looking clearly at her. “I am sorry. I did not realize how shocked I have been. There is so much that—” She stopped. “I cannot seem to think properly. So much has … changed.”

Emily remembered other violent deaths, and investigations which had discovered whole aspects of lives which were unknown before. A few were creditable, brave; most were ugly, robbing even the safety of what we thought was held inviolable. There was no future, sometimes there was not even any past as one had treasured it. Was this what Pitt had been telling Eudora now? Was that the foundation for his tenderness towards her?

“Of course,” Emily said quietly. “I’ll have a tisane sent up. And a little food. Even if it is only bread and butter, you should eat.”

She withdrew and left them together.

The men were conferring again. Jack would be in charge, trying to get them to some kind of agreement. As she was coming down the stairs she saw the butler carrying a tray into the withdrawing room, and as he opened the door she heard the sound of raised voices. Then the door closed and cut them off. One of them in there had murdered Ainsley Greville, whether he had accomplices outside or not. Why was Pitt sitting and comforting Eudora? Compassion was all very well, but it was not his task. Charlotte should be doing that. Why wasn’t she?

Emily went the rest of the way down to the hall and was crossing it towards the conservatory when she almost bumped into Charlotte coming in from the garden.

“What are you doing?” Emily said sharply.

Charlotte closed the door behind her. Her hair was ruffled, as if she had been in the wind, and there was a flush in her cheeks.

“I went for a walk,” she answered. “Why?”

“Alone?”

“Yes. Why?”

Emily’s temper snapped. “Greville has been murdered by God knows who, but someone in the house, Jack’s life is in danger and Thomas is sitting upstairs comforting the widow instead of looking after him, or even trying to find who murdered Greville. The Irish are all at each others’ throats while I am trying to keep some kind of peace, the servants are fainting, weeping, quarreling or hiding under the stairs—and you are out in the garden walking! And you ask me why! Where are your wits?”

Charlotte paled, then two spots of color burned up in her cheeks.

“I was thinking,” she said coldly. “Sometimes a little thought is a great deal more beneficial than simply rushing around to give the appearance of doing something—”

“I have not been rushing around!” Emily snapped back. “I thought that the past would have taught you, if the present does not, that running a house this size, with guests, takes a great deal of skill and organization. I relied on you at least to keep Kezia and Iona in a civil conversation.”

“Justine was doing that—”

“And Thomas to try to guard Jack, as much as it can be done, and he’s up there”—she jabbed her finger towards the stairs—“comforting Eudora!”

“He’s probably questioning her,” Charlotte said icily.

“For heaven’s sake, it wasn’t a domestic murder!” Emily made an effort to control her voice. “If she knew anything she’d have told him in the beginning. It’s one of these men in there.”

“We all know that,” Charlotte agreed. “But which one? Maybe Padraig Doyle, have you thought of that?”

Emily had not thought of it, she did not think it now.

“Well, at least go and talk to Kezia. She’s by herself in the morning room. Perhaps you can persuade her to stop this ridiculous rage against Fergal. It doesn’t help anyone.” And with that Emily straightened her shoulders and marched back to the baize door and the servants’ quarters, although she had forgotten what she was going for.

Gracie was also extremely busy that morning, not essentially on Charlotte’s affairs. The dresses she had brought were in little need of attention, and those which had been lent her needed only a slight press here or there with a flatiron. There was personal linen to launder, but that was all. She collected it and took it downstairs and through the corridors of the servants’ wing out to the laundry house.

She found Doll already there, looking unhappily at the dull surface of a flatiron and muttering under her breath.

“How is poor Mrs. Greville?” Gracie asked sympathetically.

Doll glanced at her. “Poor soul,” she said with a sigh. “Doesn’t know whether she’s coming or going at the moment. But I daresay it’ll get worse before it gets better. Have you seen the beeswax and bath brick?”

“What?”

“Beeswax and bath brick,” Doll repeated. “There’s plenty o’ salt right there. Need to clean this iron before I put it anywhere near a white camisole.” She held up the iron critically. The other one on the stove was getting hot.

“Mr. Pitt’s very clever,” Gracie assured her, seeking to comfort her. “’E’ll find out everythin’ there is ter know, an’ then ’e’ll work out ’oo done it, an’ take ’im in.”

Doll looked at her quickly, her eyes shadowed. Her hand was tight on the iron.

“Can’t need to know everything,” she said, beginning to move again, taking the other iron off the stove and putting it on the white petticoat and beginning to work, leaning her weight on it and swinging it gently backwards, smoothing the fabric.

“Yer’d be surprised wot ’as meanin’,” Gracie told her. “Ter someone clever enough ter see it an’ understand. ’E’ll catch ’ooever it is, don’ worry.”

Doll gave a little shiver and her eyes were far away. Her hand on the iron clenched hard and stopped moving.

“Yer don’ need ter look so scared.” Gracie moved a step towards her. “ ’E’s very fair. ’E’d never ’urt them wot don’ deserve it, nor tell tales wot don’ need ter be told.”

Doll swallowed. “Course not. I never thought …” She looked down suddenly and moved the iron. The scorch mark was brown on the linen. She took a deep breath and tears filled her eyes.

Gracie snatched the iron up and put it aside on the hearth.

“There must be a way fer takin’ that out,” she said with more assurance than she felt. “There’s a way fer everythin’, if yer jus’ know it.”

“Mr. Wheeler said as Mr. Pitt rode over to Oakfield House yesterday!” Doll stared at Gracie. “Why? What’s he want there? It was someone here who killed him.”

“I know that,” Gracie agreed. “ ’Ow do yer get scorch marks out? What’s the best way? We better do that afore it’s too late.”

“Onion juice, fuller’s earth, white soap and vinegar,” Doll replied absently. “They’re bound to have some made up. Look in that jar.” She pointed to one on the shelf next to the blue, behind Gracie’s head. It was between the bran, rice for congee, borax, soap, beeswax and ordinary tallow candle, used for removing inkspots.

Gracie took it down with two hands and passed it over. It was heavy. Scorches must be quite a common occurrence. But there was something in Doll’s unhappiness which was more than ordinary. Gracie felt a need to understand it, not only for the sake of Doll, whom she liked, but because it might be important. Murder was not always as simple as people thought, especially if they were people who had not as much experience as Gracie had.

However, she was foiled in her intent by one of the laundry maids’ coming in to iron table linen for dinner that evening, and the conversation suddenly became about the senior groom, and what he had said to Maisie, and what Tillie had said about that, and why the bootboy had repeated it anyway.

*   *   *

At mid-morning Pitt changed clothes. Gracie polished his boots for him. Tellman was otherwise occupied, and anyway he did not really make a good enough job of it, the great useless article! Gracie would not have Pitt leave the hall less well-dressed than any other gentleman there. He took an overcoat and a very smart hat, borrowed from Mr. Radley, and was driven to the railway station to catch the ten forty-eight up to London. She knew it was not a journey he could possibly enjoy. He was going to see the assistant commissioner, who would likely be very upset that Mr. Greville had been murdered after all. She wished there were something comforting she could say to him, but anything she thought of only sounded empty or not her place to say.

And Miss Charlotte was not around to see him off, which she ought to have been. She was busy with that Miss Moynihan who had taken such a temper. If country house parties were usually like this, it was a wonder anybody would go to one.

She decided to throw out the old flowers in the dressing room vase. They were droopy, probably from the fire. She would fill in a little time by going to find the gardener and see if she might pick some fresh ones. Anything would do, even leaves, as long as they were green and crisp-looking.

She obtained permission to choose something, not more than a dozen, mind, from the cold greenhouse. It was just the occasion to put on the new overcoat Charlotte had bought for her. It was even the right size. She went upstairs and found it, and was making her way through the kitchen garden in the general direction indicated when she saw Finn Hennessey. She recognized him immediately, even though he had his back to her. He was watching a ginger-and-white cat walking along the top of the high garden wall towards the branches of the apple tree. From its low, silent tread, she thought it had seen a bird.

She straightened herself a little more, held her chin high, and almost unconsciously swayed her hips a trifle. She must attract his attention without seeming to wish to. She was not very good at playing games; she did not have sufficient practice. She had noticed how skilled the other ladies’ maids were. They could flirt so well it came to them like nature. But then they had nothing of real seriousness to do. They couldn’t solve a crime if the answer were under their noses. Lot of silly little creatures, sometimes, giggling at nothing.

She was level with Finn Hennessey. She would have to walk past him and say nothing. She ached inside with the frustration of it, but she would not let herself down by playing games any child could see through.

The cat leaped from the tree, an arc of some ten feet. Its claws scraped the bark, sliding another two feet, but it eventually held fast, and it scrambled onto the branch just as the bird flew away.

“Oh!” she gasped involuntarily, afraid it would fall.

Finn swung around. His face lit up with a smile.

“Hello, Gracie Phipps. Looking for herbs, are you?”

“No, Mr. Hennessey, I came for some flowers. The ones we got are lookin’ faded so I put ’em out. I don’ mind what I get, so long as it’s fresh. Sooner ’ave leaves than flowers what’s droopin’.”

“I’ll carry them for you,” he offered, moving over to walk beside her.

She laughed. “I’m only gettin’ a few. Gardener said I could ’ave a dozen out o’ the cold ’ouse. But you can carry ’em for me if you like.”

“I’d like,” he accepted, smiling back.

They walked side by side along the path, through the gate and the high box hedge, and on towards the cold greenhouses, the gray light reflecting on the glass panes irregularly as it caught them at different angles. The earth was dark and wet, well-manured and ready for planting in the spring. There were cobwebs gleaming in the clipped branches of the hedge, and a gardener’s boy was cutting the dead stalks of perennials and putting them into a barrow about twenty yards away. It was chilly, and she was glad not only of the smartness of the coat but of its warmth.

“Smells like winter coming,” Finn said with pleasure. “Wood fires, that’s something I love, bonfires with old leaves on, and blue smoke in the frosty air, crackle of twigs, breathe out and it hangs white in front of you.” He looked sideways at her, keeping step exactly. “How ’bout an early morning, when the sky’s all pale blue and the light’s as clear as the beginning o’ the world, red berries in the hedge, air so crisp it prickles in your nose, tangle of bare branches against the light, and time to walk as long as you like?”