Ashworth Hall (44 page)

“Please let me know this evening,” Cornwallis instructed. “Even if you have nothing.”

“Anything more on poor Denbigh?” Pitt asked him. He had not forgotten about the beginning of the case, or the anger and disgust he had felt then.

“A little, although I don’t think it will help much.” Cornwallis sounded very far away on the other end of the line, even as if his thoughts were distant. “We’ve been working on it with every man we could spare. We know a great deal more about the Fenians here in London than we did even a couple of weeks ago. But this man seen following Denbigh, and who we are sure is responsible for his death, is not among them.”

“You mean he went back to Ireland?”

“No … that’s the point. He infiltrated the Fenians as well. But he isn’t one of them. He learned a few bits of information about their plans, membership and so on, and then went. I think they’d like to get him almost as much as we would.”

Pitt was puzzled. “Then who is he, and why did he kill Denbigh?”

“I think that may be the point,” Cornwallis answered. “Maybe Denbigh discovered who he was, and that’s why he killed him, not to protect the Fenians at all. But it doesn’t help you, because he certainly isn’t at Ashworth Hall or you would have seen him. He’s unmistakable in appearance. Your man is either Doyle or just possibly Moynihan.”

“Yes,” Pitt agreed. “Yes, I know. Thank you, sir.”

Pitt bade him good-bye and replaced the receiver. He went to look for Tellman and found him in the servants’ hall looking glum.

“Any tea?” Pitt asked.

“None that’s fresh,” Tellman answered dourly. After a moment’s hesitation he straightened up from the table where he had been leaning. “I’ll get some.”

Pitt was about to stop him and to say they had important things to do, then he changed his mind. All they could do to begin with was think, and that could be done as well with a fresh, hot cup of tea as without.

Tellman returned ten minutes later with a teapot on a tray, with milk jug, cups, sugar, and Suffolk rusks. He put down the tray with a grunt of satisfaction.

Pitt poured and stood with the steaming cup clasped in his hands, the saucer ignored.

“Go back over everything we know about what McGinley did the morning he died,” he said thoughtfully. “How did he know the dynamite was there? Hennessey didn’t tell him … which means Hennessey and his master were essentially on different sides … I suppose.”

“Doyle,” Tellman answered. “Hennessey was working for Doyle. He must have been.”

“Denbigh wasn’t killed by the Fenians,” Pitt said slowly. “Cornwallis just told me.”

Tellman’s face lit instantly. “Have they got who did it?”

“No … no, I’m afraid not, they just know he wasn’t one of the Fenians. He was an infiltrator, like Denbigh. The Fenians are just as keen to find him as we are.”

“Why’d he kill Denbigh?”

“Possibly Denbigh found out who he was.”

“How does that help us?” Tellman replied, and sipped at his tea. It was too hot and he took one of the rusks instead. “He isn’t here. We’d have seen him. No one broke in, I’m sure of that. It was either Doyle or Moynihan who killed Greville. And somehow or other they also put the dynamite there, or else somebody is lying and Hennessey put it there after all.”

Pitt said nothing. There was another idea in his mind, very vague, very uncertain indeed.

Tellman began his tea, drinking it gingerly, blowing on it now and then.

Pitt took a rusk, then another. They were excellent, crisp and very fresh, baked with a little butter. Then he drained his cup.

“I’m going to question Hennessey again,” he said when he had finished. “I want you there, and possibly a couple of footmen. It could be unpleasant. And I’ll ask Mr. Radley to be present, and Doyle, Moynihan and O’Day.”

Tellman stared at him, his eyes widening. He was on the verge of asking what Pitt was going to do, then he changed his mind, put down his cup and obeyed.

The questioning took place in the library. They sat in a semicircle and Tellman brought Finn Hennessey into the room and took the manacles off his wrists. He stood, head high, defiant, staring at Pitt. He studiously ignored everyone else.

“We know you brought the dynamite into Ashworth Hall,” Pitt began. “There is no point in your denying it, and to your credit, you have not tried. But you said you did not place it in Mr. Radley’s study, and I believe you, because from other evidence, it does not seem as if you had the opportunity. Who did put it there?”

Finn smiled. “I’ll never tell.”

“We ought to be able to deduce it.” Pitt looked around the room, first at Fergal Moynihan, sitting with his legs crossed, his fingers drumming on the leather arm of his chair. His fair skin was almost pasty, and he looked bored and in short temper. Beside him, Carson O’Day was eager, his eyes restless, flicking from Pitt to Doyle to Hennessey and back again. He was obviously impatient with Pitt’s approach and irritated because he did not believe it would achieve anything. Padraig Doyle leaned right back in his chair, but his expression was guarded. Jack simply looked profoundly worried.

“This is wasting time!” O’Day broke in. “Surely you’ve questioned everyone as to exactly where they were, what they were doing, who saw them there and whom they saw? That seems elementary.”

“Yes, of course we have,” Pitt agreed. “And with what we have learned, it appears impossible anyone placed the dynamite where it was. So someone must be lying.”

“There’s one answer which seems to have escaped you,” O’Day said with a touch of condescension. “McGinley put it there himself. He was not a hero trying to defuse it and save us all, as Hennessey would have us believe … he was an assassin placing it there to kill Radley. Only he was a clumsy assassin, and succeeded in blowing himself up instead. That solution would answer all your evidence, wouldn’t it?”

“All the evidence of the explosion, yes,” Pitt answered deliberately, a little tingle of excitement beginning in the center of the stomach. He must be very careful indeed. One slip and he would lose this. “But not the murder of Mr. Greville,” he went on. “McGinley couldn’t have done that because you yourself heard him talking to Hennessey at the relevant time.”

O’Day stared at him, his eyes growing wider, his body motionless.

No one else moved.

“Didn’t you?” Pitt said quietly.

O’Day looked as if he had received an astonishing revelation.

“No … he said almost under his breath. “No! I heard Hennessey talking to McGinley.” He swung around to stare at Finn. “I heard you. I never heard McGinley’s replies to you. I heard your voice. I heard you answer questions, I never heard McGinley’s voice. I don’t actually know if he was there … I assumed it. But you could be lying to cover for him, just as you did for the dynamite. He—” He stopped. There was no need to continue. The tide of color flooding up Finn’s cheeks made it unnecessary. O’Day swung to face Pitt. “There’s your murderer for you, Superintendent! Lorcan McGinley, acting for the Fenians, the saboteurs of Irish honor and dignity, prosperity and ultimate freedom to choose for themselves, not by bullet or dynamite, but by popular vote … the true voice of—”

“Liar!” Finn burst out. “You thieving, murdering liar! What freedom or honor is it to let women and children starve? To drive whole families off their land and steal it for yourselves? You hate the real people of Ireland. All you love is yourselves, your greed, your land and your dark, hypocritical, canting ways that deny the true Church of God! The Fenians are the fighters for Ireland!”

“Whether they are or not isn’t the point in this, Hennessey,” Pitt said clearly. “The Fenians weren’t behind the murders here.”

O’Day froze.

Doyle jerked around to stare at Pitt.

Finn Hennessey looked at him in total disbelief.

“Oh, it was someone who wanted to sabotage the conference all right,” Pitt continued. “Because he feared the conclusions it might come to and what recommendations it would make to Parliament. But it was chaired by a liberal Irish Catholic. It wasn’t only Fenians who had cause to be anxious over what the results might be.”

“It was Fenians!” Hennessey said defiantly.

“No it wasn’t,” Pitt contradicted with increased vehemence. “Ask your Fenian friends in London. They were infiltrated by a man with light, staring eyes who had tried to run Greville off the road earlier on, and then in London killed our man in the Fenians—”

“Your man?” Doyle said sharply.

“A policeman named Denbigh. He was murdered just before the conference started. We thought it was because he knew of the Fenian plot to murder Greville, only we now know the man who did it was no Fenian.” He looked back at Hennessey. “You were used, Finn, as you know you were … but not by your own side. You were used by the Protestants. They put you up to this, for their own reasons, and let you and the Catholic Nationalists take the blame. They wanted this conference to fail because they cannot accept any compromise at all, or they’ll lose the support of their own extremists.”

“That’s rubbish!” Moynihan exploded. “Absolute nonsense, and totally wicked and irresponsible! Of course it was the Fenians. It’s exactly the sort of thing they would do. We were close to agreement, and they couldn’t let that happen. It’s Doyle!”

“We were close to agreement,” Jack put in, his voice ringing with certainty. “It was a compromise … a real compromise, with both sides conceding something. But maybe one side never meant the conference to last? What could it matter what they gave away, to appear reasonable, if they knew it would never be implemented, in fact never be spoken of outside these walls?”

“The man with the light eyes …” Finn said, staring at Pitt. “He wasn’t a Fenian?”

“No.”

Finn turned to Doyle.

“No.” Doyle shook his head. He smiled very faintly. “We want him as much as the police do.” He glanced at Pitt. “Although if you repeat that outside Ashworth Hall, I’ll call you a liar.” He looked at Finn again. “You’ve been used, Hennessey, and not by your own.”

Fergal swung around to O’Day, horror in his face.

Finn snatched himself free of Tellman and launched himself at O’Day, fists flying, and the chair collapsed backwards, throwing them both onto the floor.

Tellman started forward.

Doyle put his hand out and held him back.

“Let him be, lad,” he said grimly. “If ever a man deserved beating, it’s Carson O’Day.” He looked at Pitt, his face filled with disgust. “You can’t even get him for instigating the murder of Greville. And if he had not prompted McGinley to try to kill Jack, Lorcan wouldn’t have blown himself up. God, it makes me sick!”

“No,” Pitt agreed with ironic satisfaction. “But with Hennessey’s help, we’ll establish the chain of evidence and we’ll hang him for conspiracy to murder Denbigh, and that will do.” He looked down at O’Day struggling on the floor beneath the burning rage of Finn, a man used and betrayed and now condemned. “I think Mr. Hennessey will make very sure he succeeds in that.”

“Oh, he will,” Doyle agreed. “God help Ireland.”

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