Authors: Anne Perry
“Course I didn’t! But I fetched water and brushed ’is shoes an’ ’is jacket, seein’ as ’is valet’s a useless article and were nowhere ter be seen. Then I came downstairs ter bring down the laundry an’ I passed Doll, that’s Mrs. Greville’s maid, on the stairs an’ ’ad a word wif ’er—”
“That doesn’t help,” Tellman interrupted.
“An’ about quarter ter nine I go to find Mrs. Pitt ter ask ’er about what she’d like ter wear for dinner, an’ I sees Miss Moynihan come down the front stairs and go ter the mornin’ room, an’ Mrs. McGinley in the conservatory wi’ Mr. Moynihan, standin’ much too close ter the door for the likes o’ wot they were doin’….”
Tellman pulled a face, from which his contempt was obvious.
Finn smiled as if he saw some bitter humor in that love affair.
“Go on,” Tellman said sharply. “Did you see anyone else?”
“Yeh. Mr. Doyle were leavin’ the ’all an’ goin’ ter the side door.”
“To where?”
“Ter the garden, o’ course.”
“What time?”
“I dunno. Ten minutes afore nine, mebbe?”
“You sure it was Mr. Doyle?”
“Don’ look funny at me like that! I know better than to say it were if I wasn’t sure. You jus’ remember I work in Mr. Pitt’s ’ouse, an’ I know as much about some of ’is cases as whatever you do.”
“Rubbish,” he said derisively.
“Oh, yes I do! ’cos I knows wot Mrs. Pitt does, an’ Mrs. Radley … an’ that’s more’n wot you do.”
He glared at her. “You got no business meddlin’ in police cases. Like as not you’ll do more harm than good and get yourself hurt, you stupid little girl!”
Gracie was cut to the core. She could think of no retaliation which was even remotely adequate to the insult, but she would remember it, so when the opportunity arose, she would crush him.
Tellman turned to Finn. “Mr. Hennessey, would you please tell me what you did, and anybody you saw, from seven o’clock onwards, and when you saw them. And don’t forget Mr. McGinley himself. That may help us to know how he learned about the dynamite but no one else did.”
“Yes …” Finn still looked very shaky. He had to make a considerable effort to keep his voice steady. “Like Gracie, the first thing I did was get up and shaved and dressed, then I went to Mr. McGinley’s dressing room to make sure the housemaid had lit the fire, which she had, and it was all cleaned and dusted properly. The servants here are very good.”
He did not see Tellman’s lip curl or see him take a long breath and let it out in a sigh.
“I prepared the washstand, laid out the hairbrush, nail brush, toothbrush, and fetched the ewer of hot water, laid out the dressing gown and slippers in front of the fire to warm. Then I sharpened the razor on the strop as usual, but Mr. McGinley likes to shave himself, so I just left it all ready for him.”
“What time was this?” Tellman said sourly.
“Quarter before eight,” Finn replied. “I told you.”
Tellman wrote it down. “Do you know when Mr. McGinley left his room?”
“For breakfast?”
“For anything.”
“He went down for breakfast about quarter past eight, I imagine. I don’t know because I left him just before that to clean his best boots. I needed to make more blacking.”
“Make it? Don’t you buy it, like anyone else?”
Finn’s face showed his disdain. “Bought polish has sulfuric acid in it. It rots leather. Any decent gentleman’s gentleman knows how to make it.”
“Not being a gentleman’s gentleman, I wouldn’t know,” Tellman responded.
“Twelve ounces each of ivory black and treacle, four ounces each of spermaceti oil and white wine vinegar,” Finn informed him helpfully. “Mix them thoroughly, of course.”
“Where did you do this?” Tellman was unimpressed.
“Boot room, of course.”
“You went down the men’s stairs at the back?”
“Naturally.”
“See anyone?”
“Wheeler, Mr. Doyle’s man, the buüer Dükes, and two footmen whose names I don’t know.”
“Did you go into the front of the house at all?” Tellman persisted.
“I went across the hall to fetch the newspapers to iron.”
“What?”
“I went across the hall to fetch the newspapers to iron them,” Finn repeated. “I wanted to see if there was anything in them about Mr. Parnell. I saw Mr. Doyle coming downstairs.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Where did he go? Into the dining room?”
“No. He went in the other direction, but I don’t know where to. I went back through the baize door with the newspapers.”
“Then what?” Tellman had his pencil poised, his eyes on Finn.
Finn hesitated.
“Yer gotta tell ’im,” Gracie urged. “It’s important.”
Finn looked wretched.
Gracie longed to lean forward and touch his hands again, but she could not do it in front of Tellman.
Tellman licked the end of his pencil.
“Mr. McGinley sent for me,” Finn said shakily.
“From where? Where was he?” Tellman asked.
“What? Oh, in his room, I expect. Yes, in his room. But I met him as he was coming across the landing. He told me to go with him and to stand in the hall while he went into Mr. Radley’s study. He said someone had put dynamite there and he was going to … to make it safe.”
“I see. Thank you.” Tellman took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about Mr. McGinley. Looks like he died a hero.”
“Somebody murdered him,” Finn said between his teeth. “I hope you get the son of the devil who did it and hang him as high as Nelson’s column.”
“I expect we will.” Tellman looked at Gracie as if he wanted to say something further, but he changed his mind and went out. Gracie turned back to Finn, longing to be able to help. She could guess at the grief and shock which must be tearing at him, and soon it would be fear for himself also. With McGinley dead he would have no position. He would have to start looking for a new place, with all the difficulty, hardship and anxiety that was. She smiled at him tentatively, not to mean anything, except that she understood and she cared.
He smiled back and reached up with his hand to touch hers.
* * *
Pitt found Tellman about an hour later, standing in the havoc of the study.
“What did you learn?” he asked quietly. The door had not yet been replaced.
Tellman recounted to Pitt what Finn had told him.
“That’s more or less what we know.” Pitt nodded. “Anything else?”
“Maid came in and lit the fire just after seven this morning,” Tellman replied, consulting his notebook. “She dusted the desk and refilled the inkstand and checked there was enough paper, wax, sand, tapers, and so on. She opened the drawer down this side because that’s where they’re kept. There was nothing wrong with it then. And she’s been with the house since Lord Ashworth’s time.”
“So it was after seven this morning, and the bomb went off at about twenty-five to ten. That’s two and a half hours.”
“All the servants were either upstairs or in the servants’ hall having their own breakfast,” Tellman replied. “Or else about their duties in the laundry, the stillroom or wherever it is they do these things. I never imagined there was so much to do to keep half a dozen ladies and gentlemen turned out as they like to be, and fed, housed and entertained.” His face expressed very clearly his opinion of the morality of that.
“Could any of them have come through and put the dynamite in here?” Pitt made no comment on the number of the servants.
“No. It’d take a fair while to set up a bomb with dynamite, and something to trigger it off when Mr. Radley opened the drawer. You couldn’t just put it in and run away.”
“It seems all the women were either with their maids or else at breakfast, and then with each other,” Pitt said slowly. He had spoken to them all, although he had never seriously thought that it would turn out to be a woman who had put the dynamite in Jack’s study. “Except Mrs. Greville. Not unnaturally, she still likes to spend some time alone.”
Tellman said nothing.
“That leaves the men,” Pitt said somberly. “Which means either Moynihan or Doyle. Piers Greville was with Miss Baring.”
“Moynihan was in the conservatory with Mrs. McGinley,” Tellman said with a shake of his head. “Your Gracie saw them there. Of course, there’s nothing to say they didn’t do it together, to get rid of McGinley so they could marry each other … if that sort like to marry.”
“They’d marry,” Pitt said dryly, “if they could ever settle on which church … if either would have them. I gather both sides feel very strongly about not marrying the other.”
Tellman rolled his eyes very slightly. “He’s daft enough about her he would have killed her husband, and I wouldn’t swear she’d not have helped him. Then there is Doyle,” Tellman pointed out. “He was seen in the hall twice, once by Hennessey and once by Gracie.”
“I think I had better go and speak to Mr. Doyle,” Pitt said with reluctance. He knew Eudora was afraid for her brother. She had been since Greville’s death. With McGinley’s death she would be more so … perhaps with cause. Pitt did not want to think so, for he had liked the man. But the fact that McGinley had been the only one aware of the dynamite, apart from whoever placed it there, made it look more and more as if it could have been Doyle. Had they quarreled about the ways of bringing about the ends they both sought? And had Doyle been prepared to use more violence, and McGinley guessed it?
They met in the boudoir, Eudora standing by the window. She watched them both, her eyes going from Padraig’s face to Pitt’s and back again.
“Yes, I crossed the hall,” Padraig admitted, a flash of anger in his eyes. “I did not go into the study. I went from the front door to the side door to see what the weather was like, then I went back upstairs.”
“No, you didn’t, Mr. Doyle,” Pitt said quietly. “You were seen in the hall after Hennessey collected the papers to iron them.”
“What?” Doyle demanded.
Eudora looked terrified. She stood like a cornered animal, as if she would flee if there were only a way past them. She looked at Padraig, then at Pitt, and he felt the force of her plea for help even though she did not speak it.
“McGinley’s valet took the papers to be ironed before you were seen in the hall by my wife’s maid,” Pitt explained. He glanced at Eudora and back again. “You have made a mistake in your account …. You had better think again, Mr. Doyle. Did you go into Mr. Radley’s study?”
Padraig stared at him.
Pitt thought for a moment he was going to refuse to answer. The blood rose hot in his face.
“Yes, I did … and I swear before God there was nothing in the drawer when I was there. Whoever put the dynamite in there did it after I left. I was only there a minute or so. I took a piece of paper from the drawer. I’d used all mine. I was making notes for the conference.”
Eudora moved over to stand beside him, slipping her arm through his, but she was shaking, and whether Padraig knew it or not, Pitt knew she did not believe him. She would be on the brink of tears if she had had the emotional energy left, but she was exhausted. He longed to be able to help her, but he could not except by pursuing the proof against Padraig and finding a flaw in it.
“Did you pass the conservatory?” Pitt asked.
A bitter smile flashed across Padraig’s face. “Yes. Why?”
“You saw Fergal Moynihan and Iona McGinley?”
“Yes. But I doubt they saw me. They were extremely occupied with each other.”
“Doing what?”
“For God’s sake, man!” Padraig exploded, his arm tightening around his sister’s shoulders.
“What were they doing?” Pitt repeated. “Exactly! If it’s not fit for Mrs. Greville’s ears, then I’m sure she will excuse us.”
“I am not leaving you,” Eudora stated, staring at Pitt and at the same time tightening her grasp on Padraig’s arm.
“When I passed to go to the study they were having a rather heated argument,” Padraig said, watching Pitt closely, his eyes narrowed.
“Describe it,” Pitt commanded. “What did you see?”
At last Padraig understood. “Moynihan was standing in front of the camellia bush and leaning forward a little with both his hands spread wide. I could not hear what he was saying, but he appeared to be exasperated. He was speaking with very exaggerated care, as one does when one is about to lose patience. He waved his arms around and hit an orchid. He knocked off a stem of flowers and was very annoyed. He picked it up and threw it behind one of the potted palms. She was standing in front of him. That is all I saw.”
“And on the way back, with the paper?”
“They had obviously made up the disagreement. They were in each other’s arms and kissing very … intimately. Her clothes were in considerable disarray, especially her bodice.” He winced with distaste and glanced at Eudora and away again, perhaps sensitive to the fact that she might find passionate adultery a painful subject. “I have no intention of describing it further.”
“Thank you,” Pitt acknowledged it. Then he saw Eudora’s smile and hoped profoundly that Fergal Moynihan would bear out what Padraig had said.
He found Moynihan in the morning room with Carson O’Day. He was profoundly embarrassed but faced Pitt rather belligerently.
“Yes, I did break the orchid, quite accidentally. We had a … a slight disagreement. It lasted only a moment. It was nothing at all, really.”
“You made it up again very quickly?” Pitt asked.
“Yes. Why? How do you know about it? What in heaven’s name does one broken orchid matter?”
“Quite a bit, Mr. Moynihan. You made it up very quickly? How long after you broke the orchid? Five minutes? Ten minutes?”
“No, not at all! More like two or three minutes—why?” He was growing angrier because he did not understand, and he plainly hated having the discussion in front of O’Day. His color was heightening with every moment, and he moved jerkily, as though eager to escape, even physically. It made Pitt more inclined to believe Padraig’s account. It was acutely embarrassing behavior in which to be observed—and to later have described to a man who was, after all, from the police.
“Would you please tell me how you made it up, Mr. Moynihan?” Pitt requested with some satisfaction. There was something supercilious in Moynihan he did not like.
Fergal glared at him. “Really, Mr. Pitt! I have no intention of satisfying your prurience. I will not.”