Ashworth Hall (3 page)

Cornwallis turned to Pitt.

“I’m sorry,” he said before Pitt could speak. “I only heard this morning myself. And I am sorry you will have to hand over the Denbigh case to someone else, but there is no help for it. You are obviously the only person who can go to Ashworth Hall.”

“I could leave it with Tellman,” Pitt said quickly. “Take someone else as ‘valet.’ There could hardly be anyone worse!”

A shadow of a smile crossed Cornwallis’s face.

“There could hardly be anyone who would dislike it more,” he corrected Pitt. “But he will make an excellent job of it. You need your best man there, someone you know well and who can think for himself in a new situation, adapt, have the personal courage if there should be another threat to Greville’s life. Leave Byrne in charge here. He’s a good, steady man. He won’t let it go.”

“But …” Pitt began again.

“There isn’t time to bring in anyone else,” Cornwallis said gravely. “For political reasons they have conducted it this way. This is a highly delicate time for the Irish situation altogether.” He looked at Pitt steadily to see if he understood. He must have realized that he did not, because he went on after only a moment’s hesitation. “You are aware that Charles Stewart Parnell is the most powerful and unifying leader the Irish have had for many years. He commands respect from almost all sides. There are many who believe that if there can be any lasting peace effected, he is the one man all Ireland will accept as leader.”

Pitt nodded slowly, although already he knew what Cornwallis was going to say. Memory came back like a tide.

Cornwallis looked tight-faced and a trifle confused. Moral matters of a personal nature were subjects he did not enjoy addressing. He was a very private man, not at ease with women because his long years at sea had deprived him of their company. He held women in a greater respect than most warranted, judging them to be both nobler and more innocent than they were, and a great deal less effectual. He believed, as did many men of his age and station, that women were emotionally fragile and free from the appetites that both fired and, at times, degraded men.

Pitt smiled. “The Parnell-O’Shea divorce,” he said for him. “I suppose that is going to be heard after all. That is what you are referring to?”

“Indeed,” Cornwallis agreed with relief. “It is all most distasteful, but apparently they are bent on pursuing it.”

“You mean Captain O’Shea is, I presume?” Pitt said. Captain O’Shea was not a very attractive character. According to the account which was more or less public, he seemed to have connived at his wife’s adultery with Parnell—indeed, to have put her in his way—for O’Shea’s own advancement. Then when Katie O’Shea had left him entirely for Parnell, he had made an open scandal of it by suing for divorce. The matter was to be heard any day now. The effect it would have on Parnell’s parliamentary and political career could only be guessed at.

What it would do to his support in Ireland was also problematical. He was of Anglo-Irish Protestant landowning descent. Mrs. O’Shea was born and raised in England, from a highly cultured family. Her mother had written and published several three-volume novels. She too was Protestant But Captain William O’Shea, looking and sounding like an Englishman, was Irish by lineage and an unostentatious Catholic. The possibilities of passion, betrayal and revenge were endless. The stuff of legend was in the making.

Cornwallis was embarrassed by it. It was something he could not ignore, but it was full of elements of personal weakness and shame which should have been kept decently private. If a man behaved badly in his personal life, he might be ostracized by his peers; one might cease even to recognize him in the street. He might be asked to resign from his clubs, and if he had a whit of decency left he would preempt that necessity by doing it beforehand. But he should not display his weakness to the public gaze.

“Does the O’Shea case have any bearing on the meeting at Ashworth Hall?” Pitt asked, returning them to the purpose at hand.

“Naturally,” Cornwallis replied with a frown of concentration. “If Parnell is publicly vilified and details of his affair with Mrs. O’Shea are disclosed which put him in an unsympathetic light, a betrayer of his host’s hospitality, rather than a hero who fell in love with an unhappy and ill-used wife, then the leadership of the only viable Irish political party will be open to anyone’s ambition. I gather from Greville that both Moynihan and O’Day would not be averse to grasping for it. Actually, O’Day at least is loyal to Parnell. Moynihan is far more intransigent.”

“And the Catholic Nationalists?” Pitt was confused. “Isn’t Parnell a Nationalist too?”

“Yes, of course. No one could lead an Irish majority if he were not. But he is still Protestant. The Catholics are for nationalism, but under different terms, far closer to Rome. That is a great deal of the issue: the dependence upon Rome; the religious freedom; old enmities dating back to William of Orange and the Battle of the Boyne, and God knows what else; unjust land laws; the potato famine and mass emigration. I am not honestly sure how much of it is just remembered hate. According to Greville, another major bone of contention is the Catholic demand for state-funded separate education for Catholic children, as compared to one school for all. I readily admit, I do not understand it. But I accept that the threat of violence is real. Unfortunately, history bears too excellent a record of it in the past.”

Pitt thought again of Denbigh. He would far rather have remained in London to find whoever had killed him than guard politicians at Ashworth Hall.

Cornwallis smiled with ironic appreciation. “There may be no more attempts made,” he said dryly. “I would imagine the danger to the representatives would be greater before they arrive, or after they leave. They are less vulnerable while actually at Ashworth Hall. So is Greville, for that matter. And we will have at least a dozen other men in the village and around the grounds of the hall. But I must oblige Greville, if he feels he is in any danger. If there were to be a political assassination of one of the Irish representatives while at Ashworth Hall because we do not take the matter seriously, then surely I do not need to explain to you the damage it could do? It could set back peace in Ireland by fifty years!”

“Yes sir,” Pitt conceded. “Of course I understand.”

Cornwallis smiled, for the first time real humor lighting his eyes.

“Then you had better go and inform Tellman of his new duties. They are to begin this weekend.”

“This weekend!” Pitt was staggered.

“Yes. I’m sorry. I told you it was short notice. But I am sure you will manage.”

Tellman was a dour man who had grown up in bitter poverty and still expected life to deal him further blows. He was hardworking, aggressive, and would accept nothing he had not worked for. As soon as he saw the look on Pitt’s face he regarded him suspiciously.

“Yes, Mr. Pitt?” He never used “sir” if he could avoid it. It smacked of respect and inferiority.

“Good morning, Tellman,” Pitt replied. He had found Tellman in one corner of the charge room and they were sufficiently private for the confidentiality of what he had to say. There was only one sergeant present and he was concentrating on writing in the ledger. “Mr. Cornwallis has been in. There is a job for you. We are needed for this coming weekend. In the country.”

Tellman raised his eyes. He had a lugubrious face, aquiline-nosed, lantern-jawed, not undistinguished in his own fashion.

“Yes?” he said doubtfully. He knew Pitt far too well to be duped by courtesy. He read the eyes.

“We are to guard the welfare of a politician at a country house party,” Pitt continued.

“Oh yes?” Tellman was on the defensive already. Pitt knew his mind was conjuring pictures of rich men and women living idly on the fat of the land, waited on by people every bit as good as they but placed by society in a dependent position—and kept there by greed. “Politician being got at, is ’e?”

“He’s been threatened,” Pitt agreed quietly. “And there has been at least one attempt.”

Tellman was unimpressed. “Did more than ‘attempt’ to poor Denbigh, didn’t they? Or don’t that matter anymore?”

The room was so quiet Pitt could hear the scribbling of the sergeant’s quill on the paper. It was cold, so the windows were closed against the noises of the street. Beyond the door two men were talking in the passageway, their words inaudible, only the murmur of voices coming through the heavy wood. “This is the same case, only the other end of it,” he said grimly. “The politician concerned is involved in the Irish Problem, and this weekend is an attempt at least to begin a solution. It is extremely important that there be no violence.” He smiled at Tellman’s challenging eyes. “Whatever you think of him personally, if he can bring Ireland a single step closer to peace, he’s worth the effort to preserve.”

The ghost of a smile flickered over Tellman’s face.

“I suppose so,” he said grudgingly. “Why us? Why not local police? They’d be far better at it. Know the area, know the locals. Spot a stranger where we wouldn’t. I’m good at solving murders once they’ve happened, and I want to catch the bastard who killed Denbigh. I dunno a thing about preventing one at political parties. And with respect, Mr. Pitt, neither do you!” He put the “with respect” into his words, but there was not a shred of it in his voice. His next question betrayed his thoughts. “I suppose you agreed to it? Didn’t ask for it, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. And it was an order,” Pitt replied with a smile which was at least half a baring of the teeth. “I have no choice but to obey orders given me by a superior, just as you have now, Tellman.”

This time Tellman’s amusement was real.

“Run out on Denbigh, are we, and going to skulk around some lordship’s house instead, keeping an eye on peddlers and footpads and strangers lurking in the flower beds? A bit beneath the superintendent o’ Bow Street Station, isn’t it … sir?”

“Actually,” Pitt replied, “the party is to be held at my sister-in-law’s country house, Ashworth Hall. I shall be going as a guest. That is why it has to be me. Otherwise I should stay here on the Denbigh case and send someone else.”

Very slowly Tellman looked up and down Pitt’s lanky, untidy figure, his well-tailored jacket pulled out of shape by the number of odd articles stuffed into his pockets, his clean white shirt with tie slightly askew, and his hair curling and overlong.

His face was almost expressionless. “Oh, yes?”

“And you will be going as my valet,” Pitt added.

“What?”

The sergeant dropped his pen and splurted ink all over the page.

“You will be going as my valet,” Pitt repeated, keeping all emotion from his voice.

For an instant Tellman thought he was joking, exercising his rather unreliable sense of humor.

“Don’t you think I need one?” Pitt smiled.

“You need a damn sight more than a valet!” Tellman snapped back, reading his eyes and realizing suddenly that he meant it. “You need a bleedin’ magician!”

Pitt straightened up, squared his shoulders and pulled his lapels roughly level with each other.

“Unfortunately, I shall have to make do with you, which will be a grave social disadvantage. But you might be more use to the politician concerned—at least in saving his life, if not his sartorial standards.”

Tellman glared at him.

Pitt smiled cheerfully. “You will report to my home by seven o’clock on Thursday morning in a plain dark suit.” He glanced down at Tellman’s feet. “And new boots, if those you are wearing are all you have. Bring with you clean linen for six days.”

Tellman stuck out his lean jaw.

“Is that an order?”

Pitt raised his eyebrows very high. “Good heavens, do you think I’d be taking you if it weren’t?”

“When?” Charlotte Pitt said in incredulity when she was told. “When did you say?”

“This coming weekend,” Pitt repeated, looking very slightly abashed.

“That’s impossible!”

They were standing in the parlor of their house in Keppel Street, Bloomsbury, where they had moved after Pitt’s recent promotion. Until this moment, for Charlotte at least, it had been a very ordinary day. This news was astounding. Had he no conception of the amount of preparation necessary for such a weekend? The answer to that was simple. No, of course he hadn’t. Growing up on a country estate had made him familiar with such houses, probably with the number and duties of the staff, and perhaps with the daily routine when there were guests. But it had not given him any knowledge of the number and type of clothes those guests were expected to bring. A lady might wear half a dozen dresses on any given day, and certainly not recognizably the same gown for dinner every evening.

“Who else will be there?” she demanded, staring at him in dismay.

The expression in his face made it obvious he still did not grasp what he was expecting of her.

“Ainsley Greville’s wife, Moynihan’s sister and McGinley’s wife,” he replied. “But Emily is the hostess. All the duties will fall on her. You haven’t any need to worry. You will be there simply to lend me credibility, because you are Emily’s sister, so it will seem natural for us to attend.”

Frustration boiled up inside her. “Oh!” She let out a cry of exasperation. “Thomas! What do you suppose I am going to wear? I have about eight autumn or winter dresses to my name! And most of those are rather practical. How on earth can I beg or borrow ten more between now and Thursday?” Not to mention jewelry, shoes, boots, an evening reticule, a shawl, a hat for walking, dozens of things which, if she did not have them, would instantly make her conspicuously not a guest but a poor relation. Cornwallis’s idea of making the party appear like any other would be defeated before it began.

Then she saw his concern, and his doubt, and instantly she wished she had bitten her tongue before she had spoken. She hated the thought that her blurted words had made him feel as if he should have provided better for her, to keep up with Emily. Occasionally she had longed for the same pretty things, the glamour, the luxury, but at that moment, nothing had been further from her mind.

“I’ll find them!” she said quickly. “I’ll call Great-Aunt Vespasia, and I daresay Emily herself can lend me something. And I’ll visit Mama tomorrow. How many days did you say it was for? Shall I take Gracie? Or shall we have to leave her here to care for Daniel and Jemima? We are not taking the children, are we? Is there any real danger, do you think?”