Ashworth Hall - Anne Perry [110]
“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.”
Pitt met his eyes squarely. “Then you leave me no alternative but to ask Mrs. McGinley, which will be considerably more indelicate. I would have thought in view of your professed affection for her you might have spared her that necessity.” He ignored the look of loathing in Moynihan’s face. “Particularly now that her husband has just been murdered, whether she cared for him or not.”
“You’re despicable!” Fergal said.
Pitt raised his eyebrows. “Because I require you to describe your actions in order to vindicate others from suspicion of murder, or not? Are you not as eager as the rest of us to discover the truth?”
Moynihan