Ashworth Hall - Anne Perry [122]
He took a deep breath. “Does it matter?”
“It might. Alexander Chinnery didn’t rape or kill her. He was already dead in Liverpool two days before.”
He said nothing.
“Are you asleep?” she demanded.
“I would like to be,” he replied. “It’s just one more piece of tragic farce in this whole situation.”
“And the Parnell-O’Shea divorce is finished, and Parnell seems to have behaved like a complete fool,” she went on. “And Vespasia says he’ll lose the leadership, if not straightaway, then soon. I suppose that affects the people here?”
He grunted.
“Did you learn anything?” she went on, unconsciously warming herself close to him, and making him chill. “It was very brave of Lorcan McGinley to try to defuse the bomb. Did you discover how he knew it was there?”
“No.” He opened his eyes at last and turned over onto his back. “We did everything we could to trace his movements all morning, who he spoke to, where he went. None of it is any use so far.”
“I’m sorry. I haven’t been much help, have I?”
“It would help a lot if you would be quiet and go to sleep,” he said with a smile, putting his arm around her. “Please!”
Obediently she snuggled even closer and put her head on the pillow, not speaking again.
In the morning it could no longer wait. As soon as Charlotte was dressed and the more physical and distracting part of preparing for the day was accomplished, she sat down in front of the glass and Gracie began to dress her hair. It could not be put off any further.
“I saw Lady Vespasia when I was in London yesterday …” she began.
“ ’Ow was she?” Gracie asked without stopping what she was doing. It was part of a lady’s maid’s job to be able to conduct a pleasant conversation while at the same time doing something useful. Anyway, she had an immense admiration for Lady Vespasia, and was more in awe of her than of anyone else she could think of, even the commissioner of police … perhaps not the Queen. But then she had never met the Queen, and she might not even like her. She had heard she was rather critical and hardly ever laughed.
“She was very well, thank you,” Charlotte replied. “I told her what was happening here, of course.”
“I expect she was upset,” Gracie said, pursing her lips. “It bein’ so nasty for the master, an’ all, an’ for Mr. Radley.”
“Yes, of course she was. She knows quite a lot about Irish politics, and all the things that have happened.”
“I wish she ’ad an answer for it,” Gracie said with feeling. “Some of them things is enough to make the angels weep.” Her face tightened as she spoke, and an overwhelming sadness engulfed her. “When I think o’ that poor girl wot got raped an’ killed ’cos she were beautiful and loved someone on the other side, an’ wot we English done to ’er, I’m fair ashamed.”
“You don’t need to be,” Charlotte said clearly. “We—”
“Oh, I know it weren’t us,” Gracie interrupted, her voice urgent and a little hoarse. “But it were still English, so that’s kind of us.”
“No, that’s what I mean.” Charlotte swiveled on the seat till she was facing Gracie. “Listen to me! We’ve done plenty of things that are wrong in Ireland. There’s no arguing that. But the murder of Neassa Doyle was nothing to do with us. Look!” And she stood up and went to her reticule, from which she pulled the two pieces of newspaper she had stolen in London. “You can read this, most especially you can read the dates. Alexander Chinnery died in Liverpool two days before Neassa Doyle was killed by her own brothers. And thank God, she wasn’t raped at all.”
Gracie looked at the pieces of paper, sounding out the words. She stared at them so long Charlotte was on the verge of offering to read them for her, if perhaps she found the print difficult or some of the words too long.
Then Gracie looked up, her eyes wide and troubled.
“That’s wicked, that is,” she said slowly. “Think of all them people wot believed that lie. All them songs an’ stories, an’ all them people ’atin’ Chinnery, an’ ’e never