Ashworth Hall - Anne Perry [132]
She could have gone into the bathroom, keeping her face averted. Greville would have taken no notice until it was too late. If he had seen her, realized who it was, he would have wondered what on earth she was doing in a maid’s dress and cap, but he would still not have been afraid, not have cried out, attracted attention, or called her name.
But Padraig could not have placed the bomb in Jack’s study. Pitt’s heart sank. Could that have been Eudora also? Why not? It required nerve and dexterity, not any physical strength. Why should Eudora not care as passionately or as bravely about the fate of her country as any politician—or Fenian sympathizer?
He must speak with Charlotte. She would be able to look at the slippers of the various women in the house without arousing the sort of suspicion which would make someone seek to hide or destroy them. She might even know already whose they were. She would remember what people had worn, who might have blue heels.
But he did not find the opportunity to speak with her alone until an hour before luncheon, when she was about to go for a short walk with Kezia, who looked surprisingly gentle, as if the anger had slipped from her. He wondered what Charlotte had managed to say to her that she forgave Fergal at last. He would ask her later.
“Charlotte!”
She turned, and was about to reply when she must have seen the anxiety in his face, and perhaps the sadness.
“What is it?”
“I have discovered something which I need to discuss with you,” he said quietly enough he hoped Kezia did not hear him. It could be her. Perhaps conspiring with Fergal. The other brother and sister. It was a hope!
Charlotte turned back to Kezia, just outside the door on the terrace.
“Please excuse me,” she called. “I must take this chance to speak with Thomas. I’m so sorry!”
Kezia smiled and lifted her hand in acknowledgment, then walked onto the grass and away.
“What is it?” Charlotte said quickly. “I can see it is unpleasant.”
“Discovering who committed a crime is usually unpleasant,” he answered a little bleakly. Then, seeing her eyes widen, he added, “No, not completely, just an excellent piece of observation by Gracie. She remembered more about the ‘maid’ she saw on the landing about the time Greville was killed.”
“What? Who was it?” She gulped, her face suddenly wretched. “Not—Doll?”
“No,” he said quickly. “No, it wasn’t Doll. It was someone wearing slippers with stitched fabric sides and blue heels.”
“What?” For a moment she looked confused; the instant after, understanding flew to her. He knew she also thought of Eudora. He watched the conflicting emotions in her face, a light of relief, almost satisfaction, as swiftly overtaken by pity, and then wiped clean again. He found he understood, or thought he did. He was surprised. Was she more vulnerable, underneath the independence, than he had assumed?
“Oh,” she said soberly. “You mean it was one of the guests, wearing a maid’s dress over her own? Then she had to be involved.”
“Over her own?” He was momentarily puzzled.
“Of course,” she said quickly. “Thomas, it takes ages to get in and out of a dinner gown. They all do up at the back, for a start! She could get a maid’s dress large enough to put on top of her own and long enough to cover it completely. An inch or two of satin underneath it would give her away in a second. It was only coincidence that Gracie saw a piece of the shoe and that she remembered it, but satin anyone would have seen.”
He should have thought of that.
“Which means she was probably slimmer than she appeared to be to Gracie,” Charlotte went on. “Two dresses would make a lot of difference. Blue slippers?”
“Yes. Can you remember who wore blue that evening?”
She smiled weakly.