Ashworth Hall - Anne Perry [52]
“Why?” Piers looked at him more closely, sensing something further wrong. “Surely …” He stopped again.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Greville, but your father did not die by accident,” Pitt said quietly. “I am with the police.”
“The police!” Involuntarily Justine started, then put her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry. I thought—” She stopped, turning to Piers. “I’m so sorry!”
Piers moved closer to her. “I was here to try to protect him,” Pitt went on. “I am afraid I failed. Now I need to know what happened and who was responsible.”
Piers was stunned. “You mean … you mean he was … deliberately killed? But how? He fell against the bath! I saw the wound.”
“You saw what was intended to look like an accident,” Pitt pointed out. He glanced at Justine. She looked very white and still, but she was watching Piers, not Pitt. After that momentary outburst, she showed not the slightest sign of hysterics or faintness.
“You expected … murder?” Piers had difficulty even saying the word. “Then why did he come? Why didn’t you …”
Justine stood up and put her hand on his arm. “One can only do so much, Piers. Mr. Pitt could hardly go into the bathroom with him.” She looked at Pitt. “Did someone break in?”
“No. I’m sorry, it was someone resident in the house. My sergeant has established that. All the windows and doors were locked and there are men regularly watching the outside of the house, night as well as day. The gamekeeper has dogs out.”
“Someone here?” Piers was startled. “You mean one of the guests? You expected this? They are all Irish, I realize that now, but really …” Again he stopped. “Was this a political weekend? Is that what you are saying? And I intruded, without knowing?”
“I would not have phrased it so abruptly, but yes. Where were you at that time, Mr. Greville?”
“In my bedroom. I’m afraid I didn’t hear anything.” It did not occur to him that Pitt could suspect him of involvement. He took his own innocence for granted, and Pitt was inclined to do the same. He thanked them both and went to conduct the last and worst interview.
He knocked on Eudora’s door and Doyle answered it. He looked weary, although it was barely midday. His dark hair was ruffled and his tie was a trifle crooked. “I haven’t called anyone to make arrangements yet,” he said on seeing Pitt. “I shall ask Radley to send for the local doctor. There is no point in calling his own man. The situation is tragically apparent. We’ll send a message to his own vicar, though. He should be buried in the family vault. I’m afraid it seems the end of an endeavor for peace in Ireland, at least for the time being. We must make suitable arrangements for everyone to go home. I’ll accompany my sister.”
“Not yet, Mr. Doyle. I am afraid, although it seemed apparent what had happened, it was not so. It was murder, and Assistant Commissioner Cornwallis has asked me to take charge of the enquiry.”
“What competence have you to decide such a thing?” Doyle said very carefully. “Just who are you, Mr. Pitt?”
“Superintendent of the Bow Street Station,” Pitt replied.
Doyle’s face tightened. “I see. Probably here from the beginning in your official capacity?” He did not make any reference to Pitt’s lack of success, but the knowledge of it was in his eyes and the very slight lift of the corners of his lips.
“Yes. I’m sorry.” Pitt was apologizing for the failure, not his calling.
“I suppose there is no doubt of your facts?”
“No.”
“You said an accident in the beginning. What changed your mind?”
They were still in the doorway. The room beyond was dimmed by half-drawn curtains. Eudora was sitting in one of the large chairs. Now she stood up and came towards them. She looked profoundly shocked. She had the kind of papery paleness and the hollow eyes of someone who has sustained a blow beyond her comprehension.
“What is it?” she asked. Apparently she had overheard none of their conversation. “What has happened now, Padraig?”
He turned to her, ignoring Pitt. “You must be very strong, sweetheart. The news is bad. Mr. Pitt is from