Ashworth Hall - Anne Perry [53]
“No.”
“You sound very sure of that.”
“I am.”
“Then it was one of us?”
“Yes.”
Eudora stared at him with hurt, frightened eyes.
Doyle tightened his grip on her.
“Thank you for doing your duty in informing us,” he said firmly. “If there is anything we can do to help, of course we will, but for the time being Mrs. Greville would like to be alone. I’m sure you understand that?”
“I do,” Pitt agreed without moving. “I wouldn’t disturb her at all if it were not necessary. I am sorry, but no one may leave until we have learned as much as we can and, I hope, proved who is responsible. The sooner that is done, the sooner Mrs. Greville can return to her home and mourn in peace.” He felt acutely sorry for her, but he had no alternative. “This was more than the death of your husband, Mrs. Greville, it is a far-reaching political murder. I cannot extend you the sensitivity I would like to.”
She lifted her head very slightly. Her eyes were full of tears.
“I understand,” she said huskily. “I have always known there was a danger. I suppose I didn’t think it would really happen. I love Ireland, but sometimes I hate it too.”
“And don’t we all,” Doyle said, almost in a whisper. “It’s a hard mistress, but we’ve paid too much to leave her now, and when we were so close!”
“What do you want of me, Mr. Pitt?” Eudora asked.
“When did you last see Mr. Greville?”
She thought for a moment. “I don’t remember. He often reads late. I go to bed quite early. About ten o’clock, I think. But you can ask my maid, Doll, if you like. She might know. She was here when Ainsley came in to say good-night.”
“I will. Thank you. And you, Mr. Doyle?”
“I went to my room, also to read,” Doyle replied. “If you remember, it was not an evening when any of us wished to stay up late. The Moynihan business was most uncomfortable.”
Pitt flashed him a look of agreement. “I would be most grateful if you would not tell anyone outside Ashworth Hall what happened for the time being.”
“If you wish.”
“Was your manservant with you, Mr. Doyle?”
Dry, sad amusement flashed in Doyle’s face. “You suspect me? Yes, he was, part of the time. He left about half past ten. Have you any idea when Ainsley was killed?”
“Between twenty past ten and twenty to eleven.”
“I see. Then no, Mr. Pitt, I cannot account for all that time.”
“Padraig … don’t!” Eudora said desperately. “Don’t say that, even lightly!”
“It’s not lightly, my dear.” He tightened his arm around her again. “I imagine Mr. Pitt is going to be thorough, and that means ruthless, doesn’t it?”
“It means very literal, Mr. Doyle,” Pitt replied. “Very exact.”
“Sure it does. And I didn’t kill Ainsley. We differed over a lot of things, but he was my sister’s husband. Go and look at some of those fierce, judgmental Protestants, Mr. Pitt, full of the anger and vengeance of their God. You’ll find his killer there, never doubting he does God’s work … poor devil! That’s what’s wrong with Ireland—too many people doing the devil’s work in God’s name!”
Emily had an appalling day. She had known from the beginning that there was a possibility of danger to Ainsley Greville, but she had assumed it was remote and would come from outside. And, of course, Pitt and the menservants would deal with it. When Jack had told her Greville was dead, she, like everyone else, had assumed it was accidental.
Her first thought had been for the failure of the conference and what it would mean to Jack’s career. Then immediately she was ashamed of that and thought of the grief of the family, especially his wife. She knew the shock of violent bereavement herself only too well. She thought of what she could do to offer any comfort. But fortunately it seemed Padraig Doyle was Mrs. Greville