Brunswick Gardens

10

PITT WENT HOME early. It was good to have some time to spend with his family. The verdict of the inquest on Ramsay Parmenter had been exactly what he’d expected. While the balance of his mind was turned he had attacked his wife, and she had defended herself. Death by misadventure.
Now Pitt forced the matter out of his mind and simply put on his oldest clothes and pottered in the garden. There was not a great deal to be done. The growing season had barely begun. The weeds had not established themselves, but there was always tidying of one sort or another, things to mend. And perhaps it was not too cold to sow the first seeds.
Daniel and Jemima helped him. They each had their own marked-out pieces of earth where they could grow what they pleased. Daniel’s was largely designed with stones, which he had taken to collecting, but there was a small fuchsia bush in it, at the moment looking rotted and very sad.
“It’s dead!” Daniel said tragically. He reached to yank it out by the roots. Jemima watched, feet together, face glowering, full of sympathy.
“Probably not,” Pitt said, restraining Daniel with one hand, bending down to examine the offending plant. “They do that in winter. Sort of snuggle down. It will waken up when it gets warmer, and grow some more leaves.”
“Will it?” Daniel said doubtfully. “It looks dead to me. Where would it get new leaves from?”
“It will grow them. It will feed out of the soil, if we look after it.”
“Shall I water it?” Daniel said helpfully.
“No, I think the rain will do that,” Pitt put in before Daniel could go further than a step.
“Well, what shall I do?” Daniel asked.
Pitt thought. “Put a little compost around the roots. That’ll keep it warm and give it something to eat,” he suggested.
“Will it?” Daniel’s expression was hopeful at last.
They worked happily until nearly seven o’clock, then Daniel and Jemima went in to supper and hot baths, now extremely necessary, and Pitt changed out of his gardening clothes and went to the parlor. He ate yesterday’s potato, cabbage and onions, refried till it was hot and full of crisp pieces, along with cold mutton and a little of last summer’s rhubarb chutney, then apple pie with a flaky crust, and cream.
At about quarter to nine Charlotte picked up Emily’s latest letter.
“Shall I read it to you?” she offered. Emily’s handwriting was not of the neatest, and it became more idiosyncratic the more enthused she was.
Pitt smiled, sliding down a little further in his chair and preparing to be entertained, if not by Emily’s actual travels, at least by her comments upon them.
Charlotte began: “ ‘My dear Charlotte and Thomas.
“ ‘I suppose I should begin by saying I miss you all. There is a sense in which I do. I think a dozen times a day how I would love to share with you the marvelous things I am seeing and the enormous variety of people I meet. The Italians themselves are superb, so full of the love of life and beauty, and far more welcoming of foreigners than I had expected. At least on the outside. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of something else, a look between two of them with their wonderful eyes, which makes me wonder if they secretly find us very gauche and a bit tedious. I hope I am not of that sort! I try to behave with dignity, not as if this is the first time I have ever seen such ravishing loveliness: the light on the landscape, ancient buildings, the sense of history.
“ ‘After all, what could be lovelier than England in the spring? Or the summer? Or especially the autumn?
“ ‘Yesterday we went for a drive to Fiesole. I wish there was time to do it again. The views! We came back via Settignano, and there was a place on the road where we could see Florence, which was quite breathtaking. It made me think of old Mr. Lawrence and his stories of Dante on the bridge. At that moment nothing seemed impossible, or even unlikely.
“ ‘But tomorrow we are off to Rome! “O Rome! My country! City of the soul!” as Lord Byron says. I can hardly wait! If it is all I dream and hope, then one day, regardless of who has been murdered or how or why, then you must both pack up everything and come as well! What is money worth if one cannot spend it seeing the glories of the world? I have been reading too much Byron! If there can be such a thing. Do I make any sense?
“ ‘I shall write you from there! All my love, Emily. P.S. Jack sends his love as well, of course!’ ”
Charlotte smiled at him over the papers.
“How very Emily,” he answered with deep satisfaction.
“I must write to her.” Charlotte folded it up and put it back into the envelope. “I have nothing so exotic to tell her. May I relate the wretched situation here? I shall tell her about Dominic, of course. That is barely a secret.”
“Yes, tell her about poor Ramsay Parmenter, if you like,” he agreed. There seemed no harm in it. And Emily could keep her own counsel if need be.
Mention of Ramsay Parmenter made him think again of the notebook. The notes in it seemed to make no sense, and yet they must have done, at least to Ramsay himself. It did not matter any longer. The case was over. But he could not let his mind rest until he had done his best to understand his failure. How else could he salvage at least the wisdom to do better next time?
He picked up the book and opened it to the first entry. There was no date. It seemed to concern a fisherman, or someone whose name was Fisherman, and an ill-fated expedition, or holiday, to somewhere described as “summer-clime.” The next two pages were on the same subject. Then there followed what appeared to be jottings of ideas for an essay or a sermon on life and disappointment. It did not seem very promising.
Half a dozen pages on he found a reference to “the master” and “the ringer,” and a comment with an exclamation mark— “What a carillon that must have been!”—and then the question “But when?” Then: “A peal of bells, but what time? A funeral knell, a burial of other things, did the call to prayer come from that, I wonder!” And on the following page: “Poor soul!” and “But who is the walking dead?”
Charlotte looked up, her expression curious.
“Send my love to Emily,” he offered.
“I will. What are you reading?”
“Ramsay Parmenter’s notebook.”
“What does he say? Does it explain anything?”
“Nothing at all. It doesn’t even appear to be sense, just odd words and phrases.”
“For example?”
“A whole lot about ‘the master’ and ‘the ringer,’ different peals of bells, and the walking dead. I assume that must be metaphorical.”
She smiled. “Well, it certainly isn’t literal, I hope!”
“No, of course not.”
“Maybe it is metaphorical,” she agreed. “Although the peals of bells sounds bland enough. Perhaps they are all notes on services and sermons and that sort of thing. I should think you have to have ideas far in advance in order to give a decent sermon every week. You can’t just hope it will come by Saturday afternoon.”
“Possibly. There were notes earlier on life and disappointment.”
“Miserable subject. Perhaps he was going to say something about real values, or faith, or something?” she suggested, her pen still in the air.
“Nothing about faith so far. I’ll read some more. Don’t let me interrupt your letter to Emily.”
She smiled brightly. “You mean don’t interrupt you anymore. I take your point, so subtly put.”
He pulled a slight face at her and returned to Ramsay’s notebook. There was more about the fisherman. Apparently Ramsay did not like him and considered him in a sense to have been a thief, but the object stolen was not specified.
Then he returned to the master and the ringer again. The writing was becoming very jerky, as if written under great emotional pressure: “The ringer!! Where did it all begin? That was it! What a damnable thing. The same tune played over … is that it? Oh Master, Master, what have you done? In God’s name why?”
Pitt stared at the page. There was such passion in it. It could not possibly be written of bell ringing. No one would care so fiercely about such a thing. And why write about it? Who was the master? It did not seem to be a religious reference.
Did “ringer” mean a double, a look-alike, one person mistaken for another?
But who? There had been no questions of identity in this case. The only people who were not members of the Parmenter family, known to each other for years, were Unity Bellwood and Dominic. And Pitt was perfectly certain about Dominic.
And that left Unity. But how did her identity matter? What difference would it make if she were who she said or not?
Ringer … for whom? Or was it bell ringing after all?
Or Bellwood? Was it a mildly oblique way of referring to Unity Bellwood?
Master! There were Latin phrases here and there in the notes. Master … dominus … “Dominic!”
He did not realize he had spoken aloud until Charlotte looked up, her eyes wide, her brow furrowed with alarm.
“What?”
“I just understood what one of these references meant,” he explained.
“What does he say?” she demanded, her own letter now totally ignored.
“I don’t know yet. I’ve only just begun to decipher it.” It was not very subtle really. The notes were never meant for anyone else’s eyes, certainly not to fool Mallory or Dominic himself, or Unity.
Now the references took on a very different meaning. It made excellent sense … sense that chilled him and sent a coldness running through his mind till it seemed almost like a physical thing in the warm, familiar room. He would tell Charlotte nothing of it yet.
He read on. It was inescapable now. Ramsay believed Dominic to have known Unity in the past. The references to tragedy were easy to see, although not specifically what it had been, only that its nature was personal and inspired a deep guilt in one or both of them. Ramsay concluded that Unity had lost Dominic for some time, perhaps years, and on discovering where he was, had sought the position in Brunswick Gardens solely in order to follow him there. Thinking again of the urgency of her application for the position, when her qualifications were so high, that was not difficult to believe.
There was a very clear mention of blackmail in order to force Dominic to reestablish the old relationship between them, regardless of his wishes, which, since he had run away in the first place, it was safe to presume he did not want.
There were brief, rather jagged notes, Ramsay’s writing becoming less even, far less controlled, as if his hand had shaken and he had gripped the pen too hard. There were occasional scratches and blots. They expressed fear not only in the words but in the black, spiky letters on the page. Ramsay thought Dominic had killed Unity rather than allow her to break up his new life with its public respect and hope of dignity and gentle progress towards acceptance and advancement.
He had not intended anyone else to read this. To judge from the different tones of the ink, even different colors in some places, it had been written over a space of time. There was no reason to doubt it had been written contemporarily with the events themselves. Pitt could not escape the conviction that Ramsay had genuinely thought Dominic guilty of Unity’s death, and it had caused him pain and a deep and terrible sense of his own failure. If he had considered his own death, it would not have been from guilt over Unity but from despair because his life had seemed to him devoid of purpose or success. Everything he had attempted had turned to ashes. Dominic was the last blow, and the worst. There were undeniable accents of the desire to escape, to find an end, becoming stronger. Pitt could not evade them.
He closed the book with the chill inside him consuming.
The room around him was so comfortable it jarred against his inner misery, making him more acutely conscious of the world of difference between the physical and the reality of the mind and the heart. The flames flickered gently in the hearth, sending a wavering light onto Charlotte’s skirt, her arms and shoulder and cheek. It made her hair almost copper and shadowed the hollow of her neck. Her hands moved rhythmically as she wrote. There was no sound but the clock on the mantelpiece, the flames and the movement of her pen over the paper, and the very faint burning of the gas lamp. It was all so familiar, comfortable, a trifle worn with use. Some of the things had been secondhand, part of someone else’s life before theirs, but probably just as loved. He took the safety of it all for granted. He had always been happy here. There were no dark-nesses, no regrets.
As if sensing his stillness, Charlotte looked up.
“What is it? What have you found now?”
“I’m not completely sure,” he prevaricated.
She was not to be so easily put off. “Well, what is it you think?”
“I think perhaps Ramsay Parmenter was not guilty of pushing Unity down the stairs …” he said slowly, watching her face.
She understood. “Then who was?” she said hesitantly, her eyes on his.
“It’s only a thought.” He was being evasive.
She was not to be put off.
“Why? What has he written in that book?” she demanded.
“It’s all in a kind of code, not very obscure if you understand that he’s using a sort of dog Latin, puns and so on …”
“Thomas!” Now her voice was sharp. “You are frightening me. Is it so bad you can’t bring yourself to be honest with me?”
“Yes …” he said quietly.
Her face paled. She stared at him with hollow eyes. “Dominic?”
“Yes.” He had thought he would get some kind of satisfaction from being able to show her Dominic’s weakness, but now that he had not only the chance but no escape from the necessity, there was nothing but sadness. And he felt it not only for her but within himself as well. He had believed the letter of gratitude in Ramsay’s desk, and it had brought him surprising warmth.
“What does it say?” Charlotte pressed. “What does Ramsay say that makes you think it was Dominic? Couldn’t he be wrong? Or trying to put blame from himself?” There was no accusation in her voice or in her eyes. She knew he was not enjoying it this time. She was only looking for escape.
He opened the book and read out the first relevant passage to her. Her schoolroom Latin was quite quick enough to understand.
“Go on,” she said huskily.
He obeyed, reading the second and the third, right through to the last.
“Does that have to mean he was right?” she asked.
“No. But it does mean he can’t have done it himself.”
She did not mention Mallory, but it hung unspoken between them, possible, but only a hope, too fragile to cling to.
“What are you going to do?” she said at last.
“I’m not sure.”
Again she sat silently for several moments. The fire settled down, flames brilliant as it consumed the unburnt coal, then sinking again. Pitt reached forward for the tongs and put on half a dozen more pieces.
“You can’t leave it,” she said at last. “Even if we didn’t have to know, you can’t allow Ramsay Parmenter to be blamed for something he didn’t do.”
“He is dead,” he pointed out.
“His family isn’t. Clarice isn’t. Anyway, don’t you have to know? I shall always be afraid it was Dominic. Maybe it isn’t. Isn’t the truth better, whatever it is?”
“Not always.”
She put her pen and ink away, even though the letter was unfinished. She lifted her feet and tucked them beside her on the sofa. It was a position she adopted when she was cold, frightened, or deeply miserable.
“Even so, I think you had better find out all you can. You can look … can’t you?”
“Yes. There’s enough in Ramsay’s notebook to start.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I suppose so.”
She said nothing else, but hugged her arms around herself and shivered.
    Pitt set out with Ramsay’s notebook in his coat pocket. It made the right side bulge and hang crookedly, but that hardly mattered. He walked rapidly. Now that he had determined to do it there was no point in hesitating. It was raining quite hard, although over the roofs to the west there were gleaming patches of blue in the sky … “enough to make trousers for one sailor,” as his mother used to say.
He took a cab to Maida Vale, back to the house in Hall Road.
“I don’t know anything about it,” Morgan said fiercely. She was dressed in green and white and looked quaintly regal with a crown of leaves in her hair. She was quite unself-conscious of any absurdity. As before, they were in her studio, cluttered with canvases, but this time the light was flat, draining the color, and rain beat against the windows. She had been painting before he came in, but there were only greens and yellows on her palette, which now sat on a stool a yard away.
“I have never heard of Unity Bellwood,” she denied. “And we have had no tragedy here, except Jenny’s death, and you already know all about that.” Her face darkened. “You did not need to have sent your man behind my back to ask the boy. That was devious.”
Pitt smiled at her naive indignation; it was the only sensible reaction.
“Why are you laughing at me?” she demanded, but he could see in her eyes that she half understood. “I don’t discuss other people’s affairs, least of all with police,” she went on. “It is not wrong to protect people from inquisitive strangers, it is wrong not to. It is part of the nature of friendship not to betray, especially whatever you think or fear might be a weakness.” Her light blue eyes were clear. Whatever she knew or suspected, at least this sentiment was honest.
“Do you place the interests of your friends before those of others?” he asked, leaning his weight against the mantel.
“Of course,” she replied, staring at him.
“Always?”
She did not answer.
“Does it matter how little your friend loses, or how much the other person does? Is your friend always right, no matter the issue or the price?”
“Well … no …”
“Dominic’s embarrassment against Ramsay Parmenter’s life? What about your own morality? Do you have a faith to yourself as well?”
Her neck stiffened. “Of course I do. Is it Ramsay Parmenter’s life?”
“No. It is just a question, to see where your judgment is.”
“Why do you pick Ramsay Parmenter?” She did not believe him, and it was clear in her face.
“His life is not in the balance. He is already dead.”
That jolted her. The color faded from her skin, leaving her looking tired. “If he’s dead, why do you need to know?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“Are you trying to say Dominic killed him?” She was very white now. “I don’t believe that!” But the raw edge to her voice showed that she could not dismiss it from her mind so completely.
“Where was he living before he was here?” he pressed. “You must know. He didn’t appear from nowhere. He had clothes, belongings, letters, at least acquaintances. He always dressed well. What about his tailor? Where did his money come from? Or did you keep him?”
She flushed. “No, I did not keep him! I don’t know all those things. I didn’t ask. We don’t ask questions of one another. It is part of friendship, and trust.”
“Did he leave anything behind when he went to Icehouse Wood?”
“I don’t know. But if he did, it is long since cleared away. Anyway, it wouldn’t tell you anything.”
“What about clothes? Did he buy any new clothes while he was here?”
She thought about it for a moment. “A coat, a brown overcoat.”
“Didn’t he have one before?”
She smiled. “Yes, of course he did. Can’t a man have two coats? Anyway, he didn’t keep the old one. He gave it to Peter Wesley, next door. He hadn’t one.”
“Is Peter Wesley still there, next door?”
“No. He moved.”
“Where to?”
“What does it matter?” She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He pressed her further and learned nothing except that Dominic seemed to have been very secretive about his immediate past, and she had gained the impression, never substantiated, that there was someone he would prefer did not find him there.
“Did he receive any letters?” Pitt asked her.
“No, never that I remember.” She thought for a moment. “No, I am sure he never did. And what he purchased he would have paid for at the time, because there were no bills, either, not even from his tailor, bootmaker, or shirtmaker.”
It completed a picture of a man who feared pursuit and was anxious to conceal all signs of where he was. Why? Who wished to find him, and for what reason?
He thanked her and went to search for the brown overcoat, which might at least offer him a tailor’s name.
But no one at the next house knew where Peter Wesley had gone to. Pitt was left on the doorstep looking out at a now-busy street which offered nothing further to tell where Dominic Corde had been before this place, or what had driven him from it.
An open carriage passed, ladies braving the sharp air to display their fashionable hats and pretty faces. They were shivering with cold but smiling brightly. He could not help smiling back, half in pleasure, half in amusement at their youthful vanity and optimism.
A coal cart passed, horses leaning forward into the harness against the weight. A newsboy shouted the headlines, mostly political. There was disturbing news from Africa, something about Cecil Rhodes and diamonds in Mashonaland, and settlers in Dutch South Africa. No one cared about the death of one not particularly fashionable cleric in what, so far as they knew, was a domestic accident.
A costermonger walked along the side of the street pushing a barrow, his shoulders straining against a coat a size too small but of very good cut and cloth. It reminded Pitt again of Dominic’s coat. A tailor would have been a good place to start. A man often did not change his tailor, even if he moved his accommodation. And if that were true of Dominic, then perhaps four or five years ago he had still had the same tailor as when he had lived in Cater Street. Pitt had no idea who that had been, and probably Charlotte had not. But Caroline might!
He had already walked rapidly to the main cross street and hailed a cab, and was sitting down in it when he realized it was quite possible Caroline was not at home. These days, if Joshua were touring with a play, she would go with him. She could be anywhere in England.
He fidgeted all the way to Cater Street, trying to think what to do next if Caroline were away or if she had not the slightest idea who Dominic’s tailor had been. Of course, the best person to ask would be the valet, only she had let him go when Edward died. Joshua would have brought his own man. But Maddock, the butler, might know. There would hardly be household accounts left from a decade ago, and a tailor’s account was personal anyway.
He was rattling through quiet, house-lined streets, passing delivery wagons, private carriages, other hansoms, all the routine traffic of any residential district. There were three million people in London. It was the largest and busiest city in the world, the heart of an empire that covered continents—India, Africa and Asia—the Pacific, the vast prairies and mountains of Canada from one ocean to another, and islands uncountable in every body of water known to man. How did you look for one private individual who wanted to be lost five years ago?
Except that a man is a creature of habit. One clings to identity. In all the upheaval and strangeness of tragedy or of guilt, physical things that are familiar are perhaps the only comfort left. If we lose places and people, then possessions become the more valuable.
They were in Cater Street. The cab stopped, and within moments Pitt was on the doorstep waiting for someone to answer. The minutes seemed to drag. There must be someone, even if Caroline and Joshua were away.
Maddock was on the step, looking older and quite a bit grayer. It made Pitt realize how long it had been since he had been there. Caroline had so often visited them in Keppel Street instead, and although Charlotte had been there recently, it was alone, when he had been busy.
“Good morning, Mr. Pitt, sir,” Maddock said, concealing his surprise. “Is all well, sir?”
“Very well, thank you, Maddock,” Pitt answered him. “Is Mrs. Fielding at home?”
“Yes sir. If you care to come in, I shall inform her you are here.” He stood aside, and Pitt stepped into the familiar hallway. In one sweep it took him back ten years to the first time he had come following the first Cater Street garottings. He had met Charlotte when she was the middle daughter, seeming to her own social class so rebellious and different, and to him so exactly what he expected a well-bred unmarried young lady to be. He smiled at the memory.
Dominic Corde had been married to Sarah then, before her murder by the same hand as all the others. What would Caroline know of him?
He had only a few moments to wait in the morning room before she came in. She had changed utterly since her respectable widowhood from pleasant and predictable Edward and her scandalous marriage to charming and desperately unsuitable Joshua, an actor seventeen years her junior. She looked radiant. She had always been a handsome woman, not as much as Charlotte—at least not to Pitt’s eye—but very good-looking, nonetheless. He admired her warm coloring and nicely curved figure. She was wearing a morning gown with roses on it, something she would have considered in Edward’s time as being far too showy and self-indulgent.
“Good morning, Thomas,” she said with a slight frown. “Maddock said everything was all right, but are you sure? Charlotte is not ill or troubled?”
“Not in the slightest,” he assured her, “except that there is an unpleasantness where Dominic is now living, and it may concern him. But that is all. The children are very well.”
“Are you?” She regarded him still with a trace of seriousness.
He smiled. “I am up against a difficulty I am hoping you can help me solve,” he replied honestly.
She sat down on the sofa, draping her flowing skirts around her. He noticed that she carried herself with less dignity and more grace than before she had known Joshua. Theatrical was too strong a word to use, but certainly she had a more dramatic flare than before. Years of behaving modestly and appropriately had fallen away, revealing a more colorful woman.
“I?” she said with surprise. “What could I do? What is this difficulty?”
“Do you know where Dominic went after he left here?”
She looked at him very steadily, her eyes shadowed. “You said that the unpleasantness may concern him. You do not waste your time with petty thefts, Thomas. It must be very unpleasant indeed to warrant your attention. Just how much does it concern Dominic? And please don’t fob me off with a comforting story that is not true.”
“I don’t know how much it concerns him,” he said, meeting her eyes without pretense. “I hope not at all. He appears to have changed completely from the rather shallow, charming young man he used to be.”
“But …” she prompted.
“But the case is murder.” He hated having to say it. He saw her face tighten and the shadows cross her eyes.
“You don’t think he did it … surely …”
“I hope not.” He surprised himself by how much he meant that. He really wanted to prove that it was not Dominic.
“Then how can I help?” she asked gravely. “I don’t know where he went after Burton Street, and I don’t think he was there long.”
“Burton Street?” he asked.
“He took rooms there after he left here. He didn’t feel he could remain after Sarah … died.” The pain was there in her eyes for a moment, the anguish of memory, the shock and the grief that never really left. Then she forced her attention to the present again. Sarah was beyond any ability to help now, or any need for it. Dominic was still here, and open to injury and fear. “Why do you want to know? Surely you know where he is at present?”
“Yes, in Brunswick Gardens,” he replied. “But I need the past, between Cater Street and Maida Vale.”
“Maida Vale? I didn’t know he had lived there.” She looked surprised.
“For a while. Do you know the address in Burton Street? I might be able to find someone who could help me there.”
“I don’t remember it, but I’m sure I have it somewhere. I used to forward mail for him. I presume you don’t believe whatever he has told you?”
He smiled a little self-consciously. He had not actually asked Dominic. Perhaps if he had Dominic would have told him the truth, but he doubted it. If Dominic had really known Unity Bellwood in some circumstance so personally tragic that Ramsay had believed it had provoked her murder, if he were going to confess it, he would have done so at the time, not allowed Ramsay to be suspected and to suffer the fear and isolation which it seemed in the end had broken him. That was a dark thought, and one which had not occurred to Pitt in precisely that form before. It was painful.
Caroline was staring at him and sensing his newer, sharper unhappiness.
“I need to know for myself,” he said with slight evasion. “What sort of letters did you forward?” He saw her raised eyebrows. “I mean, were they personal or tradesmen’s accounts?”
She relaxed a little. “Mostly tradesmen’s accounts, I think. There were very few of them anyway.”
“A tailor’s bill perhaps?”
“Why? Do his clothes matter in this … crime?”
“Not at all. But if I were to find the tailor, he might know where Dominic went afterwards. A man quite often keeps the same tailor for years, if he is happy with him.”
In spite of every intention of good manners, Caroline could not help smiling. Pitt had never in the decade she had known him looked as if his clothes were the right size, let alone ever tailored for him.
He read the thought in her eyes, and laughed.
“I’m sorry.” Caroline blushed. “I really did not mean to hurt your feelings….”
“You didn’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. One day perhaps I shall have a coat made to fit me, but there are other things a hundred times more important. Dominic’s tailor?”
“I can’t remember his name, but he bought his shirts at Gieves, off Piccadilly. Is that any help?”
“It may be. Thank you. Thank you very much.” He made as if to rise.
“Thomas!”
“Yes?”
“Please tell me when you know. If—if Dominic is guilty, Charlotte is going to be so hurt. Whatever his faults, he was part of our family … for many years. I was very fond of him. I did not realize how much until after he had gone. He was very grieved by Sarah’s death, more than he realized to begin with. I think he felt in some way he should have done something to prevent it.” She gave a little shake of her head. “I know that is foolish, and it is extremely self-important to imagine we could have prevented fate … but when a thing is hard to bear we look for ways in which it need not have happened. We think that perhaps we can prevent anything like it again … and if we can, then it follows we could have the first time.”
“I know,” he said gently. “I will tell you what happens, and of course I shall make it as easy for Charlotte as I can.”
“Thank you, Thomas.” She rose also, seemed to want to add something, then realized they had already said all there was.
He told her a few pleasant details about the children, and they parted at the door. He walked to the corner, found another cab, and went back to the center of the city. In Piccadilly, he found the shirtmakers, and after showing the proof of who he was and explaining the gravity of the case, he enquired if indeed they had served Dominic Corde in the past. It took some five minutes to acquire the address where Dominic had been staying when he had last ordered from them, approximately six years before. Possibly since then his income had decreased and he had reduced his taste in fine shirts.
The address was on Prince of Wales Road in Haverstock Hill, a considerable journey to the north and west. It was late afternoon by the time he found the right house. It was large and a trifle shabby, the sort of place which was originally built to accommodate an abundant family and had since been broken up into a series of apartments or rooms for a dozen or so individuals without dependents or companions.
He knocked at the door, noticing the paint peeling on the edges of the panels and a few spots of corrosion on the knocker itself.
His knock was answered by a middle-aged man with a ragged beard and clothes faded to an agreeable nondescript color by the bleaching effect of the sun and too-frequent laundering. He looked at Pitt with surprise.
“Yes? Forgive me, but do I know you, sir?”
“No. My name is Thomas Pitt. I am enquiring after a Mr. Dominic Corde, who used to live here several years ago.” He left no doubt in his voice, no room for argument.
The man’s face shadowed slightly, so very little that, had he not been facing the light, Pitt might not have seen it at all.
“I’m sorry. He left here a long time ago. I cannot tell you where he is now; I have no idea. And he left no forwarding address.” That too was a statement which permitted no space for further speech on the subject.
“I know,” Pitt said firmly. “I am quite aware of where he is now. It is the past which concerns me.”
The first few spots of rain spattered on the footpath.
The man’s face was bland but firm, his expression closed. “I am sorry, I can be of no assistance, sir. I bid you good day.” He made as if to close the door. Everything in his body, the faint droop of his shoulders, the heavy solidity of his stance, spoke of exhaustion and a weight of sadness rather than anger. Watching him, Pitt felt cold, in spite of the softness of the evening light and the fact that the air was still mild. This was where it had happened, whatever it was.
“I am sorry, sir,” he said gravely. “But I cannot allow the matter to be closed. I am from the police, in command of the Bow Street station, and the assistant commissioner has directed me to investigate a case of murder.” He saw the man wince and his pale blue eyes open wide. He was surprised, but not incredulous.
The coldness sharpened inside Pitt. He could see Charlotte’s face in his mind when he had to tell her. It would be the last dream from girlhood gone, a certain innocence of belief would go with it, and he would have given a lot not to do this. He even hesitated before he began again.
A few spots of rain fell.
“I know something happened while Mr. Corde was living here,” he said after a moment. “I need to know what it was.”
The man stared at him. He was obviously weighing in his mind what he should say, how much he could deny and be believed, or if he was not believed, at least get away with.
Pitt did not move his gaze.
The man’s shoulders slumped. “I suppose you had better come inside,” he said at last, turning away. “Although I’m not sure what I can tell you.”
Pitt followed him, closing the door behind himself. The last protest had been merely a gesture, and he knew it. He allowed the man the pretense that it had a meaning.
The room he led them into was untidy in a homely way. Books and papers littered the surfaces of the tables and chairs and spilled over onto the floor. There were several rather good pictures on the wall, most of them at least an inch crooked. There was a piece of wood on a side table, a frog emerging from it, polished to a rich, almost wet-looking brown. Even unfinished, it was a beautiful piece of work. Looking at it, Pitt was not sure if it would not be of greater power left as it was. Completing every detail might reduce it to something far more mundane, a thing anyone might have conceived.
“Are you going to do anything more to it?” he asked.
“You want it finished?” the man asked, almost challengingly.
“No!” Pitt replied quickly, making up his mind in that instant. “No, I don’t. It is right as it is.”
The man smiled at last. “I apologize, sir. You are not quite the philistine I presumed. Clear yourself a space and sit down.” He waved towards one of the crowded chairs. There was a very old white cat on it. “Never mind him,” the man said casually. “Lewis! Get off!”
The cat opened one eye and remained where it was.
“Lewis!” the man repeated, clapping his hands loudly.
The cat went back to sleep again.
Pitt picked him up, sat down, and replaced him in the same position on his lap. “Dominic Corde,” he said unwaveringly.
The man took a very deep breath and began his story.
    Pitt arrived home shortly before midnight. The house was quiet, and there was only the hall light on downstairs. He crept up, wincing at each step that creaked. He dreaded what he was going to have to say, but there was no alternative and no escape. At least it would be able to wait until morning, not that he would sleep … knowing what lay ahead and how Charlotte would feel. He felt wretched himself, and for her it would be far worse.
But when he reached the landing he saw the crack of light beneath the door. She was still awake. There was no putting it off. Perhaps that was almost a relief. He would not have to lie awake in the dark room, feeling her beside him and waiting, silent and miserable, to tell her when she awoke.
He opened the door.
She was sitting up against the pillows with her eyes closed, her hair spread around her. He closed the door without letting the latch go and tiptoed across the room.
She opened her eyes. “Thomas! Where have you been? What did you find?” She saw his face and froze, her eyes wide and dark in the lamplight.
“I’m sorry …” he whispered.
“What?” She spoke jerkily, swallowing on nothing. Her voice lowered. “What is it?”
He sat on the edge of the bed. He was tired and cold, and he wanted to undress and feel the fleecy warmth of his nightshirt next to his skin, and wriggle down under the blankets beside her. But that was not the way to say what he had to. This must be done face-to-face.
“I found where Dominic lived before he went to Maida Vale. I went to Cater Street and saw your mother. She gave me the name of his shirtmaker …”
“Gieves,” she said huskily. “I could have told you that. How did that help?”
“They had his address on record …”
“Oh. Where was it?”
He was putting off the time when he would have to tell her the part that mattered, that would hurt.
“Haverstock Hill.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Of course not. You didn’t know Dominic then.”
“What was he doing there?”
Should he answer the question she meant? What was his occupation? He could tell her about his financial affairs, his speculation, his banking advice. It was irrelevant. He was tired and cold. It was midnight already.
“He was having an affair with Unity Bellwood, who lived in Hampstead and was working for one of his clients.”
Her face was very white. “Oh.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I suppose it matters, or you wouldn’t be having to tell me.” She searched his eyes. Her voice dropped even lower. “And you wouldn’t look like that. What is it, Thomas? Did—did Dominic kill her?” She looked as if she were waiting to be physically struck.
“I don’t know.” He put his hand on her shoulder and ran it gently down her arm, holding her. “But he lied by implication and omission, and it seems he had pretty good cause. She took the affair very seriously. He got her with child, but for whatever reason, she had it aborted.”
Her face crumpled with pain and confusion, and her eyes filled with tears. She bent her head into his shoulder, and he tightened both his arms around her. There was no point in stopping now. Best to tell her all of it, far better than stopping and having to start again.
“He ran away, fled, leaving her behind.” His voice was soft and hollow in the silence. “Apparently he panicked. He was very upset indeed. Whether he was upset that she was with child, and demanded she have it aborted, or whether he was distressed she aborted it, and ran away because he couldn’t face that, no one seemed to know. But he went one night, without telling anyone or leaving any clue as to where he was going. I don’t know where he did go. But a few months later he turned up in Maida Vale without any belongings except his clothes, and no mail was forwarded from Haverstock Hill.”
Charlotte pulled back from him, but her eyes were closed and her jaw was clenched. He could feel her body clenched also.
“And he had an affair with the girl Jenny, and she was with child as well … and she took her own life,” she said very quietly, her voice thick with pain. “Then he ran away to Icehouse Wood, where Ramsay Parmenter found him.”
“Yes.”
“And then the terrible coincidence that Unity took a job with Ramsay—”
“It wasn’t a coincidence. She saw the job advertised in an academic journal, and Dominic’s name was mentioned. She knew he was there. That was why she wanted the job so very much.”
“To be with Dominic again?” She shivered. “How he must have felt when he saw her arrive!” She stopped abruptly, her face pinched. “Was that why he … are you sure he did, Thomas? Absolutely sure?”
“No. But she was with child again … and can you believe it was Ramsay Parmenter? You met him. Do you believe he made love to her almost as soon as she was in the house? And more to the point, can you believe she made love with him, when Dominic was there?”
“No …” She looked down, away from him. “No.”
They sat together, huddled closely in silence as the minutes ticked by.
“What are you going to do?” she said at last.
“Face him,” he answered. “If Unity’s child wasn’t Ramsay’s then Ramsay had no reason to kill her, and I can’t accept blindly that he did.”
“Then why did he try to kill Vita?”
“God knows! Perhaps by then he really was mad. I don’t understand it. It doesn’t make any sense. Perhaps he felt the net closing around him and he committed suicide, and she lied about it to protect him. She probably thinks he was guilty. She won’t know anything about Dominic and Unity.”
She looked at him with a slight frown. “You don’t suppose she thought he was guilty and killed him, do you?”
“No, of course not! She found the love letters he and Unity—” He had temporarily forgotten them.
She stared at him, wide-eyed. “But they were real! You said yourself they were in his handwriting—and hers! Thomas, it makes no sense at all. Did … was she carrying Dominic’s child, and then fell in love with Ramsay? Could she possibly do that? Could anybody? And Dominic killed her in jealousy … Oh, Thomas! She was calling out to Ramsay to help her!” She closed her eyes very slowly and buried her face in his shoulder. Her hand reached across the bedclothes and found his. She clung to him so hard she bruised his fingers.
“I can’t let it go,” he said, bending his cheek to touch her hair.
“I know,” she answered. “I know you can’t.”