Brunswick Gardens

4

THE MORNING AFTER Unity Bellwood’s death Pitt called at the office of the medical examiner. He did not expect to hear anything helpful, but it was a duty which must not be overlooked. It was another sharp early spring day, and in spite of the unpleasantness of his task, he walked with a lift in his step. So far he had seen nothing on the billboards, and the newspaper headlines were largely to do with Cecil Rhodes’s African politics, domestic economics and the perennial Irish Problem.
He went up the steps two at a time and along the corridors almost as if he were unaware of the carbolic and formaldehyde odor. He knocked on the examiner’s office door and went in. It was a small room, crowded with books on shelves, on the floor, and in piles on the desk.
“Good morning, Dr. Marshall,” he said cheerfully. “Anything for me?”
Marshall, a small, spare man with a graying beard, looked up from the paper he was writing on, the quill poised in his hand.
“Aye, I have, and ye’ll not like it,” he said with a smile of friendliness but no pleasure. “There are times I think my job is no’ fit even for a man on a fine sunny day. But then there are times I’d sooner have it than yours. And this is one o’ them.”
“What did you find?” Pitt asked with a sinking heart. “Wasn’t it the fall that killed her? Don’t tell me she was strangled. There were no marks. I looked. Was she struck before she fell?” That was going to make accident impossible, even a quarrel resulting in a struggle and then a fall, which was what he hoped for. Parmenter’s lie could still possibly be explained and then concealed. It was only twenty-four hours. Shock could account for much distress and temporary mental aberration. It could be announced in such a way as to make it seem that Parmenter had acknowledged his part almost immediately.
“Oh, aye,” Marshall said dryly. “Not a thing wrong with the lassie except bruises, no doubt collected as she banged against the stairs and the banister and the wall as she went down, and of course a broken neck. If everyone were as healthy as she, I’d be out of a profession.”
“Then what am I not going to like?” Pitt asked, moving books off the only other chair and sitting sideways on it.
“She was about three months with child,” Marshall answered.
Pitt should have guessed it. It was the disaster he should naturally have foreseen. Unity’s reputation for radical thought could so easily have included the sexual freedom that was fashionable among certain of the intellectual and artistic elite. Throughout history there had been leaders in thought and creativity who had not considered the usual restrictions of behavior as applying to them. And they had always had their acolytes. No wonder Ramsay Parmenter had found her dangerous.
Had he also found her attractive … irresistibly so?
It could as easily have been Mallory—or Dominic Corde. Pitt thought of Dominic as he had first known him: handsome, charming with such ease he barely knew he did it, and availing himself of far too many opportunities, too many willing young women. Had he really changed so much, or was the same weakness only masked by the clerical collar, not eradicated?
He was aware, even as the thoughts came to his mind, that they were motivated by personal feelings as well as reason.
“I don’t know,” Marshall interrupted.
“I beg your pardon?” Pitt looked at him questioningly.
“I have no idea who the father was,” Marshall elaborated. “No way to tell, but nasty, considering the household she was living in.”
That was an understatement. Any one of the men would have been ruined by the scandal, possibly all of them if it were unresolved. This was exactly what Cornwallis had hoped to forestall.
“I suppose she would have known she was in that condition?” he said aloud.
Marshal made a slight gesture of doubt. “Probably, but I have met women who’ve gone to full term and been taken by surprise. But from what you say of this one, I expect she knew. Women usually do.”
“I see.” Pitt leaned back in his chair and shoved his hands hard into his pockets.
“Blackmail?” Marshall asked, watching him with sympathy. “Or a great love affair? Betrayal of the wife, a woman wronged after thirty years of loyal marriage?”
“No,” Pitt said with a smile. “Not this time. I don’t think Vita Parmenter would be the sort of woman to allow such a thing to happen or to react with wounded violence if it did. Anyway, she is one of the only two members of the family who could not have pushed Unity. If you had said she was strangled after she fell, then she could have.”
“No … just the fall,” Marshall said definitely, sucking in his breath. “Which still leaves you with several possibilities. Thwarted love—If I can’t have you, no one will. Blackmail of any of the men in the house if he were the father of the child and she threatened exposure—or if he feared he was the father.” He was looking at Pitt as he spoke. “Jealousy of another man because he was not the father and felt she had betrayed him with somebody else—and was a slut, or worse.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Or jealousy of one of the women if the father were the curate. Or even possibly one of them to defend the father of the child from blackmail.”
“Thank you,” Pitt said sarcastically. “I had thought of most of those for myself.”
“Sorry.” Marshall smiled bleakly. “As I said, there are times when I think you have a worse job than I do. The people I deal with are at least beyond all mortal pain. And with this particular one, it would have been brief, a few seconds at most.”
Pitt had known it, but it was still a certain satisfaction to hear it said aloud. It was one less hurt to think of.
“Thank you,” he said, his tone without the cutting edge. “Is there anything else at all? Any evidence that could help? We know the time. We know what happened. I don’t suppose anything on the body gives an indication of who pushed her— height, weight, a thread of fabric, the mark of a hand?”
Marshall looked at him witheringly. “I can tell you that the stain we found on her shoe was a substance used for killing pests out of a greenhouse or conservatory.”
“Since we found it on the conservatory floor, that doesn’t help,” Pitt replied. “Except that Mallory said she was not there, and apparently she was. People often lie out of fear, not necessarily guilt.”
“Have you thought that more than one of them may be involved?” Marshall suggested helpfully, his eyes wide and steady. “Perhaps the father of her child and someone willing to protect him?”
Pitt glared at him and rose to his feet, unintentionally scraping the chair on the floor. “Thank you for your information, Dr. Marshall. I shall leave you to your own task, before you think of anything more to make mine even worse.” And then with a half smile he went to the door.
“Good day!” Marshall called out cheerfully.
    Pitt went directly to Cornwallis’s office. It was necessary to inform him of Dr. Marshall’s finding. He doubted it would alter his instructions regarding the case, but it was necessary for the assistant commissioner to know. If it came to light later, as it almost certainly would, he would appear incompetent if he were not fully aware.
“How long?” he asked, standing beside the window, the patterns of early spring sunlight on the oak floor near his feet.
“About three months,” Pitt replied, watching Cornwallis’s face and seeing him wince. He knew that for a moment he had hoped her condition had predated her arrival in Brunswick Gardens.
Cornwallis turned back towards Pitt, his face bleak. There was no need to spell out what it meant. Every one of the possibilities was potentially disastrous and certainly tragic.
“This is very bad,” he said quietly. “What impression did you form of Parmenter? Is he a man likely to have been tempted by a young woman and then panic?”
Pitt tried to think honestly. He recalled Ramsay’s rather ascetic face, the deep grief and confusion in his eyes, the anger he betrayed in flashes when he spoke of Charles Darwin.
“I don’t believe so,” he answered carefully. “He disliked her, at times intensely, but it seemed for her ideas—” He stopped, remembering Ramsay’s remarks about her immorality. But would he have made them if he himself were part of it?
“What?” Cornwallis demanded, his attention sharp.
“He felt she was immoral,” Pitt explained. “But he did not say in what way in particular. He might not have meant sexually.”
Cornwallis raised his eyebrows in a look of disbelief.
Pitt did not argue. It was a fragile attempt and he knew it. He had understood Ramsay to mean unchastity at the time, not some intellectual dishonesty or selfishness, coldness or cruelty, or any of the other human sins. It was a convention of the language that the word immorality usually conveyed only one meaning.
“I don’t think he would have mentioned it to me if he were involved,” he pointed out. “Especially after she was dead. He would have to know we would discover her condition.”
“You think he’s innocent?” Cornwallis was puzzled. “Or that this has nothing to do with it?”
“I don’t know,” Pitt confessed. “If he is guilty, then he is brilliantly subtle in some aspects and uniquely clumsy in others. I don’t understand it at all. The physical evidence seems plain enough. Four people heard her cry out ‘No, no, Reverend.’ ”
“Four?” Cornwallis asked. “You said the maid, the valet, and one of the daughters. Who’s the fourth?”
“Mrs. Parmenter. She avoided saying so directly, but she must have. She didn’t deny it, she was merely evasive about the words, naturally enough.”
“I see. Well, keep me informed—” Before he could add anything further there was a knock on the door, and upon Cornwallis’s word, a constable put his head in and said that Sir Gerald Smithers from the Prime Minister’s office was here and wanted to see Captain Cornwallis urgently. Immediately behind him Smithers appeared, pushing past him and coming into the room with a smile that crossed his face and disappeared without trace. He was a very ordinary working man except for his air of supreme assurance. He was beautifully dressed in a discreet and expensive way.
“Morning, Cornwallis,” he said hastily. He glanced at Pitt. “Mr.… I’m glad you came here. Most convenient.” He closed the door, leaving the constable on the outside. “Miserable business in Brunswick Gardens. Must all work together on it. I’m sure you appreciate that.” He glanced at each of them as if it were a question, but did not wait for an answer. “Anything further?” he addressed himself to Cornwallis.
Cornwallis was tense, his body rigid, almost as if he were balancing himself against the pitch and roll of the quarterdeck.
“Yes. Unity Bellwood was three months with child,” he replied.
“Oh.” Smithers absorbed the shock. “Oh, dear. I suppose something of the sort was to be expected. Very unfortunate. What are you doing to contain the situation?”
“I have only just learned of it,” Cornwallis answered with surprise. “I doubt we can keep it concealed. It may well prove to be the motive for the crime.”
“I trust it will not come to that.” Smithers waved his hand, the sunlight catching small, monogrammed, gold cuff links. “It is our responsibility to see that it does not.” He looked at Pitt at last. “Is there any chance that it was simply an accident?”
“She was heard by four people to call out ‘No, no, Reverend!’ “ Pitt pointed out. “And there was nothing to trip over.”
“What people?” Smithers demanded. “Are they reliable? Are they to be believed? Could they be mistaken on second thoughts?”
Cornwallis was standing as if to attention, his face bleak. Pitt knew him well enough to be aware the formality was a mask for dislike.
“One is Parmenter’s wife,” he said before Pitt could reply.
“Oh! Good.” Smithers was eminently pleased. “She cannot be forced to testify against him.” He rubbed his hands. “The outlook is improving already. What about the others?”
The pattern of sunlight faded on the floor. Outside the noise in the street was steady.
“Two are servants.” Pitt answered this time. He saw the satisfaction increase in Smithers’s eyes. “And the last is his daughter, who is adamant,” he finished.
Smithers’s eyebrows rose. “Young woman? A bit hysterical, is she?” He was smiling. “Lightly balanced? In love, perhaps, feeling parental disapproval and reacting with emotionalism?”
His whole body had relaxed.
“I’m sure she can be persuaded to reconsider. Or at worst be discredited, if it should come to that necessity. But I am trusting that you will see it does not.” He looked at Pitt meaningfully.
“Then we had better hope for proof of some other solution,” Pitt replied, trying to conceal the contempt he felt. “She would make an excellent witness. She is intelligent, articulate and extremely angry. She believes passionately in honesty and justice and is not likely to be persuaded to conceal something she perceives as monstrous. If you are hoping she will perjure herself to defend her father, I think you will be disappointed. She had an extremely high regard for Miss Bellwood.”
“Indeed?” Smithers said coldly, his lip curling. He regarded Pitt with distaste. “Well, that sounds unnatural. What normal young woman would choose the hired help, however well educated, over her own father?” He stared at Cornwallis. “I don’t think anything more need be said about that! It speaks for itself. Most unpleasant. Do try to keep that out of the matter, for decency’s sake and the feelings of the family.”
Cornwallis was now thoroughly angry, but he was also confused. He had no idea what Smithers was referring to. His years at sea had taught him much of men and of command, of mental and physical leadership, of courage and in many ways of wisdom. But there were areas of human relationships of which he was completely ignorant, and he knew little of the society of women.
“Yes sir,” Pitt said to Smithers, his eyes wide. He had seldom disliked a man so quickly or so much. “Although if it comes to trial, Mrs. Whickham will almost certainly testify, since she heard Miss Bellwood cry out, and any prosecution would find her an excellent witness. Her views on justice and integrity would command respect.”
“I beg your pardon?” Smithers was taken aback. “You said ‘his daughter.’ Who is Mrs. Whickham?”
“His daughter,” Pitt replied steadily. “She is widowed.”
Smithers was thoroughly angry.
“I understood you to imply she had unbalanced fondness for Miss Bellwood, preferring her to her own family,” he accused.
“I said she had a great admiration for Miss Bellwood’s fight for educational and political rights for women,” Pitt corrected him. “And for justice in general, and would be highly unlikely to perjure herself in order to defend whoever murdered her friend, even if it should prove to be someone in her own family.”
Smithers’s eyebrows shot up.
“Oh! You mean a ‘new woman’! One of those absurd and grossly unfeminine creatures who want women to behave like men, and men to accept it?” He gave a sharp laugh. “Well, if that is so, it is a good thing that you are merely investigating, and not making the final decisions as to what shall be done.” He turned to Cornwallis. “If this wretched Parmenter is guilty, it would be the best thing for everyone if it could be proved he had some mental collapse, plead guilty but insane, and have the matter dealt with with discretion and dispatch.” His voice was sharp. “Poor man must have been afflicted by madness. He can be taken care of in a suitable institution where he cannot harm anyone. His family need not be told any more than necessary. Justice will be tempered with mercy.” He smiled, a baring of the teeth, but he was pleased with the phrase.
Rain spattered against the windows like a shower of tiny stones.
Cornwallis stared at Smithers, his face white. “And if he is not guilty?” he asked, his voice quiet and very low.
“Then someone else is,” Smithers retorted simply. “If it is the Roman Catholic son then it hardly matters, and if it is the new young curate, that is unfortunate but not tragic.” He swiveled back to Pitt. The rain was streaming down the window now, a typical March storm. “But whatever the answer, it is of the utmost importance that you reach a conclusion with all haste. Ideally I should like … it would be best … if you were able to make some statement by tomorrow. Can you do that?”
“Not unless Reverend Parmenter confesses,” Pitt replied.
Smithers smiled icily. “Then see if you can bring that about. Point out the advantages to him. It would be greatly in his best interest. I am sure you can persuade him of that.” He issued it as a command. “Keep me informed, in case I can be of any assistance.”
“Which government department, sir?” Cornwallis asked.
“Oh, this is not official,” Smithers said, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “Just a word of counsel, as it were. I am sure you understand. Good day, gentlemen.” And without waiting any further he went back to the door, hesitated a moment, then went out.
“If Parmenter has lost his hold on sanity,” Pitt said with bitter sarcasm, “enough to have an affair with a radical ‘new woman’ in his own home and then murder her by throwing her downstairs, I doubt he will be open to arguments of reason as to why he should quietly submit to being locked up in an asylum, private or public. I don’t think I shall be equal to persuading him at all.”
“You will not be trying!” Cornwallis rejoined, his back to the window, the gray light draining the color from the room. “The whole idea is monstrous!” He was so angry he was unable to keep still. He was white to the lips. “You cannot protect a faith rooted in honor, and obedience to the laws of justice and integrity, by lying.” He paced back and forth. “Compassion is the greatest of all virtues, but it is not a matter of the liberty to move blame or cover sin by deceit. That erodes the very rock on which it all rests. Forgiveness comes after remorse, not before.”
Pitt did not interrupt him.
Cornwallis moved jerkily, his shoulders locked, his fists clenched, knuckles shining where the skin was tight. “And he did not even consider the possibility that Parmenter may not be guilty. I admit it is most likely, but it is not certain, and the man denies it.”
He swung around and went back towards the window, but still looking at Pitt as he spoke. “Smithers has no right to assume without proof beyond a reasonable doubt. If we deny Parmenter his proper hearing in court, if he wants it, we are guilty of hideous injustice … unforgivable, because we are charged with upholding the law, administering it. If we fail, who can anyone hope in?” He stared at Pitt almost challengingly, although it was his own outrage which spoke.
“So I have your instructions to continue the investigation?” Pitt asked.
“Weren’t you going to?” Cornwallis was dismayed.
Pitt smiled at him. “Yes, I was, but I was not necessarily going to tell you so … if it would have placed you in an invidious position.”
“Thank you,” Cornwallis acknowledged with the flicker of an answering smile. “But I do not wish to be protected from my responsibility. I am ordering you to do everything you can to discern the truth, and the whole truth, about what happened in Brunswick Gardens. I shall give it to you in writing, if you feel that prudent.”
Outside the rain stopped.
“Thank you, but I feel it imprudent,” Pitt replied. He wanted to be tactful, but sometimes Cornwallis did not understand the necessities of politics. “A straight line is not always the shortest route between two points,” he added.
There was a flicker of understanding in Cornwallis’s eyes, but his anger at Smithers was still too hot to permit him to relax. “Take whatever route you judge,” he said. “But do it! Do I make myself plain?”
Pitt straightened up a fraction.
“Yes sir. I shall tell you as soon as I have anything definite.”
“Do.” Cornwallis drew breath as if to ask something, then changed his mind and wished Pitt good day.
    There was no more physical evidence to pursue. Pitt could think of no practical way of learning who had been the father of Unity’s child, at least until he had a great deal more knowledge about the various members of the household. Dominic he had known in the past, although not in the last six or seven years, when it seemed a great deal had happened to him. In honesty he had to admit it was grossly unjust to judge a man on his past and not include his present.
He should learn something of Mallory Parmenter also. He had little reason to suspect him, except for the mark on Unity’s shoe, but that was understandable, if childish and lacking either the dignity or the maturity of judgment he would have expected from a man about to enter the priesthood of any faith.
But first he must look far more deeply into the character of Ramsay Parmenter. If he were indeed as close to mental or emotional imbalance as the murder of Unity suggested, then there must have been some indication of it, if he could understand the signs.
He had spent the latter part of yesterday enquiring where he might find those who had known Ramsay over the years. It was Tellman who had discovered a university friend and fellow student now living in Highbury, towards the outskirts of London, and made an appointment for Pitt to see him.
Pitt took the train to the Islington and Highbury Stations, and then a hansom to the quiet residence of the Reverend Frederick Glover, in Aberdeen Park near St. Saviour’s Church.
“How can I assist you, sir?” Glover enquired, leading Pitt into a small, overcrowded study. It was lined on every wall with books, except where tiny windows in deep bays overlooked a garden bright with early flowers and sheltered by trees and moss-laden walls. At any other time Pitt would have asked him about the garden, perhaps learned a few aspects of gardening skill. It was obviously a place tended with love and great joy.
But Ramsay Parmenter’s situation precluded all else for the moment.
“I believe you studied at university with Ramsay Parmenter,” Pitt said, accepting the invitation to sit in a large, brown leather chair at least half facing the window.
“I did,” Glover agreed. “I told your man that yesterday.” He looked at Pitt with a mild manner. He was in his late fifties, a tall man grown portly with the years, his hair receding far across the top of his head. His features were pleasant, although his nose was rather too long. In youth he must have been cornely enough. His nature had marked his face with kindness but by no means foolishness.
“Why is it you are interested in Ramsay Parmenter?” He did not need to explain his question. He did not discuss people lightly, and he did not break a confidence. It was in his manner and his polite attention, but a certain distance that commanded respect.
There was no useful answer except the truth, or at least some part of it.
“Because there has been a tragedy in the Parmenter house,” Pitt replied, crossing his legs and settling comfortably into the chair. “At the moment we do not know exactly what happened. There are accounts which appear to conflict with the physical evidence, and indeed with people’s retelling of it.”
“A police matter, and of some gravity.” Glover nodded. “Or you would not be concerned. Did you not say you were from Bow Street?” His brow wrinkled. “I thought Parmenter lived in Brunswick Gardens.”
“He does. The matter is very delicate.”
“I think you had better tell me the truth, Superintendent, and I will be of whatever assistance I can.” He looked puzzled. “Although what I could tell you I cannot imagine. I have not seen Ramsay Parmenter in years. I have met him briefly at functions, of course, but it must be fifteen or even twenty years since I spoke to him at any length. Precisely what is this about? You may trust my calling to keep in confidence anything we say. It is my duty, as well as my wish.”
“I will tell you, Reverend Glover,” Pitt replied. “But I would prefer to ask you questions first. They will not be of a private or confidential matter.”
Glover locked his hands across his rather ample stomach and leaned his head very slightly to one side, ready to listen.
From the ease with which Glover assumed it, Pitt imagined that it was an attitude he adopted fairly frequently.
“When did you first meet Ramsay Parmenter?” Pitt began.
“In 1853, when we went up to university,” Glover replied.
“What manner of young man was he? What kind of student?”
“A quiet man in his personal life, rather intense.” Glover retreated into memory, his eyes focused on the past. “We used to tease him because he had little sense of humor. He was extremely ambitious.” He smiled. “Personally, I have always thought God must have an excellent appreciation of the humorous and the absurd, or He would not have begotten us as His children or thereafter have loved us. We are so very often ridiculous.”
He was watching Pitt quite closely behind his benign and rather casual manner. “Apart from that, I perceive the ability to laugh as a supremely sane and intelligent response to both the trials and the pleasure of life,” he continued. “Sometimes it is the foundation and the outward sign of courage. But you did not come here to hear my philosophy. I beg your pardon. Ramsay was an excellent student, even brilliant. Certainly far better than I. He passed all his examinations with high marks, often the best.”
“What was he ambitious to achieve?” Pitt asked curiously. He was not quite sure what a young theologian desired. “High office in the church?”
“Ah, that was part of it, without question.” Glover nodded. “But also to write the definitive work on some subject or other. That is a kind of immortality, after all. Not, of course, that that is the sort the soul achieves. I admit, this would be a matter of vanity, would it not? I did not mean to imply that Ramsay was vain.”
“Wasn’t he?”
Glover shrugged, surrendering the point. “Yes, he was. Academically, at least. And he was also a brilliant preacher. He had great fire and enthusiasm in those days, and a very fine voice. His vocabulary was wide and varied, and his knowledge broad enough he seldom repeated himself.”
It did not sound like the man Pitt had met. Had Unity Bellwood’s death robbed him of that fire, or had it faded before then?
“You expected him to have a brilliant future, an outstanding career in the church?” Pitt asked aloud.
“I think we all did,” Glover agreed. There was a shadow of regret in his face, a slight pinching of the lips, something around the eyes.
“But he did not quite fulfill it,” Pitt concluded. He could still see a reflection of the gold of daffodils in the corner of his vision, and a ripple of light across the grass.
“Not as I saw it for him then.” Glover looked back at him, trying to measure how much more to say. “I expected the … the passion to remain, the tremendous sense of conviction. I expected something more personal than learned, and heaven help me, rather dry books.”
“What happened to his passion?” Pitt pressed.
Glover sighed, a gentle sound, sad and without blame.
“I am not sure. I can only guess. When I knew him he had fewer doubts than any of the rest of us.” He smiled to himself. “I can remember sitting up all night drinking terrible wine and talking fiercely about all manner of things: God and the meaning of life, the fall from Eden, the role of Eve, predestination, grace and works, the justification for the Reformation, all manner of heresies about the nature of the Godhead … we picked them all apart. Ramsay was the one who seemed to doubt himself least. His arguments were always so cogent, so perfectly reasoned, that he usually won.”
“Did you know him after he left university?” Pitt asked.
“Oh, for a while. I recall his meeting Vita Stourbudge and courting her.” His eyes had a faraway look, soft and mildly amused. “We all envied him that. She was so very pretty.” He shook his head. “No, pretty is the wrong word; she was more than that. She was utterly charming, full of enthusiasm and intelligence. I am sure he loved her, but even had he not, he could hardly have done better for a wife. She supported him in everything. She seemed as dedicated as he was.” He gave a little laugh. “And, of course, she was an excellent catch in that her father was a man of both wealth and distinction, and a pillar of the church.”
So Vita had not changed. Pitt could see in her now the woman Glover described, except he had not known of her family background, but it did not surprise him.
“Has he written the definitive works on any of the questions you discussed?” he asked. They were all subjects he had never even considered. For him religion had been a matter of behavior based on the true foundations of a faith in a greater being—simply, one he had been taught in childhood—and a moral conduct springing from the ever-deepening understanding of compassion and honor. Perhaps he had that much in common with Cornwallis, in spite of their having come by it so differently.
“Not so far, I think,” Glover replied. “His work is highly respected by the Establishment, but for the general reader a little—” He stopped, unable to decide on the word.
Pitt looked beyond him to the daffodils and the sun.
“Abstruse,” Glover finished. “Too difficult to understand because of the complexity of the arguments. Not everyone is intellectually equipped to grasp such things.”
“But you do?” Pitt brought his attention back with reluctance. It all seemed irrelevant to the issue.
Glover smiled apologetically. “Actually, I don’t. I only read half of it. That sort of thing bores me stiff. A live debate was all right, at least when I was young, because I liked to argue. But when the opponent is not there in the flesh—or perhaps ‘in the mind’ would be more accurate—it has no appeal to me. I admit, Superintendent, I don’t care about the obscurities of higher learning. It is my weakness, professionally speaking.”
“And Ramsay Parmenter does care?”
“He used to. I don’t feel any passion in his work nowadays. There is no point in your asking me. I don’t know. It may be that I am lacking the ability to follow him. There are certainly those who do. He is much admired.”
“Can you refer me to someone who could tell me more of his present convictions and abilities?”
“If you wish. But you still have not told me why you need to know.”
“A young woman died in tragic circumstances in his home. There is much about it which needs explanation.”
Glover was obviously startled; he jerked further upright and his hands dropped. “Suicide?” he said sadly, his voice subdued with shock. “Oh, dear. I am so sorry. Of course it does happen, I am afraid. A love affair, I daresay. Was she with child?” He saw from Pitt’s face that it was so. He sighed. “How very tragic. Such a waste. I always feel it is so unnecessary. We should have a better way of coping with such things.” He took a deep breath. “But what can Ramsay’s academic achievements possibly have to do with it? Oh, dear—it was not one of his daughters, was it? I do recall the younger one, Clarice her name is, I think, was to be married to some young man, but at the last moment refused to enter the arrangement. The betrothal never took place. All very unfortunate. I think she expected rather too much of a romantic nature and would not make the necessary compromises with life.” He smiled ruefully, his expression not unsympathetic.
“No,” Pitt replied, making a note of the incident in his mind. “It was not one of Ramsay’s daughters. She was a scholar of ancient languages, assisting him in his work.”
Glover still looked puzzled.
“It was not suicide,” Pitt enlarged. “At present it seems it could only have been intentional.”
Glover was stunned. “You mean murder?” he said hoarsely. “Well, it would not be Ramsay, I assure you, if that is what you are thinking. He has not the passion now, apart from the cruelty, which he never had.”
When he recalled his meeting with Ramsay Parmenter, Pitt was not surprised. But he had assumed the cleric’s cool demeanor was shock, the self-control expected of a man of his position. It still startled him to have someone else say such a thing. It was a defense, and yet it was also a damnation. When had the passion died, and why? What had killed it?
Glover was watching him. “I am sorry,” he said, his face a little crumpled with contrition. “I should not have said that.” A self-mockery filled his eyes. “Perhaps I am jealous of his intellectual ability and angry because he did not realize it as I thought he should. I wish I could help you, Superintendent, but I fear I know nothing of use. I am extremely sorry about the young woman’s death. May I at least offer you a cup of tea?”
Pitt smiled. “I should rather walk around your garden, and perhaps you can tell me how you grow such magnificent daffodils?”
Glover rose to his feet instantly, almost in a single movement, ignoring the twinge of pain in his back. “With the greatest pleasure,” he responded, and he proceeded to explain his method even before they were through the door, waving his hands to illustrate his meaning, his face filled with enthusiasm.
    Dr. Sixtus Wheatcroft was an entirely different matter. He lived in Shoreditch, five stops away on the train and another short cab ride. His rooms were spacious but without a garden. If anything, he possessed even more books than Glover.
“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked with a touch of impatience. He was obviously in the middle of studying something of great interest to him and he made no secret of having been interrupted.
Pitt responded formally, stating his name and rank. “I am enquiring into the violent death of a Miss Unity Bellwood …” And he described the circumstances very briefly.
Wheatcroft clicked his tongue. “Very regrettable. Most unfortunate.” He shook his head. “I must visit the Reverend Parmenter and convey my condolences. Distressing thing to have happen in one’s home, most particularly to an assistant in one’s work, of whatever quality. No doubt he will find someone more suitable quite quickly, but it is bound to be most disturbing. Poor young woman. How does this concern you, Superintendent?” He peered at Pitt over his spectacles. He was still standing and he did not offer a seat.
“We need to know more precisely what happened …” Pitt began.
“Is it not plain enough?” Wheatcroft’s eyebrows rose over his round, light brown eyes. “Can it take so much observation and deduction?”
“She fell downstairs and broke her neck,” Pitt answered. “It appears she was pushed.”
Wheatcroft took a moment or two to digest this startling information, then he frowned, his impatience returning.
“Why, for heaven’s sake? Why should anyone push a young woman downstairs? And what can I possibly tell you? I am familiar with his scholastic reputation and her political and radical views, which I abominate. She should never have been permitted into serious study of theological matters.” His lips tightened, and unconsciously the attitude of his body had altered to be more rigid, as if under his rather ill-fitting jacket, his muscles were knotted. “It is not a fit subject for women. They are constitutionally unsuited to it. It is not an area for emotion but for pure spirit and reason, free from the clouding of the natural feelings and prejudices.” He mastered his own emotion with something of an effort. “Still, that is all past now and we cannot alter it. Poor Parmenter. Sometimes we pay heavily for our errors of judgment, and I am sure he intended only to be liberal in his views, but it does not pay.”
“Was she not a good scholar?” Pitt asked, wondering if conceivably Ramsay had formed some attachment for her and employed her for personal rather than professional reasons.
Wheatcroft remained standing, as if he had no intention of allowing Pitt to be comfortable enough to forget he was an interruption. He lifted his shoulders very slightly, frowning as he spoke. “I thought I had already explained to you, Superintendent. Women are, by their nature, unsuited to serious intellectual study.” He shook his head. “Miss Bellwood was no exception. She had a quick mind and could grasp the mere facts and remember them as well as anyone, but she had no deeper understanding.”
He peered at Pitt as if trying to estimate his probable educational level. “It is one thing to translate the words of a passage; it is quite another to be at one with the mind of the writer of that passage, to grasp his fundamental meaning. She was not capable of that, and that is the essence of pure scholarship. The other is mere”—he spread his hands—“is merely technical. Very useful, of course. She might have served an excellent purpose in teaching young people the mechanics of a foreign tongue. That would have been the ideal place for her. But she was willful and headstrong, and would not be guided. She was a rebel in all things, Superintendent. Her personal life was completely without discipline. That in itself should demonstrate the point to you perfectly.”
“Why do you suppose the Reverend Parmenter would have employed her, if he was such an excellent scholar himself?” Pitt asked, although he had little hope of a useful answer.
“I have no idea.” Wheatcroft was obviously not interested in considering the matter.
“Might it have been a personal reason?” Pitt pursued.
“I cannot think of one,” Wheatcroft said impatiently. “Was she the daughter of a relative, perhaps, or a friend or colleague?”
“No.”
“No … I thought not. She was a different type of person altogether. From a liberal and artistic background.” He said the words as if they were a condemnation in themselves. “Really, Superintendent, I don’t know what it is you wish to hear from me, but I fear I cannot help you.”
“What did you think of the Reverend Parmenter’s academic publications, Dr. Wheatcroft?”
He spoke without hesitation.
“Excellent, quite excellent. Outstanding, in fact. He is a man of the most profound and intricate understanding. He has chosen to explore some of the deepest subjects and with exhaustive study.” He nodded enthusiastically, his voice rising. “His work is taken most seriously by those few men who value such things in their true worth. His work will live long after him. His contribution is priceless.” He fixed Pitt with a grim stare. “You must do all you can to deal with this matter with the utmost dispatch. It is all most unfortunate.”
“It appears to be murder, Dr. Wheatcroft,” Pitt said with equal severity. “To be right is more important than to be quick.”
“One of the servants, I expect,” Wheatcroft said irritably. “I am sorry to speak ill of the dead, but in this case, no doubt, to be honest is more important than to be charitable.” He mimicked Pitt’s tone. “She was a woman who believed self-discipline in matters of the fleshly appetites was neither necessary nor desirable. I am afraid such behavior gathers its own rewards.”
“You are as good as your word,” Pitt said acidly.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You have decidedly favored honesty above charity.”
“Your remark is in poor taste, sir,” Wheatcroft said with surprise and annoyance. “I find it offensive. Please be so good as to remember your position here.”
Pitt wriggled his shoulders and changed his balance as if uncomfortable. He smiled, baring his teeth. “Thank you for your hospitality, Dr. Wheatcroft. It was remiss of me not to have mentioned it earlier.”
Wheatcroft flushed.
“And for your assistance,” Pitt went on. “I shall convey your condolences to the Reverend Parmenter next time I have occasion to question him on the matter, although I imagine he might appreciate it if you wrote them yourself. Good day, sir.” And before Wheatcroft could retaliate, he turned and went back to the door, and the manservant showed him out.
He walked briskly as he left. He was extremely angry, both with Wheatcroft for his graceless behavior and with himself for allowing it to provoke him into retaliation. Except that he had enjoyed it considerably and hoped Wheatcroft was livid.
    He arrived home in Bloomsbury a little before dark, still smoldering. After dinner, when Jemima and Daniel were in bed and he and Charlotte were sitting beside the parlor fire, she asked him the cause of his anger, and he told her about his visits to Glover and then Wheatcroft.
“That’s monstrous!” she exploded, letting her knitting fall. “He says all that about her because she is a woman and he doesn’t like what he imagines are her morals. And then has the colossal hypocrisy to say that she is incapable of detached reasoning but is governed by her emotions. He is the ultimate bigot!”
She warmed to the battle, pushing the needles into the ball of wool to keep them safe. “If Unity Bellwood had to fight against people like that in order to find any position where she could use her abilities, no wonder she was difficult to get on with now and then. So should I be, if I were patronized, insulted and dismissed in such a way, not for what I actually did but simply because I was not a man.”
She drew breath but gave him no chance to interrupt. “What are they afraid of?” she demanded, leaning forward. “It doesn’t make any sense. If she is better than they are, or if she is worse, foolish or incompetent, what difference does it make if she is a man or a woman? Isn’t the result the same? If she is better, they lose their position and she takes it. If she is incompetent, she loses a piece of work, or spoils it, and is dismissed. Wouldn’t exactly the same be true if she were a man?” She waved her hand. “Well, wouldn’t it?”
He smiled in spite of himself, not because his anger was ameliorated but at her outburst of righteous indignation. It was so characteristic of her. In that much at least she had not changed a whit since he had first met her ten years before. The spontaneity was exactly the same, the courage to sail almost unthinkingly into battle where she saw injustice. Anyone oppressed instantly had her support.
“Yes!” he said sincerely. “I begin to have some sympathy with Unity Bellwood. If she lost her temper now and again or took pleasure in every error Ramsay Parmenter made, and let him know it, I should find it very understandable. Especially if she really was cleverer than he.” He meant it. Standing in Wheatcroft’s study, he had been oppressed by an awareness of the impenetrable barrier which must have blocked Unity Bellwood’s attempts to be taken seriously as a scholar, based not upon any limitations to her intellect but entirely upon other people’s perceptions and fears. It was not surprising she had been consumed with an anger which had prompted her to provoke as much discomfort as she could in those men she found intolerably complacent in their security. And Tryphena’s rage at injustice, her belief that Unity had been silenced for her challenge to vested interest, was equally easy to understand.
He looked up and saw Charlotte watching him, and he knew from her face that the same thoughts were in her mind.
“He could have, couldn’t he,” she said aloud. It was a statement. “She was so suffocated by injustice, she lashed out—the only way she could, with ideas he couldn’t bear, challenging him! And he had not the intellect to argue against her, and they both knew it, so he lost his temper and struck at her physically. Perhaps he did not mean her to fall. It was all over in a few seconds, and he denied it because it seemed almost unreal, a nightmare.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “He could.”


The following day Pitt visited other people who had known Ramsay Parmenter for some time. In mid-afternoon he called upon Miss Alice Cadwaller. She was well into her eighties, but quicker of wit and observation than either of the previous two people he had spoken to, and certainly far more hospitable than Dr. Wheatcroft. She invited him into her small sitting room and offered him tea on an exquisite bone china service hand-painted with blue harebells. There were sandwiches about the size of one of his fingers, and cakes no more than an inch and a half across.
She was propped up in her chair with a shawl around her shoulders. She held her cup delicately in one hand and regarded him rather as an elderly and weather-beaten thrush might have.
“Well, Superintendent,” she said, nodding a little, “what is it you want to hear? I do not care to speak unkindly. I always judge people by what they say of others. One’s unkind comments reveal far more of oneself than one realizes.”
“Indeed, Miss Cadwaller,” he agreed. “But in cases of sudden and violent death, where justice must be served and injustice avoided, it is usually necessary to speak truths one would otherwise prefer to keep to oneself. I would like you to tell me your opinion of Ramsay Parmenter. I believe you have known him for at least twenty years.”
“I have, in a manner of speaking,” she agreed. “Shall we say I have observed him. It is not the same thing.”
“You do not feel you know him?” He took a sip of his tea and a bite of his sandwich, trying to make it last for two.
“He had a public face which he showed to his parishioners,” she explained. “If he had a private one or not I do not know.”
“How do you know this was not his private face as well?” he asked curiously.
She looked at him with patient amusement. “Because he addressed me as if I were a public meeting, even when we were alone; rather as he addressed God … like someone he wished to impress but not to become too closely acquainted with, in case we should trespass upon his privacy or disturb his plans or his ideas.”
Pitt kept himself from smiling only with great difficulty. He knew precisely what she meant. He had sensed exactly that same distance in Ramsay. But considering their relationship and the circumstances, he had expected it. For Miss Cadwaller it was different.
“I believe he was of the greatest help to Mr. Corde when he was in distress some few years ago,” he observed, wondering how she would respond to the idea.
“That does not surprise me.” She nodded. “Mr. Corde has spoken most highly of him. Indeed, his regard and gratitude are most heartening. He is a young man of deep conviction, and I believe he will be of great service to the Lord.”
“Do you?” Pitt asked politely. He could not imagine Dominic Corde as a minister. Preaching from the pulpit was one thing. It was almost like acting, which he had always thought Dominic would be good at, in a minor way. He had the eyes, the beautiful profile, the charm, the bearing, and an excellent voice. And he knew how to be the center of attention gracefully; it was in not being the center that he exhibited less grace. Ministering quietly to the needs of people was something very different.
“You find that surprising?” she observed acutely.
“I …” He hesitated.
“I can see it in your face, young man.” She smiled, not unkindly.
“Yes, I do,” he admitted. Should he tell her they were brothers-in-law? It might prejudice her answers. Although looking at her wrinkled face with its bright eyes, perhaps it would have no effect whatever. Then he remembered with distinct discomfort her observation about remarks upon other people reflecting more upon the speaker than the object. “Please explain to me. I can see you have grounds for your belief.”
“It concerned Miss Dinmont’s brother,” she said, taking another sip of her tea.
He waited.
“I am afraid he was not a very good man, but she still felt a great loss when he died. One does. The ties of blood cannot easily be dismissed, no matter how much one might care to. And he was her younger brother. I think she felt a great sense of failure over him.”
“And Mr. Corde?”
“I sat with her for some time after the news came of her brother’s death,” she went on at her own pace. She could not allow some young policeman who needed the attention of a good barber to hurry her in explaining something of importance in principle, if not of any actual use. “She is a good churchgoer. Naturally, Reverend Parmenter came to offer her his comfort. There was to be a funeral, here in this parish.”
He nodded and took another sandwich.
“She was very distressed,” she continued. “The poor man had no idea what to say or to do when faced with real grief. He read various scriptures which were perfectly appropriate. I daresay he reads them to everyone who has been bereaved. But his heart was not in it. One can tell.”
She looked sad, her eyes far away. “I had the profound impression he did not believe the words himself. He spoke of the resurrection of the dead as if it were a railway timetable.” She set down her cup. “If the trains run on time it is very convenient, but it is not a miracle of God, it is not a matter for joy and eternal hope. It is very irritating if they do not, but it is not the end of all light and life. One will merely be obliged to wait rather longer. And railway platforms, while not being ideal, are by no means hell, nor oblivion.” She looked at him over the top of her teacup. “Although I have at times felt they were akin. But that was when I was younger and the reality of death seemed a great deal further away. And I was in a hurry then.”
“And Dominic Corde?” he asked, smiling back at her and taking the last of the cakes.
“Ah … that was quite different,” she declared. “He came later, I think two days later. He simply sat down next to her, took her hand in his. He did not read, but told her in his own words of the thieves on the crosses on either side of Our Lord, and then of Easter morning, and Mary Magdalene seeing Him in the garden and mistaking Him for the gardener until He spoke her name.” There was a sudden misting of tears in her eyes. “I think it was knowing her name that made the difference. Suddenly poor Miss Dinmont realized that God knows each of us by name. Love is a personal thing, Thou and I, not a matter of arguments and teachings. That is the power which transcends all else. In those few moments she was comforted. Mr. Corde understood that. Reverend Parmenter did not.”
“I see,” he said gently, surprised at himself that he did see, perfectly.
“Would you like some more tea?” she offered.
“Yes, please, Miss Cadwaller, I would,” he accepted, holding out his cup and saucer. “I think I understand something now about Reverend Parmenter which I did not before.”
“Of course you do,” she agreed, lifting up the pot and pouring from it. “The poor man lost his belief, not in what he was doing but why he was doing it. Nothing can replace that. All the reason in the world does not warm the heart, nor comfort grief and failure. The ministry is about loving the unlovable and helping people to bear pain and suffer unexplainable loss without despair. In the end it is about trust. If you can trust God, all else will fall in its place.”
He did not argue or even comment. She had summed up in a few words all that he had been struggling to find. He finished his tea, talked a little more of commonplace things, admired her china and the embroidered cloth on the table, then thanked her and took his leave.
By five o’clock he was at the home of Bishop Underhill, trying to clarify in his mind what he could ask him that would teach him anything further about Ramsay Parmenter. Surely as Ramsay’s bishop, Underhill would have insights more profound than anyone else? Pitt was afraid he might meet with a rebuff based on the sanctity and privilege of their relationship. He was prepared to be politely refused.
However, when the bishop came into the red and brown library where Pitt had been asked to wait, his air was anything but one of calm and assured denial. He closed the door behind him and faced Pitt with his features creased by acute anxiety, his thinning hair ruffled, his shoulders braced as if expecting an almost physical onslaught.
“You are the policeman in charge of this miserable affair?” he asked Pitt accusingly. “How long do you expect it to take before you can reach an acceptable conclusion? It is all very distressing indeed.”
“Yes sir,” Pitt agreed, standing almost to attention. After all, he was in the presence of a prince of the church. Underhill was due respect. “Any crime is distressing, and this one peculiarly so,” he added. “That is why I have come here, in the hope that you can help me learn exactly what happened.”
“Ah!” The bishop nodded, looking slightly more hopeful. “Do sit down, Superintendent. Make yourself comfortable, sir, and let us see what we can accomplish. I am very pleased you have come.” He sat down on the red leather chair opposite the brown one on which Pitt had sat, and gave him his earnest attention. “The sooner we can resolve this, the better for everyone.”
Pitt had an uncomfortable moment’s thought that their ideas of resolution were not the same. He told himself instantly that he was being unjust.
“I am making enquiries as speedily as I can,” Pitt assured the bishop. “But beyond the physical facts, which seem indisputable, it immediately becomes far less clear.”
“I understand the unfortunate young woman was most difficult in manner and morality, causing ill feeling. She quarreled with Reverend Parmenter and fell down the stairs.” He breathed heavily, his mouth closing in a tight line, the muscles of his cheek and jaw tensed. “You have no doubt she was pushed, I presume, or you would not take any further interest in the matter. A simple domestic tragedy does not require your investigation.” A flicker of hope lit his eyes.
“There is no indication that she tripped, sir,” Pitt replied. “But her cry, apparently accusing Reverend Parmenter, makes it necessary we investigate the incident more thoroughly.”
“Cry?” The bishop’s voice lifted sharply. “Precisely what did she cry out, Superintendent? Surely that is open to interpretation? Have you found any other evidence whatever to suggest that a man of Reverend Parmenter’s reputation and learning would so lose his wits, all his life’s work, as to push her? Really, sir, it defies belief.”
“She cried out ‘No, no, Reverend!’ ” Pitt replied.
“Could she not have slipped and called for his assistance, as the nearest person to her and the most likely to come to her aid?” the bishop said urgently. “Surely that is a far more likely explanation? I am sure if you put that to the person who heard the cry, they will confirm it to you.” He said it almost in the tone of an order—and an assumption that it would be obeyed.
“That is not what they say, sir,” Pitt answered, watching his face. “But it is possible she cried ‘No, no’ to the person who pushed her, and then called out to Mr. Parmenter to help her. But she did not use any words such as help or please.”
“Of course.” The bishop leaned forward. “She fell before she could. That is most easily explained. She may even have begun to and been cut off by her fall, poor creature. It seems we have resolved the matter already. Most excellent.” He smiled, but there was no warmth in it.
“If it was not Reverend Parmenter who pushed her, then it was someone else,” Pitt pointed out. “The servants are all accounted for, as are Mrs. Parmenter …” He saw the bishop wince. “And Mrs. Whickham. This leaves Miss Clarice Parmenter, Mr. Mallory Parmenter, and the curate who is lodging there at present, Mr. Dominic Corde.”
“Ah, yes … Corde.” The bishop leaned back in his chair. “Well, it is probably young Mallory Parmenter. Very regrettable, but a lightly balanced young man of emotional instability. You will not be aware of his history, but he has always been of a doubting and argumentative nature. As a youth he quibbled over everything. He could accept nothing without making an issue over it.” He drew his mouth tight in an expression of annoyance as memory became sharp. “One moment he was bursting with enthusiasm, the next he was equally full of criticism. Altogether an unsatisfactory young man. His rebellion against his father, his entire family and all its values, is witness of that. I cannot think why he should do something so violent and tragic, but I have never understood such behavior. I can only deplore and regret it.” He frowned. “And, of course, pity the victims,” he added hastily.
“Miss Bellwood was with child,” Pitt said bluntly.
The bishop paled. The satisfaction drained from his face. “How very unfortunate. From some liaison before she was employed, I presume?”
“Since. I am afraid it is very probable the father was one of the three men in the house.”
“Only of academic import now.” The bishop stretched his neck, easing his collar as if it were tight. “We can never know who it was, and we must assume it was young Parmenter, and that was his reason for … killing her. It is the lesser sin, Superintendent, and there is no need to blacken the young woman’s reputation by letting it become public now. Let us allow her to rest in peace, poor creature.” He swallowed. “It is not a necessity, nor is it our place, to judge her weakness.”
“It may be Mallory Parmenter,” Pitt agreed, unreasonably angry deep inside himself. He had no right to judge the bishop; he had no idea what young Mallory had been like, or how he had tried his patience. All the same, his dislike was intense. “But it may not,” he added. “I cannot act without proof.”
The bishop looked agitated. “But what proof can you have?” he demanded. “No one has confessed. The act was not seen, and you have just told me any of three people could have been responsible. What do you propose to do?” His voice was rising. “You cannot leave the matter unsolved! All three men’s reputations will be ruined. It would be quite monstrous.”
“Can you tell me something further about Mallory Parmenter, something specific, Bishop Underhill?” Pitt asked. “And Dominic Corde, perhaps? Certainly you must know Ramsay Parmenter better than almost anyone else, in some ways.”
“Yes … of course. Well … I’m not sure.”
“I beg your pardon?”
A flicker of discomfort crossed the bishop’s face. He started to explain himself. “I have known Mallory Parmenter for a long time, naturally. As a boy he was always a little difficult, lurching from one enthusiasm to another, as I have said. Most people grow out of it. He does not seem to have. Could not make up his mind what to do with his life. Indecisive, you see?” He stared at Pitt critically. “Considered going up to Oxford to study, but didn’t. Never fell in love. No one would meet his impossibly high criteria. Lived in a world divorced from reality. An idealist. Never came to terms.” He hesitated.
“Yes?” Pitt prompted after a moment.
“Unsound,” the bishop finished, satisfied with the word. “Yes, unsound. Obvious enough now, I am afraid.”
Pitt took that to refer to his conversion to Rome, but did not say so. “And Mr. Corde?” he asked.
“Ah. Yes. A most promising man.” Underhill’s voice was suddenly filled with satisfaction, a momentary smile on his mouth. “Most promising. Always a joy to see someone discover a true faith and be prepared to sacrifice all to follow it.”
“Is it a sacrifice?” Pitt asked innocently, thinking of the despair Dominic had described and the peace he now saw in Dominic’s face and his manner. “I should have thought it the opposite. Surely he has gained far more than anything it could have cost him?”
The bishop flushed angrily. “Of course! You misunderstood me. I was speaking of …” He flapped his hand. “It is not something I can describe to you, the years of study, of self-discipline, the financial restrictions of a very minimal income. Gladly undertaken, but of course it is a sacrifice, sir.”
“And you believe Dominic Corde is a morally excellent man, above the weakness and temptations of vanity, anger or lust …”
The bishop sat forward in the great red chair. “Of course I do! There is no question. I take most unkindly even the suggestion that—” He stopped abruptly, aware of just how far he was committing himself. “Well … naturally, I am speaking as I find, Superintendent. I have many reasons to believe … there has never been the slightest word …”
“And Ramsay Parmenter?” Pitt asked without hope of any answer of meaning, let alone value.
“A man hitherto of unimpeachable reputation,” the bishop replied grimly.
“But surely, sir, you know him better than merely by repute?” Pitt insisted.
“Of course I do!” The bishop was unhappy now, and thoroughly annoyed. He shifted his position in his chair. “It is my calling and my vocation, Superintendent. But I know of nothing in his nature or his acts to suggest he was not all he seemed and that he had any weaknesses graver than those that afflict all mankind.” He seemed about to add something, then changed his mind. Pitt wondered if he was remembering that it was he who had recommended Ramsay Parmenter’s forthcoming promotion.
“Doubts about his vocation, his faith?” he pressed. “Moods of despair?”
The bishop’s tone became condescending.
“We all have doubts, Superintendent. It is merely human to do so, a function of the intelligent man.”
Pitt had a sense of futility arguing with him. He was prevaricating in order to leave room for himself to appear in the right whatever the outcome.
“Are you saying that the clergy who lead us have no greater faith than the ordinary layman?” Pitt said aloud, looking at the bishop squarely.
“No! No, of course I am not! What I am saying is … is that moods of despondency come upon us all. We are all beset by … by certain … thoughts …”
“Has Ramsay Parmenter ever shown temptations towards self-indulgence, or violent loss of temper? Please, Bishop Underhill, we are sorely in need of honesty before a desire to mask the truth with kindness.”
The bishop sat silent for so long Pitt thought he was not going to answer at all. He looked wretched, as if tormented by thoughts he found acutely painful. Pitt had the uncharitable thought that it was concern for his own increasingly awkward position that troubled him.
“I must consider the matter further,” the bishop said at last. “I am not, at this point, happy to speak on the subject. I am sorry, sir. That is all I can tell you.”
Pitt did not press him any further. He thanked him and took his leave. Immediately the bishop went to the telephone, an invention about which he had very ambivalent feelings, and made a call to John Cornwallis’s offices.
“Cornwallis? Cornwallis … ah, good.” He cleared his throat. This was absurd. He should not allow himself to be nervous. “I would greatly appreciate an opportunity to speak privately with you. Better here than in your office, I think. Would you care to come to dinner? Very welcome. Good … very good. We dine at eight. We shall look forward to seeing you.” He hung up the receiver with a motion of relief. This was all quite appalling. He had better inform his wife. She should in turn inform the cook.
    Cornwallis arrived a few moments after eight o’clock. Isadora Underhill knew who he was, but she had never met him before. She had begun the evening extremely annoyed at her husband’s thoughtlessness in inviting a stranger to dine on an evening when she had planned to sit quietly. Every night the previous week there had been some duty or other demanding her attention and her polite interest, most of them exceedingly dull. Tonight she had intended to read. She had a novel which transported her utterly into its passion and depth. She forfeited it with reluctance—and something less than the grace she usually showed.
She also knew perfectly well why Reginald had called the policeman. He was terrified there was going to be a scandal he could not contain and that it was going to reflect on him badly since he had been the one to insist Ramsay Parmenter should be elevated to a bishopric of his own. He wanted to try to persuade this man to deal with the issue discreetly and expeditiously, even if that meant outside the normal rules. It disgusted her, and far more powerfully than that, it was the end of a slow disenchantment which she realized had been happening for years; she simply had not recognized it as such. This was her life, the man whose work she shared, the meaning she had chosen to take for herself. And she no longer admired it.
She chose to dress very simply in a dark blue gown with high, pleated silk sleeves. It became her extraordinarily with her dark hair and its silver streak.
Cornwallis surprised her. She did not know what she had expected—someone like the church dignitaries she already knew so well: habitually polite, confident, a trifle bland. Cornwallis was none of these things. He was obviously uncomfortable, and his manners were exact, as though he had to work at thinking what to say. She was used to a civility which acknowledged her while looking beyond her. He, on the contrary, seemed highly aware of her, and although he was not a large man, she found herself conscious of his physical presence in a way she had not felt before.
“How do you do, Mrs. Underhill.” He inclined his head, the light shining on its totally smooth surface. She had never thought she could find baldness appealing, but his was so completely natural she only realized its appeal afterwards—and with surprise.
“How do you do, Mr. Cornwallis,” she replied. “I am delighted you were able to come with so little proper invitation. It really is very kind of you.”
The color touched his cheeks. He had a powerful nose and wide mouth. He obviously did not know what to say. It seemed against his instinct to gloss over the fact that he had come in answer to the bishop’s panic, and yet disastrous to admit it.
She smiled, wishing to assist him. “I know it is a call to arms,” she said simply. “It was still generous of you to come. Please sit down and be comfortable.”
“Thank you,” he accepted, sitting very upright in the chair.
The bishop remained standing by the mantelpiece, no more than a foot from the fender. The evening had turned cold and it was the most advantageous position.
“Very unfortunate,” he said abruptly. “Your policeman was here this afternoon … late. Not a man sensitive to the issues at stake, I’m afraid. Is it possible to change him for someone a trifle more … understanding?”
Isadora felt acutely uncomfortable. This was not a suitable thing to be suggesting.
“Pitt is the best man I have,” Cornwallis said quietly. “If the truth can be uncovered, he will do it.”
“For heaven’s sake!” the bishop retorted crossly. “We need a great deal more than uncovering of the truth! We need tact, diplomacy, compassion … discretion! Any fool can lay bare a tragedy and display it to the world … and ruin the church’s reputation, destroy the faith and work of decades, injure the innocent who trust us to …” He stared at Cornwallis with genuine contempt in his eyes.
Isadora felt herself cringe inside. It was acutely embarrassing to hear Cornwallis spoken to with such scorn and have him believe she was associated with the sentiment, but a lifetime’s loyalty prevented her from setting herself apart from it.
“I am sure the bishop is stating what he means rather simply,” she said, leaning forward a little and feeling the blood hot in her cheeks. “We are all very distressed at Miss Bellwood’s death and at the dark emotions it suggests prompted it. We are naturally most anxious that no suspicion be allowed to fall upon those who are innocent, and that even whoever is guilty may be dealt with with as little exposure of private tragedy as possible.” She stared at Cornwallis, hoping he would accept her altered explanation.
“We all want to avoid unnecessary pain,” Cornwallis replied very stiffly, but his eyes were quite gentle as he looked back at her. She could see no criticism in them, and no answering hostility. Reginald had mentioned that he was a naval man. Perhaps some of his unease was due to spending most of his life at sea and entirely in the company of men. She tried to picture him in uniform, standing on the deck with the great sails billowing above him, altering his balance to the heave and pitch of the waters, the wind in his face. Maybe that was why his stare was so clear and his eyes bright and calm. There was something about the elements, the sheer magnitude of them, which reduced pomposity to a tiny, ridiculous thing. She could not imagine Cornwallis blustering or being evasive, or sheltering behind a lie.
“Then you take my point that we need very great skill in the matter,” the bishop was saying, his voice sharp with urgency and, Isadora thought, a note of uncharacteristic fear. She could not remember seeing him so rattled before.
“We need honesty and persistence as well,” Cornwallis said firmly. “And Pitt is the best man. It is a very delicate matter. Unity Bellwood was with child, and we may assume it is very likely her murder was connected to that fact.”
The bishop winced and looked hastily at Isadora. Cornwallis blushed.
“Don’t be absurd!” she said quickly. “You have no need to skirt around such a subject because I am here. I have probably spoken to far more unmarried young women expecting children than you have. More than a few of them were seduced by their betters, but some of them did the seducing.”
“I wish you would not speak of such things in those terms,” the bishop said disapprovingly. He stepped forward from the fire. He was scorching the backs of his legs. “It is both a sin and a tragedy. To compound it with malice is appalling. If it is … was … Ramsay Parmenter, then I can only assume that he is mad, and the best thing we can do for everyone is to have him certified so and put into a place of safety where he can harm no one any further.” He winced as the hot fabric of his trousers brushed against his leg. “Is it not possible that you can do that, Cornwallis? Exercise a little judicious compassion rather than ruin a whole family for the sake of following every letter of the law. Dragging out the inevitable to make a public spectacle of the very private fall from grace of a most excellent man … I mean hitherto excellent, of course,” he corrected.
Isadora held her breath. She looked at Cornwallis.
“Murder is not a private fall from grace,” Cornwallis said coolly. “The law requires that it be answered publicly, for the sake of everyone concerned.”
“Nonsense!” the bishop retorted. “How can it possibly be in Parmenter’s interest, or that of his family, let alone that of the church, that this should be dealt with in public? And it is not in the public’s interest, above all, that they should witness the decay and descent into madness of one of the leaders of their spiritual well-being.”
The butler came in quietly. “Dinner is served, sir,” he said with a bow.
The bishop glared at him.
Isadora rose. Her legs were shaking. “Mr. Cornwallis, would you care to come to the dining room?” What could she say to make this dreadful situation better? Did Cornwallis imagine she was part of this hypocrisy? How could she tell him she was not without in the same moment becoming disloyal and exhibiting a greater duplicity. He was a man who would value loyalty. She valued it herself. She had remained silent countless times when she disagreed. On a few occasions she had learned her error or shortsightedness afterwards, and was glad she had not displayed her lack of knowledge.
Cornwallis rose to his feet. “Thank you,” he accepted, and the three of them walked rather stiffly through to the very formal dining room in French blue and gold. For once Isadora’s taste had prevailed over the bishop’s. He had wished for burgundy carpets and curtains with heavy skirts to spread over the floor. This was less heavy, and the long mirror gave it a look of greater space.
When they were seated and the first course served, the bishop took up the point again.
“It is in no one’s interest to make this public,” he repeated, staring at Cornwallis over the soup. “I am sure you understand that.”
“On the contrary,” Cornwallis said very levelly. “It is in everyone’s interest. Most of all it is in Parmenter’s own interest. He maintains he is not guilty. He deserves the right to stand trial and demand of us that we prove it beyond a reasonable doubt.”
“Really …” The bishop was furious. His face was pink and his eyes hectically bright.
Isadora looked at him and felt overwhelmed with guilt. He did not look like a familiar friend who had temporarily lost his way and made a mistake. He was a stranger—and one she did not particularly like. She should not have felt that. It was inexcusable. Everything in her turned towards Cornwallis, calm and angry, certain of himself and his beliefs.
“That is a piece of sophistry, sir,” the bishop accused. “I will not insult you by suggesting the reasons.”
“Oh, Reginald!” Isadora said under her breath.
“What would you prefer we do, Bishop Underhill?” Cornwallis stared back at him. “Bundle Parmenter away secretly, without giving him the opportunity to prove his innocence or our necessity to prove his guilt? Leave him in a madhouse for the rest of his life to save our embarrassment?”
The bishop was scarlet. His hand trembled. “You have misquoted me, sir! That suggestion is appalling!”
It was precisely what he had implied, and Isadora knew it. How could she rescue him and maintain any integrity of her own?
“I am sure you are right, Mr. Cornwallis,” she said very guardedly without looking up at him. “I think we had not realized the consequences of what we were saying. We are not familiar with the law, and thank heaven nothing like this has ever happened before. Of course, we have had our misfortunes, but they have not included actual crime, only sins before the church.” She lifted her eyes to face him at last.
“Of course.” He was staring at her intently, and what she saw in his expression was not disgust but shyness, and admiration. It was as if a warmth had unfolded inside her. “It is … it is a tragedy we none of us are accustomed …” He faltered, not knowing what he wanted to say. “But I cannot step outside the ways of the law. I dare not, because I am not sure enough of what is true to take the judgment upon myself.” He laid his soup spoon on his plate. “But I believe I know what is right, at least as far as the necessity to learn the truth. It is extremely probable that Ramsay Parmenter killed Miss Bellwood because she was a forthright and offensive young woman who defied everything in which he believed.”
His voice dropped and his face was full of sadness. “He may have been the father of her child, but equally, he may not. If either Mallory Parmenter or Dominic Corde were, then they also had reason to wish her dead. She could have ruined either of them in their chosen vocations. Whether she exercised blackmail over anyone we do not know, but I fear we must learn. I am sorry. I wish it were not so.”
“We all do.” She smiled ruefully. “But that has never changed anything.”
The bishop cleared his throat noisily. “I trust you will keep me apprised of any progress you make on the matter?”
“Anything that affects the well-being of the church I shall tell you immediately,” Cornwallis promised, his face without a flicker of warmth. He could have been facing the captain of an enemy ship across an icy sea.
Isadora wondered if he was a religious man. Perhaps the power of the oceans, man’s relative helplessness, his dependence upon the light of the stars, the winds and great currents, had instilled in him a deeper kind of knowledge of God, the reliance on the faith that held life in its hands, not the mere convenience or the praise and reputation of fellowmen. How long had it been since Reginald had dealt with issues of life and death, not mere administration?
The conversation was stilted. The servants removed the soup dishes and brought the next course. The bishop made some remark. Cornwallis replied and added a comment.
Isadora should be entertaining, filling in the silences with some innocent observations, but her mind was on far deeper and more urgent issues. Why did Reginald not know Ramsay Parmenter well enough to be aware if he had had an affair with this woman or not? He should know of such a terrible flaw in the faith and the morality, let alone the trespass, of one of his clergy.
Why on earth had he pushed so hard for Parmenter’s elevation if he scarcely knew him? Was it simply a matter of having his own man? Had he ever talked with him on anything that truly mattered? On good and evil, on joy, on repentance and understanding of the terrible self-destruction of sin? Did he ever speak of sin at all as a real thing, not a word to roll around the lips from the pulpit? Did he take time to look at selfishness and the misery which produced it, the confusion and the bleakness?
Did he ever do anything except administer, tell other people what to do and how to do it? Did he visit the sick and the poor, the confused and the lost, the angry, the overbearing, the ambitious and the cruel, and face them with a mirror to their weaknesses? Did he nourish with faith the tired and the frightened and the bereaved?
Or did he talk about buildings, music and ceremonies—and how to stop Ramsay Parmenter from causing a scandal? If he could not face the reality of pain, what was all the singing and praying worth? What was the real man like beneath the vestments? Was it somebody she loved or simply somebody to whom she had become accustomed?
Cornwallis left as soon after the meal was over as was civil. Reginald returned to his study to read, and Isadora went to bed in silence, her thoughts still too loud in her head for her to rest.
And when she closed her eyes, it was Cornwallis’s face which at least allowed her to relax, and for a moment the ghost of a smile touched her lips.