Brunswick Gardens

7

PITT SAT IN the hansom as it clattered through the early morning traffic. It was just after eight, and he had been up late the evening before listening to Charlotte’s account of her day. She had said little about Grandmama, and only touched on her luncheon with Aunt Vespasia, but she had repeated Vespasia’s opinion that men did not murder over ideas but over passions.
A brewer’s dray lumbered past them, the horses magnificent with their plumed manes and gleaming brasses. The air seemed loud with the sound of hooves, the cries of street traders. A dog barked and someone shouted to a cabby. The hansom jolted forward again and then came to a sharp stop. There was a crack of a whip, and then they set off at a brisker pace.
Pitt could imagine Vespasia saying that. He could see her still-beautiful face clearly in his mind. She would probably be dressed in ivory, silver-gray or lilac, and she usually wore pearls in the daytime.
She was right. People killed because they cared about something so fiercely they lost all sense of reason and proportion. For a time their own need eclipsed everyone else’s, even drowned out their sense of self-preservation. Sometimes it was carefully-thought-out greed. Sometimes it was a momentary fear, even a physical one. Seldom was it revenge. That could be exacted in so many other ways. On rare occasions he had come across crimes resulting from blind, insensate rage.
But as Vespasia said, it was always a passion of some sort, even if only the cold hunger of greed.
Which was why, in spite of the evidence, he found it hard to believe that Ramsay Parmenter would have killed Unity deliberately. Pitt had to learn who the father of her child was. Fear would be a highly understandable motive. Was she a woman who would have blackmailed him, or even betrayed him and ruined his career?
Why not? Hers was ruined. There was very little purpose to be gained, but there was a kind of justice.
Charlotte had told him of Tryphena’s emotional and rather disconnected account of Unity’s past and of the hurt of some tragedy in it, and of a love which had been far more than a slight romance, a hope and a dream. Apparently it had left Unity deeply marked.
She had been a complex woman. After all, as it transpired he did need to know more of her. If Ramsay were the father, why had she entered into such a relationship with him? What in his dry, pedantic character could possibly have attracted her?
Or was it not personal but rather his position which tempted her? Was exposing his frailty a kind of revenge for her, for all the years of bigotry she had suffered at the hands of men like him? Pitt tried for a moment to imagine himself in her place, an outstanding intellect, a hunger to work, an ambition; all thwarted and denied by prejudice, confronted in every direction by polite, blind condescension. He had tasted a little of it himself, because of his birth and his father’s misfortune. He knew injustice, bitter and fatal in his father’s case. He had lain alone in his small room under the eaves and burned with rage and misery for him after his deportation for a theft he did not commit. Pitt and his mother might well have starved had it not been for Sir Arthur Desmond’s kindness. It was the tutor that he shared with Desmond’s son who had taught him to speak well, and that had marked the difference in his career.
But he understood discrimination, even if he had been taught most of the arts which enabled him to overcome the greater part of it. Unity Bellwood never could, because she would always be a woman. If there was a deep, ineradicable anger in her, he could understand it.
He could probably arrest Ramsay Parmenter on the evidence he had, including the previous night’s extraordinary attack. But any lawyer worthy of his calling would have the case dismissed when it reached court, if it ever did. And once the case had been tried, even if he could thereafter prove Ramsay’s guilt, he could not bring the charge a second time. It must be proved now or not at all.
He needed to know more about both Dominic and Unity Bellwood. Their pasts might teach him something to explain it all or to alter his perception entirely. It was something he dared not overlook. Events, as he knew them, were incomplete. They made no sense. He must at the very least know who was the father of Unity’s child. He winced within himself as he thought how it would hurt Charlotte if it were Dominic. There was a shabby, mean-spirited part of himself which would be pleased if it were. He was ashamed of that.
He arrived at Brunswick Gardens, paid the cabby and ignored the paperboy crying out the latest news, which was a heated discussion which had been raging as to whether there was land, ice or sea at the North Pole. A device had been created by two Frenchmen, a Monsieur Besan?on and a Monsieur Her-mite, to settle the matter once and for all. It was a hot air balloon of sufficient size to carry five men, with excellent accommodation and provisions, a number of dogs to draw a sledge, and even a small boat. The death of Unity Bellwood paled in comparison. Pitt went up to the front door with a ghost of a smile. The door was opened by Emsley, looking extremely unhappy.
“Good morning, sir,” he said without surprise. His expression suggested that Pitt was the realization of his worst fears.
“Good morning, Emsley,” Pitt replied, stepping inside to the vestibule, then the extraordinary hallway where Unity had met her death. “May I speak with Mrs. Parmenter, please?”
Emsley must already have decided what he would do in the event of Pitt’s arriving.
“I shall inform Mrs. Parmenter you are here, sir,” he announced gravely. “Of course, I cannot say whether she is able to see you.”
Pitt waited in the morning room with its strongly Middle Eastern flavor, but he was only peripherally aware of it. It was no more than ten minutes before Vita opened the door and came in, closing it behind her. She looked fragile and ill with worry. There was an enormous bruise purpling around her right eye and a scar still shining red with spots of blood on her cheek. No art of powder or rouge could have hidden it, even had she been a woman who used such things.
He tried not to stare at it, but it was such a startling blemish on an otherwise lovely face, that it was almost impossible not to.
“Good morning, Mrs. Parmenter,” he said. He had no need to affect pity or shock; both were too deep in him to have hidden. “I am sorry to have to disturb you on such a matter, but I cannot leave it unexplained.”
Instinctively her hand moved to her cheek. It must have been extremely painful.
“I am afraid your journey is wasted, Superintendent,” she answered very quietly. He could only just hear her words, her voice was so low and husky. “There is nothing for you to do, and I have no statement to make. Of course, I realize that Mrs. Pitt will have told you what she observed yesterday evening. In her position she could hardly have done otherwise.” She made an effort to smile, but it was thin and close to tears, a defense rather than a politeness. “But it is a personal matter between my husband and myself, and will remain so.” She stopped abruptly, staring up at him as if uncertain how to continue.
He was not surprised. He would have been surprised had she told him freely what had happened and accused Ramsay. She had too much dignity and loyalty to speak openly of her injuries, most especially now. He wondered what violence she might have suffered in the past. Sometimes women did, considering it part of their situation of dependence and obedience. Misbehavior earned the right of a husband to beat his wife. The law acknowledged it, and a woman had no recourse. It was within Pitt’s memory when it had been illegal for a wife to run away from home to avoid anything her husband might choose to do, short of inflicting a crippling or fatal injury.
“I know I cannot force you, Mrs. Parmenter,” he replied quietly. “And I respect your desire to protect your family and what you may feel to be your duty. But violence has resulted in death in this house a few days ago. This is no longer entirely a personal quarrel which can be dismissed and forgotten. Have you seen a doctor?”
Again her hand rose to her cheek, but she did not touch the inflamed skin. “No. I do not think it is necessary. What could he do? It will heal by itself in time. I shall treat it with cold compresses and a little feverfew for headache. Oil of lavender is excellent also. There is no permanant damage.”
“To the cheek, or to your marriage?” he asked.
“To my cheek,” she replied, not taking her eyes from his. “I thank you for concerning yourself with my marriage. You are a man of kindness and good manners. But to you as a policeman, I have no complaint to make, and therefore it does not enter into your professional sphere.” She sat down a little wearily in one of the chairs and looked up at him. “It was a domestic incident, such as happens all over England every day of the week. It was a misunderstanding. I am sure it will not happen again. We have all been under a great pressure since Unity’s death.”
She drew in her breath and waited while Pitt sat opposite her. “It has affected my husband most of all, quite naturally,” she went on, her voice quiet, confidential. “He worked closely with her and … and—” She stopped. The rest of the truth hung between them in a chasm of the unknown and the feared. She must be as aware as he was of the implications of Ramsay’s violence towards her the previous evening. He had only to look at her to see the extent and the viciousness of it. Ramsay had not merely slapped her. That might have left a weal, fingermarks, never the bruising that disfigured her now, or the slashing cut. He must have struck her with a closed fist, and a great deal of weight behind it. The cut made by his signet ring was plain. To protest otherwise could deceive no one. Whatever she chose to say, he had seen the wound and could come to only one conclusion.
“I understand, Mrs. Parmenter,” he said with a tight smile, not for her silence but for the tragedy which lay behind it. “Now I would like to speak to the Reverend Parmenter, if I may.” It was not really a question, only a demand courteously phrased.
She misunderstood him. “Please don’t!” she said urgently. She stood up and took a step towards him. He stood also.
“I could not bear him to think I had called you!” She went on urgently. “I didn’t! I forbade any of the family from mentioning the incident at all, and he may not even know that Mrs. Pitt was here at that time.” She shook her head vigorously. “I certainly did not tell him. Please, Superintendent. This is a completely private matter, and unless I complain you cannot involve yourself.” Her voice rose and her eyes were wide and dark. “I shall tell you I walked into a door. I slipped and fell. I caught myself on a piece of furniture. It was a ridiculous accident. There was no one else present at the time, so no one can contradict me. If Mrs. Pitt thought otherwise, I shall deny it. She misunderstood. I was hysterical and did not know what I said. There! There is nothing for you to do.” She looked at him with defiance, even the shadow of a smile. “You cannot possibly make evidence of it because no one saw anything. If I deny it, then it never happened.”
“I wish to see him about Miss Bellwood’s past academic career, Mrs. Parmenter,” he said gently. “And what he may know of her personal life. As you say, whatever happened yesterday evening is not a public matter but a private one.”
“Oh. Oh, I see.” She looked taken aback and a trifle embarrassed. “Of course. I’m sorry. I leaped to a conclusion. Please forgive me.”
“Perhaps I should have explained,” he said sincerely. “It is my fault.”
She shot him a dazzling smile, then winced as her cheek hurt. But even her bruising and the swelling across her cheekbone could not mar the radiance of her look.
“Please come upstairs. He is in his study. I expect he can tell you quite a lot about her. He did learn a great deal before he employed her.” She led him to the bottom of the stairs, then turned and said very softly, “Actually, I think he would have been far wiser not to have chosen her, Mr. Pitt. I am sure she was brilliant in her skills, very gifted, so I hear. But her personal life was …” She gave a little shrug. “I was going to say questionable, but I am afraid there were very few questions that were not unfortunately answered … and not in her favor. Still … Ramsay can tell you the details. I cannot. But he was more tolerant than I think he should have been. And look at the tragedy it has brought him.” She started up the stairs again, running her hand up the shining, black banister rail. In spite of the heaviness which lay over the house, she walked straight-backed, her head high, and with a very slight sway which was extraordinarily graceful. Not even this oppression could rob her of her courage or the qualities of her character.
Ramsay greeted Pitt with mild surprise, rising from his seat behind a desk scattered with papers. Vita left, closing the door behind her, and Pitt accepted the chair offered him.
“What can I do for you, Superintendent?” Ramsay asked, his brow puckered, his eyes anxious. He looked at Pitt as though he could not quite focus upon him.
Pitt had an extraordinary sense of unreality. It was as if Ramsay had forgotten his wife’s injury. It did not seem to occur to him that Pitt could have called with regard to that, or even that he had noticed it. Was Ramsay so familiar with the idea of striking a woman, albeit in his notion of proper discipline, that he felt no discomfort that a stranger should be aware of it?
Pitt found it difficult to force his attention to the reason he had given for coming, and indeed it was his secondary purpose.
“I need to know more about Miss Bellwood’s past, before she came to Brunswick Gardens,” he answered. “Mrs. Parmenter tells me you made the usual enquiries about her, both as to her professional abilities and to her character. I should like to know what you learned about the latter.”
“Oh … would you?” Ramsay looked surprised. He seemed preoccupied with something else. “Do you really think it will help? Well, I suppose it might. Yes, naturally I enquired for some references and asked various people I knew. After all, you do not take people lightly when the work is of importance and you expect to associate with them closely. What is it you would like to know?” He did not offer anything, as if he had little idea what Pitt was seeking.
“What was her position immediately prior to coming here?” Pitt began.
“Oh … she was assisting Dr. Marway with his library,” Ramsay replied straightaway. “He specializes in translations of ancient works, and he has many of them in the original Latin and Greek, of course. It was a matter of classifying and reorganizing.”
“And he found her satisfactory?” This was an extraordinary conversation. Ramsay was talking about a woman with whom it seemed he had had an affair, and then murdered, and he looked absentminded about it, as if it were only of peripheral importance to him, something else consumed his real attention, and yet he did not wish to be discourteous or unhelpful, so he was prepared to do his best to answer.
“Oh, commendably so. He said she was exceptionally gifted,” he said sincerely. Was it to justify his choice? He certainly had not liked her personally. Or was he seeking to deflect suspicion away from himself now?
“And before then?” Pitt persisted.
“If I remember correctly, she was coaching Reverend Dav-entry’s daughters in Latin,” Ramsay said with a frown. “He told Unity they improved quite beyond his highest expectations. Before you ask me, prior to that she translated some Hebrew scrolls for Professor Allbright. I did not enquire further than that. I felt no necessity.”
Pitt smiled but saw no answering light in Ramsey’s face. “And her personal life, her standards of conduct?”
Ramsay looked away. Obviously the questions disturbed him. His voice was quiet and troubled, as if he blamed himself. “There were some remarks about her manner, her political views were rather extreme and unattractive, but I discounted that. I did not wish to judge when it was not my place. In my opinion, the church should not be political … at least not in a discriminatory sense. I am afraid I have since come to regret my decision.” His hands on the top of the desk were clenched uncomfortably, fingers locked around each other.
“I think in my desire to be tolerant, I failed to defend what I believe in,” he continued, examining his hands without appearing to see them. “I … I had not met anyone like Miss Bellwood before, anyone so … so aggressive in their desire to change the established order, so full of anger against what she perceived to be unjust. Of course, she was quite unbalanced in her views. No doubt they sprang from personal experience of some unhappy sort. Perhaps she had sought some position for which she was unsuited, and rejection had embittered her. Possibly it was a love affair. She did not confide in me, and naturally I did not ask.” He looked up at Pitt again. His eyes were shadowed, and all the lines of his face tense, as if inside himself he were locked in an almost uncontrollable emotion.
“What were her relationships with the rest of the household?” Pitt asked. There was no purpose in trying to appear casual. They both knew why he asked and what implications would follow from any answer, no matter how carefully worded.
Ramsay stared at him. He was weighing all the possibilities of what he might say, what evasions he could escape with. It was clear in his face.
“She was a very complex person,” he said slowly, watching Pitt’s reaction. “There were times when she would be charming and made most of us laugh with the readiness of her wit, although on occasion it could be cruel. There was an … an anger in her.” His mouth tightened, and his hands fiddled with a penknife on the desk top in front of him. “Of course, she was opinionated.” He gave a tiny, rueful laugh, hardly any sound at all. “And she had no reluctance in expressing herself. She quarreled with my son about his religious opinions, as she did with me … and with Mr. Corde. I am afraid it was in her nature. I do not know what else I can add.” He looked at Pitt in a kind of desperation.
Pitt thought of Vespasia’s words. He wished he knew more about these quarrels, but Ramsay was not going to tell him.
“Were they ever personal, Reverend Parmenter, or always to do with religious faith or opinion?” He did not expect a useful answer, but he was interested in watching how Ramsay would choose to reply. They both knew that one of them in the house must have pushed her.
“Ah …” Ramsay’s hands tightened on the knife. He began tapping it rapidly on the blotting paper, a nervous, almost twitching motion. “Mallory was worst. He takes his calling very seriously, and I am afraid he does not have a developed sense of humor. Dominic, Mr. Corde, is older and a trifle more accustomed to dealing with … women. He did not fall so … readily.” He regarded Pitt with undisguised distress. “Superintendent, you are asking me to make statements which may incriminate either my son or my curate, a man I have taught and cared for for many years, and now a guest in my home. I cannot do it. I simply don’t know! I … I am a scholar. I do not observe personal relationships a great deal, not closely. My wife …” He changed his mind; the retreat was clear in his expression. “My wife will tell you that. I am a theologian.”
“Is that not based on the understanding of people?” Pitt enquired.
“No. No, not at all. On the contrary, it is the understanding of God.”
“What use is that if you do not also understand people?”
Ramsay was perplexed. “I beg your pardon?”
Pitt looked at him and saw confusion in his face, not the superficial failure to understand what Pitt had said, but the far deeper darkness of corroding doubt that he understood himself. Ramsay Parmenter was tormented by a void of uncertainty, fear of wasted time and passion, of years spent pursuing the wrong path.
And all that came into focus in Unity Bellwood, in her sharp tongue and incisive mind, her questions, her mockery. In one terrible moment had rage at his own futility exploded in physical violence? To destroy self-belief was perhaps the greatest threat of all. Was his crime a defense of the inmost man?
But the more he knew of Ramsay Parmenter, the less did Pitt find it possible to imagine that he had once been Unity’s lover. Did he know who was? Mallory or Dominic? His son or his protégé?
“Unity Bellwood was almost three months with child,” he said aloud.
Ramsay froze. Nothing in the room made the slightest motion or sound. From outside a dog barked, and the wind moved very faintly in the branches of the tree close to the window.
“I’m sorry,” Ramsay said finally. “That is extremely sad.”
It was the last response Pitt had expected. Looking at Ramsay’s face, amazement and sorrow were all he saw. There was certainly no embarrassment—and no guilt.
“Did you say three months?” Ramsay asked. Now there was fear as he realized the implications. The little color there was drained from his cheeks. “Then … are you saying …?”
“It is most likely,” Pitt replied.
Ramsay bent his head. “Oh dear,” he said very quietly. He seemed to be struggling for breath. He was obviously in acute distress, and Pitt wished there were something he could do to help him, at least physically if not emotionally. He was as helpless as if there were a thick wall of glass between them. The longer he knew Ramsay, the less he understood him and the less could he believe unequivocally in his guilt for Unity’s death. The only explanation lay in some kind of madness, a division in his mind which managed to divorce the act, and the persons which had driven it, from the man he was now.
He looked up at Pitt. “I suppose you think it must have been someone in this house, which means either my son or Dominic Corde?”
“It seems extremely likely.” Pitt did not mention Ramsay himself.
“I see.” He folded his hands carefully and stared at Pitt, his eyes full of distress. “Well, I cannot help you, Superintendent. Either possibility is unbelievable to me, and I think I should say nothing further to you that might prejudice your judgment. I do not wish to wrong either man. I am sorry. I realize that is no help to you, but I find myself too … too disturbed in my mind to think or act clearly. This is … overwhelming.”
“Can you at least tell me where Dominic Corde was living when you first met him?”
“The address? Yes. I suppose so. Although I do not know what assistance that will be. It is several years ago now.”
“I know. I should still like it.”
“Very well.” Ramsay opened one of the desk drawers and produced a piece of paper. He copied what was written on it onto another piece and pushed it across the polished surface of the wood towards Pitt.
Pitt thanked him and took his leave.
He did not go back to the police station for Tellman, who was occupied on the final details of their previous case. There was so little to follow in Unity’s death that Pitt could find nothing for Tellman to do. It was all so insubstantial. It depended upon emotion and opinion. All the facts he had were that Unity Bellwood was three months with child and that the father was probably one of the three men in the Parmenter house, any one of whom would be ruined by the fact, were it known. She had been overheard to quarrel with Ramsay on several occasions, the last immediately prior to the fall down the stairs which had killed her. He denied having left his study. Mrs. Parmenter, her daughter Tryphena, the maid and the valet had all heard Unity cry out to him the moment before she fell.
Other minor facts, perhaps relevant, perhaps not, were that Mallory Parmenter had been alone in the conservatory and denied seeing Unity, but she had a stain on her shoe which could only have been obtained by crossing the conservatory floor within the short space of time when he was there. There had been no stain on the hem of her dress, but she had probably lifted that instinctively against the possibility of dust or soil on the path. Was Mallory’s denial guilt or simply fear?
It all added up to suspicion, but certainly not the sort of proof Pitt could present to a court. He must have that to proceed, and yet he did not even know what he was looking for, or even if it existed.
He hailed a hansom and gave the driver the address Ramsay had given to him.
“All the way, guv?” the driver said in surprise.
Pitt collected his wits. “No … no, you had better take me to the station. I’ll catch a train.”
“Right y’are then.” The man looked relieved. “In yer get.”


Pitt got off the train at Chislehurst Station and walked through a bright, windy late morning towards the crossroads by the cricket ground. There he made enquiries as to the nearest public house and was directed to take the right-hand road and follow it about five hundred yards to where he would find St. Nicholas’s Church and the fire station on his left, and the Tiger’s Head public house on his right.
There he had an excellent luncheon of fresh bread, crumbly Lancashire cheese, rhubarb pickle and a glass of cider. On further enquiry he was told where to find Icehouse Wood and the house there which was still occupied by the group of eccentric and unhappy people whom, apparently, he sought.
He thanked the landlord and went on his way. It took him no more than twenty minutes to find the place. It was situated deep among the bare trees and should have been beautiful. The blackthorn was in blossom in drifts of white, and the earth was starred with pale windflowers, but the house itself had an air of dilapidation which spoke of years of misery and neglect.
How on earth had the elegant and sophisticated Dominic Corde come to be here? And what had brought Ramsay Parmenter to cross his path?
Pitt walked across the overgrown lawn and knocked on the door, heavily overhung by honeysuckle not yet in bud.
His knock was answered by a young man in ill-fitting trousers and a waistcoat which had lost several of its buttons. His long hair hung over his brow, but his expression was agreeable enough.
“Have you come to mend the pump?” he asked, looking at Pitt hopefully.
Pitt remembered his early experience on the estate farm.
“No, but I can try, if you are having trouble.”
“Would you? That’s terribly decent of you.” The young man opened the door wide and led Pitt through untidy and chilly corridors to the kitchen, where piles of dishes sat on the wooden bench and in a large earthenware sink. The young man seemed oblivious of the mess. He pointed to the iron pump, which was obviously jammed. He did not seem to have the faintest idea what to do about it.
“Do you live here alone?” Pitt asked conversationally as he began to examine the pump.
“No,” the young man said easily, sitting sideways on the table and watching with interest. “There are five or six of us. It varies. People come and go, you know?”
“How long have you had this pump?”
“Oh, years. It’s been here longer than I have.”
Pitt looked up and smiled. “Which would be?”
“Oh, seven or eight years, as far as I recall. Do we need a new one? God, I hope not. We can’t afford it.”
Seeing the general state of disrepair, Pitt could believe that. “It’s rather rusted,” he observed. “It looks some time since it was cleaned. Have you any emery?”
“What?”
“Emery,” Pitt repeated. “Fine gray-black powder for polishing metal. You might have it on cloth or paper.”
“Oh. Peter might have. It will be on the cupboard over here if he has.” And obediently he looked and came up with a piece of cloth, holding it triumphantly.
Pitt took it and began to work on the rusted pieces.
“I’m looking for a friend—a relative, actually,” he remarked as he rubbed. “He was here almost four years ago, I believe. His name is Dominic Corde. Do you remember him?”
“Certainly,” the young man answered without hesitation. “In a rare state when he came. Never seen a man more despairing of himself and the world … except Monte, and he drowned himself, poor devil.” He smiled suddenly. “But don’t worry about Dominic. He was fine when he left. Some clergyman came here looking for Monte, and he and Dominic got on marvelously well. Took a while, of course. These things do. Talk the leg off an iron pot, that clergyman, but it seemed to be what Dominic needed.”
Pitt had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He was working hard on the pump.
“I say, that’s awfully decent of you,” the young man said admiringly.
“How did Dominic get into that state?” Pitt asked, sounding as casual as he could.
The young man shrugged.
“Don’t know. Something to do with a woman, I think. It wasn’t money, I know that, and it wasn’t drink or gambling, because you don’t stop those instantly, and he didn’t do either when he was here. No, I’m pretty sure it was a woman. He’d been living in Maida Vale with a whole lot of other people, men and women. He didn’t talk about it much.”
“You don’t know where, do you?”
“Hall Road, I believe. Can’t tell which number. Sorry.”
“Never mind. I expect I can find it.”
“Brother, is he? Cousin?”
“Brother-in-law. Can you pass me that cloth?”
“Are you going to get that working? That would be marvelous.”
“I think so. Hold that for me.”
    It was late by the time Pitt returned home, and he told Charlotte nothing about his expedition to Chislehurst. The following day, the sixth since Unity’s death, he took Tellman with him and went to search for the house in Maida Vale where Dominic had lived before meeting Ramsay Parmenter and finding his vocation in the church.
“I don’t know what you expect to learn,” Tellman said dourly. “What difference does it make what he did five years ago, or who he knew?”
“I don’t know,” Pitt said sharply as they walked towards the railway station. It was a fairly direct route to St. John’s Wood Station, and then a short distance from there to Hall Road. “But it must have been one of the three of them.”
“It was the Reverend,” Tellman said, keeping step with him with difficulty. Pitt was three inches taller, and his stride was considerably longer. “You just don’t want it to be him because of the trouble it will cause. Anyway, I thought Corde was your brother-in-law. You don’t think your brother-in-law murdered Miss Bellwood, do you?” He looked sideways at Pitt, anxiety and a certain disgust in his lantern-jawed face.
Pitt was jolted. He realized how significant a part of him would find it very acceptable that Dominic should be guilty.
“No, I don’t!” he snapped. “But are you suggesting I should not bother to investigate him because he is a relation … by marriage?”
“So that’s what this is, is it?” Tellman’s voice was heavy with incredulity. “Duty?”
They crossed the platform and climbed onto the train. Tellman slammed the door shut behind them.
“Has it occurred to you that I might be just as eager to prove him innocent?” Pitt asked as they sat down, facing each other across an empty compartment.
“No.” Tellman looked back at him. “You haven’t got a sister, so who is he? Mrs. Pitt’s brother?”
“Her elder sister’s husband. She is dead. She was murdered ten years ago.”
“Not by him?”
“Of course not! But his behavior was far from admirable.”
“And you don’t believe he’s reformed? Become a minister and all.” Tellman’s voice was ambivalent. He was not sure what he thought of the church. Part of him believed it was the Establishment. He preferred a nonconformist preacher, if he went to church at all. But religion was still sacred, any Christian religion … maybe any religion at all. He might despise some of its show and resent its authority, but respect for it was part of the dignity of man.
“I don’t know,” Pitt replied, staring out of the window as a cloud of steam drifted past and the train launched forward.
It took them until early afternoon to find the right house in Hall Road. It was still occupied by a group of artists and writers. It was difficult to tell how many, and there seemed to be several children, as well. They were all dressed in a Bohemian way, bits of costume of different styles, even some oriental clothing, startling in this quiet and very English suburb.
A tall woman who introduced herself simply as Morgan assumed the leadership and answered Pitt’s questions.
“Yes, Dominic Corde did live here for a short while, but it was several years ago. I am afraid I have no idea where he is now. We have not heard from him since he left.” Her face with its wide eyes and fine lips showed a shadow of sadness. She had a mane of fair hair which she wore loose, except for a woven ribbon band around her brow, like a green crown.
“It is the past I am interested in, not the present,” Pitt explained. He saw Tellman disappear along the corridor and assumed he was, as had been previously agreed, going to speak to some of the other inhabitants.
“Why?” She looked at him very directly. She had been working on a painting, which stood on a large easel behind her, when he had interrupted. It appeared to be a self-portrait, the face peering through leaves, the body half hidden by them. It was enigmatic and in its way very beautiful.
“Because present events make it necessary I know what happened to several people in order that an innocent man may not be blamed for a crime,” he answered. It was oblique, and something less than the truth.
“And you want to blame Dominic for it?” she assumed. “Well, I shan’t help you. We don’t talk about each other, especially to outsiders. Our way of life and our tragedies are private, and no concern of yours, Superintendent. No crime was committed here. Mistakes, perhaps, but they are ours to mend, or not.”
“And if it is Dominic I am trying to absolve?” he asked.
She looked at him steadily. She was beautiful, in a wild way, although she was well past forty and there was something in her which still held all the unfinished rebellion of youth. There was no peace in her face. He wondered what her relationship with Dominic had been. They seemed as different from each other as possible, and yet he had changed almost completely in the last few years. Perhaps during his time there they had complemented each other in some way. He had been restless then, incomplete, and she might have fed his needs.
“From what crime?” she asked, her brilliant eyes steady and almost unblinking.
He had to remind himself that he was the interrogator, not she. He pushed his hands into his pockets and relaxed a little. With his shaggy hair and crooked tie, pockets full of odds and ends, he did not look nearly as out of place in this house as Tellman did.
“But he did live here for some time?” he repeated calmly.
“Yes. We have no reason to deny that. But there is nothing here to concern the police.” Her jaw tightened. “We live very ordinary lives. The only thing about us which is unusual is that we share a large house, seven of us and the children, and we are all artists of one sort or another. We weave, paint, sculpt and write.”
“Did Dominic practice any of these things?” he asked with surprise. He had never imagined him to possess any sort of talent.
“No,” she said reluctantly, as if it were an admission. “You still have not told me what crime you are investigating or why I should answer any of your questions.”
Footsteps passed along the corridor, hesitated, then continued.
“No, I haven’t,” he agreed. “Something happened here which distressed him very much—so much, in fact, that he was close to despair. What was it?”
She hesitated. The indecision was mirrored in her eyes.
He waited.
“One of our number died,” she said at length. “We were all distressed. She was young, and we were very fond of her.”
“Was Dominic in love with her?”
Again she waited before she answered. He knew she was weighing what to tell him, how much of the truth she could conceal without leading him to other things, more deeply secret.
“Yes,” she said, still looking directly at him. Her eyes were extraordinary, light blue and burningly clear.
He did not disbelieve her, but he was sure that somehow her reply covered something unsaid and more important.
“How did she die?” He would not know if she told him the truth, but he could ask neighbors and make enquiries at the local police station. There would be a record of it. “What was her name?”
The resentment was stiff in her face and the set of her square shoulders and long back.
“Why do you want to know? What can it possibly have to do with your present enquiry? She was young and sad, and she hurt no one. Leave her in peace.”
He caught the intonation of tragedy in her voice, and of defensiveness. If she did not tell him, he would certainly enquire. It would not be difficult to find out, only time-consuming.
“Another tragedy has occurred, Miss Morgan,” he said gravely. “Another young woman is dead.” He saw the blight in her face, as if he had struck her. She seemed scarcely able to believe him.
“Another … How?” She stared at him. “What … what happened? I don’t believe it could be …” But obviously she did. It was too painfully clear.
“I think you should tell me what happened here.”
“I have told you.” Her hands clenched. “She died.”
“Of what cause?” he insisted. “Either you can tell me, Miss Morgan, or I can make enquiries and find out through the local police station, doctor, church—”
“Of an overdose of laudanum,” she said angrily. “She took it to sleep, and one night she took too much.”
“How old was she?”
“Twenty.” She dared him to construe meaning into that, but even as she did so she knew she was defeated.
“Why?” he asked quietly. “Please don’t make me draw this out of you, Miss Morgan. I am going to have to find the answer. It takes longer this way, but it will not alter anything.”
She turned from him, staring at her vivid painting, examining every leaf and flower in it. When she spoke her voice was low and fierce with emotion. “We used to believe that for love to be real, its highest and noblest form, it must be free, unfettered by any restrictions or bonds, any … any unnatural curbs upon its will and its honesty. I still believe that.”
He waited. The constructive arguments that came to his lips had no place here.
“We tried to practice it,” she went on, her head bent a little, the light shining on her hair, pale like early wheat. “We were not all strong enough. Love should be like a butterfly. If you close your hand on it, you kill it!” She clenched her fist. She had surprisingly powerful hands, square-fingered, smudged with green paint. She jerked her hand open. “If you love someone, you should be prepared to let them go, too!” She stared at him challengingly, waiting for him to comment.
“Would you leave your child if it became boring to you or interrupted what you wanted to do?” he asked.
“No, of course not!” she said sharply. “That is entirely different.”
“I don’t think it is,” he answered quite seriously. “Pleasure is about coming and going as you like. Love is about doing what is sometimes difficult, or expensive in time and emotion, for someone else’s sake, and finding that if it adds to their happiness, then it does to yours also.”
“You sound very pompous,” she stated. “I suppose you are married.”
“You disapprove of marriage?”
“I think it is unnecessary.”
“How condescending.”
Suddenly she laughed. It lit her face, softening the hard angles and making her beautiful. Then as quickly it vanished, leaving her sad and defensive as before.
“Actually, I think it is necessary for some people,” she conceded unwillingly. “Jenny was one of them. She was not strong enough to let go when the time came.”
“She killed herself …” he guessed.
She looked away again. “Perhaps. No one can be certain.”
“Dominic was certain, and that is why he blamed himself and left in despair.” He was sure that what he said was the truth, or close to it. “He would not marry her?”
“He couldn’t marry both of them!” she said scornfully, anger in her eyes as she faced him. “Jenny couldn’t cope with sharing. She became—” She stopped again, looking away.
“With child,” he finished for her. “Vulnerable. Needing more for herself than someone who came when they felt like it and left equally selfishly.” He thought sharply and with overwhelming sweetness of Charlotte. “She began to understand that love is commitment,” he said quietly. “Making promises and keeping them, being there when people need you, whether it suits you or not. She grew up … and the rest of you didn’t. You were still playing. Poor Jenny.”
“That’s unfair!” Her voice was raised and angry. “You weren’t here! You don’t know anything about it!”
“I know Jenny is dead, because you just told me, and I know Dominic felt the height of his guilt, because I know where he went after here.”
“Where did he go?” she demanded. “Is he all right?”
“You care?” He raised his eyebrows.
She snatched her hand back as if she would like to hit him but did not dare to. He wondered if she had been the other woman. He thought probably not.
“Was Unity Bellwood ever here?” he asked instead.
She looked totally blank. “I’ve never heard of her. Is she the girl who is dead this time?” In spite of herself there was an edge of sorrow in her voice, and perhaps guilt, too.
“Yes. Only she didn’t kill herself. She was murdered. She was with child as well.”
She looked down. “I’m sorry. I would have staked anything I had he would never do anything like that again.”
“Perhaps he hasn’t. I don’t know. Thank you for being honest with me.”
“I had no choice,” she said grudgingly.
He smiled, a wide smile of both humor and victory.
    It was late when he arrived home. Tellman had told him a little more about the establishment in Hall Road, all of which was much as he might have guessed. A group of people had begun pursuing a kind of freedom they believed passionately would bring them happiness. It had instead brought them confusion and tragedy. They had changed at least some of their ways, but were loath to admit error or let go of the dream. Jenny was seldom spoken of. Tellman had learned of her from one of the children, a ten-year-old boy with a less-guarded tongue who found lurid tales of London’s Whitechapel District too fascinating to miss, in exchange for a little factual information about his own, to him very boring, household.
“Immoral,” Tellman had said damningly. “They should know better. They aren’t poor or ignorant.” He had great compassion for the old or the sick, the very poor, although he was reluctant to let anyone see it. But from those he considered his betters, or who thought they were, he expected high standards, and when they fell below them, he had only contempt. “No respect,” he added. “No decency.”
Pitt had sat all the way on the train wondering what he was going to tell Charlotte. She would be bound to ask. Anything to do with Dominic she would naturally care about intensely. His behavior to Jenny had been close to inexcusable. The fact that she had thought she could live with sharing him with another woman was no answer. He was twice her age. He had been married to Sarah and knew perfectly well that such liberty was almost certain to fail. He had been as shallow thinking and as indulgent as when he had lived in Cater Street, taking pleasure where it was offered and thinking no further than the moment.
Could people really change? Of course it was possible. But was it probable?
There was a cold unhappiness inside Pitt, because part of him wanted to think this case was Dominic all over again, the old Dominic he had known before. And Dominic was surely far more likely to be guilty than Ramsay Parmenter, dry, ascetic, intellectual, tormented Ramsay, filled with doubts and arguments, seeking immortality by writing some abstruse interpretation of theology.
Tellman had said very little throughout the journey. He had seen a glimpse of a world which disturbed him, and he needed to think about it alone.
As soon as Pitt was inside the door Charlotte asked him.
“Yes,” he answered, taking off his coat and following her through to the parlor. She was so concerned she had barely touched him, and left him to hang up his coat and scarf himself.
“Well?” She turned and faced him. “What happened? What did you find out?”
“I’ve had a long journey and I’d like a cup of tea,” he replied, stung by her eagerness. The old care for Dominic was just as sharp.
She looked surprised. “Gracie is getting you one. It will be here in a moment. Would you like something to eat as well? I’ve got fresh bread and cold mutton.”
“No. Thank you.” He was being ungracious, and he knew it. What should he tell her about Dominic? If he lied, and Dominic were guilty, she would blame him for not having been honest. “I found the house where Dominic lived before he went to Icehouse Wood.”
“Icehouse Wood?” she questioned. “You didn’t tell me about Icehouse Wood. Where is it? It sounds horrible.”
“Chislehurst. It isn’t nice. It could be, if it weren’t neglected.” He sat down by the fire, stretching his feet out and leaving her standing.
She stared down at him. “Thomas! What is wrong? What is it you won’t tell me?”
He was too locked up in anger and indecision to smile at her illogic.
“What did you find out about Dominic?” Her voice was sharper and he could hear the fear behind it. He turned to look up at her. It was the end of the day and she was tired, too. There was very little color in her cheeks and her hair was coming out of its pins. She had been too preoccupied to tidy herself up for his return. The anxiety was written plainly on her face, the fine lines around her eyes, the shadows in them, the tightness of her mouth.
He loved her too much to be invulnerable. He despised part of himself even as he answered.
“He lived in a large house in Maida Vale with several other people. They believed in love without commitment, more or less do-as-you-please. He had two mistresses. One was a girl called Jenny, who was twenty …” He saw her wince, but ignored it. “He got her with child. She felt frightened and alone. She was no longer able to share him. He wouldn’t choose between the two. She took an overdose of laudanum and killed herself. He knew he was to blame, and he ran away in despair … to Icehouse Wood … which is where Ramsay Parmenter found him, close to suicide.”
“Poor Dominic,” she said softly. “He must have felt as if there was nothing left in life.”
“Well, for Jenny and her child … there wasn’t!” he lashed back instantly. Suddenly his anger was overwhelming. The sheer useless, horrible tragedy of it was more than he could bear. And now Dominic was wearing a clerical collar and convincing little old ladies like Alice Cadwaller that he was a shepherd for the weak and the innocent. Not to mention Vita Parmenter, who seemed to think him the strength and the conscience of the house, and heaven only knew what Unity Bellwood had felt for him. And now here was Charlotte, of all people, who had known what he was like, had seen him hurting her own sister, instead of despising him and pitying Jenny, saying “Poor Dominic.”
Charlotte was white-faced. “That was a terrible thing to say, Thomas!” She was trembling.
Gracie opened the door with a tray of tea and neither of them noticed her.
“It was a terrible thing to do.” He could not draw back now. “I did not want to tell you, but you asked me.”
“Yes, you did!” she accused, not loudly now but very quietly, her voice low and angry and hurt. “You wanted me to know that Dominic had done something so wretched I could never forget it.”
That was true. He had wanted her to know. He had wanted to break the false, idealized notion she had of him and make her see him as he had had to: real, shallow, selfish, tortured with guilt … but for how long? Long enough to change … or not?
Gracie put the tray on the table. She looked like a frightened child. This was the only home she knew, and she could not bear quarrels in it.
Charlotte turned around to her. “Thank you. You’d better pour it out. I’m afraid we have had some rather unpleasant news about Mr. Corde, my brother-in-law. Things I would rather were not true, but it seems they are.”
“Oh,” Gracie said with a gulp. “I’m sorry.”
Charlotte tried to smile at her but did not succeed. “I shouldn’t really be so upset. I’ve known him long enough it should not surprise me.” She watched Gracie pour out the tea and, after a moment’s hesitation, take a cup over to Pitt.
“Thank you,” he accepted.
Gracie put Charlotte’s cup near her and went out.
“I suppose you think he was the father of Unity’s child and that she was blackmailing him, so he killed her,” she said flatly.
“Well, you have no right to say that,” he retorted, stung by the unfairness of it. “I have not concluded anything of the sort. I have no proof which of them killed Unity, nor any hope of getting any practical evidence of the act itself. All I can do is find out more about each of them and hope it shows something or absolves one of them. What would you have me do … assume Dominic’s innocence?”
She turned away. “No, of course not. I’m not angry that you found this out, just that it pleases you. I want you to be as hurt and as miserable about it as I am.” She stood stiff-backed, staring away from him out of the darkened window.
He felt excluded, because he understood what she meant, and yet the dark, cold little voice inside him still almost wished Dominic to be guilty.
He slept very badly and woke late in the morning. He went downstairs and found Tellman drinking tea in the kitchen, talking to Gracie. He stood up the moment Pitt came in, his face coloring slightly.
“You might as well finish it,” Pitt said curtly. “I have no intention of going out without breakfast. Where is Mrs. Pitt?”
“Upstairs, sir,” Gracie replied, watching him carefully. “Sorting the linen.”
“I see. Thank you.” He sat down at the kitchen table.
Gracie put a bowl of porridge in front of him and started to warm the frying pan for kippers. He wanted to say something to comfort her, to tell her that this unease in the house was only a passing thing. But he could think of nothing. And half an hour later, when he left, he still had not mentioned it, nor had he been upstairs to speak to Charlotte.
He sent Tellman off to learn what he could of Mallory Parmenter’s past, his conversion to the Church of Rome, and his personal habits and relationships.
He began to seek more of Unity Bellwood’s past, and spent a miserable Saturday interrupting the brief leisure time of people who had known her in a more personal way. He found out her previous address from Ramsay Parmenter, and now he called upon the house in Bloomsbury, less than fifteen minutes from his own home. He walked rapidly, striding out and passing neighbors without recognizing them, still consumed in his own anger and unhappiness.
There was an air to the house not unlike the one he had been to in Maida Vale. There were similar works of art on the walls, piles of books in and out of cases, a sense of being intentionally different. He was received ungraciously by a bearded man of about fifty who agreed that, yes, Unity Bellwood had lived there some three or four months ago and had left to go to a position which he knew nothing about.
“How long did she live here?” Pitt asked. He was not going to be put off because he was a nuisance and was disturbing a quiet Saturday morning when people wished to relax and not be bothered with strangers.
“Two years,” the man replied. “She had rooms upstairs. They are relet now to a nice young couple from Leicestershire. She can’t have them back, and I’ve nothing else.” He looked at Pitt belligerently. His regard towards Unity was plain.
Pitt pressed him until he lost his temper, and then went on to speak to all the other residents of the house who were at home, forming a picture of Unity which added little to what he already knew. She was academically outstanding, but her arrogance and her passion had both caused fierce reactions in people. Those who admired her had done so intensely, and felt her death to be both a public and a personal loss. She had represented great courage in the fight against oppression of all kinds, of bigotry, of narrow and unjust laws, and against those limitations of the mind which seek to regiment the emotions and restrict the true liberty of thought and ideas. He heard in her echoes of Morgan’s cry for the nobility of free love.
From those who hated her he heard the notes of envy and fear. They were frightened of her. She disrupted what they knew and understood. She threatened their peace of mind and unsettled thought.
He also detected through their stories, of both those who admired her and those who scorned her, a consistent thread of manipulation, a love of power and the will to use it, even for its own sake.
He pursued it until after dark. His back ached, he was exhausted and hungry, and had found he still knew little he could not have guessed. He could no longer put off going home. He walked along the footpath in Gower Street, crossed the intersection at Francis Street and Torrington Place, and went on. His feet hurt. Perhaps that was why he was walking more and more slowly.
There was damp in the air and a slight haze around the new moon above the bare branches of the trees. It was possible they had not seen the very last of the frost. What should he say to Charlotte? She had been so angry this morning she had refused to be present so she would not have to speak to him.
Did she care for Dominic so very much … even now? He was part of a past Pitt could never share in, because it had happened before he had known her. It was part of the life she was born to, of sufficient money and beautiful dresses, not hand-me-downs from Aunt Vespasia or gifts from Emily. It was parties and dances, soirees, the theater, having one’s own carriage instead of using a hansom on the rare occasions one went out. It was being known in fashionable circles, never having to explain yourself, to conceal the fact that your husband worked for a living, that you had only one resident maid and no manservant. It was the whole world of leisure.
It was the whole world of idleness, of seeking petty occupations with which to fill your day, and at the end wondering why you were still unsatisfied. Even Dominic had grown tired of it and chosen, with a passion, to do something difficult and consuming with his life. That was what Charlotte admired in him, not his handsome face or his charm or his social position. He had no social position.
She had said “Poor Dominic.” Did he ever want to hear her say “Poor Thomas” like that?
Never! The thought made his stomach hurt.
He turned the corner into Keppel Street. He was a hundred yards from home. He lengthened his stride. He turned up his own step and opened the front door. He would pretend nothing had happened.
The lights were on. He heard no sound. She could not be out. Could she?
He swallowed hard. He wanted to shout. He could feel panic welling up inside him. This was ridiculous. He had been wrong to be pleased about Dominic, but it was not a sin so grievous as—
He heard laughter from the kitchen, women’s laughter, light and happy.
He strode down the corridor, his feet heavy on the linoleum, and threw the door open.
Charlotte was standing beside the flour bin near the dresser and Gracie was next to the sink with a tray of small cakes. There was milk all over the floor. He looked at the mess, then at Gracie, lastly at Charlotte.
“Don’t step on it!” she warned. “You’ll slip. Don’t worry, it isn’t all I have. It’s only half a pint. It looks terrible like that, but it isn’t really bad.”
Gracie put down the cakes and reached for a cloth. Charlotte took a mop and squeezed it out, then began to swab up, looking at Pitt as she did and sending the milk in even wider circles. “You must be tired. Have you had anything to eat?”
“No.” Was it going to be all right?
“Would you like scrambled eggs? I’ve got enough milk for that … I think. Perhaps it had better be an omelette. I can do that with water. And I have a confession to make.”
He sat down, keeping his feet out of the way of the mop.
“Have you?” He tried to sound light, unafraid.
She looked down at the mop, guiding it back to the right place. “Daniel put his foot through one of the sheets,” she said. “I looked at them all. They’re all on their way out. I bought four new pairs, and pillow slips to go with them. Two pairs for us, one each for Daniel and Jemima.” She looked up to see what he would say.
Relief overwhelmed him like a tidal wave. He found he was smiling, even though he had not meant to. “Excellent!” He did not even care how much they had cost. “A very good thing. Are they linen?”
She still looked a little cautious. “Yes … I’m afraid so. Irish linen. It was a good bargain.”
“Even better. Yes, I would like an omelette. And have we any pickle left?”
“Yes, of course.” She smiled slowly. “I never run out of pickle. I wouldn’t dare,” she added under her breath.
“Neither should you.” He tried to sound sincere, but he was too happy. He almost wanted to laugh, just because what he had was so precious. Happiness was not in taking what you pleased, as Morgan thought, but in knowing the infinite value of what you had, of being able to look at it with gratitude and joy. “Never run out of pickle,” he reaffirmed.
She looked at him under her eyelashes and smiled.
    That Sunday, John Cornwallis was invited to dine yet again at the house of Bishop Underhill. It never occurred to him not to accept. He knew why the bishop had sent the invitation. It was entirely to do with the matter of Unity Bellwood’s death. He wanted to know if there was further progress—and to urge Cornwallis to avoid scandal at any cost.
Cornwallis had no desire to allow the church to come into disrepute, even among those who were ignorant or insincere enough to judge the message of the Gospel by the failure of one of its servants to live up to even the ordinary laws of the land, let alone the higher laws of God. But neither did he intend to allow an actual wrong to be committed in order to hide an apparent one. He had nothing else to say to Bishop Underhill. He would have sent a polite note of apology except he wanted to go to dinner, to see the bishop’s wife again. If he refused, she might think he imagined the bishop’s expediency was hers also and that she shared in his cowardice. He had never thought it for a moment. The shame in her eyes had haunted him, her helplessness to deny the bishop without disloyalty.
He dressed very carefully. He wished to appear at his best. He told himself it was because the bishop was in a sense the enemy. He was fighting for a different cause. When sailing into conflict one flew all the flags on the masthead, colors streaming in the wind. There must not be a speck of dust on the black broadcloth of his jacket, and neither on his white collar or shirtfront. Cuff links and studs must gleam. Boots must be without dullness or smear.
He presented himself at exactly the hour stated, neither five minutes before nor five minutes after. He was welcomed by the footman and shown into the withdrawing room, where Isadora was waiting for him. She was dressed in very dark blue, soft as the night at sea. He could remember just that sort of sky after twilight in the Caribbean. She looked pleased to see him. She was smiling.
“I am so sorry, Mr. Cornwallis, the Bishop has been detained, but he will not be long, perhaps half an hour at most.”
He was delighted. His spirits soared immediately. He had to stop himself from allowing it to show in his face. What should he say? What would be honest, and not too bold, yet polite? He must say something!
“I’m sure it won’t matter.” Was that a foolish thing to say? As far as he was concerned if the bishop never came, so much the better! “I—I have no real news to tell him. It is all … insubstantial.”
“I imagine it will be,” she agreed. A shadow crossed her face. “Do you think they will be able to prove it?”
“I don’t know.” He knew what she was worrying about. At least he thought he did. A darkness would hang over Parmenter forever, his guilt neither proved nor disproved. He would always be suspect. It was almost a worse sentence than guilt outright, because there was a resentment as well, the feeling he had cheated justice. “But if there is anyone who can solve it, it will be Pitt,” he added.
“You think very highly of him, don’t you?” she said with a smile touched by anxiety.
“Yes I do.” There was no equivocation in his mind.
“I hope it is capable of proof. Some things aren’t.” She glanced towards the French doors and the garden, where the light was fading, casting deep shadows under the tangled branches of the trees, although they were still bare. “Would you like to walk?”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. He loved gardens at twilight. “Yes, I would.”
She led the way, stopping to allow him to open the door for her, then stepping through into the soft night air, rapidly cooling after the fragile warmth of the day. But if she felt cold through the thin fabric of her dress, she ignored it.
“There is not much to see, I’m afraid,” she said as she walked over the grass. “Just a glimmer of crocuses under the elms.” She pointed towards the far end of the lawn, and he could make out the blur of white and purple and gold across the bare earth. “I think I’ve brought you under false pretenses. But you can smell the narcissi.”
He could. There was a delicate sweetness in the air, clean and sharp as only white flowers can be.
“I love the change between day and night,” he said, lifting his face to look up at the sky. “Everything between sunset and darkness. There is so much room for imagination. You see things in a different way from the glare of daylight. There’s a richer beauty, and an awareness of how fleeting it all is, how ephemeral. It makes everything infinitely more precious, and there is a sense of regret in it, an understanding of time, and loss, that heightens everything.” He was talking dreadful nonsense. In the morning he would be mortified with embarrassment when he remembered.
And yet it was what he meant, and he did not stop. “And at dawn, from the first white fin of light in the east, right through until the clean, cold white daylight, its pale mists clearing across the fields, the dew over everything, there is an unreasoning hope you cannot explain—or feel at any other time.” He ceased abruptly. She must be thinking him a complete fool. He should never have come. He should have stayed inside, talking polite rubbish until the bishop arrived and tried to coerce him into arresting Ramsay Parmenter and having him declared insane.
“Have you noticed how many flowers have their best perfume at dusk?” she asked, still walking a little ahead of him, as if she also were reluctant to go back to the warm room and the lights and the fire. “If I could have anything I wanted, I would live overlooking water, a lake or the sea, and watch the light on it every evening. The earth consumes the light. The water gives it back.” She turned to him. He could see the faint glimmer of her fair skin. “It must be marvelous to watch the dawn or the sunset at sea,” she said softly. “Are you afloat in an ocean of light? Please don’t tell me you aren’t! Don’t you feel as if you are half in the sky, a part of it all?”
He smiled widely. “I hadn’t put it in such excellent words, but yes, that is exactly it. I watch the seabirds, and feel as if I am doing almost the same thing, as if the sails are my wings.”
“Do you miss it terribly?” Her voice came out of the near darkness, close to him.
“Yes,” he said with a smile. “And then when I was at sea I missed the smell of the damp earth, the wind in the leaves and the colors of autumn. Perhaps you can have everything, but you certainly cannot have it all at once.”
She gave a little laugh. “That is what memories are for.”
They were walking close together. He was very aware of her beside him. He would have liked to touch her, to offer her his arm, but it would have been too obvious. It would break the delicacy of the moment. The cloud bank was deepening over the west. He could barely see her, and yet he had never felt more aware of anyone.
Suddenly the lights from the house shone out over the grass. Someone had opened the French windows. The bishop was silhouetted against the warm color of the room, staring out at them.
“Isadora! What on earth are you doing out there? It’s pitch-dark!”
“No, it isn’t,” she contradicted him. “It’s only late twilight.” Her eyes were used to it, and she had not been aware of the change.
“It’s pitch-dark!” he repeated crossly. “I don’t know what made you take our guest out at this hour. There’s nothing whatever to see. It was most thoughtless of you, my dear.”
The addition of the words my dear somehow added insult to the injury of rudeness. They were so obviously not meant, except to disguise the irritation behind them. Cornwallis controlled his temper because the man was a bishop and this was his house—or more accurately, his garden.
“It is my fault,” he said very clearly. “I was taking great pleasure in the smell of the evening flowers. I am still not used to the feeling of the earth under my feet.”
“Where are you accustomed to finding it?” the bishop said tartly.
Isadora stifled a giggle. Cornwallis heard it distinctly, but the bishop was too far away to be sure.
“You see!” he challenged, mistaking the noise for a sneeze. “You will catch cold. Most foolish, and if I may say so, self-indulgent. Others will have to care for you and perform your duties. Please come in at once.”
Cornwallis was livid. He was glad his face was still hidden until he crossed into the bar of light.
“I am accustomed to finding the land many miles away,” he said almost between his teeth. “I apologize for prevailing upon Mrs. Underhill’s good nature as hostess in asking her to allow me the pleasure of walking in her garden at twilight. I fear I have trespassed upon your hospitality too much and caused an ill feeling I did not intend. Perhaps I should take my leave before I do further damage.”
The bishop was obliged to swallow his anger. That was the last thing he wished. He had not yet even broached the subject which was the purpose of the evening, let alone concluded a satisfactory understanding.
“I would not hear of it,” he said hastily, forcing a sickly smile to his lips. “I am sure there is no damage done at all. I daresay I worry about my wife’s health too much. A single sneeze means nothing whatsoever. It was most remiss of me to mention it. I forget how much a man of the sea must miss such a thing as a garden. One takes it for granted when it is there all the time. I am delighted you enjoyed it. Please come in and warm yourself.”
He stood back while Isadora, then Cornwallis, stepped through the doorway inside, then he closed the door behind them. He even made the grudging sacrifice of offering Cornwallis the position closest to the fire. He did not think of offering it to Isadora. His concern for her health stretched only so far.
He did not raise the subject of Ramsay Parmenter until they were well into the second course of the meal, an excellent fish pie.
“How is your man proceeding with the tragedy in Brunswick Gardens? Has he had success in excluding anyone from suspicion yet?”
Cornwallis wished he could answer with some assurance.
“Unfortunately not. It is a subject in which it is extremely difficult to find proof.” He took another mouthful of the pie.
The bishop’s face darkened. “What is your considered judgment as to whether he will succeed before so much damage is done to the Reverend Parmenter’s reputation that he is effectively unable to continue?” he demanded.
“So far there is no suspicion outside the immediate family,” Cornwallis replied carefully.
“But you have said his miserable daughter is perfectly prepared to testify against him!” the bishop pointed out. “It cannot be long before she makes some catastrophic remark and the word spreads like fire. Then think of the damage that will be done by such rumors. How will we check it, when we have no proof?” The strength of his fear was sharp-edged in his voice. “We shall be seen to condone his act. We shall appear to be trying to conceal it, to protect him from the consequences of his crime. No, Captain Cornwallis, it is entirely unacceptable. I cannot afford the risk of such indecision.” He sat up very straight. “I am speaking for the church. This is not leadership, this is allowing events to dictate to us, not us to be master of events.”
Isadora cringed under his tone. She opened her mouth, but there was nothing she could say which would not make it worse. She looked from Cornwallis to her husband, and back again.
Cornwallis did not want to quarrel with a bishop, any bishop, least of all with one who was Isadora’s husband. But if he were to behave with honor he had no choice.
“I will not act until I know the truth,” he said steadily. “If I charge Ramsay Parmenter, and I cannot prove it in court, then he is free, and suspicion rests either on Mallory Parmenter or Dominic Corde, regardless of whether they are guilty or not. And if I then find proof of Ramsay’s guilt, I can do nothing about it.”
“I do not want you to charge him, for God’s sake!” the bishop said furiously, leaning forward with elbows on the table. “Use your brains, man! That would be disastrous. Think what it would do to the reputation of the church. Your duty is to find moral proof of his guilt, not physical. Then we can have him committed to an asylum, where he can hurt no one and be cared for in privacy and decency. His family will not suffer, and Corde can continue with his no doubt promising career in the church unlimited by any implication of scandal. What happens to Mallory is not our concern. He has chosen the Church of Rome.”
Cornwallis was revolted. He could not keep it from his face.
“I am a policeman, not a physician to the insane,” he said icily. “I have no idea whether a man is mad or not. All I can deal in is whether he is proven to have committed a given act. And I do not know whether Ramsay Parmenter pushed Unity Bellwood to her death or whether it was someone else. Until I do, I am not prepared to make any statement on the subject. That will have to be acceptable to you, because there is no alternative.” He laid down his knife and fork as if he would eat no more.
The bishop stared at him. “I am sure,” he said slowly, “that when you have had time to consider the matter more fully, and the implications of what your attitude will do to a church towards which I believe you have some loyalty, then you will reconsider your situation.” He gestured to the footman waiting near the door. “Peters, will you remove the plates and bring in the meat.”
Isadora closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Her hands were shaking. She set down her glass before she spilled it.
For her sake only, Cornwallis stayed for the remainder of the meal.