Brunswick Gardens Part 11

"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 l.u.s.t ..."

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 s.h.i.+fted 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, am not, at this point, happy to speak on the subject. I am sorry, sir. That is all I can tell you." 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 pa.s.sion 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 s.h.i.+ning 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, wis.h.i.+ng to a.s.sist 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, compa.s.sion...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 embarra.s.sing to hear Cornwallis spoken to with such scorn and have him believe she was a.s.sociated 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 bl.u.s.tering 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 a.s.sume 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 a.s.sume 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 compa.s.sion 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 s.p.a.ce.

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 embarra.s.sment?"

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 s.h.i.+p 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 G.o.d, 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 trespa.s.s, 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.

5

AT THE SAME TIME as Pitt was in Cornwallis's office listening to Smithers, Dominic was in the withdrawing room in Brunswick Gardens talking to Vita Parmenter. The maids had already dusted and swept the room and the fire was beginning to burn up well. It was a bright morning, but cold, and Vita s.h.i.+vered a little as she moved restlessly back and forth, unable to sit. as Pitt was in Cornwallis's office listening to Smithers, Dominic was in the withdrawing room in Brunswick Gardens talking to Vita Parmenter. The maids had already dusted and swept the room and the fire was beginning to burn up well. It was a bright morning, but cold, and Vita s.h.i.+vered a little as she moved restlessly back and forth, unable to sit.

"I wish I knew what that policeman was thinking," she said, turning and looking at Dominic, her face puckered with distress. "Where is he? Who is he talking to, if not us?"

"I don't know," he said honestly, wis.h.i.+ng he could comfort her instead of standing helplessly and watching her fear. "I really know very little of how they work. He may be finding out more about Unity."

"Why?" She was confused. "What difference can it make?" She moved jerkily, one moment spreading her hands wide, the next knotting them together till it must have hurt her, nails digging into her palms. "Do you mean that because she was a loose-living woman in the past, he may think she behaved that way here?"

He was startled. He had not thought Vita knew anything of Unity's past. It was peculiarly disturbing, but he should have realized that she must have heard Unity's talk about moral freedom, the right to follow emotions and appet.i.tes, the nonsense she frequently talked about the liberating influence of pa.s.sions and how commitment stifled people, women in particular. He had once or twice tried to argue with her that commitment actually protected people, most especially women, and she had withered him with her anger and contempt. Thinking of it now, it was foolish to suppose Vita had not seen or heard at least something of such att.i.tudes.

She was standing on the edge of the Aubusson carpet looking at him with real fear in her wide eyes. She looked very vulnerable, for all the inner strength he knew she possessed.

"I don't even know that that is what he is doing," he answered quietly, stepping a little closer to her. "It is just a possibility. It must be common sense to look at the life of someone who has been...killed...when trying to discover who is responsible."

"I suppose so." Her voice was husky. "Does that mean...do you think...that it may not be Ramsay?" She stared up at him, her face white, her expression veering between hope and despair.

Without thinking he put out his hand and took hers, holding it gently. Her fingers were limp for an instant, then clung to him desperately.

"I'm so sorry!" he whispered. "I wish there were something I could do. Anything. I owe you so much."

She smiled a very little-it was just a curving at the corners of her lips-but as if it mattered to her.

"Ramsay helped me when I was in the depths," he went on. "And now there seems nothing I can do to help him."

She lowered her eyes. "If he killed Unity, there is nothing any of us can do to help him. It ..." She gulped. "It is the...the not knowing which is unbearable." Then she shook herself. "That is a silly thing to say...and weak...we have to bear it." Her voice dropped. "But, Dominic, it hurts!"

"I know ..."

"All sorts of terrible things keep going through my mind." She was still whispering, as if she could not bring herself to say things clearly, although there was no one else in the room. "Is it disloyal of me?" She searched his eyes. "Do you despise me for it? I think perhaps I despise myself. But I wonder if he was attracted to her...she...was very...very vibrant, very...full of ideas and emotions. She had beautiful eyes, didn't you think?"

He found himself smiling in spite of the wretchedness of the situation. Unity's eyes were so much less beautiful than Vita's own. Unity had been voluptuous. He remembered her body with a s.h.i.+ver, and her lips.

"Not remarkable," he answered with literal truth. "Far less so than yours." He disregarded the color filling her cheeks. "And it is hard to believe Ramsay found her appealing. He disliked her opinions too much. She was very critical, you know." He still held her hand, and she was gripping his hand. "If she found anyone in a mistake," he went on, "she never refrained from telling them about it, and usually with pleasure. That does not predispose a man towards romantic ideas."

She looked at him steadily for several seconds. "Do you really think not?" she said at last. "She was a little sharp, wasn't she? A little cruel with her tongue ..."

"Very!" He let his hand fall from hers. "I don't think you should fear that. It is so far from the man we know."

"They worked together a great deal ..." She could not completely rid herself of the fear. "She was young, and...very ..."

He knew what she meant, even if she was reluctant to use the words. Unity had been physically highly attractive.

"They did not actually work together so much," he pointed out. "Ramsay worked in his study, and she quite often worked in the library. They conferred only when it was necessary. And there were always servants about. And, in fact, almost as long as Unity has been here, so has Mallory, so have I. The house is full of people. Not to mention Clarice and Tryphena. Pitt must know that, too."

She did not look greatly comforted. The furrow of anxiety was still deep between her eyes, and her face was very pale.