Brunswick Gardens Part 12

"Did you ever see anything to suggest it?" he asked her, almost certain she would say no. He could not imagine Ramsay having any relations.h.i.+p with Unity except the very formal and rather unhappy one he had seen. On every occasion he could recall observing them together they had either been working, and the conversation had been academic and often based on disagreement of one kind or another, or else they had been in public and rather cool. There had been a lot of differences of opinion, carefully concealed beneath outward civility for the most part, but containing a sharp element of Unity's need to prove herself right. Unity had taken distinct pleasure in making her points. She had never let an opportunity slip. She catered to no one's feelings. Possibly it was intellectual integrity. He thought it more likely it was a much more childish desire to win.

Ramsay had taken losing a point, any point, badly. He had masked it with a pretense of indifference, but it was plain enough in his thinned lips and long silences. Any physical pa.s.sion between them was unimaginable.

"No ..." Vita shook her head. "No...I didn't."

"Then don't believe it," he a.s.sured her. "Don't let it even enter your mind. It is not worthy of either of you."

The ghost of a smile touched her mouth again. She took a deep breath and faced him. "You are very kind to me, Dominic. Very gentle. I don't know what any of us would do without your strength to support us. I trust you as I can trust no one else."

"Thank you," he said with a rush of pleasure even the circ.u.mstances around them could not dampen. To be trusted was something he had long hungered for. In the past he had not been-and had not deserved to be. He had too often placed his own needs and appet.i.tes before anything else. He had seldom been spiteful, simply self-obsessed, thoughtless, behaving on impulse, like a child. Since Ramsay had found him and taught him so much, the things he desired had changed. He had tasted the depths of loneliness in the knowledge that those who valued him did so only for his handsome face and the appet.i.tes of theirs he could satisfy. He was like a good meal, hungered for intensely, eaten, and then forgotten. It had all been meaningless, devoid of the things which last.

Now Vita trusted him. She knew countless good and learned men dedicated to helping others, yet she felt he had strength and honor. He found himself smiling back at her.

"There is nothing I want more than to be of comfort to you during this appalling time," he said with profound feeling. "Anything whatever that I can do, you have but to tell me. I cannot say what will happen, but I can promise to give you my support, whatever it is, and to be here to stand beside you."

At last she seemed to relax, her body eased and the tension slipped away from her shoulders. Her back became less rigid. There was even a little color in her cheeks.

"It was a very blessed day for us when you entered this house," she said softly. "I am going to need you, Dominic. I fear very much what that policeman is going to find. Oh, I believe you are right, Ramsay did not have any romantic relations.h.i.+p with Unity." She smiled a little. "The more I think of what you said, the more foolish it seems. He disliked her too much for that."

She was standing very still, about two feet away from him. He could smell her perfume. "In fact, I think he was afraid of her," she continued. "For her quickness of mind and her cruel tongue, but most of all for the things she said about faith. She was terribly destructive, Dominic. I could hate her for that." She drew in her breath and let it out in a shuddering sigh. "It is a wicked thing deliberately to mock someone else's belief and systematically to take it apart and leave them with nothing but the broken pieces. I ought to be sorry she is dead, oughtn't I? But I can't be. Is that very wrong of me?"

"No," he said quickly. "No, it is completely understandable. You have seen the damage she has done, and you are afraid of it. So am I. Life is quite hard enough for most of us. Faith is all that enables us to get through with some dignity and strength. It makes healing and forgiveness possible, and hope when we can see no end to difficulty or grief. To rob people of it is a fearful thing to do, and when the victim is someone you love, how much more must you feel it."

"Thank you." She touched his hand lightly, then straightening her shoulders, she turned and walked away towards the baize door and the butler's quarters. Domestic necessities did not stop because of mourning, or fear, or policemen investigating the tragedies of your life.

Dominic went upstairs to see Ramsay. There must be practical duties with which he could help. Also perhaps there was some way in which he could offer, if not comfort, at least friends.h.i.+p. One thing at least, he could not run away. Ramsay must know he would not be deserted either from suspicion or cowardice.

He put his hand into his pocket for his handkerchief, but it was not there. He must have dropped it-an annoying circ.u.mstance because it was a good one, monogrammed linen from his better financial days. Still, it was barely important now.

He knocked on the study door, and when Ramsay answered, he went in.

"Ah, Dominic," Ramsay said with a forced courage. He looked ill, as if he had slept little and his weariness was deeper than the merely physical. There was a hollowness around his eyes, but also within them. "I am glad you came." He moved his hands briskly among the papers on his desk, as though whatever he was looking for was of great importance. "There are one or two people I would like you to see." He looked up with a brief smile. "Old friends, in a sense, paris.h.i.+oners who need a word of comfort or guidance. I should be very obliged if you could find the time today. There it is." He produced a piece of paper on which were written four names and addresses. He pa.s.sed it across the desk. "None of them is far. You could walk if the weather is pleasant." He glanced at the window. "I think it is."

Dominic took the list, read it, then put it in his pocket.

"Of course I will." He wanted to add something, but now that he was alone with Ramsay he did not know what. There was a generation between them. Ramsay was in every way his senior. He had rescued Dominic when he was in despair, so filled with self-loathing he even contemplated taking his own life. It was Ramsay who had patiently taught him a different and better way, who had introduced a true faith, not the bland, complacent, Sunday-only sort he was used to. How could he now tax Ramsay over this tragedy and press him to speak when he obviously did not wish to?

Or did he? He was sitting awkwardly in his large chair, his hands fiddling with papers, his eyes first on Dominic's, then downcast, then up again.

"Do you wish to speak about it?" Dominic asked, wondering if he were trespa.s.sing unforgivably, but to sit in silence was such a cowardly thing to do.

Ramsay did not pretend to misunderstand.

"What is there to say?" He shrugged his shoulders. He looked bemused, and Dominic realized that behind the effort to be busy, to appear normal, he was also very frightened. "I don't know what happened." His face tightened. "We quarreled. She left the room in a temper, shouting back at me. I am ashamed to say I shouted at her equally abusively. Then I returned to my desk. I am not aware of hearing anything more. I disregard many of the household sounds, the occasional bang or squeal." For a moment his concentration on the present was broken. "I recall one of them spilling a bucket of water on the carpet in the library. She had been cleaning the windows. She screamed as if she were being attacked by robbers." He looked bemused. "Such rage. Everyone came running. And then there are always the mice."

"Mice?" Dominic was lost. "Mice are tiny. They squeak."

A flicker of amus.e.m.e.nt lit Ramsay's eyes for a moment, then died. "Maids scream, Dominic, if they see mice. I thought Nellie would crack the chandeliers."

"Oh, yes, of course." Dominic felt ridiculous. "I didn't think ..."

Ramsay sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Why should you? You were trying to be helpful. I realize that and appreciate it. You were giving me the opportunity to tell you if I had some appalling burden on my conscience-if, in fact, I did push Unity down the stairs, either intentionally or accidentally. It can't have been easy for you to approach me on the subject, and I am aware of the courage it must have taken." He looked straight back at Dominic. "Perhaps it is a relief to speak about it ..."

Dominic felt panic rise up inside him. He was not equal to this. What if Ramsay confessed? Was Dominic bound by any oath of confidence, or even an unspoken understanding? What should he do? Persuade Ramsay to confess to Pitt? Why? Help him towards a repentance before G.o.d? Did Ramsay even understand what he had done? Surely that was the most important thing? Dominic looked at him and saw no harrowing guilt. Fear, certainly, and some guilt, some awareness of the enormity of the situation. But not the guilt of murder.

"Yes ..." Dominic swallowed and nearly choked. He clasped his hands together in his lap, below the height of the desk, where Ramsay could not see them.

Ramsay smiled more widely. "Your face is transparent, Dominic. I am not going to lay a burden of guilt upon you. The worst I can confess to is that I am not sorry she is dead...not nearly as sorry as I know I should be. She was another human being, young and full of energy and intelligence. I mustn't suppose that, in spite of her behavior to the contrary at times, she was not just as capable of tenderness and hope, love and pain as the rest of us."

He bit his lip, his eyes full of confusion.

"My brain tells me that it is tragic that her life should have been cut off. My emotions tell me I am greatly relieved not to have to hear her arrogant certainty in the superiority of mankind over all else, most especially of Mr. Darwin. Pa.s.sionately...intensely ..." His fingers locked around his pen so violently he bent the quill. "I do not wish to be a random organism descended from apes!" His voice thickened, close to tears. "I wish to be the creation of G.o.d, a G.o.d who has created everything around me and cares for it, who will redeem me for my weaknesses, forgive my errors and my sins, and who will somehow sort out the tangles of our human lives and make a kind of sense of them in the end." He dropped to a whisper. "And I can no longer believe it, except for moments when I am alone, at night, and the past seems to come back to me, and I can forget all the books and the arguments and feel as I once used to."

Rain pattered against the window, and the moment after sunlight picked out the bright drops.

"She is not the cause of doubt in the world," Ramsay went on. "Of course she is not. I had heard the arguments before she ever came to Brunswick Gardens. We all had. We had discussed them. I have rea.s.sured many a confused and unhappy paris.h.i.+oner, as no doubt you have, and will continue to." He swallowed, pulling his mouth into a line of pain. "But she focused it all. She was so monumentally certain!" He was looking beyond Dominic now, towards the bookcase with the gla.s.s fronts s.h.i.+ning in the sudden sun. "It is no one thing she said, rather the day-by-day air of being so terribly sure of herself. She never let slip a chance to mock. Her logic was relentless."

He stopped for a moment. Dominic tried to think of something to say, then realized he should not interrupt now.

"She could demolish mine in any argument we had. Her memory was perfect," Ramsay said with a shrug. "There were times when she made me feel ridiculous. I admit, Dominic, I hated her then. But I did not push her, that I swear." He looked at Dominic steadily, pleading to be believed, and yet not willing to embarra.s.s him by asking openly. And perhaps he was afraid to hear the answer.

Dominic was embarra.s.sed. He wanted to believe him, yet how could it be true? Four people had heard Unity cry out "No, no, Reverend!" Had it not been a protest but a cry for help? Then it could only be Mallory who had pushed her.

Why? She had not touched his faith. His beliefs fed on opposition. To him it was only another confirmation that he was right. Every time she mocked him or checked his blind statements with logic, he simply restated them. If she did not understand, it was due to her lack of humility. If his reasoning was faulty, even completely circular, that was the mystery of G.o.d, and not supposed to be understood by man. If she made a scientific statement he disliked, he simply contradicted it. He might be angry, but he was never inwardly disturbed.

"Dominic, I did not kill her!" Ramsay repeated, and this time the fear and the loneliness were sharp in his voice, intruding into Dominic's emotions.

This was a debt he must repay. But how, without endangering himself? And surely Ramsay, who had made him what he was, would not want to undo his creation by having him deny his honesty now.

"Then it was Mallory," Dominic said, forcing himself to look at Ramsay's eyes. "Because I did not."

Ramsay covered his face with his hands and leaned forward over the desk.

Dominic sat motionless. He had no idea what to do. Ramsay's distress seemed to fill the room. He could not possibly be unaware of it. To pretend would be inconceivable. Ramsay had never pretended with him, never evaded an issue or offered in-sincere words. Now, at this moment in this silent room, it was time to repay the obligation he had incurred. It was time to put into effect all the good ideas, the beliefs he had worked for so hard. What was the theory worth if, when he was faced with reality, he was unable or unwilling to meet it? It became a sham, just as hollow and useless as Unity Bellwood had claimed.

He could not allow that to be true!

He thought of reaching across the desk and touching Ramsay's hand, of gripping it, then instantly abandoned the idea. They knew each other so well in some ways. Ramsay had seen the very depth of his own confusion and despair. He had not shrunk then even from holding him.

But that was different. Even as it had placed a bond between them, it had also set them apart, made Ramsay forever the guide, the invulnerable, the rescuer. To try to reverse that now would be to strip from him the last dignity. Dominic would not intrude.

He kept his hands where they were.

"If it was Mallory, we must face it," he said aloud. "We must help him in any and every way possible. We must help him to acknowledge what has happened and, if we can, to understand it. Either he did it by accident or else it was intentional."

His voice sounded cold, terribly rational. It was not what he intended.

"If it was meant, then he must have had a powerful reason. Perhaps she taunted him once too often, and he finally lost his temper. I expect he regrets it bitterly now. Every man has lost his temper at some time in his life. It is easy to understand, certainly with Unity."

Ramsay lifted his head slowly and stared at Dominic. The older man looked ashen, his eyes haunted.

Dominic could barely control his voice. He heard himself speaking as if he were someone else, far away. He still sounded extraordinarily calm.

"Then we shall help him with the police and the law. He must know that we shall not abandon him, nor condemn him. I am sure he understands the difference between condemning the sin and the person who commits it. We shall have to show him the reality of that."

Ramsay breathed in and out very slowly. "He says he did not do it."

Dominic sat quite still. Did Ramsay think that he had? Is that what he was saying? It would be natural. For all their differences, however deep, Mallory was Ramsay's son.

"Do you think Clarice did?" He was struggling to use reason. He must be sensible.

"No, of course not!" Ramsay's face showed how absurd he considered the idea.

"I didn't," Dominic said steadily. "I did not especially like her, but I had no cause to kill her."

"Didn't you?" Ramsay asked with a lift of curiosity in his voice. "I am not blind, Dominic, even if I appear to be absorbed in my books and papers. I saw how she was attracted to you, how she looked at you. She teased Mallory, provoked him, but he was too vulnerable to be a real challenge to her. But you were. You are older, wiser; you have known women before, a great many of them, so you told me when we first met. And I should have guessed it even if you had not told me. It is there in the a.s.surance of your bearing with them. You understand women too well to be a novice. You rejected Unity, didn't you?" I should have guessed it even if you had not told me. It is there in the a.s.surance of your bearing with them. You understand women too well to be a novice. You rejected Unity, didn't you?"

Dominic felt a flush of extreme discomfort. "Yes ..."

"Then you were the perfect challenge for her," Ramsay concluded. "She loved a battle. Victory was her ultimate delight. Intellectual victory was very sweet, and G.o.d knows she sought enough of those over me, and found too many ..." His face tightened with momentary anger and humiliation, then smoothed out again. "But the power of emotional victory was more complete. Are you sure she did not provoke you too far, and it was you who momentarily lost your temper with her? I could understand your pus.h.i.+ng her away from you, literally, physically, and causing the accident which killed her."

"So could I," Dominic agreed, feeling the fear rise inside him. So could Pitt. In fact, Pitt would enjoy believing it. It would let Ramsay escape, and Vita. It would be exactly what Clarice prayed for, escape for both her father and her brother. And, of course, Mallory would welcome it. Tryphena would not care as long as someone was blamed.

Dominic swallowed and found his throat tight. He had not pushed Unity. He had been nowhere near the landing when she fell, and he had no idea who had been. This was even worse than Cater Street. Then it had all been new. He had not known what to expect. He had been numb with the shock of Sarah's death. Now he was very much alive, every nerve aware of the dreadful possibilities. He had seen the pattern before.

"But I did not push her," he said again. "You are right, I am experienced." He swallowed. His mouth was dry. "I know how to refuse a woman without panicking, without provoking a quarrel, let alone violence." That was not strictly true, but this was not a time for going into qualifying explanations.

Ramsay said nothing.

Dominic cast around for what to say next. Ramsay all but stood accused of the crime. If he were innocent he must feel just the same sense of terror that had brushed by Dominic, only worse. Everyone had implicated Ramsay, even his own family. The police seemed to believe them. He must feel so alone it was beyond the imagination to conceive.

Instinctively, Dominic stretched out his hand and put it over Ramsay's wrist, then when he realized what he had done, it was too late to pull away.

"Pitt will get to the truth," he said firmly. "He will not allow an innocent man to be accused or to suffer arrest. That is why they sent him. He will not bow to pressure from anyone, and he never gives up."

Ramsay looked mildly surprised. "How do you know?"

"He is married to my wife's sister. I knew him a long time ago."

"Your wife?"

"She is dead. She was murdered...ten years ago."

"Oh...yes, of course. I'm sorry. For a moment I forgot," Ramsay apologized. Gently he loosed his hand from Dominic's, ran it over his head as if to brush back the hair which was too thin to need it. "I am afraid I am finding it very difficult to concentrate at the moment. This is like walking through a dark dream. I keep tripping over things."

Dominic rose to his feet. "I will go and visit these people. Please...please don't despair ..."

Ramsay smiled bleakly. "I won't. I suppose I owe you that much, don't I?"

Dominic said nothing. The debt was his, and he knew it. He went out and closed the door softly.

His first call was to Miss Edith Trethowan, a lady whose age it was difficult to determine because ill health had robbed her of the vitality she might normally have enjoyed. Her skin was pale and her hair was almost white. Dominic had at first a.s.sumed her to be in her sixties, but one or two references she had made had embarra.s.sed him for his clumsiness, and he had realized she was probably no more than forty-five. It was pain which had marked her face and bent her shoulders and chest, not time.

She was fully dressed, but lying on a chaise longue, as she usually did on her better days. She was obviously pleased to see him.

"Come in, Mr. Corde!" she said quickly, her eyes lighting. She waved a thin blue-veined hand towards the other comfortable chair. "How nice to see you." She peered at him. "But you are looking tired. Have you been doing too much again?"

He smiled and sat down where she invited. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her why he looked weary, but it would only distress her. She liked to hear of happy things. Her own trials were as much as she could bear.

"Yes, I suppose I have," he agreed with a shrug. "But I don't mind. Perhaps I should use better judgment? But today is for visiting friends. How are you?"

She also hid reality. "Oh, I am very well, thank you, and in excellent spirits. I have just read some beautiful letters from a lady traveler in Egypt and Turkey. What a life she leads! I do enjoy reading about it, but I think I should be fearfully afraid to do it myself." She gave a little s.h.i.+ver. "Aren't we fortunate to be able to partake of all these things through other people? All the interest, and none of the flies and heat and diseases."

"Absolutely," he agreed. "No travel sickness, no lumping or b.u.mping on the back of mules or camels, and no sleeping on the ground. You know, Miss Trethowan, I confess, above all I like to have decent plumbing ..."

She giggled happily. "I do so agree. We are not all the stuff of explorers, are we?"

"And if n.o.body stayed at home, whom would they tell when they returned?" he asked.

She was greatly amused. She lay for half an hour talking of all she had read, and he listened attentively and made appropriate remarks every time she stopped long enough to allow him. He promised to find her more books on similar subjects, and left her feeling well satisfied. He had said nothing of religion to her, but he only thought of it afterwards. It had seemed inappropriate.

Next he visited Mr. Landells, a widower who was finding himself acutely lonely and growing more bitter by the week.

"Good morning, Mr. Landells," Dominic said cheerfully as he was admitted to the chilly sitting room. "How are you?"

"My rheumatism is fearful," Landells replied crossly. "Doctor is no use at all. Wettest year I can remember, and I can remember a fair number. Shouldn't wonder if we have a cold summer, too. Happens as often as not." He sat down stiffly, and Dominic sat opposite him. This was obviously going to be hard work.

"Have you heard from your daughter in Ireland?" Dominic enquired.

"Even wetter there," Landells said with satisfaction. "Don't know what she went for." He leaned forward and put a tiny piece of coal onto the fire.

"I thought you said her husband had a position there. Did I misunderstand?"

Landells glared at him. "I thought you were supposed to cheer me up! Isn't that what the church is for, make us believe all this is somehow for the best? G.o.d is going to make it all worth something!" He waved his rheumatic hand irritably at the world in general. "You can't tell me why my Bessie is dead, and I'm sitting here alone with nothing to do and no one to care if I die tomorrow. You come here because it's your duty." He sniffed and glared at Dominic. "You have to. The Reverend comes by now and then because it's his duty. Tells me a lot about G.o.d and redemption and the like. Tells me Bessie is resurrected somewhere and we'll meet again, but he doesn't believe it any more than I do!" He curled his lip. "I can see it in his face. We sit opposite each other and talk a lot of nonsense and neither of us believes a word."

He fished for a large handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. "What do you know about growing old, finding your body doesn't work properly anymore and those you love are dead and there's nothing to look forward to except dying yourself? I don't want any of your plat.i.tudes about G.o.d."

"No," Dominic agreed with a smile, but looking at Landells very directly. "You want someone to blame. You are feeling lonely and frightened, and it is easier to be angry than to admit that. It is a nice releasing sort of emotion. If you can send me away thoroughly crushed, you will feel you have power over somebody...even if it is only power to hurt." He did not know why he said it. He heard his words as if they were a stranger's. Ramsay would have been horrified.

Landells was, too. His face flushed scarlet.

"You can't speak to me like that!" he protested. "You're a curate. You've got to be nice to me. It's your job! It's what you're paid for!"

"No, it's not," Dominic contradicted. "I'm paid to tell you the truth, and that is not what you want to hear."

"I'm not frightened," Landells said sharply. "How dare you say that I am. I'll report you to Reverend Parmenter. We'll soon see what he has to say. He comes and prays for me, talks to me with respect, tells me about the resurrection, makes me feel better. He doesn't sit there and criticize."

"You said he doesn't believe it, and neither do you," Dominic pointed out.