Brunswick Gardens Part 17

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 relations.h.i.+p 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 Besancon 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 slas.h.i.+ng 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 embarra.s.sed. "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 s.h.i.+ning, 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 a.s.sociate 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 a.s.sisting 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 cla.s.sifying 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 relations.h.i.+ps 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 relations.h.i.+ps 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 G.o.d."

"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 pa.s.sion, 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 protege?

"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 embarra.s.sment-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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.sistance 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 s.p.a.ce 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 Lancas.h.i.+re cheese, rhubarb pickle and a gla.s.s 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 b.u.t.tons. 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? G.o.d, 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 polis.h.i.+ng metal. You might have it on cloth or paper."