Brunswick Gardens Part 2

It was a strange speech for a man of religion. It was obviously without heat, even without certainty. He was searching for words and casting aside what to Pitt would have been the obvious ones. There was no mention of G.o.d or of judgment. Perhaps he was more deeply shocked than he pretended. If he had indeed killed her, as Braithwaite seemed to believe, then he should be in a state of inner numbness.

And yet all Pitt could see in his face was confusion and doubt. Was it conceivable he had blocked the horror of it out of his mind and did not actually remember?

"Miss Bellwood left this room in considerable anger," Pitt said aloud. "She was heard shouting at you, or at least speaking very loudly and offensively."

"Yes...yes, indeed," Ramsay agreed. "I am afraid I spoke to her equally offensively."

"From where, Reverend Parmenter?"

He opened his eyes wide. "From where?" he repeated. "From...from here. From this room. I...I went to the doorway, I followed her that far...then...then I realized the futility of it." His hands clenched. "I was so angry I was afraid I would say things I might later regret. I-I returned to my desk and continued to work, or tried to."

"You did not go after Miss Bellwood onto the landing?" Pitt kept the disbelief out of his voice with difficulty.

"No." Ramsay sounded surprised. "No. I told you, I was afraid the quarrel would become irreparable if I continued it. I was very angry with her." His face pinched with remembered irritation. "She was a remarkably arrogant and objectionable young woman at times." He s.h.i.+fted his weight again and moved a little farther from the fire. "But she was an excellent scholar, in her way, even though areas of her understanding were limited and biased by her own very eccentric beliefs." He looked at Pitt directly. "Rather more of emotion than of the intellect, I fear. But then she was a woman, and young. It would be unfair to expect more of her. Like all of us, she was limited by her nature."

Pitt regarded him him carefully, studying his features to try to understand the emotions which prompted such a mixed and peculiar speech. That he had disliked Unity Bellwood was apparent, but it seemed he was trying to be both honest and as charitable as that dislike allowed him. And yet there was no discernible sense of tragedy in him, as if he had not grasped the reality of her death. Even the maid and the valet appeared to have more appreciation of the shadow of murder over them. Did Parmenter really feel that the reasons for her scholastic inabilities could possibly matter now? Or was this his way-at least temporarily-of escaping the horror of what it seemed he had done? Pitt had seen people retreat into trivialities to escape the overwhelming before. Women sometimes compulsively occupied themselves with food or housework in times of bereavement, as if the exactness of placement of a picture on a wall were of permanent importance. Silver must be polished like mirrors, ironing make fabric as smooth as gla.s.s. Perhaps the attending to irrelevancies in reasoning was Parmenter's way of keeping his mind from the truth. carefully, studying his features to try to understand the emotions which prompted such a mixed and peculiar speech. That he had disliked Unity Bellwood was apparent, but it seemed he was trying to be both honest and as charitable as that dislike allowed him. And yet there was no discernible sense of tragedy in him, as if he had not grasped the reality of her death. Even the maid and the valet appeared to have more appreciation of the shadow of murder over them. Did Parmenter really feel that the reasons for her scholastic inabilities could possibly matter now? Or was this his way-at least temporarily-of escaping the horror of what it seemed he had done? Pitt had seen people retreat into trivialities to escape the overwhelming before. Women sometimes compulsively occupied themselves with food or housework in times of bereavement, as if the exactness of placement of a picture on a wall were of permanent importance. Silver must be polished like mirrors, ironing make fabric as smooth as gla.s.s. Perhaps the attending to irrelevancies in reasoning was Parmenter's way of keeping his mind from the truth.

"Where were you when you heard Mrs. Parmenter call out for help and that something dreadful had happened?" Pitt asked.

"What?" Ramsay looked surprised. "Oh. I did not hear her. Braithwaite came and told me there had been an accident, and I went to see what it was, naturally, and if I could help. As you know, help was impossible." He looked at Pitt without wavering.

"You did not follow Miss Bellwood out and continue your quarrel on the landing?" Pitt asked, although he knew what the answer would be.

Ramsay's rather spa.r.s.e eyebrows rose. "No. I already told you, Superintendent, I did not leave the room."

"What do you believe happened to Miss Bellwood, Reverend Parmenter?"

"I don't know," Ramsay said a little more sharply. "The only thing I can suppose is that she somehow slipped...overbalanced...or something. I am not really sure why it needs a policeman from Bow Street to look into the affair. Our local people are perfectly adequate, or even the doctor, for that matter."

"There is nothing to trip over on the stairs. No carpets or stair rails to come loose," Pitt pointed out, still watching Ramsay's face. "And Stander and Miss Braithwaite both heard Miss Bellwood call out 'No, no, Reverend' just before she fell. And Mrs. Parmenter saw someone leaving the landing and heading in this direction."

Ramsay stared at him and slowly horror filled his face, etching the lines around his nose and mouth deeper. "You must have misunderstood!" he protested, but his skin was very white and he seemed to have difficulty forming his words, as if his lips and tongue would not obey him. "That is preposterous! What you are suggesting is that...I pushed her!" He gulped and swallowed. "I a.s.sure you, Mr. Pitt, I found her most irritating, an arrogant and insensitive young woman whose moral standards were highly questionable, but I most certainly did not push her." He drew in his breath. "Indeed, I did not touch her at all, nor did I leave this room after our...difference." He spoke vehemently, his voice rather loud. His eyes did not waver in the slightest from meeting Pitt's, but he was afraid. It was in the beads of sweat on his skin, the brightness of his eyes, the way his body was held rigid.

Pitt rose to his feet. "Thank you for your time, Reverend Parmenter. I shall speak to the rest of the household."

"You...you must find out what happened!" Ramsay protested, taking a step forward and then stopping abruptly. "I did not touch her!"

Pitt excused himself and went back downstairs to look for Mallory Parmenter. When Braithwaite and Stander realized that everything rested upon their word, they might both retract their statements, and Pitt would be left with nothing, except a death and an accusation he could not prove. In a way that would be perhaps the most unsatisfactory outcome of all.

He crossed the spectacular hallway, the body of Unity Bellwood now removed, and found Mallory Parmenter in the library. He was staring out of the window at the spring rain now beating against the gla.s.s, but he swung around as soon as he heard the door opening. His face was full of question.

Pitt closed the door behind him. "I am sorry to disturb you, Mr. Parmenter, but I am sure you will appreciate that I need to ask further questions."

"I suppose so," Mallory said reluctantly. "I don't know what I can tell. I have no knowledge of my own as to what happened. I was in the conservatory all the time. I didn't see Miss Bellwood at all after breakfast. I a.s.sume she went upstairs to the study to work with my father, but I don't know that or what happened after."

"Apparently they quarreled, so Reverend Parmenter says, and according to the maid and the valet, who both heard them."

"That doesn't surprise me," Mallory replied, looking down at his hands. "They quarreled rather often. Miss Bellwood was very opinionated and had not sufficient tact or sense of people's feelings to refrain from expressing her beliefs, which were contentious, to put it at its best."

"You did not care for her," Pitt observed.

Mallory looked up sharply, his brown eyes wide. "I found her opinions offensive," he corrected himself. "I had no personal ill will against her." It seemed to matter to him that Pitt believed this.

"You live at home, Mr. Parmenter?"

"Temporarily. I am shortly to go to Rome, to take up a position in a seminary there. I am studying for the priesthood." He said it with some satisfaction, but he was watching Pitt's face.

Pitt was floundering. "Rome?"

"Yes. I do not share my father's beliefs either...or lack of beliefs. I do not mean to disturb your sensibilities, but I am afraid I find the Church of England to have lost its way somewhat. It seems not so much a faith as a social order. It has taken me a great deal of thought and prayer, but I am sure of my conviction that the Reformation was a profound mistake. I have returned to the Church of Rome. Naturally my father is not pleased."

Pitt could think of nothing to say which did not sound foolish. He could hardly imagine Ramsay Parmenter's feelings when his son had broken such news to him. The history of the schism between the two churches-the centuries of blood, persecution, proscription and even martyrdom-was part of the fabric of the nation. Only a few months before-the past October, to be exact-he had closely observed Irish politics, rooted in pa.s.sionate hatred between the two religions. Protestantism was immeasurably more profoundly and intensely critical, whether one agreed with those ethics or not.

"I see," he said grimly. "It is hardly surprising you found Miss Bellwood's atheism offensive."

"I was sorry for her." Again Mallory corrected him. "It is a very sad thing for a human being to be so lost as to believe there is no G.o.d. It destroys the foundation of morality."

He was lying. It was in the sharpness of his voice, the quick bright anger in his eyes, the speed with which he had replied. Whatever he had felt for Unity Bellwood, it was not pity. Either he wished Pitt to think it was or he needed to believe it himself. Perhaps he did not think a candidate for the priesthood should feel personal anger or resentment, especially towards someone who was dead. Pitt did not want to argue about the foundation of morality, although a reb.u.t.tal rose to his tongue. The number of men and women whose morality was founded in love of man rather than love of G.o.d was legion. But there was something closed in Mallory Parmenter's face which made the idea of reasoning on the subject pointless. It was a conviction of the heart rather than the mind.

"Are you saying, as kindly as possible, that Miss Bellwood's morality was questionable?" Pitt asked mildly.

Mallory was taken aback. He had not expected to have to reply. Now he did not know what to say.

"I...I don't know in any immediate sense, of course," he denied it. "It is only the way she spoke. I am afraid she advocated a great many things which most of us would find self-indulgent and irresponsible. The poor woman is dead. I should greatly prefer not to discuss it." His tone was final, ending the matter.

"Did she air these views in this house?" Pitt asked. "I mean, did you feel she was influencing members of your family or your staff in an adverse way?"

Mallory's eyes widened in surprise. Apparently this was something that had not occurred to him. "No, not that I am aware. It was simply-" He stopped. "I prefer not to speculate, Superintendent. Miss Bell wood met her death in this house, and it appears more and more as if you are not satisfied it was accidental. I have no idea what happened, or why, and I cannot be of material a.s.sistance to you. I'm sorry."

Pitt accepted the dismissal for the present. There was nothing to be gained from forcing the issue now. He thanked Mallory and went to look for Tryphena Parmenter, who seemed to be the one most profoundly distressed by Unity Bellwood's death. He learned that she had gone upstairs to her bedroom, and he sent a maid to ask if she would come down to see him.

He waited in the morning room. Someone had now lit an excellent fire there, and already the chill was off the room. The rain beating against the windows was quite an agreeable sound, making him feel isolated in warmth and safety. The room was also furnished in highly fas.h.i.+onable taste, with a considerable Arabic influence, but softened to blend with the English climate and materials for building. The result was more to Pitt's taste than he would have expected. The onion dome shapes stenciled on the walls and echoed in the curtains did not seem alien, nor did the geometrically patterned tiles in green and white around the fireplace.

The door opened and Tryphena came in, her head high, eyes red-rimmed. She was a slender, handsome woman with thick, fair hair, excellent skin, and a very slight s.p.a.ce between her front teeth that was revealed when she opened her mouth to speak.

"You are here to find out what happened to poor Unity and see that some justice is done her!" It was more a challenge than a question. Her lips trembled and she controlled herself with difficulty, but her overriding emotion at the moment was anger. Grief would probably follow soon.

"I am going to try to, Miss Parmenter," he answered, turning to face her. "Do you know anything that can be of help in that?"

"Mrs. Whickham," she corrected, her mouth tightening a little. "I am a widow." The expression with which she said the last word was unreadable. "I didn't see it, if that's what you mean." She came forward, the light falling bright on her hair as she pa.s.sed under the chandelier. She looked very English in this exotic room. "I don't know what I could tell you, except that Unity was one of the bravest, most heroic people in the world," she went on, her voice charged with emotion. "At whatever the cost, she should be avenged. She, of all the victims of violence and oppression, deserves justice. It's ironic, isn't it, that one who fought for freedom so fiercely and honestly should be stabbed in the back?" She gave a sharp little shudder, and her face was very white. "How tragic! But I wouldn't expect you to understand that."

Pitt was startled. He had not been prepared for this reaction.

"She fell down the stairs, Mrs. Whickham ..." he began.

She looked at him witheringly. "I know that! I meant it in a higher sense. She was betrayed. She was killed by those she trusted. Are you always so literal?"

His instinct was to argue with her, but he knew it would defeat his purpose.

"You seem very certain it was deliberate, Mrs. Whickham," he said almost casually. "Do you know what happened?"

She gulped air. "She didn't fall; she was pushed."

"How do you know?"

"I heard her cry out, 'No, no, Reverend!' My mother was in the doorway. She'd actually have seen him except for the edge of the screen. As it was she saw a man leaving the landing and going back along the corridor. Why would any innocent person leave instead of going instantly to try to help her?" Her eyes were bright, challenging him to argue.

"You said it was someone she trusted," he reminded her. "Who might she have expected to attack her, Mrs. Whickham?"

"The Establishment, the vested interests in masculine power and the restrictions of freedom of thought and emotion and imagination," she replied defiantly.

"I see ..."

"No, you don't!" she contradicted him. "You have absolutely no idea!"

He put his hands in his pockets. "No, perhaps you are right. If I were fighting for those things, and were a woman rather than a man, I would expect a high official in the church to be the very bastion of entrenched privilege and the keeping of ideas exactly as they are. It is where I would expect my opposition, even my enemies."

The color rushed up her face. She started to speak and then stopped.

"Whom did she consider her enemies?" he pressed.

She regained her composure with an effort, her shoulders rigid, her hands stiff. The argument concentrated her mind, and it was easier than grief. "Not anyone in this house," she responded. "One does not expect such violence behind the face of friends.h.i.+p, not if you are utterly honest yourself and you approach everyone thoroughly openly and without fear or deceit."

"You had a very high opinion of Miss Bellwood," he observed. "Would you mind telling me something more about her, so that I can try to understand what must have happened?"

She softened a little, her face reflecting an obvious vulnerability and even a dawning awareness of being alone in a new and terrible sense. "She believed in progress towards more freedom for everyone," she said proudly. "All kinds of people, but especially those who have been oppressed for centuries, forced into roles they did not want and denied the opportunity to learn and to grow, to use the talents they possessed and could have refined into great art."

She frowned. "Do you know, Superintendent, how many women who composed music or painted pictures were obliged to publish or show their work only if they used their father's or their brother's names?" Her voice rose and she almost choked on her outrage. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, elbows bent a little. "Can you imagine anything worse than creating great art, the realization of your ideas, the visible mark of your soul's dreams, and having to pretend it was someone else's just to conform to an oppressor's vanity? It...it is unspeakable! It is a tyranny beyond any kind of forgiveness!"

He could not argue with her. Put into those words, it was monstrous.

"She was fighting for artistic freedom?" he asked.

"Oh, a great deal more than that!" she said hotly. "She was fighting for freedom of all kinds: the right of people to be themselves, not to have to conform to other people's old-fas.h.i.+oned ideas of what they ought to be. Do you know what it is like to be alone in your fight, really alone? To have to pretend you don't understand things in order to pander to the vanity of stupid people, just because they are born a different gender from yourself?" Her face tightened with impatience. "No, of course you don't! You're a man, part of the Establishment. You take power as your birthright. n.o.body questions you or tells you you haven't the nature or the intelligence to achieve anything-or even to make your own judgments and decide your own fate!" She looked at him with wide, round blue eyes glowing with contempt. Her slender shoulders were still locked rigid, and her hands were clenched at her sides.

"My father was a gamekeeper and my mother did the laundry," he replied, looking straight back at her. "I know quite a lot about birthrights and different people's places in society. I also know what it is like to be cold and hungry. Do you, Mrs. Whickham?"

She flushed a deep pink.

"I...I'm...not talking about...that," she said, stumbling on her words. "I'm talking about intellectual freedom. It's a...far bigger thing."

"It's only a bigger thing if you are warm and safe and have food in your stomach," he responded with just as much feeling as she. "There are lots of battles which are worth fighting, not only Miss Bellwood's belief in equality of intellectual opportunity and recognition."

"Well ..." Honesty struggled with grief and anger within her. Honesty won, but only just. "Well, yes, I suppose so. I didn't mean there weren't. You asked me about Unity. She challenged the rigid ideas of society, and of the church, and she upset the hypocrites and the cowards who don't have the spiritual honor or the bravery to dare to think for themselves."

"Does that include your father?"

She lifted her chin. "Yes...yes, it does." She dared him to disapprove her devastating candor. "If you need the truth, then he's a moral coward and an intellectual bully. Like most academic men, he's terrified of new ideas or anything that challenges what he was taught. Unity was full of new perceptions that he was too limited to understand, and he wouldn't try. Anyway, he hasn't the imagination. He knew she was surpa.s.sing him, so he tried to overpower her, shout her down, intimidate her. I'm speaking metaphorically, or course. You do understand that?"

"I heard that this morning it was fairly literal," he pointed out.

Her eyes suddenly filled with tears and she blinked hard, trying to dispel them, and failed. They slid down her cheeks. She looked like an angry and frightened child.

Pitt found she stirred his sympathies at the same time as she exasperated him.

"I am sure such people as Miss Bellwood are very rare," he said with more humor, and grat.i.tude for that fact, than she was aware.

"Unique," she agreed urgently. "You must seek justice, Superintendent...no matter what that is or who stands in the way. You must, for honor's sake! You mustn't be afraid of anyone. Unity wasn't. And she deserves that of her avenger. You mustn't let privilege or superst.i.tion deter you, or...or even pity for who else is affected." Her voice was husky with the power of her feeling. "If people can be dismissed simply because they are dead, if we don't owe them anything because they are powerless to demand it from us, then we are worth nothing." She slashed her hand in the air. "All civilization is worth nothing! The past is meaningless, and the future will forget us just the same. Only we shall have deserved it. Can you fulfill your role in history, Superintendent Pitt?" she demanded. "Are you equal to it?"

"I have every intention of trying, Mrs. Whickham, because that is my job, whether I like the results or not," he replied, keeping his expression perfectly straight. Her words were pretentious enough, but behind them she was not unlike his almost-nine-year-old daughter, Jemima. She fed on just such unself-conscious extremes. And her feelings were very easily hurt if she thought anyone was laughing at her.

Tryphena studied him. "I am glad. It is what must be. I...I only wish my father were not so...implacable, so domineering." She shrugged. "But I suppose weak people are very often stubborn because they don't know what else to cling to."

There was no courteous answer he could make to that, and he let it pa.s.s.

"Thank you. I'm sorry to have had to ask you these things," he said formally. "I appreciate your frankness, Mrs. Whickham. Now, would you be kind enough to ask your sister if she would come and see me, either here or in some other room in which she would prefer to talk."

"I'm sure she'll come here," she replied. "Although I don't suppose she can tell you anything. She didn't know Unity as well as I did. And she'll defend Papa. She's loyal to people." Again the flicker of contempt crossed her face. "She cannot see that ideas are more important. Principles must govern us or they are not principles. If we can bend them to suit us, then they are worth nothing! 'I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honour more!' Richard Lovelace, you know?" She raised her eyebrows. "No, I don't suppose you do. Never mind, it is true. I'll get Clarice for you." And without waiting for his answer she turned and went out, leaving the door wide open behind her.

It was more than ten minutes before Clarice Parmenter came in. He heard her quick footsteps moving across the tiles of the hall before he saw her. She was of similar height and build to her sister, but her hair was dark and she was not as pretty. Her mouth was wider and her nose was fractionally crooked, giving her face a lopsided air, perhaps unconsciously humorous.

She came in and closed the door behind her.

"I can't help," she said without preamble. "Except to say that the whole thing is ridiculous. It must have been an accident. She tripped over something and fell."

"Over what?" he asked.

"I don't know!" She waved her hands impatiently. They were very fine hands, slender and expressive. "But you don't push people downstairs because they don't believe in G.o.d! That's absurd! Well...of course you don't, if you are a Christian yourself." She shrugged and made a face. "Actually you burn them at the stake, don't you." She did not laugh, she was too near hysteria to dare, but there was a wild flash of humor in her eyes. "We haven't got any stakes here, but it would be very infra dig to heave someone down the stairs. Execution for blasphemy has to be done with all the proper ceremony or it doesn't count."

He was startled. She was not like anything he could possibly have foreseen. Perhaps she cared more than he had been led to believe. "Were you very fond of Miss Bellwood?" he asked.

"Me?" She was surprised. Her very gray eyes widened. "Not in the slightest. Oh...I see. You think I am emotionally overwrought, because I made remarks about burning atheists? Yes, I probably am. It isn't every day that someone dies in this house and we have the police supposing it was murder. That is why you're here, isn't it? Doesn't it upset most people a bit? I thought you would be used to people weeping and fainting." It was almost a question. She waited for a moment to give him time to answer.

"I am used to people being very shocked," he agreed. "Not many people actually faint." He moved back, inviting her to be seated.

"That's convenient." She perched on the edge of the chair opposite the fire. "I don't suppose fainting people are much use to you." She shook her head a little. "I'm sorry. That has nothing to do with anything, has it? I didn't like Unity particularly, but I do care very much about my father. I really don't believe he would have pushed her, no matter how much she annoyed him, at least not intentionally. They may have struggled. Could she have pushed him and slipped?" She looked up at him hopefully. "Perhaps if he stepped aside or tried to push her away? That's possible, isn't it? That would be an accident. And anyone can have an accident."

He sat down opposite her. "That is not what he said, Miss Parmenter. He said he did not leave his study at all. And your mother's maid and the valet both heard Miss Bellwood call out 'No, no, Reverend!' So did your sister."

She said nothing. Her face reflected her misery and confusion, and equally her complete refusal to believe her father responsible for anything more than mischance.

"Would he have been involved in an accident like that and then lied rather than own to it?" Pitt asked, hoping she would say yes. It would answer all the evidence and still not be murder.

She thought about it for several seconds, then lifted her chin and met his eyes squarely. "Yes. Yes, he would."

He could tell that she was lying. It was precisely what Tryphena had said. She was putting her personal feelings for her father before truth. And he thought he might well have done the same thing were he ever to be in a similar dilemma.

"Thank you, Miss Parmenter," he acknowledged. "I am sorry I have had to trouble you. I believe there is also a curate living in the house, is that so?"