Brunswick Gardens
Page 1
“GUARANTEED
ENTERTAINMENT.”
—Publishers Weekly
“As in most good detective fiction, no one and nothing—including death—is exactly as it seems.”
—Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
Ann Perry’s “novels captivate the reader with their vivid descriptions of London society and poverty, and characters with emotions and reactions that most people have. It’s easy to get caught up in the intrigue, and hard to put down the books…. Brunswick Gardens is no exception.”
—Arizona Republic
“Superb … Combines themes of love, obsession, and redemption.”
—Virginia Pilot & Ledger
“Highly recommended … Perry explores modern themes of feminism, discrimination, and free love within the well-defined strictures of Victorian mores, and her characters emerge as realistic and credible.”
—Library Journal
“Perry’s most complex and penetrating novel to date translates great moral issues into deeply moving human joys and sorrows.”
—Daily Southtown (Chicago, IL)
Please turn to the back of the book for an interview with Anne Perry
By Anne Perry
Published by The Random House Publishing Group:
FEATURING WILLIAM MONK
The Face of a Stranger
A Dangerous Mourning
Defend and Betray
A Sudden, Fearful Death
The Sins of the Wolf
Cain His Brother
Weighed in the Balance
The Silent Cry
A Breach of Promise
The Twisted Root
Slaves of Obsession
Funeral in Blue
Death of a Stranger
The Shifting Tide
Dark Assassin
Execution Dock
FEATURING THOMAS AND CHARLOTTE PITT
The Cater Street Hangman
Callander Square
Paragon Walk
Resurrection Row
Bluegate Fields
Rutland Place
Death in the Devil’s Acre
Cardington Crescent
Silence in Hanover Close
Bethlehem Road
Highgate Rise
Belgrave Square
Farriers’ Lane
The Hyde Park Headsman
Traitors Gate
Pentecost Alley
Ashworth Hall
Brunswick Gardens
Bedford Square
Half Moon Street
The Whitechapel Conspiracy
Southampton Row
Seven Dials
Long Spoon Lane
Buckingham Palace Gardens
THE WORLD WAR I NOVELS
No Graves As Yet
Shoulder the Sky
Angels in the Gloom
At Some Disputed Barricade
We Shall Not Sleep
THE CHRISTMAS NOVELS
A Christmas Journey
A Christmas Visitor
A Christmas Guest
A Christmas Secret
A Christmas Beginning
A Christmas Grace
A Fawcett Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 1998 by Anne Perry
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Fawcett Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Fawcett Books and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
www.ballantinebooks.com
eISBN: 978-0-307-76768-4
v3.1
To Marie Coolman in Friendship
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
1
PITT KNOCKED ON the assistant commissioner’s door and waited. It must be sensitive, and urgent, or Cornwallis would not have sent for him by telephone. Since his promotion to command of the Bow Street station Pitt had not involved himself in cases personally unless they threatened to be embarrassing to someone of importance, or else politically dangerous, such as the murder in Ashworth Hall five months earlier, in October 1890. It had ruined the attempt at some reconciliation of the Irish Problem—although with the scandal of the divorce of Katie O’Shea, citing Charles Stewart Parnell, the leader of the Irish majority in Parliament, the whole situation was on the brink of disaster anyway.
Cornwallis opened the door himself. He was not as tall as Pitt, but lean and supple, moving easily, as if the physical strength and grace he had needed at sea were still part of his nature. So was the briefness of speech, the assumption of obedience and a certain simplicity of thought learned by one long used to the ruthlessness of the elements but unaccustomed to the devious minds of politicians and the duplicity of public manners. He was learning, but he still relied on Pitt. He looked unhappy now, his face, with its long nose and wide mouth, was set in lines of apprehension.
“Come in, Pitt.” He stood aside, holding the door back. “Sorry to require you to come so quickly, but there is a very nasty situation in Brunswick Gardens. At least, there looks to be.” He was frowning as he closed the door and walked back to his desk. It was a pleasant room, very different from the way it had been during his predecessor’s tenure. Now there were some nautical instruments on the surfaces, a sea chart of the English Channel on the far wall, and among the necessary books on law and police procedure, there were also an anthology of poetry, a novel by Jane Austen, and the Bible.
Pitt waited until Cornwallis had sat down, then did so himself. His jacket hung awkwardly because his pockets were full. Promotion had not made him conspicuously tidier.
“Yes sir?” he said enquiringly.
Cornwallis leaned back, the light shining on his head. His complete baldness became him. It was hard to imagine him differently. He never fidgeted, but when he was most concerned he put his fingers together in a steeple and held them still. He did so now.
“A young woman has met with a violent death in the home of a most respected clergyman, highly esteemed for his learned publications and very possibly in line for a bishopric: the vicar of St. Michael’s, the Reverend Ramsay Parmenter.” He took a deep breath, watching Pitt’s face. “A doctor who lives a few doors away was sent for, and on seeing the body he telephoned for the police. They came immediately, and in turn telephoned me.”
Pitt did not interrupt.
“It appears that it may be murder and Parmenter himself may have some involvement in it.” Cornwallis did not add anything as to his own feelings, but his fears were clear in the very slight pinching around his mouth and the hurt in his eyes. He regarded leadership, both moral and political, as a duty, a trust which could not be broken without terrible consequences. All his adult life so far had been spent at sea, where the captain’s word was absolute. The entire ship survived or sank on his skill and his judgment. He must be right; his orders were obeyed. To fail to do so was mutiny, punishable by death. He himself had learned to obey, and in due time he had risen to occupy that lonely pinnacle. He knew both its burdens and its privileges.
“I see,” Pitt said slowly. “Who was she, this young woman?”
“Miss Unity Bellwood,” Cornwallis replied. “A scholar of ancient languages. She
was assisting Reverend Parmenter in research for a book he is writing.”
“What makes the doctor and the local police suspect murder?” Pitt asked.
Cornwallis winced and his lips pulled very slightly thinner. “Miss Bellwood was heard to cry out ‘No, no, Reverend!’ immediately before she fell, and the moment afterwards Mrs. Parmenter came out of the withdrawing room and found her lying at the bottom of the stairs. When she went to her she was already dead. Apparently she had broken her neck in the fall.”
“Who heard her cry out?”
“Several people,” Cornwallis answered bleakly. “I am afraid there is no doubt. I wish there were. It is an extremely ugly situation. Some sort of domestic tragedy, I imagine, but because of the Parmenters’ position it will become a scandal of considerable proportion if it is not handled very quickly—and with tact.”
“Thank you,” Pitt said dryly. “And the local police do not wish to keep the case?” It was a rhetorical question, asked without hope. Of course they did not. And in all probability they would not be permitted to, even had they chosen to do so. It promised to be a highly embarrassing matter for everyone concerned.
Cornwallis did not bother to answer. “Number seventeen, Brunswick Gardens,” he said laconically. “I’m sorry, Pitt.” He seemed about to add something more, then changed his mind, as if he did not know how to word it.
Pitt rose to his feet. “What is the name of the local man in charge?”
“Corbett.”
“Then I shall go and relieve Inspector Corbett of his embarrassment,” Pitt said without pleasure. “Good morning, sir.”
Cornwallis smiled at him until he reached the door, then turned back to his papers again.
Pitt telephoned the Bow Street station and gave orders that Sergeant Tellman was to meet him in Brunswick Gardens, on no account to go in ahead of him, and then took a hansom himself.
It was nearly half past eleven when he alighted in bright, chill sunshine opposite the open space and bare-leafed trees near the church. It was a short walk to number seventeen, and he saw even at twenty yards’ distance an air of difference about it. The curtains were already drawn, and there was a peculiar silence surrounding it, as if no housemaids were busy airing rooms, opening windows or scurrying in and out of the areaway, receiving deliveries.
Tellman was waiting on the pavement opposite, looking as dour as usual, his lantern-jawed face suspicious, gray eyes narrow.
“What’s happened here then?” he said grimly. “Been robbed of the family silver, have they?”
Tersely, Pitt told him what he knew, and added a warning as to the extreme tact needed.
Tellman had a sour view of wealth, privilege and established authority in general if it depended upon birth; and unless it was proved otherwise, he assumed it did. He said nothing, but his expression was eloquent.
Pitt pulled the bell at the front door and the door was opened immediately by a police constable looking profoundly unhappy. He saw that Pitt’s hair was rather too long, his pockets bulging, and his cravat lopsided, and drew in his breath to deny him entrance. He barely noticed Tellman, standing well behind.
“Superintendent Pitt,” Pitt announced himself. “And Sergeant Tellman. Mr. Cornwallis asked us to come. Is Inspector Corbett here?”
The constable’s face flooded with relief. “Yes sir, Mr. Pitt. Come in, sir. Mr. Corbett’s in the ‘all. This way.”
Pitt waited for Tellman and then closed the door. He and Tellman followed the constable across the outer vestibule into the ornate hall. The floor was a mosaic in a design of black lines and whirls on white, which Pitt thought had a distinctly Italian air. The staircase was steep and black, set against the wall on three sides and built of ebonized wood. One of the walls was tiled in deep marine blue. There was a large potted palm in a black tub directly beneath the newel post at the top. Two round white columns supported a gallery, and the main article of furniture was an exquisite Turkish screen. It was all very modern and at any other time would have been most impressive.
Now the eye was taken with the group of figures at the bottom of the stairs: a young and unhappy doctor putting his instruments back into his case; a second young man standing stiffly, his body tense, as if he wanted to take some action but did not know what. The third was a man a generation older with thinning hair and a grave and anxious expression. The fourth, and last, figure was more than half covered by a blanket, and all Pitt could see of her was the curve of her shoulders and hips as she lay sprawled on the floor.
The older man turned as he heard Pitt’s step.
“Mr. Pitt,” the constable said to this man, his face eager, as if he were bearing good news. “And Sergeant Tellman. The commissioner sent them, sir.”
Corbett shared his constable’s relief and made no pretense about it.
“Oh! Good morning, sir,” he responded. “Dr. Greene here has just finished. Nothing to do for the poor lady, of course. And this is Mr. Mallory Parmenter, the Reverend Parmenter’s son.”
“How do you do, Mr. Parmenter,” Pitt replied, and nodded to the doctor. He looked around at the hallway, then up the stairs.They were steep and uncarpeted. Anyone pushed from the top and falling all the way likely would be injured severely. It did not surprise him that in this instance such a fall should have proved fatal. He moved closer and bent down to look at the body of the young woman, holding back the blanket. She was on her side, her face half turned away from him. He could see she had been extremely handsome in a willful and sensuous fashion. Her features were strong, brows level and her mouth full-lipped. He could easily believe that she had been intelligent, but he saw little gentleness in her.
“Died from the fall,” Corbett said almost under his breath. “About an hour and a half ago.” He pulled a watch out of his waistcoat pocket. “The hall clock struck ten just after. I expect you’ll be speaking to everyone yourself, but I can tell you what we know, if you like?”
“Yes,” Pitt accepted, still looking at the body. “Yes, please.” He noticed her feet. She wore indoor slippers rather than boots, and both of them had come half off in the fall. Carefully he examined the hem of her skirt, all the way around, to see if the stitching had come undone and she could have caught her heel in it and tripped. But it was perfect. On the sole of one of the slippers was a curious dark stain. “What’s that?” he asked.
Corbett looked at it. “Don’t know, sir.” He bent down and touched it experimentally with one finger, then held it to his nose. “Chemical,” he said. “It’s dry on the sole, but there’s still quite a sharp odor, so it’s not been there long.” He stood up and turned to Mallory Parmenter. “Did Miss Bellwood go out this morning, do you know, sir?”
“I don’t know,” Mallory answered quickly. He looked very pale and kept his hands from shaking by knotting them together. “I was studying … in the conservatory.” He shrugged apologetically, as if that needed some explanation. “Quietest place in the house sometimes. And very pleasant. No fire lit in the morning room then, and the maid’s busy, so it was also the warmest. I suppose Unity could have gone out, but I don’t know why. Father would know.”
“Where is Reverend Parmenter?” Pitt enquired.
Mallory looked at him. He was a good-looking young man with smooth, dark hair and regular features which might easily appear either charming or sulky depending upon his expression.
“My father is upstairs in his study,” he replied. “He is naturally deeply distressed by what has happened and preferred to be alone, at least for a while. If you need any assistance I shall be happy to offer it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Corbett acknowledged, “but I don’t think we need to detain you any longer. I’m sure you would like to be with your family.” It was a dismissal, politely phrased.
Mallory hesitated, looking at Pitt. He was obviously unwilling to leave, as if something he should have prevented might happen in his absence. He looked down at the still figure on the floor. “Can’t you cover her up again … o
r something?” he said helplessly.
“When the superintendent’s seen everything he needs to, we’ll take her away to the mortuary, sir,” Corbett answered him. “But you leave us to get on with it.”
“Yes … yes, I suppose so,” Mallory conceded. He swiveled on his heel and walked across the exquisite floor and disappeared through an ornately carved doorway.
Corbett turned to Pitt. “Sorry, Mr. Pitt. It seems like a very ugly business. You’ll want to speak to the witnesses for yourself. That’ll be Mrs. Parmenter and the maid and the valet.”
“Yes.” Pitt took a last look at Unity Bellwood, fixing in his mind’s eye the way she lay, her face, the thick honey-fair hair, the strong hands, limp now but long-fingered, well cared for. An interesting woman. But he would probably not need to learn a great deal about her, as he had to in most cases. This one seemed regrettably clear, merely tragic, and perhaps difficult to prove before a court. He turned to Tellman, standing a couple of yards behind him. “You had better go and speak to the rest of the staff. See where everybody was and if they saw or heard anything. And see if you can discover what that substance is on her shoe. And be discreet. Very little is certain so far.”
“Yes sir,” Tellman replied with an expression of disgust. He walked away, shoulders stiff, a little bounce in his step as if he were spoiling for a fight. He was a difficult man, but he was observant, patient and never backed away from any conclusion, no matter how he might dislike it.
Pitt turned back to Corbett. “I had better see Mrs. Parmenter.”
“She’s in the withdrawing room, sir. It’s over that way.” Corbett pointed across the hall and under the white pillars to another highly ornate doorway.
“Thank you.” Pitt walked across, his footsteps on the tiny marble pieces sounding loud in the silence of the house. He knocked on the door, and it was opened immediately by a maid.
Inside was a beautiful room, decorated in a very modern style again, with much Chinese and Japanese art, a silk screen covered in embroidered peacock tails dominating the farther corner—even the wallpaper had a muted bamboo design on it. But at the moment all Pitt’s attention was taken by the woman who lay on the black-lacquered chaise longue. It was difficult to tell her height, but she was slender, of medium coloring, and her features were handsome and most unusual. Her enormous eyes were wide set, her cheekbones high and her nose unexpectedly strong. She gave the air that in normal circumstances she would smile easily and laugh at the slightest chance. Now she was very grave and kept her composure only with difficulty.