by Anne Perry
“Really, it is quite the worst thing which has ever happened!” he said sharply. “I don’t think you are appreciating the seriousness of this, Isadora.” He stopped pacing and stood staring at her, his brows furrowed, small lines of anger around his mouth.
“I can see that it is very sad,” she replied, threading her tapestry needle with a deep rose madder silk. “It is always deeply distressing when a young person dies. And I daresay her scholastic skills will be sorely missed. I understand she was brilliant.” She put the skein away among the others.
“For heaven’s sake!” he said exasperatedly. “You have not been paying attention at all. That is hardly the point. Really, I think you could at least put your sewing away and listen with all your mind.” He waved his hand irritably at the tapestry roses. “That is of no importance. This is quite devastating.”
“I don’t see why death should devastate you,” she replied reasonably. “It is very sad, but regrettably we hear of death very often, and surely that is part of the blessing of having a faith that you—”
“It is not the wretched woman’s death which is the problem!” he cut across her, jerking his head in the air. He was wearing a dark suit, gaiters, and a very high white collar. “Of course it is sad, but we deal with death all the time. It is a part of life, and absolutely inevitable. We have all sorts of ways of coping with it, things with which to comfort ourselves and those who mourn. As I said, if you were listening, that is not the point.”
She heard the temper sharp in his voice, and behind it a fear more genuine and urgent than she could remember ever perceiving in him before. She pushed the silks towards the box in which she kept them. “Then what is the point?” she asked.
“I told you! She was pushed down the stairs and broke her neck. It now appears quite possible it was Ramsay Parmenter himself who did it.”
She was startled and suddenly quite tight and cold inside.She knew Ramsay Parmenter. She had always rather liked him; he was invariably kind, but she had sensed an unhappiness in him which she could not forget or dismiss. Now, in the space of a few words, it became pity.
“No, you did not tell me,” she said with acute sorrow. “That is indeed very terrible. What makes anyone think such a thing could have happened? Why? Why should Ramsay Parmenter push anyone downstairs? Was it an accident? Did he overbalance? He doesn’t drink, does he?”
The bishop looked thoroughly annoyed.
“No, of course he doesn’t drink! Whatever possessed you to say such a thing? For heaven’s sake, Isadora, it was I who pushed for him to be given a bishopric. The Archbishop of Canterbury is not going to forget that … nor is the Synod.”
She was unperturbed by his tone. Any suggestion of impropriety disturbed him, and she was used to it. “Canon Black drank a great deal,” she remembered. “No one knew it because he could walk quite steadily even when he was very much the worse for it.”
“That was malicious gossip,” he denied. “You of all people should know better than to listen to it, let alone repeat it. The poor man had an impediment in his speech.”
“I know he did. It is called Napoleon brandy.” She did not wish to be gratuitously unkind, but there were times when tact became cowardice and was intolerable. “You would have done him more good not to turn a blind eye to it.”
His eyebrows rose. “Leave me to be the judge of my duty, Isadora. Canon Black is in the past. There is nothing to be served by debating that issue again. At the present I have a far graver matter upon which I must make a judgment, and a very great deal will depend upon it. It is an enormous responsibility I have.”
She was confused. “What judgment can you make, Reginald? We must support poor Reverend Parmenter and his family, but there is nothing for us to do. Do you think I should call tomorrow, or is it too soon?”
“Certainly it is too soon.” He dismissed the idea with a flick of his well-cared-for hand with its large bloodstone ring. She was used to his hands, strong and square, with spatulate fingers, but she had never found them attractive. It was something about which she felt guilty.
“It only happened yesterday,” he went on. “I heard about it this morning, half an hour ago. The decision is what I must do. I have insufficient information. I have been going over and over in my mind upon Parmenter’s career. What could have unbalanced him to the point where such a thing can even be contemplated?”
She stared at him in disbelief. “What are you saying, Reginald? Are you suggesting there is something uglier than an accident?”
“The police are!” he replied sharply, his sandy eyebrows drawn together. “Therefore I must. I cannot evade reality, no matter how much I might prefer to. If the police bring charges against him, it may even be as dreadful as murder.”
She wanted to deny it, but that was foolish. Reginald would never have said it if it were not true. She looked at him as he swung around and started to pace back and forth again, clenching and unclenching his hands. She had never seen him so distressed or so worried; the muscles of his strong, thick body were knotted hard, his jacket stretched over his shoulders.
“Do you think it is possible?” she asked quietly.
He stopped. “Of course it is possible, Isadora. There is sometimes a darkness in people the rest of us have no idea exists.” He was angry with her because he had to explain, and yet he would have explained anyway, he always explained everything, and she had long ago stopped telling him she understood.
“Parmenter is a man who never achieved his potential,” he went on, wagging his finger. “Think back to when we both met him. He was brilliant. His whole future lay ahead of him. He could have risen to be a bishop then. He had all the talents necessary, the intellectual understanding and the personal ability. He preached superbly.” His voice was getting a sharper edge to it with every sentence. “He had tact, intelligence, judgment, dedication, and all the right sort of family background. He married very well. Vita Parmenter would be an asset to any man. And where is he now?” He stared down at her as if he expected her to supply the answer, but he did not wait. “He has lost the … the promise he used to have, the … the dedication to the purposes of the church. Somewhere he has gone astray, Isadora. I just wonder how far.”
She also had noticed a difference in Ramsay Parmenter over the years. But many people changed. Sometimes it was health, sometimes personal unhappiness, sometimes a disillusion or simply a weariness, a lack of hope. It took great courage to maintain all the fire and energy of youth. Still she found herself defending Ramsay. She did not even think to do it, it was instinctive.
“Surely we must assume it was an accident, unless we hear something which makes that impossible? We must be loyal to him …”
“We must be loyal to the church!” he corrected her. “Sentiment is all very well, in its place, but this is a time for principle. I have to consider the very real possibility that he may be guilty. We are all frail. We all have temptations and weaknesses, both of the flesh and of the spirit. I have seen far more of the world than you have, my dear. I know more of humanity and its darker aspects than you ever will, thank heaven. It is not what a woman should even be aware of, far less see. But I must be prepared to face the worst.” He lifted his chin a little, as if the blow were expected any moment, even in this quiet, comfortable room with the morning sun on a pot of early hyacinths.
She would have been angry were it not for the real fear she heard in the edginess of his voice and saw in the tight tracery of lines around his mouth. She had never known him to be so distressed before. During their thirty years of marriage she had seen him face many difficult decisions, many tragedies where he had to comfort the shocked and grieving and find the right words to say to everyone. She knew he had mediated in difficult internal rivalries between ambitious clerics, breaking bad news, both personal and professional, to many. He had usually found the way. His confidence had appeared to be serene and based upon an inner certainty.
Perhaps it had been more of a facade than she real
ized, because now he was rattled. There was a thin edge of panic she could not miss, not for Ramsay Parmenter but for himself, because he had lent his name to recommending him.
“Why on earth would he do such a thing?” she asked, trying to comfort him that it could not be true. It seemed wildly at odds with the man she had met a dozen times every year. He was an intelligent and very worthy man. Lately he had seemed drier than usual. She hesitated to use the word boring; if she did, she was not sure when she could stop. She might find a great many senior clergy boring. It was a rogue thought she dared not entertain.
He looked at her impatiently. “Well, the obvious reason which springs to mind is that he was conducting himself improperly towards her,” he replied.
“You mean he was having an affair with her?” Why did he always put things in such roundabout euphemisms? This obscured meaning, but it did not alter it.
He winced. “I should prefer you were not so blunt, Isadora,” he said critically. “But if you must, then yes, it is what I fear. She was a handsome woman, and I have since learned that her reputation in that area is far from admirable. It would have been a great deal better if Parmenter had employed a young man for his translation—as I advised him at the time, if you recall?”
“I do recall,” she answered with a frown. “You said it was an excellent thing to give a young woman an opportunity. It was most liberal and a good example of modern tolerance.”
“Nonsense! That is what Parmenter said,” he contradicted her crossly. “I find your memory a good deal less reliable than it used to be.”
She remembered it very precisely. They had been sitting in this very room. Ramsay Parmenter had leaned forward in his chair and described Unity Bellwood’s academic achievements and his intention to employ her, on a temporary basis, with the bishop’s permission. Reginald had thought about it for a few moments, sitting with his lips pursed, staring into the fire. It had been November and particularly cold. The butler had brought brandy. Reginald had rolled it gently around in the glass; the firelight made it look like amber. Finally he had given his opinion that it was a liberal and advanced thing to do. Learning should be encouraged. The church should set the example in modern tolerance of all peoples, rewarding on merit.
She looked up at him now where he stood frowning, his collar a little high on one side, his shoulders raised in tension. It would not help to argue. He would not believe her anyway.
“The question is,” he stated, “how can we limit the damage this will do to the church? How can we prevent the great work of the body of Christian men and women from being impeded by the scandal this may create if it is not handled to the best? Can you see the headlines in the newspapers? ‘Prospective bishop murders his mistress’?” He closed his eyes as if in physical pain, his face bleak and very pale.
She could imagine it, but her first thought was for Vita. Parmenter and the shock and distress she would feel, indeed must be feeling now. No matter how well Vita knew her husband, or what confidence she had in him, she could not help but be gripped by a terrible fear that he could be accused. Innocent people did sometimes suffer, even die. And Ramsay himself must be in a turmoil of emotions, every one of them painful, whether he was guilty of anything at all or absolutely nothing. It must be a living nightmare for him.
“Perhaps I could persuade him to plead madness,” the bishop said aloud. He looked at Isadora. “He certainly must be quite mad. No sane man could embark on an affair with a woman of Unity Bellwood’s type, and then lose all touch with morality, his own lifelong beliefs and everything he has been taught, and in hysteria murder her. It would be a totally truthful plea.” He nodded, determined to convince her. “One cannot blame madness, one can only pity it. And of course put the person under suitable restraint, naturally.” He leaned forward. “He would be cared for in the best and safest institution we can find. He would be treated with the necessary care. It would be the best thing for everyone.”
She was dizzy with the speed with which he had moved from a question to a supposition and then to an assumption, and an answer where Ramsay Parmenter was judged and his sentence decided. It had taken less than three minutes. She felt detached from it, as if she were only in a sense present in the room. Part of her was far away, looking on at the quiet dignity of it with its deep wine patterned carpet, its gentle fire, the bishop standing with his hands clenched in front of him, rendering his judgment. He seemed so familiar in his physical presence, and yet a total stranger, a mind and soul she did not know at all.
“You don’t know anything about it yet.” The words were on her lips before she had considered how he would react to them. “He may not be guilty of anything at all.”
“I can hardly wait until he is charged, can I?” he demanded angrily, stepping back and closer to the fire. “I must act to protect the church. Surely you can see that? The damage will be appalling.” He stared at her accusingly, as if she were willfully slow-witted. “We have enemies enough in the modern world without this sort of disaster. There are people on every side denying God, setting up citadels of the mind dedicated to reason as if it were a deity, as if it could answer all our desires and aspirations towards righteousness.” He poked at the air. “Unity Bellwood was just one apostle of the mind without morality, the indulgence of the basest instincts of the body, as if learning somehow set one free from the rules which govern the rest of us. Parmenter was quite mistaken to imagine he could teach her better things, reform her, convert her, if you like. It was the supreme arrogance, and look how he has paid for it.” He started to pace again, striding in decisive steps to the far end of the room, turning and coming back, turning and retracing his way exactly across the carpet. He was wearing marks in the pile of it. “Now I must think what is best for all. I cannot indulge the one at the cost of many. It is a luxury I do not have. This is no time for sentimentality.”
“Have you spoken with him?” She was searching for something to delay him. Without realizing it, she had made a decision to fight him.
“Not yet, but of course I shall. First I must think what to say. I cannot go unprepared. It would be dishonest to him, and disastrous.”
She felt even more separate from him, almost a stranger. And the most painful thing was that she wanted to be separate, apart from the thoughts he had as much as the action he would take.
“Well, perhaps he will tell you something which will explain it,” she argued. “You must not act before that. You would look dreadful to have condemned him and then find he was innocent. How would people view the church then … to have abandoned one of your own the moment he was in trouble? What about honor, loyalty, or even compassion?” She said the last word harshly, unable to keep back her anger any longer and, in truth, unwilling to hide it.
He stopped in the middle of the floor, staring at her. He took a deep breath. He looked worried, even frightened.
She wanted to be sorry for him. It was a wretched situation. Whatever he did there was a strong possibility it would be wrong, and it would certainly be perceived as such by many. There were always people only too happy to criticize. They had their own reasons, political reasons. Church politics seethed with rivalry, hurt feelings, ambition, guilt, thwarted hopes. The bishop’s miter was in some ways as heavy and uneasy an ornament as a crown. Too much was expected of the wearer, a sanctity, a moral rightness beyond any mortal to achieve.
And yet as she looked at him she did not see a man struggling valiantly to do right in a dreadful dilemma. She saw instead a man seeking the expedient in case he was caught in the wrong, even a man relishing a certain self-importance as he thought of himself as the one person to save the reputation of the church under such pressure. There was even a certain joy of martyrdom in him. Not once had he expressed pity for any one of the Parmenter family, or grief for Unity herself.
“Do you suppose it will be misunderstood?” he asked seriously.
“What?” She did not know what he was talking about. Had he said something she had not he
ard?
“Do you think that people will misunderstand our reasons?” he said in what he must have supposed was a plainer form.
“Misunderstand what, Reginald?”
“Our counsel to Ramsay Parmenter to plead madness, of course! Where is your attention?” His face was furrowed with anxiety. “You sounded as if you believed they might see it as lack of loyalty or a certain cowardice, as if we had abandoned him.”
“Isn’t that exactly what you are proposing to do … abandon him?”
He flushed red.
“No, of course it isn’t! I don’t know how you could even think of such a thing!” he responded angrily. “It is simply a matter of putting the church first, and that means not only doing what is right but doing what is perceived to be right. I would have thought after all these years you could have understood that.”
Her own ignorance astounded her, not of her lack of sympathy with the argument, but her lack of perception of herself, and of him. How could she have known him so little as not to have seen this in him before? It was a shabbiness which hurt so deeply she could have wept with the loneliness and the disappointment of it.
He was talking to himself, voicing his thoughts aloud. “Perhaps I should speak to Harold Petheridge. He could bring some influence to bear. After all, the government has an interest in this.” He started to walk again. “No one wants a scandal, and we should think of the family. This must be fearful for them.”