Brunswick Gardens

by Anne Perry

  “Really …” The bishop was furious. His face was pink and his eyes hectically bright.

  Isadora looked at him and felt overwhelmed with guilt. He did not look like a familiar friend who had temporarily lost his way and made a mistake. He was a stranger—and one she did not particularly like. She should not have felt that. It was inexcusable. Everything in her turned towards Cornwallis, calm and angry, certain of himself and his beliefs.

  “That is a piece of sophistry, sir,” the bishop accused. “I will not insult you by suggesting the reasons.”

  “Oh, Reginald!” Isadora said under her breath.

  “What would you prefer we do, Bishop Underhill?” Cornwallis stared back at him. “Bundle Parmenter away secretly, without giving him the opportunity to prove his innocence or our necessity to prove his guilt? Leave him in a madhouse for the rest of his life to save our embarrassment?”

  The bishop was scarlet. His hand trembled. “You have misquoted me, sir! That suggestion is appalling!”

  It was precisely what he had implied, and Isadora knew it. How could she rescue him and maintain any integrity of her own?

  “I am sure you are right, Mr. Cornwallis,” she said very guardedly without looking up at him. “I think we had not realized the consequences of what we were saying. We are not familiar with the law, and thank heaven nothing like this has ever happened before. Of course, we have had our misfortunes, but they have not included actual crime, only sins before the church.” She lifted her eyes to face him at last.

  “Of course.” He was staring at her intently, and what she saw in his expression was not disgust but shyness, and admiration. It was as if a warmth had unfolded inside her. “It is … it is a tragedy we none of us are accustomed …” He faltered, not knowing what he wanted to say. “But I cannot step outside the ways of the law. I dare not, because I am not sure enough of what is true to take the judgment upon myself.” He laid his soup spoon on his plate. “But I believe I know what is right, at least as far as the necessity to learn the truth. It is extremely probable that Ramsay Parmenter killed Miss Bellwood because she was a forthright and offensive young woman who defied everything in which he believed.”

  His voice dropped and his face was full of sadness. “He may have been the father of her child, but equally, he may not. If either Mallory Parmenter or Dominic Corde were, then they also had reason to wish her dead. She could have ruined either of them in their chosen vocations. Whether she exercised blackmail over anyone we do not know, but I fear we must learn. I am sorry. I wish it were not so.”

  “We all do.” She smiled ruefully. “But that has never changed anything.”

  The bishop cleared his throat noisily. “I trust you will keep me apprised of any progress you make on the matter?”

  “Anything that affects the well-being of the church I shall tell you immediately,” Cornwallis promised, his face without a flicker of warmth. He could have been facing the captain of an enemy ship across an icy sea.

  Isadora wondered if he was a religious man. Perhaps the power of the oceans, man’s relative helplessness, his dependence upon the light of the stars, the winds and great currents, had instilled in him a deeper kind of knowledge of God, the reliance on the faith that held life in its hands, not the mere convenience or the praise and reputation of fellowmen. How long had it been since Reginald had dealt with issues of life and death, not mere administration?

  The conversation was stilted. The servants removed the soup dishes and brought the next course. The bishop made some remark. Cornwallis replied and added a comment.

  Isadora should be entertaining, filling in the silences with some innocent observations, but her mind was on far deeper and more urgent issues. Why did Reginald not know Ramsay Parmenter well enough to be aware if he had had an affair with this woman or not? He should know of such a terrible flaw in the faith and the morality, let alone the trespass, of one of his clergy.

  Why on earth had he pushed so hard for Parmenter’s elevation if he scarcely knew him? Was it simply a matter of having his own man? Had he ever talked with him on anything that truly mattered? On good and evil, on joy, on repentance and understanding of the terrible self-destruction of sin? Did he ever speak of sin at all as a real thing, not a word to roll around the lips from the pulpit? Did he take time to look at selfishness and the misery which produced it, the confusion and the bleakness?

  Did he ever do anything except administer, tell other people what to do and how to do it? Did he visit the sick and the poor, the confused and the lost, the angry, the overbearing, the ambitious and the cruel, and face them with a mirror to their weaknesses? Did he nourish with faith the tired and the frightened and the bereaved?

  Or did he talk about buildings, music and ceremonies—and how to stop Ramsay Parmenter from causing a scandal? If he could not face the reality of pain, what was all the singing and praying worth? What was the real man like beneath the vestments? Was it somebody she loved or simply somebody to whom she had become accustomed?

  Cornwallis left as soon after the meal was over as was civil. Reginald returned to his study to read, and Isadora went to bed in silence, her thoughts still too loud in her head for her to rest.

  And when she closed her eyes, it was Cornwallis’s face which at least allowed her to relax, and for a moment the ghost of a smile touched her lips.

  5

  AT THE SAME TIME as Pitt was in Cornwallis’s office listening to Smithers, Dominic was in the withdrawing room in Brunswick Gardens talking to Vita Parmenter. The maids had already dusted and swept the room and the fire was beginning to burn up well. It was a bright morning, but cold, and Vita shivered a little as she moved restlessly back and forth, unable to sit.

  “I wish I knew what that policeman was thinking,” she said, turning and looking at Dominic, her face puckered with distress. “Where is he? Who is he talking to, if not us?”

  “I don’t know,” he said honestly, wishing he could comfort her instead of standing helplessly and watching her fear. “I really know very little of how they work. He may be finding out more about Unity.”

  “Why?” She was confused. “What difference can it make?” She moved jerkily, one moment spreading her hands wide, the next knotting them together till it must have hurt her, nails digging into her palms. “Do you mean that because she was a loose-living woman in the past, he may think she behaved that way here?”

  He was startled. He had not thought Vita knew anything of Unity’s past. It was peculiarly disturbing, but he should have realized that she must have heard Unity’s talk about moral freedom, the right to follow emotions and appetites, the nonsense she frequently talked about the liberating influence of passions and how commitment stifled people, women in particular. He had once or twice tried to argue with her that commitment actually protected people, most especially women, and she had withered him with her anger and contempt. Thinking of it now, it was foolish to suppose Vita had not seen or heard at least something of such attitudes.

  She was standing on the edge of the Aubusson carpet looking at him with real fear in her wide eyes. She looked very vulnerable, for all the inner strength he knew she possessed.

  “I don’t even know that that is what he is doing,” he answered quietly, stepping a little closer to her. “It is just a possibility. It must be common sense to look at the life of someone who has been … killed … when trying to discover who is responsible.”

  “I suppose so.” Her voice was husky. “Does that mean … do you think … that it may not be Ramsay?” She stared up at him, her face white, her expression veering between hope and despair.

  Without thinking he put out his hand and took hers, holding it gently. Her fingers were limp for an instant, then clung to him desperately.

  “I’m so sorry!” he whispered. “I wish there were something I could do. Anything. I owe you so much.”

  She smiled a very little—it was just a curving at the corners of her lips—but as if it mattered to her.


  “Ramsay helped me when I was in the depths,” he went on. “And now there seems nothing I can do to help him.”

  She lowered her eyes. “If he killed Unity, there is nothing any of us can do to help him. It …” She gulped. “It is the … the not knowing which is unbearable.” Then she shook herself. “That is a silly thing to say … and weak … we have to bear it.” Her voice dropped. “But, Dominic, it hurts!”

  “I know …”

  “All sorts of terrible things keep going through my mind.” She was still whispering, as if she could not bring herself to say things clearly, although there was no one else in the room. “Is it disloyal of me?” She searched his eyes. “Do you despise me for it? I think perhaps I despise myself. But I wonder if he was attracted to her … she … was very … very vibrant, very … full of ideas and emotions. She had beautiful eyes, didn’t you think?”

  He found himself smiling in spite of the wretchedness of the situation. Unity’s eyes were so much less beautiful than Vita’s own. Unity had been voluptuous. He remembered her body with a shiver, and her lips.

  “Not remarkable,” he answered with literal truth. “Far less so than yours.” He disregarded the color filling her cheeks. “And it is hard to believe Ramsay found her appealing. He disliked her opinions too much. She was very critical, you know.” He still held her hand, and she was gripping his hand. “If she found anyone in a mistake,” he went on, “she never refrained from telling them about it, and usually with pleasure. That does not predispose a man towards romantic ideas.”

  She looked at him steadily for several seconds. “Do you really think not?” she said at last. “She was a little sharp, wasn’t she? A little cruel with her tongue …”

  “Very!” He let his hand fall from hers. “I don’t think you should fear that. It is so far from the man we know.”

  “They worked together a great deal …” She could not completely rid herself of the fear. “She was young, and … very …”

  He knew what she meant, even if she was reluctant to use the words. Unity had been physically highly attractive.

  “They did not actually work together so much,” he pointed out. “Ramsay worked in his study, and she quite often worked in the library. They conferred only when it was necessary. And there were always servants about. And, in fact, almost as long as Unity has been here, so has Mallory, so have I. The house is full of people. Not to mention Clarice and Tryphena. Pitt must know that, too.”

  She did not look greatly comforted. The furrow of anxiety was still deep between her eyes, and her face was very pale.

  “Did you ever see anything to suggest it?” he asked her, almost certain she would say no. He could not imagine Ramsay having any relationship 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 passion between them was unimaginable.

  “No …” Vita shook her head. “No … I didn’t.”

  “Then don’t believe it,” he assured 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 circumstances 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 appetites 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 appetites 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 relationship 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 friendship. 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 circumstance 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 u
p with a brief smile. “Old friends, in a sense, parishioners 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 passed 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 trespassing 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.”