Brunswick Gardens

by Anne Perry

  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 relationships 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 relationships 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 God.”

  “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 passion, 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 protégé?

  “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 embarrassment—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 glass 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 assistance 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 space of time when he was there. There had been no stain on the hem of her dress, but she had probably lifted that ins
tinctively 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 Lancashire cheese, rhubarb pickle and a glass 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 buttons. 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? God, 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 polishing metal. You might have it on cloth or paper.”

  “Oh. Peter might have. It will be on the cupboard over here if he has.” And obediently he looked and came up with a piece of cloth, holding it triumphantly.

  Pitt took it and began to work on the rusted pieces.

  “I’m looking for a friend—a relative, actually,” he remarked as he rubbed. “He was here almost four years ago, I believe. His name is Dominic Corde. Do you remember him?”

  “Certainly,” the young man answered without hesitation. “In a rare state when he came. Never seen a man more despairing of himself and the world … except Monte, and he drowned himself, poor devil.” He smiled suddenly. “But don’t worry about Dominic. He was fine when he left. Some clergyman came here looking for Monte, and he and Dominic got on marvelously well. Took a while, of course. These things do. Talk the leg off an iron pot, that clergyman, but it seemed to be what Dominic needed.”

  Pitt had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He was working hard on the pump.

  “I say, that’s awfully decent of you,” the young man said admiringly.

  “How did Dominic get into that state?” Pitt asked, sounding as casual as he could.

  The young man shrugged.

  “Don’t know. Something to do with a woman, I think. It wasn’t money, I know that, and it wasn’t drink or gambling, because you don’t stop those instantly, and he didn’t do either when he was here. No, I’m pretty sure it was a woman. He’d been living in Maida Vale with a whole lot of other people, men and women. He didn’t talk about it much.”

  “You don’t know where, do you?”

  “Hall Road, I believe. Can’t tell which number. Sorry.”

  “Never mind. I expect I can find it.”

  “Brother, is he? Cousin?”

  “Brother-in-law. Can you pass me that cloth?”

  “Are you going to get that working? That would be marvelous.”

  “I think so. Hold that for me.”

  It was late by the time Pitt returned home, and he told Charlotte nothing about his expedition to Chislehurst. The following day, the sixth since Unity’s death, he took Tellman with him and went to search for the house in Maida Vale where Dominic had lived before meeting Ramsay Parmenter and finding his vocation in the church.

  “I don’t know what you expect to learn,” Tellman said dourly. “What difference does it make what he did five years ago, or who he knew?”

  “I don’t know,” Pitt said sharply as they walked towards the railway station. It was a fairly direct route to St. John’s Wood Station, and then a short distance from there to Hall Road. “But it must have been one of the three of them.”

  “It was the Reverend,” Tellman said, keeping step with him with difficulty. Pitt was three inches taller, and his stride was considerably longer. “You just don’t want it to be him because of the trouble it will cause. Anyway, I thought Corde was your brother-in-law. You don’t think your brother-in-law murdered Miss Bellwood, do you?” He looked sideways at Pitt, anxiety and a certain disgust in his lantern-jawed face.

  Pitt was jolted. He realized how significant a part of him would find it very acceptable that Dominic should be guilty.

  “No, I don’t!” he snapped. “But are you suggesting I should not bother to investigate him because he is a relation … by marriage?”

  “So that’s what this is, is it?” Tellman’s voice was heavy with incredulity. “Duty?”

  They crossed the platform and climbed onto the train. Tellman slammed the door shut behind them.

  “Has it occurred to you that I might be just as eager to prove him innocent?” Pitt asked as they sat down, facing each other across an empty compartment.

  “No.” Tellman looked back at him. “You haven’t got a sister, so who is he? Mrs. Pitt’s brother?”

  “Her elder sister’s husband. She is dead. She was murdered ten years ago.”

  “Not by him?”

  “Of course not! But his behavior was far from admirable.”

  “And you don’t believe he’s reformed? Become a minister and all.” Tellman’s voice was ambivalent. He was not sure what he thought of the church. Part of him believed it was the Establishment. He preferred a nonconformist preacher, if he went to church at all. But religion was still sacred, any Christian religion … maybe any religion at all. He might despise some of its show and resent its authority, but respect for it was part of the dignity of man.

  “I don’t know,” Pitt replied, staring out of the w
indow as a cloud of steam drifted past and the train launched forward.

  It took them until early afternoon to find the right house in Hall Road. It was still occupied by a group of artists and writers. It was difficult to tell how many, and there seemed to be several children, as well. They were all dressed in a Bohemian way, bits of costume of different styles, even some oriental clothing, startling in this quiet and very English suburb.

  A tall woman who introduced herself simply as Morgan assumed the leadership and answered Pitt’s questions.

  “Yes, Dominic Corde did live here for a short while, but it was several years ago. I am afraid I have no idea where he is now. We have not heard from him since he left.” Her face with its wide eyes and fine lips showed a shadow of sadness. She had a mane of fair hair which she wore loose, except for a woven ribbon band around her brow, like a green crown.

  “It is the past I am interested in, not the present,” Pitt explained. He saw Tellman disappear along the corridor and assumed he was, as had been previously agreed, going to speak to some of the other inhabitants.

  “Why?” She looked at him very directly. She had been working on a painting, which stood on a large easel behind her, when he had interrupted. It appeared to be a self-portrait, the face peering through leaves, the body half hidden by them. It was enigmatic and in its way very beautiful.

  “Because present events make it necessary I know what happened to several people in order that an innocent man may not be blamed for a crime,” he answered. It was oblique, and something less than the truth.

  “And you want to blame Dominic for it?” she assumed. “Well, I shan’t help you. We don’t talk about each other, especially to outsiders. Our way of life and our tragedies are private, and no concern of yours, Superintendent. No crime was committed here. Mistakes, perhaps, but they are ours to mend, or not.”

  “And if it is Dominic I am trying to absolve?” he asked.

  She looked at him steadily. She was beautiful, in a wild way, although she was well past forty and there was something in her which still held all the unfinished rebellion of youth. There was no peace in her face. He wondered what her relationship with Dominic had been. They seemed as different from each other as possible, and yet he had changed almost completely in the last few years. Perhaps during his time there they had complemented each other in some way. He had been restless then, incomplete, and she might have fed his needs.