Brunswick Gardens

by Anne Perry

  He looked up as the clouds parted and a pale, three-quarter moon made him realize how dark it was. He could only just see the grass behind him, and the branches were black against the sky, the house a silhouette, the color gone.

  Clarice surprised him. But then thinking back on the time he had known her, he had very seldom been able to predict what she was going to say or do. Her sense of the ridiculous was alarming. She would make outrageous remarks, laugh at embarrassing things, appalling things, see humor where no one else did.

  He remembered individual instances, wincing at some of them, standing in the gathering darkness unaware that he was smiling. Once or twice he even laughed aloud. They were excruciating. Absurd. But when he thought of them, none he recalled had been made simply to draw attention to herself or to make herself seem superior. Certainly they were not always kind; if she thought someone a hypocrite, she exposed him without mercy. Laughter could destroy as well as heal.

  He put his hands in his pockets and turned and walked back towards the house and the lights across the terrace. He went upstairs to his own room with the intention of studying. He preferred to be alone and it was the best excuse. However, when the door was closed and he picked up a book he found his eyes did not focus on the page. He was thinking about Mallory, and the more he turned over in his mind what Clarice had said, the more did it seem the likely answer. He knew he himself was not the father of Unity’s child, and he could not believe it was Ramsay. It was not that he imagined Ramsay to be too ascetic or too self-disciplined ever to feel the hungers for physical comfort, or that Unity could not possibly have tempted him. He believed that if Ramsay had yielded to such a thing, he would have felt so different afterwards that Dominic at least would have noticed. And frankly, he thought Unity would have been different also. The constant need to attain small victories over Ramsay would not have remained so sharp. She would have proved his vulnerability to both of them. It would never need testing again to that degree.

  And when he looked back now, he could recall—even the day before she died—the look of pleasure in her face when she had found an error in one of his translations. It had been tiny, and something a second glance would have found and corrected, but her need to point it out had been there. And there were other instances. He could see her face in his mind’s eye so clearly, every expression of it familiar; it was difficult to realize she was dead. She had been so positive, so sure of everything she felt and thought she knew.

  What did he feel now that she was gone? Certainly there was sadness. She had been so urgently alive. Any death was a loss, a diminishing. Death itself was a frightening change, a reminder of the fragility of all things, of all those one loved, above all of oneself.

  But there was undeniable relief in him also. It was there in the relaxing of the muscles that had unconsciously been held tight for so long. There was even ease in the mind, in spite of the fears, as if a shadow had passed.

  He stood up and went to the door. It could not simply be left, in the hope that they would settle to life as it had been before and somehow Pitt would find an answer and prove it. He might. He might allow his doubts of Dominic, and the evidence—and he was certainly clever enough to find it—to convince him of Dominic’s guilt.

  He went along the passage and knocked on Mallory’s door. He was doing it in part for himself, but he also owed Ramsay all he could do to find the truth, whatever he did about it afterwards.

  He knocked again. There was no answer.

  He turned away, not sure if he was relieved or disappointed.

  Braithwaite, Vita’s maid, was coming along the corridor. Her face was lined with strain, as if she had slept little in the last nine days. Her graying hair was pulled a little tight, as if she had dressed it without care. He wondered if she wished now that she had not spoken of what she had heard.

  “Mr. Mallory is in the conservatory, Mr. Corde,” she said helpfully. “He took his books down there.”

  “Oh.” Now there was no escape. “Thank you.” He turned and went down the stairs and across the hall. He could never pass this way without thinking of Unity and wondering. He hesitated only a moment, then went into the conservatory. Here it was dark, but he could see light through the leaves and knew it came from the iron table at the far end, where Mallory must be sitting.

  He pushed past the palm fronds and lily leaves, his footsteps making very little sound on the slightly damp bricks, and what little there was was covered by the gurgle of water from the pool.

  Mallory looked up when Dominic was almost there. He was sitting in the same chair he must have been in when Unity met her death, if he had told the truth. But there was the mark on Unity’s shoe which made a liar of him at least in his denial that he had seen her that morning.

  “What do you want?” Mallory asked. He made no pretense at friendship. He resented Dominic’s favor with Ramsay, and he resented the way Dominic had taken over a certain leadership since the tragedy. The fact that he was older, and that Mallory himself had not wished for it, meant nothing.

  Dominic wondered if Tryphena had told Mallory of their quarrel, and what Clarice had said. In the yellow light of the lamp, with its heavy shadows, he should have been able to read it in Mallory’s face, but he could not. There was too much emotion in it already: fear, anger, resentment, striving after a peace he felt he should have had, and guilt because he did not. His faith had not been equal to the test he had placed upon it. Dominic knew that from the missal he held open in his hand.

  Dominic sat on the edge of the planting bench, ignoring the fact that it could be damp or dirty, or both.

  “Pitt is going to find out,” he said gravely.

  Mallory stared at him, and Dominic knew in an instant that he was going to bluff.

  “Probably,” Mallory agreed. “But if you are expecting me to help you protect Father somehow, I can’t. It isn’t only a matter of whether I think it is right to do so, I don’t believe it would accomplish anything for more than a short time. In the end it would only make things worse.” He sat up a little straighter, his mouth tight, dark eyes defensive. “Face the truth, Dominic. I know you admire Father, probably because he held out a hand to you when you desperately needed it, and heaven knows, gratitude is a virtue we see too little of. But it cannot take the place of honesty or justice. It will always have to be at someone else’s expense.”

  It was on the edge of Dominic’s tongue to say “You mean yours,” then he realized it was equally easily his own, and he said nothing.

  “We have different faiths,” Mallory went on. “But something of the core of them must be the same. You cannot pass your sins on to another person. Christ is the only one who can take sins for another; we must each bear our own. That includes you and me, and Father. The law is not the only concern, and it shouldn’t even be our main one. Can’t we at least agree on that much?”

  “We can.” Dominic leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The pool of lamplight was yellow around them, islanding them amid the leaves. The rest of the house could have been a world away. “Do you believe your father was Unity’s lover?”

  Mallory hesitated, and the guilt was hot in his eyes. For an instant he wavered, but he knew Dominic had seen it. It was already too late to retreat.

  “No.” He looked down at his hands.

  There was silence except for the bubbling of the water in the pool and a slight, steady dripping somewhere on the leaves.

  “Was she blackmailing you over it?” Dominic asked.

  Mallory looked up slowly. His face was for once wiped of all conscious expression but fear.

  “I didn’t kill her, Dominic! I swear! I wasn’t anywhere near the top of the stairs when she fell. I was in here, as I said I was. I don’t know what happened, and I don’t know why it happened. I honestly thought it was Father. I still do. And if it was not, then it must have been you.”

  “It was not me,” Dominic said very quietly. “Did anyone else know she was blackmailing you?”

&
nbsp; “Who?” Mallory looked surprised. “Clarice? She is the only other member of the family, because I can’t imagine any of the servants being responsible for Unity’s death.”

  “They weren’t,” Dominic said unhappily. “We know where all of them were. And no, I don’t think Clarice would have.”

  “Not to protect me, anyway,” Mallory said dryly. “Tryph might have, but she wouldn’t. She’s always thought she would make a better priest than I. She is cleverer, but that’s only a tiny part of what is needed. I’ve tried to show her that, but she doesn’t want to know. It’s a matter of faith. More than that, it’s obedience. She hasn’t any obedience.”

  It was not the time to argue the relative merits of obedience and charity.

  “Could it not have been an accident?” Dominic suggested, trying to offer him a way to admit to something lesser.

  “It could have,” Mallory agreed. “Of course it could have.” He jerked up. “My God, it wasn’t me … accident or intentional.” His voice rose. “I wasn’t there, Dominic! If it was an accident, then it was still Father!” His long fingers opened and closed again. “See if you can get him to admit to it. I can’t, and heaven knows I’ve tried. He doesn’t even listen to me. It is as if he has shut himself off from the rest of us. All that seems to matter to him is his wretched book. He works away at those translations as if they were the most important thing in his life. I know he wants to publish before Dr. Spelling, but it hardly matters compared with murder in the house, and when one of us is responsible.” He looked wretched. For once there was no thought for himself, no pretense or guardedness at all. He looked almost boyish with his smooth cheeks and brow in the lamplight amid the shining, slanting leaves of the man-made jungle. “Dominic, I think he has had some mental collapse. He is no longer in reality—”

  He got no further. There was a thin, high scream, cut off suddenly.

  They both froze, waiting for it to come again.

  But there was no sound other than the water.

  Mallory gulped and swore, rising to his feet clumsily, knocking the missal onto the floor with his elbow.

  Dominic started after him along the brick pathway back towards the hall. Mallory threw the door open and left it swinging as he strode across the black-and-white mosaic to where the withdrawing room door stood wide. Dominic was at his heels.

  Inside, Vita was huddled over in one of the chairs. Her dark gray gown was soaked in blood all down the bosom and onto the skirt. Her arms and shoulders were dark with it, and even her hands were scarlet.

  Tryphena had collapsed on the floor, but no one was trying to assist her. Perhaps it was she who had screamed.

  Clarice was on her knees in front of her mother, holding her by the arms. They were both shaking violently. Vita seemed to be attempting to speak, but she could not catch her breath, all she could do was sob and gasp.

  “Oh God!” Mallory stumbled as if he too might lose his balance. “Mama! What happened? Has somebody sent for the doctor? Get bandages—water—something!” Instinctively he turned to Dominic.

  Dominic bent to Clarice, taking her by the shoulders.

  “Let us see, my dear,” he said gently. “We must see where the wound is to stop it bleeding.”

  Reluctantly, still shuddering, Clarice allowed herself to be helped up by Mallory, who clung onto her, his knuckles white. Still no one went to Tryphena.

  “Let me see,” Dominic ordered, looking at Vita’s ash-white face.

  “I’m not hurt,” she whispered, her voice grating in her throat. “At least—not much. Just—bruises, I think. I don’t even know. But—” She stopped and looked down at the blood all over herself, almost as if she had not really seen it before. Then she looked up at Dominic again. “Dominic—Dominic … he tried to kill me! I—I had to … defend myself! I only meant …” She swallowed with such a constriction of her throat that she choked, and he had to hold her while she coughed until she could find her breath again. “I only meant to fight him off” … just so I could get away. But he was insane!” She held up her right arm, where the imprint of a bloody hand showed clearly around her wrist. “He had hold of me!” She seemed amazed, as if she could still hardly believe it. “I …” She swallowed again. “I managed to reach for the paper knife. I thought if I could stab his arm, he would have to let go of me and I could escape.” Her eyes were fixed on his, wide and almost black. “He moved … he moved, Dominic! I only meant to stab his arm.”

  He felt sick. “What happened?”

  “He moved!” she repeated. “His arm was there! He was holding me. His hands were around my throat! The look in his face! It wasn’t the man I know at all. It wasn’t Ramsay! He was terrible, full of hate and such—such anger!”

  “What happened?” he repeated more firmly.

  Her voice sank. “I struck at his arm, to make him let go of me, and he moved. The knife caught his neck … his … throat, Dominic—I think he’s dead!”

  They all remained frozen for seconds. A log blazed up in the fireplace in a shower of sparks.

  Clarice turned her head and leaned against Mallory’s shoulder, and wept. He clung to her, burying his cheek in her hair.

  On the floor, Tryphena started to sit up.

  Dominic left Vita and went over to the bell rope and pulled it, far harder than he had intended, but his hands were tingling as if they were numb, and he was trembling.

  “Get Emsley to bring some brandy and fetch the doctor,” he said to Mallory. “I’ll go upstairs.” He did not bother to ask Vita if it was the study. He assumed it was. Ramsay had barely left it in the last week.

  He went along the top corridor and opened the study door.

  Ramsay was lying near the desk, half on his back, one leg a little crooked under him. There was a gash on his throat and a wide, deep pool of crimson blood puddling on the carpet beside him. There was nothing in his hands, but there were smears of blood on them, staining his cuffs. His eyes were wide open, and he looked surprised.

  Dominic knelt down and felt a desperate sadness engulf him. Ramsay had been his friend, had held out kindness and hope when he had needed it. Now he had drowned in an ocean Dominic had not even comprehended. He had watched it happen, and not been able to save him. His sense of loss filled him with pain—and a bitter knowledge of having failed.

  9

  PITT WAS SITTING by the fire in the parlor with his feet on the fender when the telephone rang. It was so unusual an occurrence that he never left Gracie to answer.

  Charlotte looked up from her sewing with surprise, meeting his eyes questioningly.

  He shrugged and stood up. The instrument was in the hall, and he had to go out into the comparative chill, but he found himself shivering even before his feet were on the linoleum. He picked up the speaker.

  “Hello? Thomas Pitt here.”

  He barely recognized the voice on the other end. “Thomas? Is that you?”

  “Yes. Who is it? Dominic?”

  “Yes.” There was a gasp and a breath of relief. “Thomas … I’m in Ramsay Parmenter’s study. Thank God for the telephone here. He’s dead.”

  The first thought that came to Pitt’s mind was suicide. Ramsay had felt the inevitable truth closing around him and he had taken the way out he felt most honorable. Perhaps he imagined it would save the church embarrassment. The bishop would be pleased. At that thought Pitt found himself suddenly almost speechless with rage.

  “Dominic!”

  “Yes? Thomas … you’d better come—immediately. I …”

  “Are you all right?” There was no point in asking. There was nothing he could do to help the shock and the distress he heard through Dominic’s voice. He had misjudged him. Dominic had not been to blame—probably not for anything. Charlotte would be happy.

  “Yes—yes, I am.” Dominic sounded wretched. “But, Thomas … it was an—an accident. I suppose you could say …” His voice trailed off.

  Pitt’s first thought was to refuse to say anything of the sort
. He would not lie to protect the bishop’s interest. He cared for duty to truth, to the law, to Unity Bellwood. But there was no good to Unity served by exposing her tragedy, or Ramsay Parmenter’s.

  “Thomas …?” Dominic’s voice was urgent, uncertain.

  “Yes,” Pitt replied. “I don’t know yet. How did he do it?”

  “Do it?” For a moment Dominic sounded confused. “Oh … he—Thomas, he didn’t kill himself! He attacked Vita—Mrs. Parmenter. He had some sort of … I don’t know … brainstorm. He lost control of himself and tried to strangle her. She defended herself with a paper knife which was on the desk—it happened in his study—and in the struggle it slipped … and stabbed him. I’m afraid it was fatal.”

  “What?” Pitt was astounded. “You mean—Dominic, I can’t cover that up!”

  “I’m not asking you to!” Dominic was amazed. “Just come here before we have to call in the local constable … please!”

  “Yes—of course. I’ll come right away. Hold on.” Without realizing what he had said, he put the earpiece back on its hook, missing it the first time because his hands were shaking. He walked back into the parlor.

  “What is it?” Charlotte said immediately. “What’s happened?” Her voice rose sharply with fear, and she was already getting to her feet.

  “No.” He shook his head. “It’s all right. It’s Parmenter. It was Dominic on the telephone. Parmenter tried to kill his wife, and in the struggle he was killed himself. I have to go there. Will you call the station to send for Tellman to meet me at Brunswick Gardens?”

  Charlotte stared at him. “Mrs. Parmenter killed him in a struggle when he was trying to kill her?” Her voice rose to a squeak. “That’s ridiculous! She’s tiny! Well—she’s small. She couldn’t possibly kill him.”