by Anne Perry
“With a knife,” he explained.
“I don’t care what with. She couldn’t have taken a knife from him if he were trying to kill her with it.”
“He wasn’t. He was trying to strangle her. He must have utterly lost his sanity, poor man. Thank God he didn’t succeed.” He stopped, facing her for a long moment’s silence. “At least this proves Dominic had no guilt in it.”
She smiled at him very slightly. “Yes, there is that,” she agreed. “Now, you had better go, and I’ll get the message to Tellman.”
He hesitated, as if to add something else, but there really was nothing more to say. He turned on his heel and went to the hall, putting his boots on and collecting his coat from its hook, and went out.
When he reached Brunswick Gardens there was already a carriage outside at the curb. The coachman was huddled up under his coat as if he had been there for some time, and lights streamed from the windows of the house below the half-lowered blinds, as if no one had bothered to draw the front curtains.
Pitt alighted, paid the cabby and told him not to wait. Emsley greeted him at the door, his hair wild from where he had run his hands through it, his face so pale it looked gray around the eyes.
“Come in, sir,” he said hoarsely. “The mistress is upstairs lying down, and Mr. Mallory is with her—and the doctor, of course. Miss Tryphena is—is gone to her room, I think. Poor Miss Clarice is trying to take care of everything, and Mr. Corde is upstairs in the study. He told me to send you up, if you’d be so good, sir. I don’t know what everything is coming to … Just a few days ago everything was as usual, and now suddenly— this.” The man looked close to weeping as he thought of the ruin of all he found familiar and precious, the daily life that created his world and was his purpose.
Pitt put his hand on Emsley’s arm and gripped it. “Thank you. Perhaps it would be best if you were to close the door and all the downstairs curtains, then see if you can help Miss Clarice keep the servants calm. They are bound to be deeply distressed, but the house must still be run. People will need to eat, fires be kept going, the place cleaned and tidied. The more people can be busy, the less they will have time to be upset.”
“Oh … yes.” Emsley nodded. “Yes sir. Of course, you are quite right. We don’t want people losing control of themselves, getting hysterical. Helps nobody. I’ll see to it, sir.” And he went off looking purposeful.
Pitt climbed the now-familiar black staircase and went along the landing corridor to Ramsay Parmenter’s study. He opened the door and saw Dominic sitting behind the desk, white-faced, his dark hair, flecked with tiny threads of gray, falling forward over his brow. He looked ill.
“Thank God you’re here.” He stood up shakily, turning sideways, compelled to stare beyond the desk and down, where Pitt could not see.
Pitt closed the door behind him and walked around the chair. Ramsay Parmenter was crumpled on the floor where he had fallen, a huge pool of blood soaked deep into the carpet near his neck, which was gashed with a fearful wound. It must have been a very violent struggle. His shirt was torn at the front, and there were two buttons ripped off his jacket, as if someone had tried desperately to pull him by his clothes. His eyes were closed, but there was no peace in his face, only a sense of amazement, as if at the very last moment he had realized what he was doing and the horror of it had overwhelmed him.
“I—I closed his eyes,” Dominic said apologetically. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t bear to leave him lying staring like that. They were open. Does it matter?”
“I don’t think so. Did the doctor see him? Emsley said the doctor was here.”
“No … not yet. He’s with Vita … Mrs. Parmenter.”
“How is she?”
“I don’t know. She seemed to be all right; I mean, she wasn’t injured, at least not seriously. I’m sorry, I am not being very lucid.” He looked at Pitt desperately. “I feel as if I failed about as thoroughly as I could.” His face puckered. “Why couldn’t I help him before it got to this? What happened? Why didn’t I see it was so—so … that he was drowning? I should have been able to give him enough faith to hold on, to let someone understand. We shouldn’t any of us, least of all me, who professes to be a pastor of souls, we shouldn’t let anyone be this utterly alone!” He shook his head a little. “What’s the matter with us? How can we live in the same house, sit at the same table, for God’s sake, and let one of us die of loneliness?”
“ ‘That is usually where it happens,” Pitt said realistically. “It is in being hemmed in by others who see only the outside of you, the image of you they have painted from their own minds, that you suffocate. Shepherds and woodsmen don’t die of loneliness; it’s people in cities. It is the invisible walls that we can’t see that prevent us touching. Don’t blame yourself.” He looked at Dominic closely. “Sit down. Perhaps you had better take a good stiff brandy. It won’t help anyone if you are taken ill.”
Dominic retreated to the chair beyond the desk and sat down heavily. “Can you keep the details out of the newspapers? I suppose I shall have to tell the bishop.”
“No, you won’t. We’ll let Commissioner Cornwallis do that.” Pitt was still standing over Ramsay’s body. “What was the quarrel about, do you know?”
“No. I can’t remember whether she said.”
“Did anybody hear it?”
“No. No, the first thing we knew was when Mrs. Parmenter came into the withdrawing room. Or more exactly”—he screwed up his face with the effort to clear his mind and speak coherently—“I was in the conservatory with Mallory. We were talking. I heard—we heard … a scream. We both got up and went back to the withdrawing room. It was Tryphena who had screamed, but she had fainted by then … at seeing the blood, I suppose.”
“I was thinking of the servants.”
“Oh. I don’t know. It was close to the time the servants have dinner. I expect they were in their hall. I didn’t think to ask.”
“Probably just as well. I’ll come to it fresh.” Pitt turned and looked at the door. There was a key in the lock. “If you would prefer to go to your own room, or see if you can help downstairs, I’ll secure it here.”
“Oh.” Dominic hesitated, staring down at Ramsay on the floor. “I feel … can’t we move him now you’ve seen him?”
“Not until the doctor has.”
“Well, cover him up, at least,” Dominic protested. “What can the doctor tell you? It’s pretty obvious what happened, isn’t it?” He was taking his jacket off as he spoke.
Pitt put out his hand to restrain him. “When the doctor’s seen him. Then you can take him to his own room and lay him out properly. Not yet. Come out and leave him. You’ve done everything you can. It’s time to care for the living.”
Dominic replied, “Yes, of course. Clarice must be feeling terrible … so grieved, so hurt.”
“And Tryphena as well, I imagine.” Pitt opened the door for Dominic.
Dominic turned in the doorway. “Tryphena didn’t love him the way Clarice did.”
Before Pitt could answer that, Tellman came up to the top of the stairs and across the landing. He looked tired and unshaven. He had already had a long and miserable day.
Pitt indicated the study door. “In there,” he said tersely. “I’ll send the doctor in a moment. Apparently it was an accident. When you’ve finished in here, and the doctor’s been, secure it and return the key.”
Tellman’s face betrayed deep skepticism, but he said nothing. He glanced at Dominic, muttered something—possibly an attempt at sympathy—and disappeared into the study.
Dominic told Pitt which was Vita’s room, then went downstairs. Pitt knocked. The door was opened after a moment or two by the same doctor he had seen at Unity’s death. The doctor’s face was pale and bleak, his eyes reflecting profound distress.
“Terrible business,” he said quietly. “I had no idea it was so serious. I honestly thought he was simply a little … overwrought, depressed by the way public perce
ption of religion had changed since Darwin’s theories on evolution became known to the general reader … I daresay by word of mouth, in garbled fashion, to just about everyone.” His voice betrayed his own view of it. “I had no idea it had disturbed the balance of his mind. I feel very guilty. I noticed nothing. He always seemed perfectly natural to me, simply … unhappy.” He sighed. “It is not unusual, in my experience, for men in the church to have their periods of doubt and confusion. It is a heavy calling. One may put on a brave face to the world and preach a sermon every Sunday; it does not mean you cannot be lost in a desert of this sort yourself … for a period.” His face was full of sadness. “I’m really very sorry.”
“No one saw it coming,” Pitt assured him, sharing the blame. “Where is Mrs. Parmenter? Is she injured?”
The doctor met his eyes steadily.
“A few bruises. I daresay they will be painful for a while, and disfiguring, but nothing that will last. Her left shoulder is rather wrenched, but it will mend with time.” He still looked surprised and confused. “Thank heaven she is a supple woman, in good health, and of considerable courage. She must have fought hard for her life.” His lips tightened. “As for her emotional state, that is another matter. I cannot answer for that. She has extraordinary courage, but I have left a sedative for her, which she refused to take until she had spoken with you, knowing that you would have to question her about the tragedy. But do please be as brief as you can. Exercise whatever pity and discretion your duty allows.”
“I will,” Pitt promised. “Now, I would appreciate it if you would look at the body of the Reverend Parmenter and tell me all you can of his death. My sergeant is in the study. He’ll let you in and lock up after you.”
“I doubt I can offer you any assistance, but of course I’ll look. There will have to be an inquest, I presume?”
“Yes, of course there will, but please do it anyway.” Pitt stood back to allow the doctor to pass, then went in and closed the door.
It was a large room, beautifully furnished, feminine and less exotic than the more public areas of the house. Nevertheless there were marks of Vita’s individual and daring taste, splashes of oriental color: peacock blue, lacquer red.
Vita Parmenter was sitting on her bed, propped up by pillows. The first thing Pitt was aware of was the blood. It soaked the front of her gown and splashed scarlet on the pale skin of her throat. It made the more obvious her ashen, almost gray face, with feverish eyes. Her maid, Braithwaite, was standing a few feet away, a glass in her hand. She looked exhausted.
“I am sorry to have to intrude upon you, Mrs. Parmenter,” Pitt began. “If there were any alternative I would not.”
“I understand,” she said very quietly. “You are only doing your duty. Anyway, I think it is probably easier to speak of it now than to start again tomorrow morning. There is something about telling someone—outside the family—which relieves one of some of the burden. Does that sound … selfish?” She looked at him earnestly.
“No.” He sat down on the dressing chair without waiting for her to invite him. “It makes excellent sense. Please tell me what happened as exactly as you can remember.”
“Where shall I begin?”
“Wherever you wish.”
She considered for several moments, then drew a deep breath. “I am not sure what time it was.” She cleared her throat with difficulty. “I had just changed for dinner. Braithwaite had left me and gone downstairs. It was the hour the servants eat. They dine before us, but I expect you know that? Yes, of course you do.” She blinked. “I’m sorry. I am rambling. I am finding it very difficult to think properly.” Her hands were opening and closing on the bedclothes. “I decided to go and see how Ramsay was, see if perhaps I could talk to him. He had been very … alone. He seldom came out of his room. I thought perhaps I could persuade him to take dinner with us, at least.” Her eyes searched Pitt’s face. “If you ask me why, I am not sure now. It seemed quite natural then, quite a good idea.” She started to cough, and Braithwaite handed her the glass again. “Thank you,” she murmured, taking a sip from it.
Pitt waited.
She cleared her throat again and resumed with a tiny smile of thanks. “I knocked on the study door, and when he answered I went in. He was sitting at his desk with a lot of papers spread out. I enquired how his work was proceeding. It seemed a harmless sort of thing to say … and quite natural.” She looked at him, her eyes pleading for acceptance.
“Quite natural,” he agreed.
“I—I walked over to the desk and picked up one of the papers.” Her voice had dropped and become very hoarse. “It was a love letter, Superintendent. Very … passionate and very … very graphic. I have never read anything like it in my life. I didn’t know people … women … used such language, or even thought in such terms.” She gave a high, nervous little laugh. She was clearly embarrassed. “I confess, I was shocked. I suppose it showed in my face. It must have.”
“It was a letter from a woman to a man?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. The … content of it made that quite plain. As I said, Mr. Pitt, it was very … explicit.”
“I see.”
She looked down, then up again quickly, staring at him. “It was in Unity Bellwood’s hand. I know it well enough. There is much of her writing in the house. It was what she was employed for.”
“I see,” he said again. “Go on.”
“Then I saw other letters, in my husband’s hand. They were love letters also, but much more … restrained. More spiritual, if you like … much …” She gave a jerky, painful little laugh. “Much more in his style … roundabout, meaning the same sort of thing but never really coming to the point. Ramsay always preferred to be … metaphorical, to conceal the physical and emotional behind something paraphrased as spiritual. But stripped of its euphemisms, it was much the same.”
Pitt should not have been surprised. Ramsay’s death should have prepared him for something like this. A suppressed passion, a need long smothered and denied, when it does break out, is wild, beyond control, perhaps inevitably destructive not only of the pattern of safe and productive life but of previous morality and convention, even of the curbs of taste. And yet he was surprised. He had seen nothing in Ramsay but a middle-aged churchman crowded by spiritual doubt, old before his time because he saw nothing ahead but a desert of the soul. How wrong he had been.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
She smiled at him. “Thank you. You are very kind, Superintendent; far kinder than your duty necessitates.” She shivered a little, drawing her shoulders in, hunching herself amid the piled pillows. “Ramsay must have seen my expression. I did not conceal my feelings … my amazement … and my … my revulsion. Perhaps if I had …” She lowered her eyes and for a moment seemed unable to continue.
Braithwaite stood beside her helplessly, raising and lowering the glass in her hands, not knowing what to do. Her face vividly reflected her anguish.
Vita regained her control with an effort. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I can’t remember what I said to him. Perhaps it was not tactful, or prudent. We had a fearful quarrel. He seemed to lose all … sanity! His whole bearing altered until he was like a madman.” Her hands gripped at the embroidered linen of the sheet. “He threw himself at me, saying I had no right to violate his privacy by looking at his personal letters.” Her voice dropped even lower. “He called me all sorts of … frightful things: a thief, a philistine, an intruder. He said I had spoiled his life, dried up his passion and his inspiration, that I was a … a leech, a drain on his spirit, unworthy of him.” She stopped abruptly. It was a moment or two before she could continue. “He was almost incoherent with rage. He seemed to have lost all control of himself. He threw himself at me, with his hands out, and caught me by the neck.” She put her fingers up towards her throat but did not touch it. It was red where his hands had been and was already beginning to darken into bruising.
“Go on,” Pitt said gently.
She lowered her hands slowly, watching his face. “I couldn’t argue with him, I couldn’t speak. I tried to fight him off, but of course he was far stronger than I.” She was breathing very hard, gulping. He could see her breast rise and fall. “We struggled back and forth. I don’t remember exactly now. His grip was getting tighter all the time. I could hardly breathe. I was afraid he meant to kill me. I … I saw the paper knife on the desk. I reached for it and struck at him. I meant to stab his arm, so the pain of it would make him let go of me and I could escape.” She shook her head, her eyes wide. “I couldn’t cry out. I couldn’t make a sound!” She stopped again.
“Of course,” Pitt agreed.
“I … I struck at his arm, at his shoulder, where I wouldn’t miss. If I struck lower down I was afraid I would only catch sleeve.” She took a very deep breath and let it out silently. “I drove it with all my strength, before I fainted from lack of air. He must have moved.” She looked paper white. “I caught his neck.” Her voice was so low it was barely a whisper, as if the strangling hands were still choking her. “It was terrible. It was the worst moment of my life. He fell back … staring at me as if he couldn’t believe it. For an instant he was himself again, the old Ramsay, sane and wise and full of tenderness. There was … blood … everywhere.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know what I did then. I was so filled with horror … I—I think I went to kneel where he fell. I don’t know. It was all a blur of horror, of grief.… Time stood still.” She swallowed, her throat tightening. It must have hurt. “Then I went downstairs to get help.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Parmenter,” he acknowledged gravely. While she had been speaking he had been watching her face, her hands, and looking discreetly at the deep bloodstains on her dress. Everything he saw was consistent with her account of what had happened and with what he had seen in the study. There was no cause to doubt the tragedy as she had told it to him. “I am sure you would now like to bathe and change your clothes, and perhaps take the sedative the doctor left for you. I shall not need to disturb you further tonight.”