by Anne Perry
“Yes. Yes, I should.” She gave a little shiver and pulled the sheet higher up over her, but she did not say anything else.
Pitt left her and went back to the study. He must speak to the doctor, to both her daughters, and either he or Tellman should speak to the servants. Somebody might have heard something. Not that it would help if they had; it was simply a matter of being thorough.
It was nearly midnight when he arrived at Cornwallis’s rooms and the manservant let him in. The man had already retired and had been awakened by the doorbell. He had a dressing robe on over hastily donned trousers, and his hair stood on end at the back where his comb had not reached it.
“Yes sir?” he said a little stiffly.
Pitt apologized. “I imagine Mr. Cornwallis has gone to bed, but I am afraid I need to see him urgently. I’m sorry.”
“Yes sir, he has. May I deliver a message, sir?”
“You may,” Pitt agreed. “Tell him Superintendent Pitt is downstairs and needs to give him news which will not wait until morning.”
The man winced, but he did not argue. As he passed the telephone instrument hanging on the wall, he glanced meaningfully at it but forbore from recommending its use. He left Pitt in the sitting room, a comfortable, highly masculine place filled with padded leather chairs, books, mementos such as a giant conch shell from the Indies, its curved heart glowing with color, a polished brass miniature cannon, a wooden cleat from a ship’s rigging, two or three pieces of ambergris and a porcelain dish full of musket balls. There were several paintings of the sea. The books were of a wide variety, novels and poetry as well as biography, science and history. Pitt smiled when he saw Jane Austen’s Emma, Eliot’s Silas Marner and the three books of Dante’s Divine Comedy.
Cornwallis came in less than ten minutes later fully dressed and carrying two glasses of brandy and soda.
“What is it?” he asked, pushing the door closed behind him and passing Pitt one of the glasses. “Something terrible, to judge by your face and to bring you here at this time of night.”
“I am afraid Parmenter lost his head completely and attacked his wife. She fought him off, but she killed him in the struggle.”
Cornwallis looked astounded.
“Yes, I know,” Pitt agreed. “It sounds absurd, but he tried to strangle her, and when she could feel herself suffocating, she grasped the paper knife from the desk and attempted to stab his arm. She said he moved, in order to keep the grip on her throat, and she drove with all her strength at his shoulder and caught his neck.” He sipped the brandy and soda.
Cornwallis looked wretched, his face creased with unhappiness, his body stiff as if braced against a blow. He stood still for several moments. Pitt wondered if he was thinking of the bishop and his reaction, and how he would now be able to have the whole matter kept private and dealt with exactly as he had wanted.
“Damn!” Cornwallis said at last. “I had no idea he was so … his sanity was so fragile. Had you?”
“No,” Pitt confessed. “Neither did his doctor. He had been called for Mrs. Parmenter, and I asked him. He looked at the body, too, of course, but there was nothing he could do, and nothing of any help to say.”
“Sit down!” Cornwallis waved at the chairs and Pitt accepted gratefully. He had had no idea he was so tired.
“I suppose there is no doubt that is what happened?” Cornwallis went on, looking at Pitt curiously. “It wasn’t a suicide the wife was trying to disguise?”
“Suicide?” Pitt was puzzled. “No.”
“Well, she might,” Cornwallis argued. “After all, we haven’t proved he killed the Bellwood woman, not beyond doubt. But suicide is a crime in the eyes of the church.”
“Well, trying to murder your wife isn’t well regarded, either,” Pitt pointed out.
Cornwallis’s face was tight in spite of the flash of humor in his eyes. “But he didn’t succeed in that. He may have intended the crime, but you cannot punish him for it … not when he is dead anyway.”
“You cannot punish a person for suicide, either,” Pitt said dryly.
“Yes, you can,” Cornwallis contradicted. “You can bury them in unhallowed ground. And the family suffers.”
“Well, this was not suicide.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes. The knife must have been in her hand, not his.”
“Left side of the throat or right?” Cornwallis asked.
“Left … her right hand. They were facing each other, the way she described it.”
“So it could have been in his hand?”
“I don’t think so, not at that angle.”
Cornwallis pursed his lips. He pushed his fists deep into his pockets and stared at Pitt unhappily. “Are you satisfied that he killed Unity Bellwood?”
Pitt was about to answer, then realized that if he were honest, he was still troubled by an incompleteness to it. “I can’t think of any better answer, but I feel there is something important I’ve missed,” he admitted. “I suppose we’ll never know. Perhaps the letters will explain.”
“What letters?” Cornwallis demanded.
“That’s what provoked this quarrel, a collection of love letters between Unity and Parmenter, very graphic on Unity’s part, according to Mrs. Parmenter. When he realized she had seen them he completely lost control of himself.”
“Love letters?” Cornwallis was confused. “Why would they write letters to each other? They were in the same house. They worked together every day. Are you saying they knew each other before he employed her?”
It did seem in need of explanation. It should have occurred to him before, but he was too surprised at the nature of the letters to have considered it.
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask Mrs. Parmenter if the letters were dated … or for that matter why they were all together. One would expect her to have his, and he to have hers.”
“So he was the father of her child,” Cornwallis concluded, his voice dropping with a low, harsh note of disappointment. Perhaps in a young man he would have found it easier to understand and forgive, though age was no protection against the passion, the need, the vulnerability or the confusion of falling in love, or of the storms of physical hunger, even if when they subside they leave a wreckage of injury and shame. Was Cornwallis so detached from life ashore, with both men and women, that he did not know that?
“It would seem so,” Pitt conceded. “We shall never know beyond question, since they are both dead now.”
“What a mess,” Cornwallis said more quietly. His face was pinched with sadness, as if he could suddenly see all the futility of it spread out plainly in front of him. “It was all so … unnecessary. What was it for? A few hours’ indulgence of … what?” He shrugged. “Not love. They despised each other. They agreed on nothing. And look what it has cost!” He glanced up, searching Pitt’s face. “What happens to a man that he so loses his balance as to throw away a lifetime’s work and trust … for something he must know is going to last only a few weeks and in the end be worth nothing? Why? Was he mad, in some way a doctor would recognize? Or was the whole of his life until then alie?”
“I don’t know,” Pitt said honestly. “I don’t understand it any more than you do. It doesn’t seem like the man I saw and spoke to. It is as if there were some division in his mind, as if he were two men inside.”
“But you are satisfied it was he who pushed Unity, whether he meant to kill her or not? I mean, this proves it, doesn’t it?”
Pitt looked at him. He was not certain from Cornwallis’s face whether he was asking for reassurance, so he could forget the matter, or if he was asking an open question to which the answer could possibly be in the negative. He knew how it galled Cornwallis to concede to the bishop, and therefore also to Smithers, but he would not have allowed that to affect his decision.
“You don’t answer,” Cornwallis prompted.
“Because I suppose I am not sure,” Pitt replied. “It doesn’t feel right, because I don’t understand it
. But I assume it must be.”
Cornwallis hunched his shoulders. “Thank you for coming to tell me. I’ll go and report to the bishop in the morning … first thing!”
As a young man, Reginald Underhill had risen early and pursued his duty with a diligence appropriate to his considerable ambition. Now that his place was assured he felt he could lie in bed a great deal longer, be brought tea and possibly the newspapers. Therefore he was not pleased when his valet came to him at eight o’clock with the news that Mr. Cornwallis was downstairs to see him.
“What, now?” he said irritably.
“Yes sir, I am afraid so.” The valet also knew how inconvenient it was. The bishop was not washed, shaved, or dressed, and he hated hurrying. The only thing worse was to be caught looking disheveled and ill prepared. It robbed one of any dignity whatsoever. It was difficult to keep people in their place when dressed in one’s nightshirt and with gray stubble all over one’s cheeks and chin.
“What does he want, for heaven’s sake?” the bishop asked sharply. “Can’t he come back at a more suitable time?”
“Shall I ask him to, my lord?”
The bishop slid down a little further in the warm bed. “Yes. Do that. Did he say what he wanted?”
“Yes sir, it was to do with the Reverend Parmenter. I believe there has been a very dramatic development in the case. He felt you should know immediately.” The shadow of a smile crossed the man’s face. “Before he took any action you might feel ill advised.”
The bishop gritted his teeth and suppressed a word he would not care to have his valet hear him use. He threw the covers back and climbed out of bed in an extremely bad temper, added to by the fact that he was now also afraid.
Isadora had risen early. The hours before Reginald was up were frequently her favorites of the day. Sunrise was coming sooner with every passing week as the year strengthened. This particular morning was bright, and the sharp light fell in dazzling bars across the dining room floor. She enjoyed breakfasting alone. It was extraordinarily peaceful.
When the maid told her that Mr. Cornwallis was in the hall she was amazed, but in spite of herself, and the knowledge that if he had called at this hour it could not be for any happy reason, she felt a quickening of excitement.
“Do ask him if he will join me,” she said hastily, with less dignity than she had intended. “I mean, ask him if he would care for a cup of tea.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the maid acknowledged obediently, and a few moments later Cornwallis came in. Isadora saw the unhappiness in his face immediately. It was not the simple grief of a tragedy but the complex distress of indecision and embarrassment.
“Good morning, Mr. Cornwallis. I am afraid the Bishop is not yet down,” she said unnecessarily. “Please join me for breakfast, if you should care to? Would you like tea?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Underhill. Thank you,” he accepted, sitting opposite her, avoiding the chair at the head of the table.
She poured for him from the large silver pot, and offered milk and sugar.
“Would you like some toast as well? There is honey, marmalade or apricot preserve.”
Again he accepted, taking the toast from the rack self-consciously and spreading it with butter. He chose the apricot preserve.
“I am sorry to intrude so early in the morning,” he apologized after a moment. “I really think perhaps I should have waited. I did not wish the Bishop to hear in some other way. It would have been unfortunate.” He looked up at her quickly. He had clear, hazel eyes, extremely direct. She could imagine all sorts of expressions in them, but never evasion or deceit. But that was not something she should be thinking. After this wretched business with poor Parmenter was over, she would probably not see him again. Suddenly she felt terribly isolated, as if the sun had gone in, although in fact it was still shining across the table. Now the light was hard, lonely, revealing an emptiness.
She looked down at her plate. She no longer had any desire to finish the toast which a moment ago had seemed delicious.
“I assume that something of importance has happened,” she said, and was ashamed that her voice sounded so hoarse.
“I am afraid so,” he answered. “I—I am sorry to intrude upon you in this way, and before you have even begun your day. It was clumsy of me …”
He was embarrassed. She could hear it in his words and almost feel it for him. She forced herself to look up and smile.
“Not at all. If there is news you have to tell, this is as good an hour as any. At least there is time to think about it and to make whatever decisions are necessary. Can you tell me what has happened?”
The tension slipped away from him, in spite of the fact that he was about to discuss whatever it was that had brought him here. He sipped his tea and met her eyes steadily. Gently he told her what had happened.
She was horrified. “Oh dear! Is he badly hurt?”
“I am afraid he is dead.” He watched her anxiously. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I should not have told you until the Bishop came.” Now he looked thoroughly distressed. He half rose to his feet, as if he feared she might faint and need physical assistance. “I’m so sorry …”
“Oh, please sit down, Mr. Cornwallis,” she said hastily, although in truth she did feel a trifle shaky. It was so preposterous. “I assure you I am quite all right. Really!”
“Are you?” His face was creased with worry, his eyes bright. He remained standing awkwardly.
“Of course I am. Perhaps you do not realize how many times a bishop’s wife is called upon to face situations of bereavement? It is a far larger part of my life than I could wish, but if you cannot turn to your church in times of extremity and grief, then where is there left?”
He sat down again.
“I had not thought of that. I still should have been more considerate.”
“Poor Ramsay,” she said slowly. “I thought I knew him, but I cannot have known him at all. There must have been a storm of darkness gathering inside him that none of us had the slightest knowledge of. How bitterly alone he must have been, carrying that burden.”
He was looking at her with a gentleness that was almost luminous. She saw it in his face, and the warmth blossomed up inside her until without thinking she was smiling at him.
The dining room door opened and the bishop came in, closing it with a bang.
“You had better excuse us, Isadora,” he said abruptly, glancing at her plate and almost-empty teacup. He took his place at the head of the table. “Mr. Cornwallis has some news, I gather.”
“I already know it,” she said without moving. “Would you like tea, Reginald?”
“I should like breakfast!” he said waspishly. “But first I suppose I had better hear whatever it is that has brought Mr. Cornwallis here at this hour of the day.”
Cornwallis’s face was bleak, the skin across his smooth cheekbones tight. “Ramsay Parmenter tried to strangle his wife yesterday evening, and in defending herself, she killed him,” he said brutally.
“Good God!” The bishop was aghast. He stared at Cornwallis as if he had struck him physically. “How …” He drew in his breath in a gulp. “How …,” he repeated, then stopped. “Oh dear.”
Isadora looked at him, trying to read his expression, to see in it the reflection of the sadness and sense of failure that she felt. He looked bland, as if he were thinking rather than feeling. She was aware of a gulf between them she had no idea how to cross, and far worse than that, she was not nearly sure enough that she even wished to.
“Oh dear,” the bishop repeated, turning his body a little further towards Cornwallis. “What a tragic ending to this whole unfortunate business. Thank you for coming so swiftly to inform me. It was most considerate of you. Most civil. I shall not forget it.” He smiled slightly, his earlier irritation forgotten in relief.
And it was relief. She could read it in him, not in his eyes or his mouth, he was too careful for that, but in the set of his shoulders and the way his hands moved across the tablec
loth, no longer tense but loose-fingered. She was overcome by a wave of revulsion and then anger. She glanced at Cornwallis. His mouth was tight, and he sat upright, as if facing some threat from which he must guard himself. With a flash of insight she thought she knew what he was feeling: the same confusion as she was, a rage and a disgust he did not want, which embarrassed him but which he could not escape.
“Have some more tea,” the bishop offered, holding up the pot after he had helped himself.
“No, thank you,” Cornwallis declined without giving it a moment’s thought.
A servant came in silently and placed a hot dish of bacon, eggs, potatoes and sausage in front of the bishop. He nodded acceptance and she left.
“It was obviously as we feared,” the bishop went on, taking up his knife and fork. “Poor Parmenter. He was suffering from a steadily increasing insanity. Very tragic. Thanks be to God he did not succeed in killing his wife, poor woman.” He looked up suddenly, his fork balanced with sausage and potato. “I assume she is not seriously injured?” He had only just thought of it.
“I believe not,” Cornwallis replied tersely.
“I shall visit her in due course.” The bishop put the food into his mouth.
“She must be shattered,” Isadora said, turning to Cornwallis. “One can hardly imagine anything worse. I wonder if she had any idea he was so … ill.”
“It hardly matters now, my dear,” the bishop said with his mouth full. “It is all over and we need not harrow our minds with questions we cannot answer.” He swallowed. “We are in a position to protect her from further grief and distress at the intrusion of others into her bereavement and its causes. There will be no more police investigation. The tragedy has explained itself. There is no justice to be sought … it is already accomplished in the perfect economy of the Almighty.”
Cornwallis winced.
“The Almighty!” Isadora exploded, disregarding Cornwallis’s widened eyes and the bishop’s hiss of indrawn breath. “God didn’t do this! Ramsay Parmenter must have been sinking into despair and madness for months, probably years, and none of us saw it! None of us had the slightest idea!” She leaned forward over the table, staring at both of them. “He employed a young woman and had an affair with her. She became with child and he murdered her, whether he meant to or not. Now he attacks his wife, trying to strangle her, and instead is killed himself. And you sit there saying it is all over—in the economy of God!” Her outrage was withering. “It has nothing to do with God! It is human suffering and failure. And with two people dead, and a child never to be born … it is hardly economical!”