Brunswick Gardens

by Anne Perry

  “They were in his study on the desk, in his writing and hers,” Pitt replied. “They mirror each other. There was no question they are letter and reply. Mrs. Parmenter saw them when she went in to speak to him. That was what precipitated the quarrel and why he attacked her. It was obviously something about which he felt violently.”

  Dominic was lost for words. It was incredible. If it were true, then all his perceptions were false, everything he thought he knew was not so. It was as if he had touched snow and it had burned him.

  “I can see you don’t know anything,” Pitt said dryly. “I wish I could say it cleared you of suspicion, but I am afraid it doesn’t.” He rose to his feet. “The fact that they wrote love letters suggests there was much for you to be jealous of, whether you loved her or not. And if Mallory was the father of her child—this time—there was that as well. She was a dangerous woman, both foolish and destructive. Perhaps it was only a matter of time before there was a tragedy. Don’t leave Brunswick Gardens, Dominic.” And with a bleak and unhappy little gesture, Pitt turned and went to the door.

  When Pitt had left, Dominic stood alone in the room for minutes he did not count. He was unaware of the fire collapsing in a shower of sparks, and it was only when he heard the clock: on the mantel strike the hour that the thought occurred to him that someone should have muffled it. He must tell Emsley. He was surprised that Clarice had not done so. Had Vita omitted it because she knew it had been suicide, and one part of her regarded that as a sin?

  He refused to harbor that thought. It was filled with too much pain, a great tangle of it which seemed to touch everything.

  He moved suddenly, striding out of the room, and almost bumped into Emsley in the hall.

  “Where is Mallory?” he demanded.

  Emsley looked startled. His hair stood out in wisps at the crown where his brush had missed it. The pink had gone from his skin, and he looked unbearably tired.

  “I’m sorry,” Dominic said quickly. “I did not mean to speak so abruptly.”

  Emsley’s eyes opened wide. He was not used to anyone’s apologizing to him. One did not apologize to servants. He did not know what to say.

  “Do you know where Mr. Mallory is?” Dominic asked. He could not bring himself to say “Mr. Parmenter.” That was still Ramsay. “And no one has muffled the clock in the withdrawing room. Would you do that, please?”

  “Yes sir. I’m sorry, sir. It slipped my mind. I—I really am sorry.”

  “I daresay you had a lot of other things to care for, more important things, like seeing that the rest of the staff are coping.” He looked at the older man closely. “Are they?”

  “Oh yes, sir,” Emsley replied, and Dominic knew he was lying.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologized again. “I haven’t even been through to see them. I—I am too upset. It was very selfish of me. When I’ve seen Mr. Mallory, I’ll come.”

  “Perhaps, sir, if you could come for grace before the evening meal, that would be a good time?” Emsley suggested. “It might be better after the day’s work is over. Some of the maids could be … well, a bit emotional, if you understand me.”

  “Yes, of course.” Dominic made a mental note to go, regardless of whatever else happened. They must be shocked by two deaths within days of each other, confused by the guilt and suspicion in the house, and the certain knowledge that one of the people they had served and depended upon, probably looked up to, was guilty of murder and now a death which was to them inexplicable. They must be wondering if it was accident, murder or suicide. The whole order they had grown up with, the safety that had surrounded them and provided all their physical needs, had collapsed. They must wonder whether they even had a home for the future. In the aftermath of Ramsay’s death the household would break up, and they might easily be homeless. Vita could not remain in church property now. The house would automatically pass to the next incumbent. It was something he had not even thought of. His own emotions had taken over his mind completely, driving out everything else.

  “Mr. Mallory is in the library, sir,” Emsley told him. “Sir, Mr. Corde …”

  Dominic waited, already half turned to face the library door.

  “Thank you …”

  Dominic forced a quick smile, then strode across the mosaic, his feet surprisingly loud. He would never get used to the sound of it. He flung the library door open without even bothering to knock. He closed it behind him.

  Mallory was on his knees beside the lowest bookshelf. He looked up, irritated at the intrusion, then surprised to see who it was. He arose slowly, his back to the brown velvet curtains and the wet windows, gleaming now as the sun struck them.

  “What is it?” There was a thin thread of rancor in his voice. He was the master now. The sooner Dominic realized it the better. Things would not continue as they had been in the past. “Did you want me?” he added.

  “Pitt has just been here,” Dominic said peremptorily. “This can’t go on. I won’t permit it.”

  “Then tell him to go.” Mallory’s face showed his impatience. “If you can’t deal with that, I will.” He moved forward as if to do so that moment.

  Dominic remained with his back to the door.

  “Pitt is police. He’ll come here as often as he wants to until the case is solved to his satisfaction …”

  “It is solved.” Mallory stopped a couple of yards in front of Dominic. “I can’t think of anything further to say. It is a tragedy best left to sink into as much forgetfulness as we can manage. If that is all you have come for, then please allow me to continue studying. That at least serves some purpose.”

  “It is not solved. Your father did not kill Unity …”

  Mallory’s face was tight and bleak. “Yes, he did. For God’s sake, Dominic, this is hard enough for the family without raking it over and trying to find ways to escape the truth. There is no escape! Have the courage and the honor to accept that, and if the word applies to you, the faith.”

  “I am trying to.” Dominic heard the anger in his own voice, and the contempt which was for himself as well as for Mallory, standing looking so sullen and defiant. “One of the truths to acknowledge is that Ramsay thought I killed her.”

  Mallory’s eyes opened very wide. “Is that a confession?” His face was full of doubt and new pain as well. “Aren’t you a little late? Father is dead. You cannot bring him back now. It’s not much use being honest, or sorry …”

  “No, it’s not a confession!” Dominic snapped. “I am pointing out that if Ramsay thought I killed her, then it follows that he could not have, and I didn’t. That only leaves you, and you had reason enough.”

  Mallory was suddenly white. “I didn’t!” His body was stiff, shoulders raised high. “I did not kill her!” But there was an unmistakable edge of fear in his voice.

  “You had every reason,” Dominic insisted. “It was your child! What would it do to your career, your ambitions—”

  “The priesthood is not an ambition!” Mallory burst out, anger flushing up his cheeks. He was standing in front of the large desk, the sunlight making patterns on the oak floor. He looked very young. “It is a calling,” he said critically. “A service to God, a way of life. You may do it to earn yourself money, recognition, even fame, I don’t know. But I do it because I know it is the truth.”

  “Don’t be childish,” Dominic said angrily, turning away. “We each do it for lots of reasons. It may be pure one day, and arrogant or cowardly or simply stupid another. That is not the point.” He stared back at Mallory. “Unity was carrying your child. She was, if not blackmailing you, certainly using pressure to make you do what she wanted, and enjoying the power. Did she threaten to tell your bishop?” He shook his head. “No, don’t bother to answer that. It wasn’t worth it. Whatever she said, you must have known she could.”

  Mallory was sweating. “I didn’t kill her!” he said yet again. “She wasn’t going to ruin me. She just—just liked the power. She thought it was funny. She laughed, because she kn
ew …” He closed his eyes, realizing what he had said and how much it condemned him. “I didn’t kill her!”

  “Then why did you lie about seeing her that morning?” Dominic challenged him.

  “I didn’t! I was in the conservatory … studying! I didn’t see her!” Mallory’s voice was high and indignant, but the fear was a sharp note behind it all the time, and Dominic could see and feel it in the air. He must be lying. If Ramsay had not killed her, it could only be Mallory. Dominic knew he was innocent at least of that. Guilty of having got her with child before, certainly guilty of every tragedy of Jenny’s, guilty of failing to help Ramsay, of letting him die of misery, loneliness and despair … but not of Unity’s death.

  “If she wasn’t in the conservatory, how did she get the stain on her shoe?” he said coldly. He could understand the terror which made Mallory lie even now, when it was hopeless, but he also hated it. It robbed him of the last shred of dignity. It stretched out the pain of this more than it had to be. And he could not forgive him for having allowed Ramsay to be blamed for his guilt. Fear was one thing, even cowardice, but to stand by and watch someone else suffer for your sin was of a different order.

  “I don’t know!” Mallory was shaking. “It doesn’t make any sense. I can’t explain it. I only know I didn’t leave the conservatory and she didn’t come in.”

  “She must have,” Dominic said wearily. “She couldn’t have got that on her shoe anywhere else. She trod in it on the conservatory floor as she left.”

  “Then why didn’t I?” There was a sudden surge of hope in Mallory’s voice, and he waved his arm as if the movement somehow released him. “Why was there no stain on my shoes?”

  “Wasn’t there?” Dominic raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know that.”

  “Well, go and look!” Mallory shouted at him, jerking his head towards the door. “Go and look at all my shoes! You won’t find any stain on any of them.”

  “Why not? Did you clean it off? Or did you destroy the shoes?”

  “Neither, damn you! I never left the conservatory.”

  Dominic said nothing. Could that conceivably be true? How could it be possible? If it was not Mallory, then it must have been Ramsay after all. Had he been really, truly mad? So mad he had blanked from his mind what he had done, and believed himself innocent?

  “Go and look!” Mallory repeated. “Ask Stander, he’ll tell you I haven’t thrown away any shoes.”

  “Or cleaned it off?” Dominic could not easily let go. It meant Ramsay must have been guilty after all, and after the reprieve Pitt had given him, it was too difficult to go back and accept his guilt and the madness that had to go with it. There was something very frightening about madness, something unreachable, something there was no way of dealing with.

  “I don’t know!” Mallory slashed the air, his voice high and loud. Any servants in the hall must be able to hear him. “I never tried! I never saw the stuff! But probably not—not if it was a stain. It would go into the leather. You can’t get chemical stains out of things. Ordinary stains are bad enough, according to Stander.”

  There was nothing to do but go and look. There was certainly no point in remaining there in the library confronting Mallory.

  “I will look.” He made it a challenge, then turned and went back into the hall and up the stairs. “Stander!” he called brusquely. “Stander!”

  The valet was nowhere to be seen, which in the circumstances was hardly surprising.

  Braithwaite appeared. “Can I help you, sir?” She looked tired and frightened. She had been with the family for years, since she was a young woman. Had anyone bothered to think about the servants’ emotions, their grief and sense of shock and confusion, their fears for the future?

  “I need to look at Mr. Mallory’s shoes … with his permission. It is important.”

  “All his shoes?” She was totally confused.

  “Yes. Will you find Stander for me, please? Immediately.”

  She agreed with some obvious misgiving, and Dominic had to wait nearly ten minutes before Stander came up the stairs looking deeply unhappy. Apparently he had checked with Mallory, because he made no demur but went straight to Mallory’s dressing room and opened both wardrobes to show the neat rows of shoes with their trees all in place.

  “Do you know which ones he was wearing the day Miss Bellwood died?” Dominic asked.

  “I’m not sure, sir. It would be either these”—he pointed to a pair of fairly well worn black leather boots—“or these.” He indicated another pair, rather newer.

  “Thank you.” Dominic reached forward and picked up the first pair, taking them over to the window and holding them to the sunlight. They were immaculate. The soles were thin with use, but there were no stains on them, nor any marks of recent scraping such as might be needed to remove a chemical.

  He put them down and picked up the other pair Stander had indicated. He examined them in the same way. They also were perfectly clean.

  “Had he any more he might have worn that day?” he asked.

  “No sir, I believe not.” Stander looked totally mystified.

  “I’ll look at them all anyway.” Dominic made it a statement. He was not asking permission. Certainly he would not be diverted now from finding the truth or be misled by the wrong pair of shoes. He picked them up one by one and searched the entire collection, not that there were so many. Mallory was far from extravagant, seven pairs in all, including a very old pair of riding boots. None of them had any chemical stains.

  “Did you find what you were looking for, sir?” Stander asked anxiously.

  “No. But then I don’t think I wanted to.” He did not explain what he meant. He was not even sure if it were true. “Are these all? I mean, there isn’t a pair missing? In the last two weeks?”

  Stander was confused and unhappy, his normally smooth face puckered with concern.

  “No sir. These are all the shoes Mr. Mallory has owned since he has been home again, so far as I know. Apart from those he has on, of course.”

  “Oh … yes. I forgot about those. Thank you.” Dominic closed the wardrobe door. There were two more things to do, check the shoes that Mallory was wearing at the moment, and speak to the gardener’s boy and find out exactly where the chemical was spilled, what it was and how long it would have remained wet enough to have marked anything that touched it.

  “I dunno wot it’s called, sir,” the boy answered with a frown. “Yer’d ‘ave ter ask Mr. Bostwick about that. But it don’t stay wet more’n an hour, outside. I stood in it meself arter that, an’ it din’t mark nothin’.”

  “Are you sure?” Dominic pressed him. They were standing on the stone paving just outside the conservatory. It was bright sunlight through an ever-widening rent in the clouds, but every leaf and blade of grass was tremulous with drops of rain.

  “Yes sir, pos’tive sure,” the boy replied.

  “Do you know what time you spilled it?”

  “No … not really …”

  “Even a guess? Before Miss Bellwood fell down the stairs, but how long before? You remember that?” Dominic stood on the wet stones, oblivious of the beauty around him, his mind filled only with times and stains.

  “Oh, yes sir! ‘Course I do.” The boy looked shocked at the idea that anyone could think he might forget such a thing.

  “Think back to what you were doing, and what you did after that, until you heard about the—the death,” Dominic urged.

  The boy considered for several moments. “Well, I were cleaning out the pots for the ferns. That’s w’y I ’ad the stuff,” he said seriously. “Gotter be terrible careful o’ red mites an’ them little spiders. Eats leaves summink rotten, they do.” His face expressed his opinion of such things. “Never get rid o’ them. Then I watered the narcissuses and the ’yacinths. Smell lovely, they do. Them ones wi’ the little orange centers is me favorites— narcissuses, I mean. Mr. Mallory were studyin’, so I couldn’t sweep up ’is end. ’E don’ like ter be interrupted.�
�� He did not comment as to what a nuisance this was, but his expression was eloquent. Theological studies were all very well in their place, but their place was not the conservatory, where people were busy attending to growing things.

  “Did you sweep the rest?” Dominic persisted.

  “Yes sir, I did.”

  “Did Mr. Mallory leave at all?”

  “I dunno, sir. I went out ter work in the garden fer a while, seein’ as I couldn’t finish inside. S’pose I must’a spilt the stuff about ’alf an hour afore Miss Bellwood fell, mebbe a few minutes more’n that.”

  “Not an hour?”

  “No sir,” he said vehemently. “Mr. Bostwick ’d’ave ’ad me fer dinner if I’d took an hour ter do that!”

  “So it must have been still wet when Miss Bellwood fell down the stairs.”

  “Yes sir, must ’ave.”

  “Thank you.”

  There was only one thing left to do, although he was sure in his mind that it would yield nothing, and so it proved. The shoes Mallory was wearing were as clean as all those in his wardrobes.

  “Thank you,” Dominic said bleakly, without explaining himself any further, and went back to his own room feeling wretched.

  Mallory was not guilty. He believed it. He was not sure whether he was glad or not. It meant Ramsay had been, and that hurt deeply. But at least Ramsay himself was beyond pain now, beyond earthly pain anyway. What lay farther than that was more than he dared imagine.

  But Pitt believed Ramsay was innocent. Which meant he would have to believe Dominic guilty.

  He paced back and forth from the window to the bookcase, and to the window, turned and back to the bookcase. The sunlight was bright across the floor and he barely noticed it.

  Pitt would be hurt. He would hate having to arrest Dominic, for Charlotte’s sake. But he would do it! Part of him would even find satisfaction in it. It would vindicate his judgment of all those years ago in Cater Street.

  Charlotte would be terribly grieved. She had been so happy for him that he had found a vocation. There had been no shadow in her pleasure. This would crush her. But she would not believe Pitt had made a mistake. Perhaps that was something she could not afford to believe. And if she did, it would not help Dominic. All it would do would be to tear her emotions.