Brunswick Gardens

by Anne Perry

  But what cut him the most deeply was what Clarice would feel. She had loved her father, and she had believed in Dominic. Now she would think of him with loathing and the kind of contempt he could not bear to imagine. It took his breath away even to stand in this familiar room—with its red Turkish carpet, polished wooden clock on the mantel, and the sound of leaves beyond the window—and think of it. And it had not even happened yet! He had never realized before how much Clarice’s opinion of him mattered. There was no reason why it should. It should be Vita he thought of. Ramsay had been her husband. This was her home. She was the one who had turned to him in her anxiety, her grief. She was the one who trusted him, saw in him a good man, full of strength and courage, honor, faith. She even believed he could make a great leader in the church, a beacon to guide others.

  Clarice had never professed to think him destined for any kind of greatness. It was Vita whose dreams he would break, whose disillusion would be crippling on top of her bereavement and the total loss of not only what her husband was but of what he had been. She would have to believe that Dominic had killed Unity. Pitt would surely tell her why. At least what he thought was why: about their past love affair—if love was the word?

  Had Unity loved him? Or merely been in love, that consuming need for another person which might include gentleness, generosity, patience and the ability to give of the heart, but also might not. It could so easily be simply a mixture of enchantment and hunger, a loneliness temporarily kept at bay.

  Had Unity loved him?

  Had he loved her?

  He thought back on it, trying to remember it honestly. It hurt for many reasons, but mostly because he was ashamed of it. No, he had not loved her. He had been fascinated, excited, challenged. When she had responded it had been uniquely exhilarating. She was different from all his past acquaintances, more intensely alive than any other woman he had known, and certainly cleverer. And she was passionate.

  She had also been possessive and at times cruel. He could think more sharply now of her cruelty to other people than to him. He had felt no gentleness, and nothing like the kind of pity that would have satisfied his present need. With the harsh honesty of hindsight, everything he had felt for her had been innately selfish.

  He stood at the window staring at the new, unfolding leaf buds.

  Had he ever truly loved anyone?

  He had cared for Sarah. There had been far more tenderness in that, more sense of sharing. But he had also become bored by her, because he was concerned primarily with his own appetite, his desire for excitement, change, flattery, the sense of power in new conquests.

  How childish he had been.

  He could retrieve something now by going to Pitt and telling him that Mallory was innocent. Pitt might well decide to check the stain on the conservatory floor for himself. But he might not. Mallory would tell him, as he had told Dominic. Would he be believed?

  The shadow of the noose was already forming over Dominic, and it would take real and tangible shape soon enough. He was innocent. Ramsay believed himself innocent.

  Mallory was innocent.

  What could Pitt believe? The only other person in the house unaccounted for was Clarice. Vita and Tryphena had been together downstairs. It was physically impossible they could be guilty. The servants had all been within each other’s sight, or so occupied as to have been unable to leave their positions unobserved.

  He simply could not bring himself to think Clarice guilty. Why would she? She had no possible reason.

  Except to save Mallory, if she knew the truth about Unity’s child and her power to ruin Mallory because of it.

  Or if she had read the love letters Pitt spoke of, which defied explanation, and she panicked. Had Unity even told her, and threatened to ruin Ramsay?

  He could not believe it. Perhaps Clarice, like everyone he knew, could have gone into a moment’s rage or pain, a fear beyond her to master or in which to think clearly or see beyond the terrible, overwhelming moment?

  But Clarice would never have allowed Ramsay to have been blamed. Whatever the cost would have been to herself, she would have come forward and told the truth.

  Would she? He believed it. He had not realized he held her in such extraordinary esteem, but he did. Suddenly it filled his mind. There was pain in it, but also a kind of elation which was more than simply a recognition of truth.

  Still he was startled some time later when there was a knock on his door and she stood in the entrance, white-faced. He found himself stammering slightly.

  “Wh-what is it? Has something—”

  “No,” she said quickly, attempting a smile. “Everyone is alive and well—at least I believe so. There have been no screams in the last half hour.”

  “Please, Clarice!” He spoke impulsively. “Don’t …”

  “I know.” She came in and closed the door behind her, but stood with both hands still on the knob, leaning against it. “It is a time to be deadly serious—I mean … grave.” She shut her eyes. “Oh, God!” she whispered. “I can’t get it right, can I?”

  He was obliged to smile in spite of himself. “No,” he agreed gently. “It would seem not. Do you want to try again?”

  “Thank you.” She opened her eyes wide. They were clear and very dark gray. “Are you all right? I know you had another visit from that policeman. He’s your brother-in-law, but …”

  He meant to be discreet, not to burden her with the decisions he had to make, the uncertainties, the cost.

  “You aren’t all right, are you?” she said softly. “Did Mallory do it?”

  He could not lie. He had struggled for hours with what to do, what to say to Pitt, with the fear of what would happen, what his own conscience would do to him if he did nothing. Now the decision was taken from him.

  “No, he didn’t,” he answered. “He couldn’t have.”

  “Couldn’t he?” She was uncertain. She knew it was not necessarily good news. There was apprehension in her eyes, not relief.

  He did not look away. “No. The chemical that was spilled across the conservatory path was wet at the time Unity was killed. It was on her shoes, but it wasn’t on his. I checked it all with the garden boy, and with Stander. I looked at all Mallory’s shoes. He’s still lying about her going in there to speak to him. I don’t know why. It is completely pointless. But he didn’t come out, so he couldn’t have been at the top of the stairs.”

  “So it was Papa …” She looked stricken. It was a truth almost more than she knew how to bear.

  He responded instinctively, reaching out and taking her hands in his.

  “He believed it was me,” he said, dreading her response, the moment when she would pull away from him in revulsion, as she must. But he could not let the lie build itself between them. “Pitt found his journal and deciphered it. He really believed I had killed Unity …”

  She looked puzzled. “Why? Because you knew her before?”

  He felt a numbness creep through him, a prickling.

  “You knew that?” His voice was hoarse.

  “She told me.” A smile flickered over her face. “She thought I was in love with you, and she wanted to stop me from doing anything about it. She thought it would anger me or make me dislike you.” She gave a jerky little laugh. “She told me you had been lovers and that you had left her.” She waited for him to respond.

  At that instant he would have given anything he possessed to be able to tell her it was untrue, the fabrication of a jealous woman. But one lie necessitated another, and he would destroy the only relationship he had which had a cleanness to it, an unselfishness not spoiled by appetite, illusion or deceit. When it was shattered, at least it would be by the past, not the present. He would not sacrifice the future for a few days, or hours, until Pitt broke it.

  “I did leave her,” he admitted. “She aborted our child, and I was so horrified, and grieved, I ran away. I realized we did not love each other, only ourselves, our own hungers. That doesn’t justify any of it, or what I
did afterwards. I didn’t set out to be dishonest, but I was. I had other loves, was innocent enough to believe a woman could share a man with another woman. And then when she was … vulnerable … to discover she couldn’t.” He still could not put the true words to it. “I should have known that. I could have, had I been honest. I was old enough and experienced enough not to have believed that lie. I allowed myself because I wanted to.”

  She was staring at him unwaveringly.

  He would like to have stopped, but he would only have to tell her later, begin all over again. Better to complete it now, no matter how hard it was. He let go of her hands. He would not allow himself to feel her pull away.

  “I did not want the commitment of one love, of responsibility during the hard times as well as the easy ones,” he said, hearing his voice sounding flat and mundane for such terrible words. “It was your father who pulled me out of my despair after Jenny killed herself and I knew I was to blame for it. He taught me courage and forgiveness. He taught me there is no going back, only forward. If I wanted to make anything of my life, of myself, then I must work my way out of the slough I had dug myself into.” He swallowed. “And then when he needed me, I was not able to do anything. I stood by helplessly and watched him drown.”

  “We all did,” she whispered, her voice thick with tears. “I did, too. I had no idea what was happening, or why. I believe, and I couldn’t help his unbelief. I loved him, and I couldn’t see what was happening with Unity. I still don’t understand. Did he love her, or simply need something she could give him?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t understand either.” Without thinking he took her hands again, and his fingers tightened around hers. “But I must tell Pitt it wasn’t Mallory, and he already believes it wasn’t your father. That only leaves me, and I can’t prove to him I didn’t. I think he may arrest me.”

  She drew in her breath sharply and seemed about to say something, then she did not.

  What else was there to say? A score of things poured into his mind. He should apologize for all the hurt he had caused her, for all he had been which was shallow and in the end self-serving and pointless, for all the promises he had made, implicitly, and had failed to live up to, and for what was yet to come. He wanted to tell her how much she mattered to him, that he cared intensely what she thought of him, what she felt in return. But that would be unfair. It would only place another burden on her, when she already had so much.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, lowering his eyes. “I wanted to be so much better than I have been. I suppose I started really trying much too late.”

  “You didn’t kill Unity, did you?” It was barely a question, more of a statement, and her voice was not tremulous, seeking help, rather demanding confirmation.

  “No.”

  “Then I will do everything I can to see you are not blamed for it. I’ll fight everybody I have to!” she answered fiercely.

  He looked at her.

  Slowly the color filled her face. Her eyes had betrayed her, and she knew it. She avoided him for an instant, then gave up a hopeless task.

  “I love you,” she admitted. “You don’t have to say anything, except for heaven’s sake, don’t be grateful. I couldn’t bear it!”

  He started to laugh, because what she feared was so far from anything he felt. Gratitude certainly, overwhelming, joyous gratitude, even if it was too late and there could never be anything ahead of them but struggle and grief. It was the most precious thing to know, and whatever Pitt said or did, whatever he believed, he could not take that away.

  “Why are you laughing?” she demanded hotly.

  He held on to her hands although she was pulling away.

  “Because that is about the only thing on earth that could make me happy just at the moment,” he answered. “It is the only good and clean and sweet thing in all this tragedy. I didn’t realize it until just before you came in. I seem to see everything really precious when it is too late, but I love you, too.”

  “Do you?” she said with surprise.

  “Yes. Yes, I do!”

  “Really?” She frowned for a moment, searching his face, his eyes, his mouth. Then when she saw the truth of it, she reached up and very delicately kissed his lips.

  He hesitated, then closed his arms around her and held her, kissed her, and then again, and again. He would go and speak to Pitt … but later. This hour might be all there was; he must make it last so he could remember it forever.

  12

  PITT LAY IN BED and thought about the evening with a sense of surprise still keeping him wide awake. Dominic had been to see him to tell him that Mallory was not guilty, that he could not be. Pitt already knew the facts and their meaning; Tellman had investigated them on his instruction days before.

  What startled him was that Dominic should have seen the proof himself and should have brought it to Pitt, knowing how it had to affect his own position. And yet he had done so, clear-eyed and without equivocation. It had cost him dearly, that much had been very plain in his face. He had looked as if he expected Pitt to take him into custody there and then. He had flinched, but kept his head high. He had searched Pitt’s eyes for the contempt he foresaw … and he had not found it. Curiously, the emotion that came to Pitt was respect. For the first time since they had met each other, as far back as Cater Street, Pitt had felt a surge of deep and quite genuine admiration for him.

  For an instant Dominic had seen it and a faint flush of pleasure had colored his face. Then it had gone again as the truth of his situation returned to him.

  Pitt had acknowledged what he had said without telling him he already knew. He had thanked Dominic and allowed him to depart, saying only that he would continue to investigate the matter.

  Now he lay close to sleep, but still as confused as he had been at the very beginning. The matter was not solved. It could not have been Mallory. He did not believe it was Dominic, although he had had every reason and every opportunity. There were too many contradictions in Ramsay’s guilt for Pitt to accept that with any ease. And yet could it really be Clarice? That was the only other answer, and that did not seem right, either. When he had suggested it to Charlotte she had dismissed it out of hand as totally ridiculous. Not that that was an argument against its possibility, only against its likelihood.

  He drifted into restless sleep, half waking every hour or two, and then finally a little before five he was wide awake and his mind turned again to the love letters between Ramsay and Unity Bellwood. He could not understand them. They fitted in with nothing that he knew of either person.

  He lay in the dark for half an hour trying to think of anything that would make sense of them, trying to imagine the circumstances in which they could have been composed. What could Ramsay have been feeling to have risked putting pen to paper with such words? He must have been in so great a heat of passion all sense of his own danger had left him. And why write to her when she was there in the house and he could see her within hours, if not minutes? It was the action of a man who had lost all sense of proportion, a man verging on madness.

  It came back to that again and again: madness.

  Had Ramsay been mad? Was the answer as simple and as tragic as that?

  He slipped out of bed, shivering as his bare feet touched the cold floor. He must look at those letters again. Perhaps they would contain some explanation if he studied them enough.

  He picked up his clothes. He would dress in the kitchen, so as not to waken Charlotte. It was far too early to disturb her. He tiptoed across the room and pulled the door open. It made a slight squeak, but he managed to close it again silently, or almost.

  Downstairs was chilly. The warmth of the evening before had dissipated and only immediately next to the stove could he still feel any heat. At least Gracie had left the scuttle full, to save herself this morning. He lit the lamp and dressed first, then riddled the dead cinders through and after a few moments managed to get the fire going again. He put coals on it very carefully. If he swamped it
he would put it out completely. It was definitely a skill.

  While it was catching and burning up he filled the kettle and looked out the teapot and fetched the caddy from the cupboard. He took the largest breakfast cup off the hook on the dresser, with its saucer. The fire was burning quite well. He put two more pieces of coal on, then closed the lid. Within moments the stove was beginning to warm. He set the kettle on it, then went through to the parlor and found the letters and the journal again.

  Back in the kitchen, he sat down at the table and started to read.

  He had been through them all once and was beginning a second time when the sound of the boiling kettle penetrated his thoughts and he put them down and made himself a pot of tea. He had forgotten milk, so he went to the larder and fetched a jug, carefully taking off the little circle of muslin with its trim of beads which kept it covered. He poured the tea and sipped it gingerly. It was too hot.

  The letters still made no sense in the pattern of things as he knew them. He sat with the papers spread in front of him and stared, still sipping at the tea and blowing at it now and then. He was achieving nothing, and he knew it.

  He did not know how long he sat there, but his cup was nearly empty when he heard Charlotte come in. He looked around. She was wearing her nightgown and a thick dressing robe. He had bought it for her when the children were very small and she had had to get up and down several times during the night, but it still looked soft and very flattering wrapped around her. There were only one or two small mends in it, and a little discoloration on one shoulder where Jemima had been sick, but it could only be seen in a certain light; otherwise it looked like the natural shading of the fabric.

  “Are these the love letters?” she asked.