by Anne Perry
“There is no indication that she tripped, sir,” Pitt replied. “But her cry, apparently accusing Reverend Parmenter, makes it necessary we investigate the incident more thoroughly.”
“Cry?” The bishop’s voice lifted sharply. “Precisely what did she cry out, Superintendent? Surely that is open to interpretation? Have you found any other evidence whatever to suggest that a man of Reverend Parmenter’s reputation and learning would so lose his wits, all his life’s work, as to push her? Really, sir, it defies belief.”
“She cried out ‘No, no, Reverend!’ ” Pitt replied.
“Could she not have slipped and called for his assistance, as the nearest person to her and the most likely to come to her aid?” the bishop said urgently. “Surely that is a far more likely explanation? I am sure if you put that to the person who heard the cry, they will confirm it to you.” He said it almost in the tone of an order—and an assumption that it would be obeyed.
“That is not what they say, sir,” Pitt answered, watching his face. “But it is possible she cried ‘No, no’ to the person who pushed her, and then called out to Mr. Parmenter to help her. But she did not use any words such as help or please.”
“Of course.” The bishop leaned forward. “She fell before she could. That is most easily explained. She may even have begun to and been cut off by her fall, poor creature. It seems we have resolved the matter already. Most excellent.” He smiled, but there was no warmth in it.
“If it was not Reverend Parmenter who pushed her, then it was someone else,” Pitt pointed out. “The servants are all accounted for, as are Mrs. Parmenter …” He saw the bishop wince. “And Mrs. Whickham. This leaves Miss Clarice Parmenter, Mr. Mallory Parmenter, and the curate who is lodging there at present, Mr. Dominic Corde.”
“Ah, yes … Corde.” The bishop leaned back in his chair. “Well, it is probably young Mallory Parmenter. Very regrettable, but a lightly balanced young man of emotional instability. You will not be aware of his history, but he has always been of a doubting and argumentative nature. As a youth he quibbled over everything. He could accept nothing without making an issue over it.” He drew his mouth tight in an expression of annoyance as memory became sharp. “One moment he was bursting with enthusiasm, the next he was equally full of criticism. Altogether an unsatisfactory young man. His rebellion against his father, his entire family and all its values, is witness of that. I cannot think why he should do something so violent and tragic, but I have never understood such behavior. I can only deplore and regret it.” He frowned. “And, of course, pity the victims,” he added hastily.
“Miss Bellwood was with child,” Pitt said bluntly.
The bishop paled. The satisfaction drained from his face. “How very unfortunate. From some liaison before she was employed, I presume?”
“Since. I am afraid it is very probable the father was one of the three men in the house.”
“Only of academic import now.” The bishop stretched his neck, easing his collar as if it were tight. “We can never know who it was, and we must assume it was young Parmenter, and that was his reason for … killing her. It is the lesser sin, Superintendent, and there is no need to blacken the young woman’s reputation by letting it become public now. Let us allow her to rest in peace, poor creature.” He swallowed. “It is not a necessity, nor is it our place, to judge her weakness.”
“It may be Mallory Parmenter,” Pitt agreed, unreasonably angry deep inside himself. He had no right to judge the bishop; he had no idea what young Mallory had been like, or how he had tried his patience. All the same, his dislike was intense. “But it may not,” he added. “I cannot act without proof.”
The bishop looked agitated. “But what proof can you have?” he demanded. “No one has confessed. The act was not seen, and you have just told me any of three people could have been responsible. What do you propose to do?” His voice was rising. “You cannot leave the matter unsolved! All three men’s reputations will be ruined. It would be quite monstrous.”
“Can you tell me something further about Mallory Parmenter, something specific, Bishop Underhill?” Pitt asked. “And Dominic Corde, perhaps? Certainly you must know Ramsay Parmenter better than almost anyone else, in some ways.”
“Yes … of course. Well … I’m not sure.”
“I beg your pardon?”
A flicker of discomfort crossed the bishop’s face. He started to explain himself. “I have known Mallory Parmenter for a long time, naturally. As a boy he was always a little difficult, lurching from one enthusiasm to another, as I have said. Most people grow out of it. He does not seem to have. Could not make up his mind what to do with his life. Indecisive, you see?” He stared at Pitt critically. “Considered going up to Oxford to study, but didn’t. Never fell in love. No one would meet his impossibly high criteria. Lived in a world divorced from reality. An idealist. Never came to terms.” He hesitated.
“Yes?” Pitt prompted after a moment.
“Unsound,” the bishop finished, satisfied with the word. “Yes, unsound. Obvious enough now, I am afraid.”
Pitt took that to refer to his conversion to Rome, but did not say so. “And Mr. Corde?” he asked.
“Ah. Yes. A most promising man.” Underhill’s voice was suddenly filled with satisfaction, a momentary smile on his mouth. “Most promising. Always a joy to see someone discover a true faith and be prepared to sacrifice all to follow it.”
“Is it a sacrifice?” Pitt asked innocently, thinking of the despair Dominic had described and the peace he now saw in Dominic’s face and his manner. “I should have thought it the opposite. Surely he has gained far more than anything it could have cost him?”
The bishop flushed angrily. “Of course! You misunderstood me. I was speaking of …” He flapped his hand. “It is not something I can describe to you, the years of study, of self-discipline, the financial restrictions of a very minimal income. Gladly undertaken, but of course it is a sacrifice, sir.”
“And you believe Dominic Corde is a morally excellent man, above the weakness and temptations of vanity, anger or lust …”
The bishop sat forward in the great red chair. “Of course I do! There is no question. I take most unkindly even the suggestion that—” He stopped abruptly, aware of just how far he was committing himself. “Well … naturally, I am speaking as I find, Superintendent. I have many reasons to believe … there has never been the slightest word …”
“And Ramsay Parmenter?” Pitt asked without hope of any answer of meaning, let alone value.
“A man hitherto of unimpeachable reputation,” the bishop replied grimly.
“But surely, sir, you know him better than merely by repute?” Pitt insisted.
“Of course I do!” The bishop was unhappy now, and thoroughly annoyed. He shifted his position in his chair. “It is my calling and my vocation, Superintendent. But I know of nothing in his nature or his acts to suggest he was not all he seemed and that he had any weaknesses graver than those that afflict all mankind.” He seemed about to add something, then changed his mind. Pitt wondered if he was remembering that it was he who had recommended Ramsay Parmenter’s forthcoming promotion.
“Doubts about his vocation, his faith?” he pressed. “Moods of despair?”
The bishop’s tone became condescending.
“We all have doubts, Superintendent. It is merely human to do so, a function of the intelligent man.”
Pitt had a sense of futility arguing with him. He was prevaricating in order to leave room for himself to appear in the right whatever the outcome.
“Are you saying that the clergy who lead us have no greater faith than the ordinary layman?” Pitt said aloud, looking at the bishop squarely.
“No! No, of course I am not! What I am saying is … is that moods of despondency come upon us all. We are all beset by … by certain … thoughts …”
“Has Ramsay Parmenter ever shown temptations towards self-indulgence, or violent loss of temper? Please, Bishop Underhill,
we are sorely in need of honesty before a desire to mask the truth with kindness.”
The bishop sat silent for so long Pitt thought he was not going to answer at all. He looked wretched, as if tormented by thoughts he found acutely painful. Pitt had the uncharitable thought that it was concern for his own increasingly awkward position that troubled him.
“I must consider the matter further,” the bishop said at last. “I am not, at this point, happy to speak on the subject. I am sorry, sir. That is all I can tell you.”
Pitt did not press him any further. He thanked him and took his leave. Immediately the bishop went to the telephone, an invention about which he had very ambivalent feelings, and made a call to John Cornwallis’s offices.
“Cornwallis? Cornwallis … ah, good.” He cleared his throat. This was absurd. He should not allow himself to be nervous. “I would greatly appreciate an opportunity to speak privately with you. Better here than in your office, I think. Would you care to come to dinner? Very welcome. Good … very good. We dine at eight. We shall look forward to seeing you.” He hung up the receiver with a motion of relief. This was all quite appalling. He had better inform his wife. She should in turn inform the cook.
Cornwallis arrived a few moments after eight o’clock. Isadora Underhill knew who he was, but she had never met him before. She had begun the evening extremely annoyed at her husband’s thoughtlessness in inviting a stranger to dine on an evening when she had planned to sit quietly. Every night the previous week there had been some duty or other demanding her attention and her polite interest, most of them exceedingly dull. Tonight she had intended to read. She had a novel which transported her utterly into its passion and depth. She forfeited it with reluctance—and something less than the grace she usually showed.
She also knew perfectly well why Reginald had called the policeman. He was terrified there was going to be a scandal he could not contain and that it was going to reflect on him badly since he had been the one to insist Ramsay Parmenter should be elevated to a bishopric of his own. He wanted to try to persuade this man to deal with the issue discreetly and expeditiously, even if that meant outside the normal rules. It disgusted her, and far more powerfully than that, it was the end of a slow disenchantment which she realized had been happening for years; she simply had not recognized it as such. This was her life, the man whose work she shared, the meaning she had chosen to take for herself. And she no longer admired it.
She chose to dress very simply in a dark blue gown with high, pleated silk sleeves. It became her extraordinarily with her dark hair and its silver streak.
Cornwallis surprised her. She did not know what she had expected—someone like the church dignitaries she already knew so well: habitually polite, confident, a trifle bland. Cornwallis was none of these things. He was obviously uncomfortable, and his manners were exact, as though he had to work at thinking what to say. She was used to a civility which acknowledged her while looking beyond her. He, on the contrary, seemed highly aware of her, and although he was not a large man, she found herself conscious of his physical presence in a way she had not felt before.
“How do you do, Mrs. Underhill.” He inclined his head, the light shining on its totally smooth surface. She had never thought she could find baldness appealing, but his was so completely natural she only realized its appeal afterwards—and with surprise.
“How do you do, Mr. Cornwallis,” she replied. “I am delighted you were able to come with so little proper invitation. It really is very kind of you.”
The color touched his cheeks. He had a powerful nose and wide mouth. He obviously did not know what to say. It seemed against his instinct to gloss over the fact that he had come in answer to the bishop’s panic, and yet disastrous to admit it.
She smiled, wishing to assist him. “I know it is a call to arms,” she said simply. “It was still generous of you to come. Please sit down and be comfortable.”
“Thank you,” he accepted, sitting very upright in the chair.
The bishop remained standing by the mantelpiece, no more than a foot from the fender. The evening had turned cold and it was the most advantageous position.
“Very unfortunate,” he said abruptly. “Your policeman was here this afternoon … late. Not a man sensitive to the issues at stake, I’m afraid. Is it possible to change him for someone a trifle more … understanding?”
Isadora felt acutely uncomfortable. This was not a suitable thing to be suggesting.
“Pitt is the best man I have,” Cornwallis said quietly. “If the truth can be uncovered, he will do it.”
“For heaven’s sake!” the bishop retorted crossly. “We need a great deal more than uncovering of the truth! We need tact, diplomacy, compassion … discretion! Any fool can lay bare a tragedy and display it to the world … and ruin the church’s reputation, destroy the faith and work of decades, injure the innocent who trust us to …” He stared at Cornwallis with genuine contempt in his eyes.
Isadora felt herself cringe inside. It was acutely embarrassing to hear Cornwallis spoken to with such scorn and have him believe she was associated with the sentiment, but a lifetime’s loyalty prevented her from setting herself apart from it.
“I am sure the bishop is stating what he means rather simply,” she said, leaning forward a little and feeling the blood hot in her cheeks. “We are all very distressed at Miss Bellwood’s death and at the dark emotions it suggests prompted it. We are naturally most anxious that no suspicion be allowed to fall upon those who are innocent, and that even whoever is guilty may be dealt with with as little exposure of private tragedy as possible.” She stared at Cornwallis, hoping he would accept her altered explanation.
“We all want to avoid unnecessary pain,” Cornwallis replied very stiffly, but his eyes were quite gentle as he looked back at her. She could see no criticism in them, and no answering hostility. Reginald had mentioned that he was a naval man. Perhaps some of his unease was due to spending most of his life at sea and entirely in the company of men. She tried to picture him in uniform, standing on the deck with the great sails billowing above him, altering his balance to the heave and pitch of the waters, the wind in his face. Maybe that was why his stare was so clear and his eyes bright and calm. There was something about the elements, the sheer magnitude of them, which reduced pomposity to a tiny, ridiculous thing. She could not imagine Cornwallis blustering or being evasive, or sheltering behind a lie.
“Then you take my point that we need very great skill in the matter,” the bishop was saying, his voice sharp with urgency and, Isadora thought, a note of uncharacteristic fear. She could not remember seeing him so rattled before.
“We need honesty and persistence as well,” Cornwallis said firmly. “And Pitt is the best man. It is a very delicate matter. Unity Bellwood was with child, and we may assume it is very likely her murder was connected to that fact.”
The bishop winced and looked hastily at Isadora. Cornwallis blushed.
“Don’t be absurd!” she said quickly. “You have no need to skirt around such a subject because I am here. I have probably spoken to far more unmarried young women expecting children than you have. More than a few of them were seduced by their betters, but some of them did the seducing.”
“I wish you would not speak of such things in those terms,” the bishop said disapprovingly. He stepped forward from the fire. He was scorching the backs of his legs. “It is both a sin and a tragedy. To compound it with malice is appalling. If it is … was … Ramsay Parmenter, then I can only assume that he is mad, and the best thing we can do for everyone is to have him certified so and put into a place of safety where he can harm no one any further.” He winced as the hot fabric of his trousers brushed against his leg. “Is it not possible that you can do that, Cornwallis? Exercise a little judicious compassion rather than ruin a whole family for the sake of following every letter of the law. Dragging out the inevitable to make a public spectacle of the very private fall from grace of a most excellent man … I m
ean hitherto excellent, of course,” he corrected.
Isadora held her breath. She looked at Cornwallis.
“Murder is not a private fall from grace,” Cornwallis said coolly. “The law requires that it be answered publicly, for the sake of everyone concerned.”
“Nonsense!” the bishop retorted. “How can it possibly be in Parmenter’s interest, or that of his family, let alone that of the church, that this should be dealt with in public? And it is not in the public’s interest, above all, that they should witness the decay and descent into madness of one of the leaders of their spiritual well-being.”
The butler came in quietly. “Dinner is served, sir,” he said with a bow.
The bishop glared at him.
Isadora rose. Her legs were shaking. “Mr. Cornwallis, would you care to come to the dining room?” What could she say to make this dreadful situation better? Did Cornwallis imagine she was part of this hypocrisy? How could she tell him she was not without in the same moment becoming disloyal and exhibiting a greater duplicity. He was a man who would value loyalty. She valued it herself. She had remained silent countless times when she disagreed. On a few occasions she had learned her error or shortsightedness afterwards, and was glad she had not displayed her lack of knowledge.
Cornwallis rose to his feet. “Thank you,” he accepted, and the three of them walked rather stiffly through to the very formal dining room in French blue and gold. For once Isadora’s taste had prevailed over the bishop’s. He had wished for burgundy carpets and curtains with heavy skirts to spread over the floor. This was less heavy, and the long mirror gave it a look of greater space.
When they were seated and the first course served, the bishop took up the point again.
“It is in no one’s interest to make this public,” he repeated, staring at Cornwallis over the soup. “I am sure you understand that.”
“On the contrary,” Cornwallis said very levelly. “It is in everyone’s interest. Most of all it is in Parmenter’s own interest. He maintains he is not guilty. He deserves the right to stand trial and demand of us that we prove it beyond a reasonable doubt.”
