by Anne Perry
Landells stared at him. The fire settled in the grate. It needed stoking again, but there was too little coal in the bucket. “You believe that?” the old man said slowly.
“Yes, I do.” Dominic spoke without doubt. He did not know why; it was a certainty inside him. He believed what he had read about Easter Sunday and Mary Magdalene in the garden. He believed the story of the disciples on the road to Emmaeus who had walked with the risen Christ and discovered it only at the last moment, when he had broken bread with them.
“What about Mr. Darwin and his monkeys?” Landells demanded, the expression in his eyes flickering between hope and despair, momentary victory and lasting defeat. Part of him wanted to win the argument; a larger, more honest part was desperate to lose.
“I don’t understand it,” Dominic confessed. “But he isn’t right if he says God did not create the earth and all that is on it, or that we are not special to Him but simply accidental forms of life. Look at the wonder and the beauty of the universe, Mr. Landells, and tell me it is chance and there is no meaning to it.”
“There’s no meaning to my life now.” Landells’s face crumpled. He was winning, and he did not want to.
“Since Bessie has gone?” Dominic asked. “Was there before? Was she no more than an accident, a monkey’s descendant gone gloriously right?”
“Mr. Darwin …” Landells began, then subsided in his chair, smiling at last. “All right, Mr. Corde. I’ll believe you. I don’t understand, mind, but I’ll believe. You tell me why the Reverend Parmenter didn’t say that, eh? He’s senior to you … a lot senior. You’re only just a beginner, you are.”
Dominic knew the answer to that, but he was not going to tell Landells. Ramsay’s faith was rooted in reason, and his reason had deserted him in the face of an argument more skilled than his own, growing out of a field of science he did not understand.
“I’m still right,” Dominic said firmly, rising to his feet. “Go and read your Bible, Mr. Landells … and smile while you’re doing it.”
“Yes, Mr. Corde. Will you pass it to me, please? I’m too stiff to get up out of this chair.” There was a flash of humor in the old man’s eyes, a parting shot of victory.
Dominic visited Mr. and Mrs. Norland, had luncheon late, and spent the rest of the afternoon with Mr. Rendlesham. He returned to Brunswick Gardens in time for an early dinner, which was quite the most appalling meal he could remember. Everyone was present and extremely nervous. The day’s silence from the police had told upon their fears, and tempers were frayed even before the first course was cleared away and the second served. Conversation went in fits and starts, often two people speaking at once and then falling silent, no one continuing.
Vita alone tried to keep some semblance of normality. She sat at the foot of the table looking pale and frightened, but her hair was immaculately dressed as always, her gown soft gray trimmed with black, as was suitable to observe the presence of death in the household but not of a family member. Dominic could not help noticing once again what a lovely woman she was, how her grace and poise were better than conventional beauty. Her charm did not fade, nor had it ever become tedious.
Tryphena, on the other hand, looked terrible. She had taken no trouble at all with her normally lovely hair. At the moment it looked dull and disorderly, and her eyes were still puffy and a little pink. She was sullen, as if resenting everyone else’s failure to equal her depth of grief. She was dressed in unrelieved black, no ornament at all.
Clarice was also untidy, but then she had never had her mother’s sophistication of dress or manner. Her dark hair was often as unruly as it was now, but its natural sheen and wave gave it a certain beauty regardless. She was very pale and kept glaring from one person to another, and spoke to her father unnecessarily often, as if making a tremendous effort to be normal towards him and show she did not believe what everyone else might think. She only succeeded in drawing attention to it.
Mallory was absorbed in thought and answered only when addressed directly. Whatever his preoccupation, he did not allow anyone else to know it.
The table was set as always with the usual crystal and silver, and there were flowers from the conservatory in the center.
Dominic tried to think of anything to say which would not sound too callous, as if there had been no tragedy. They should be able to speak sensibly to one another, to talk of something more than the weather without quarreling. Three of them were men dedicated to the service of God, and yet they all sat at the table avoiding each other’s eyes, eating mechanically. The air was filled with fear and suspicion. Everyone knew that one of the three men there had killed Unity, but only one of them knew which, and he carried the burden of guilt and the terror that went with it.
Sitting there chewing meat that was like sawdust in his mouth, wondering how to swallow it, Dominic looked almost under his lashes at Ramsay. He looked older, more tired than usual, perhaps afraid as well, but Dominic could see no trace of guilt in him, nothing to mark him as a man who had killed and was now lying about it, allowing his friend, and worse, his son, to be suspected in his place.
Dominic turned to Mallory and saw his shoulders tense, neck stiff, eyes towards his plate, avoiding anyone else’s. He had not once looked at his father. Was that guilt? Dominic did not particularly like Mallory Parmenter, but he had thought him an honest man, if humorless and something of a bore. Perhaps it was largely a matter of callousness. Time would alter that, teach him it was possible to serve God and laugh as well, even to enjoy the beauties and absurdities of life, the richness of nature and of people.
Was he really such a coward as to allow his father to take his punishment for a crime of … what … passion?
“I suppose it is very hot in Rome?” Clarice’s voice cut across his thoughts. “You’ll get there in time for summer.” She was talking to Mallory.
He looked up, his face dark and angry.
“If I get there at all.”
“Why shouldn’t you?” Vita asked, her brow puckered as if she did not understand. “I thought everything was arranged.”
“It was,” he replied. “But I did not ‘arrange’ for Unity’s death. They may view things rather differently now.”
“Why should they?” Tryphena said boldly. “It has nothing to do with you. Are they unjust enough to blame you for something you didn’t do?” She set down her fork, abandoning her meal. “That’s the trouble with your religion; you think everybody is to blame for Adam’s sin, and now it looks as if he didn’t even exist, but you are still wandering around dipping infants in water to wash it away … and they haven’t the faintest idea what’s going on. All they know is they are dressed up, passed to a strange man who holds them up and talks over them, not to them, and then hands them back again. And that is supposed to make it all all right? I’ve never heard of such idiotic superstition in my life. It belongs in the Dark Ages, along with trial by ordeal and ducking witches and thinking it is the end of the world if there is a solar eclipse. I don’t know how you can be so gullible.”
Mallory opened his mouth.
“Tryphena …” Vita interrupted, leaning forward.
“When I wanted to wear bloomers to ride a bicycle,” Tryphena went on regardless, “because it would be very practical, Papa nearly had an apoplexy.”
She waved her hand, only just missing her glass of water.
“But nobody thinks it the least bit odd if you all dress up in long skirts with beads around your neck and sing songs together and drink something you say turns from wine into blood, which sounds absolutely disgusting, not to mention blasphemous. And yet you think cannibals are savages who ought to be—”
Mallory drew in his breath.
“Tryphena! That is enough!” Vita said sharply. She turned to Ramsay, her face creased with irritation. “For goodness sake, say something to her. Defend yourself!”
“I thought it was Mallory she was attacking,” Ramsay observed mildly. “The doctrine of the transubstantiation of the hos
t is a Roman belief.”
“Then what do you do it for?” Tryphena countered. “You must believe it is something. Or why dress up in embroidered clothes and go through the whole performance?”
Ramsay looked at her sadly but said nothing.
“It is a reminder of who you are and the promises you have made,” Dominic said to her as patiently as he could. “And unfortunately we do need reminding.”
“Then it wouldn’t matter if it were bread and wine or biscuits and milk,” she challenged, her eyes bright and victorious.
“Not in the slightest,” he agreed with a smile. “If you meant what you said and came with the right spirit. Far more important you come without anger or guile.”
She was flushed. The triumph was slipping away from her. “Unity said it was just extremely good theater, designed to impress everyone and keep them obedient and in awe of you,” she argued, as if quoting Unity proved something. “It is all show and no substance. It is the desire for power on your part, and superstition on theirs. It makes them feel comfortable if they confess their sins and you forgive them; then they can start over again. And if they don’t, then they live in terror of you.”
“Unity was a fool!” Mallory said sharply. “And a blasphemer.”
Tryphena swung around to face him. “Well, I didn’t notice you saying that to her when she was alive. You’re suddenly very brave now she’s not here anymore and can’t reply for herself.” Her scorn was devastating. “You were quick enough then to do as she asked you. And I don’t recall your ever contradicting her in public in that tone of voice. What conviction you’ve suddenly developed, and fire to defend your faith.”
Mallory’s face was white and his eyes hot and defensive. “There was no point in arguing with Unity,” he said with a very slight tremor in his voice. “She never listened to anyone because her mind was made up before you began.”
“Isn’t yours?” Tryphena countered, glaring at him across the white linen and the glass and the dishes.
“Of course it is!” His eyebrows rose. “Mine is a matter of faith. That is quite different.”
Tryphena slammed down her fork. She was fortunate not to chip her plate.
“Why does everyone presume that their own belief is based on some virtuous thing like faith, which is all praiseworthy, and Unity’s belief is wicked and insincere and based on emotion or ignorance? You are so self-righteous it is sickening … and absurd. If you could see yourselves from the outside you’d laugh.” She threw the words at them, her face twisted with fury and knowledge of her own helplessness. “You’d think you were a parody. Except you’re too cruel to be funny. And you win! That’s the unbearable part of it. You win! There’s superstition and oppression and ignorance everywhere, and catastrophic injustice.” She stood up, glaring at them with tears in her eyes. “You all sit here eating your dinner, and Unity is lying on a cold table in a shroud, waiting to be buried. You’ll all dress up—”
“Tryphena!” Vita protested, and was ignored. She turned to Ramsay desperately, but he did nothing.
“… in your gorgeous gowns and robes,” Tryphena went on, her voice choking, “and play the organ and sing your songs and intone prayers over her. Why can’t you speak in a proper voice?” She stared at her father challengingly. “How can you speak like that if you really mean a thing you say? You’ll carry on like a bad oratorio, and all the time one of you killed her! I keep expecting to wake up and find this is all a nightmare, except I realize it’s been going on for years, one way or another. Maybe this is hell?” She flung her arms out, only just missing the top of Dominic’s head. “All this … hypocrisy! Though hell is supposed to be hot, maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s just bright and endless … nauseating.” She swung around to Vita. “And don’t bother to tell me to leave the room … I’m going to. If I stayed I should be sick.” And she knocked her chair over backwards and stormed out.
Dominic rose and picked up the chair. It would be pointless to try to make excuses for her.
Ramsay looked wretched, eyes cast down towards his plate, skin white around the lips, flushed in patches on his cheeks. Clarice was staring at him with naked distress. Vita kept her gaze steadily ahead of her, as if she could not bear any of it but could not escape.
“For someone who speaks so disparagingly of theater,” Clarice said huskily, “she manages to put on a highly dramatic performance. Overacting a bit, though, don’t you think? The chair was unnecessary. Nobody likes an actress who upstages the rest of the cast.”
“She may be acting,” Mallory retorted, “but I’m not!”
Clarice sighed. “What a pity. It would have been your best excuse.”
Dominic looked at her quickly, but she was turned towards Ramsay again.
“For what?” Mallory would not let it go.
“Everything,” she answered.
“I haven’t done anything!” he said defensively, then inclined his head towards his father.
There were two hectic spots of color on Clarice’s cheeks. “You mean you didn’t push Unity? I’ve been thinking about that. Maybe she was having an affair with Dominic.”
Vita glared at her daughter, her eyes wide and angry. She drew in her breath to say something, but Clarice continued loudly and clearly.
“I can remember lots of things, now I think about it, times when she sought his company, little looks, glances, standing very close to him—”
“That’s not true!” Vita interrupted her at last, her voice tight, as if her throat would barely allow the words through. “It’s a wretched and irresponsible thing to say, and you will not repeat it. Do you understand me, Clarice?”
Clarice looked at her mother in surprise. “It is all right for Tryphena to imply that Papa murdered Unity, but not to say that Unity was having an affair with Dominic? Why ever not?”
Dominic could feel his own face burning. He remembered those moments, too, with a clarity which horrified him and made him wish he were anywhere but at this table, with Vita looking hurt and dismayed, Mallory’s lip curled in loathing, and Ramsay avoiding everyone’s eyes, drowning in his own fear and loneliness.
“I suppose he got tired of her,” Clarice went on relentlessly. “All that political preaching can become a bit tedious. There are times when it is terribly predictable, and that is a bore. She didn’t listen, you see, and men hate a woman who doesn’t at least pretend she hangs on their words, even if her mind is miles away. It’s an art. Mama is wonderful at it. I’ve watched her hundreds of times.”
Vita blushed and seemed about to say something, but was too frozen in embarrassment.
No one except Dominic noticed the door open and Tryphena appear in the entrance.
“I daresay he found Mama was attractive,” Clarice went on in the prickly silence. “That’s it. Dominic fell in love with Mama …”
“Clarice … please …” Vita said desperately, but her voice was low, her eyes downcast.
Mallory stared at his sister, his attention at last truly caught.
“I can see it.” Clarice warmed to the drama. She sat back with her eyes closed, her chin lifted. She, too, was giving a fine performance. “Unity still besotted with Dominic, but he is bored with her and he’s moved on to someone more feminine, more alluring.” Her expression was rapt, a fierce concentration filling her. “But she will not give him up. She cannot bear rejection. She blackmails him with their past liaison. She will tell everyone. She will tell Papa; she will tell the church. He will be thrown out.”
“That’s nonsense!” Dominic protested angrily. “Stop it! You are talking completely irresponsibly, and none of it is true.”
“Why not?” She opened her eyes and turned on him. “Why shouldn’t someone else be blamed? If it’s fair to blame Papa, why not you, or Mallory … or me, for that matter? I know I didn’t, but I don’t know about the rest of you. Isn’t that why we are all sitting here wondering about each other, remembering everything we can and trying to make it have meaning? Isn’t that what
we are all afraid of?” She flung her arms out in an expansive gesture, her eyes wide. “It could be any one of us. How can we protect ourselves except by proving it was somebody else? How well do we really know each other, the secret selves behind the familiar faces? Don’t stop me, Mallory!” He had leaned forward. She pushed him away impatiently. “It’s true!” She laughed a little wildly. “Maybe Dominic got bored with Unity, fell in love with Mama, and when Unity wouldn’t let him go, he killed her. And he’s only too happy to see Papa blamed for it, because it not only keeps Dominic from being hanged for it, it gets rid of Papa at the same time. Then Mama is free to marry him, and—”
“That’s absurd!” Tryphena said from the doorway, her voice loud and furious. “It’s quite impossible.”
Clarice swiveled to face her sister. “Why? People have killed for love before now. It makes far more sense than thinking Papa killed her because she was an atheist. Heavens, the world is full of atheists. Christians are supposed to convert them, not kill them.”
“Tell that to the Inquisition!” Tryphena snapped back, coming further into the room. “It’s impossible because Dominic wouldn’t have thrown Unity over. If she’d even have looked at him in that way, which is terribly unlikely, then she’d have been the one to get bored and break it off. And she wouldn’t stoop to blackmail. It is infinitely beneath her.” She looked at Clarice with loathing. “Everything you say just shows the poverty of your own mind. I came down to apologize, because I disturbed the meal, which was bad manners. But I can see that’s all rather pointless now, since Clarice has just accused one of our guests of having an illicit affair with the other and then murdering her in order to blame my father and marry my mother. What is a little thing like upsetting the dinner table?”
“Unity wasn’t a guest,” Clarice said pedantically. “She was an employee. Papa hired her to help with the translations.”
