Brunswick Gardens

by Anne Perry

  “Did he leave anything behind when he went to Icehouse Wood?”

  “I don’t know. But if he did, it is long since cleared away. Anyway, it wouldn’t tell you anything.”

  “What about clothes? Did he buy any new clothes while he was here?”

  She thought about it for a moment. “A coat, a brown overcoat.”

  “Didn’t he have one before?”

  She smiled. “Yes, of course he did. Can’t a man have two coats? Anyway, he didn’t keep the old one. He gave it to Peter Wesley, next door. He hadn’t one.”

  “Is Peter Wesley still there, next door?”

  “No. He moved.”

  “Where to?”

  “What does it matter?” She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  He pressed her further and learned nothing except that Dominic seemed to have been very secretive about his immediate past, and she had gained the impression, never substantiated, that there was someone he would prefer did not find him there.

  “Did he receive any letters?” Pitt asked her.

  “No, never that I remember.” She thought for a moment. “No, I am sure he never did. And what he purchased he would have paid for at the time, because there were no bills, either, not even from his tailor, bootmaker, or shirtmaker.”

  It completed a picture of a man who feared pursuit and was anxious to conceal all signs of where he was. Why? Who wished to find him, and for what reason?

  He thanked her and went to search for the brown overcoat, which might at least offer him a tailor’s name.

  But no one at the next house knew where Peter Wesley had gone to. Pitt was left on the doorstep looking out at a now-busy street which offered nothing further to tell where Dominic Corde had been before this place, or what had driven him from it.

  An open carriage passed, ladies braving the sharp air to display their fashionable hats and pretty faces. They were shivering with cold but smiling brightly. He could not help smiling back, half in pleasure, half in amusement at their youthful vanity and optimism.

  A coal cart passed, horses leaning forward into the harness against the weight. A newsboy shouted the headlines, mostly political. There was disturbing news from Africa, something about Cecil Rhodes and diamonds in Mashonaland, and settlers in Dutch South Africa. No one cared about the death of one not particularly fashionable cleric in what, so far as they knew, was a domestic accident.

  A costermonger walked along the side of the street pushing a barrow, his shoulders straining against a coat a size too small but of very good cut and cloth. It reminded Pitt again of Dominic’s coat. A tailor would have been a good place to start. A man often did not change his tailor, even if he moved his accommodation. And if that were true of Dominic, then perhaps four or five years ago he had still had the same tailor as when he had lived in Cater Street. Pitt had no idea who that had been, and probably Charlotte had not. But Caroline might!

  He had already walked rapidly to the main cross street and hailed a cab, and was sitting down in it when he realized it was quite possible Caroline was not at home. These days, if Joshua were touring with a play, she would go with him. She could be anywhere in England.

  He fidgeted all the way to Cater Street, trying to think what to do next if Caroline were away or if she had not the slightest idea who Dominic’s tailor had been. Of course, the best person to ask would be the valet, only she had let him go when Edward died. Joshua would have brought his own man. But Maddock, the butler, might know. There would hardly be household accounts left from a decade ago, and a tailor’s account was personal anyway.

  He was rattling through quiet, house-lined streets, passing delivery wagons, private carriages, other hansoms, all the routine traffic of any residential district. There were three million people in London. It was the largest and busiest city in the world, the heart of an empire that covered continents—India, Africa and Asia—the Pacific, the vast prairies and mountains of Canada from one ocean to another, and islands uncountable in every body of water known to man. How did you look for one private individual who wanted to be lost five years ago?

  Except that a man is a creature of habit. One clings to identity. In all the upheaval and strangeness of tragedy or of guilt, physical things that are familiar are perhaps the only comfort left. If we lose places and people, then possessions become the more valuable.

  They were in Cater Street. The cab stopped, and within moments Pitt was on the doorstep waiting for someone to answer. The minutes seemed to drag. There must be someone, even if Caroline and Joshua were away.

  Maddock was on the step, looking older and quite a bit grayer. It made Pitt realize how long it had been since he had been there. Caroline had so often visited them in Keppel Street instead, and although Charlotte had been there recently, it was alone, when he had been busy.

  “Good morning, Mr. Pitt, sir,” Maddock said, concealing his surprise. “Is all well, sir?”

  “Very well, thank you, Maddock,” Pitt answered him. “Is Mrs. Fielding at home?”

  “Yes sir. If you care to come in, I shall inform her you are here.” He stood aside, and Pitt stepped into the familiar hallway. In one sweep it took him back ten years to the first time he had come following the first Cater Street garottings. He had met Charlotte when she was the middle daughter, seeming to her own social class so rebellious and different, and to him so exactly what he expected a well-bred unmarried young lady to be. He smiled at the memory.

  Dominic Corde had been married to Sarah then, before her murder by the same hand as all the others. What would Caroline know of him?

  He had only a few moments to wait in the morning room before she came in. She had changed utterly since her respectable widowhood from pleasant and predictable Edward and her scandalous marriage to charming and desperately unsuitable Joshua, an actor seventeen years her junior. She looked radiant. She had always been a handsome woman, not as much as Charlotte—at least not to Pitt’s eye—but very good-looking, nonetheless. He admired her warm coloring and nicely curved figure. She was wearing a morning gown with roses on it, something she would have considered in Edward’s time as being far too showy and self-indulgent.

  “Good morning, Thomas,” she said with a slight frown. “Maddock said everything was all right, but are you sure? Charlotte is not ill or troubled?”

  “Not in the slightest,” he assured her, “except that there is an unpleasantness where Dominic is now living, and it may concern him. But that is all. The children are very well.”

  “Are you?” She regarded him still with a trace of seriousness.

  He smiled. “I am up against a difficulty I am hoping you can help me solve,” he replied honestly.

  She sat down on the sofa, draping her flowing skirts around her. He noticed that she carried herself with less dignity and more grace than before she had known Joshua. Theatrical was too strong a word to use, but certainly she had a more dramatic flare than before. Years of behaving modestly and appropriately had fallen away, revealing a more colorful woman.

  “I?” she said with surprise. “What could I do? What is this difficulty?”

  “Do you know where Dominic went after he left here?”

  She looked at him very steadily, her eyes shadowed. “You said that the unpleasantness may concern him. You do not waste your time with petty thefts, Thomas. It must be very unpleasant indeed to warrant your attention. Just how much does it concern Dominic? And please don’t fob me off with a comforting story that is not true.”

  “I don’t know how much it concerns him,” he said, meeting her eyes without pretense. “I hope not at all. He appears to have changed completely from the rather shallow, charming young man he used to be.”

  “But …” she prompted.

  “But the case is murder.” He hated having to say it. He saw her face tighten and the shadows cross her eyes.

  “You don’t think he did it … surely …”

  “I hope not.” He surprised himself by how much he meant that. He really wa
nted to prove that it was not Dominic.

  “Then how can I help?” she asked gravely. “I don’t know where he went after Burton Street, and I don’t think he was there long.”

  “Burton Street?” he asked.

  “He took rooms there after he left here. He didn’t feel he could remain after Sarah … died.” The pain was there in her eyes for a moment, the anguish of memory, the shock and the grief that never really left. Then she forced her attention to the present again. Sarah was beyond any ability to help now, or any need for it. Dominic was still here, and open to injury and fear. “Why do you want to know? Surely you know where he is at present?”

  “Yes, in Brunswick Gardens,” he replied. “But I need the past, between Cater Street and Maida Vale.”

  “Maida Vale? I didn’t know he had lived there.” She looked surprised.

  “For a while. Do you know the address in Burton Street? I might be able to find someone who could help me there.”

  “I don’t remember it, but I’m sure I have it somewhere. I used to forward mail for him. I presume you don’t believe whatever he has told you?”

  He smiled a little self-consciously. He had not actually asked Dominic. Perhaps if he had Dominic would have told him the truth, but he doubted it. If Dominic had really known Unity Bellwood in some circumstance so personally tragic that Ramsay had believed it had provoked her murder, if he were going to confess it, he would have done so at the time, not allowed Ramsay to be suspected and to suffer the fear and isolation which it seemed in the end had broken him. That was a dark thought, and one which had not occurred to Pitt in precisely that form before. It was painful.

  Caroline was staring at him and sensing his newer, sharper unhappiness.

  “I need to know for myself,” he said with slight evasion. “What sort of letters did you forward?” He saw her raised eyebrows. “I mean, were they personal or tradesmen’s accounts?”

  She relaxed a little. “Mostly tradesmen’s accounts, I think. There were very few of them anyway.”

  “A tailor’s bill perhaps?”

  “Why? Do his clothes matter in this … crime?”

  “Not at all. But if I were to find the tailor, he might know where Dominic went afterwards. A man quite often keeps the same tailor for years, if he is happy with him.”

  In spite of every intention of good manners, Caroline could not help smiling. Pitt had never in the decade she had known him looked as if his clothes were the right size, let alone ever tailored for him.

  He read the thought in her eyes, and laughed.

  “I’m sorry.” Caroline blushed. “I really did not mean to hurt your feelings….”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. One day perhaps I shall have a coat made to fit me, but there are other things a hundred times more important. Dominic’s tailor?”

  “I can’t remember his name, but he bought his shirts at Gieves, off Piccadilly. Is that any help?”

  “It may be. Thank you. Thank you very much.” He made as if to rise.

  “Thomas!”

  “Yes?”

  “Please tell me when you know. If—if Dominic is guilty, Charlotte is going to be so hurt. Whatever his faults, he was part of our family … for many years. I was very fond of him. I did not realize how much until after he had gone. He was very grieved by Sarah’s death, more than he realized to begin with. I think he felt in some way he should have done something to prevent it.” She gave a little shake of her head. “I know that is foolish, and it is extremely self-important to imagine we could have prevented fate … but when a thing is hard to bear we look for ways in which it need not have happened. We think that perhaps we can prevent anything like it again … and if we can, then it follows we could have the first time.”

  “I know,” he said gently. “I will tell you what happens, and of course I shall make it as easy for Charlotte as I can.”

  “Thank you, Thomas.” She rose also, seemed to want to add something, then realized they had already said all there was.

  He told her a few pleasant details about the children, and they parted at the door. He walked to the corner, found another cab, and went back to the center of the city. In Piccadilly, he found the shirtmakers, and after showing the proof of who he was and explaining the gravity of the case, he enquired if indeed they had served Dominic Corde in the past. It took some five minutes to acquire the address where Dominic had been staying when he had last ordered from them, approximately six years before. Possibly since then his income had decreased and he had reduced his taste in fine shirts.

  The address was on Prince of Wales Road in Haverstock Hill, a considerable journey to the north and west. It was late afternoon by the time he found the right house. It was large and a trifle shabby, the sort of place which was originally built to accommodate an abundant family and had since been broken up into a series of apartments or rooms for a dozen or so individuals without dependents or companions.

  He knocked at the door, noticing the paint peeling on the edges of the panels and a few spots of corrosion on the knocker itself.

  His knock was answered by a middle-aged man with a ragged beard and clothes faded to an agreeable nondescript color by the bleaching effect of the sun and too-frequent laundering. He looked at Pitt with surprise.

  “Yes? Forgive me, but do I know you, sir?”

  “No. My name is Thomas Pitt. I am enquiring after a Mr. Dominic Corde, who used to live here several years ago.” He left no doubt in his voice, no room for argument.

  The man’s face shadowed slightly, so very little that, had he not been facing the light, Pitt might not have seen it at all.

  “I’m sorry. He left here a long time ago. I cannot tell you where he is now; I have no idea. And he left no forwarding address.” That too was a statement which permitted no space for further speech on the subject.

  “I know,” Pitt said firmly. “I am quite aware of where he is now. It is the past which concerns me.”

  The first few spots of rain spattered on the footpath.

  The man’s face was bland but firm, his expression closed. “I am sorry, I can be of no assistance, sir. I bid you good day.” He made as if to close the door. Everything in his body, the faint droop of his shoulders, the heavy solidity of his stance, spoke of exhaustion and a weight of sadness rather than anger. Watching him, Pitt felt cold, in spite of the softness of the evening light and the fact that the air was still mild. This was where it had happened, whatever it was.

  “I am sorry, sir,” he said gravely. “But I cannot allow the matter to be closed. I am from the police, in command of the Bow Street station, and the assistant commissioner has directed me to investigate a case of murder.” He saw the man wince and his pale blue eyes open wide. He was surprised, but not incredulous.

  The coldness sharpened inside Pitt. He could see Charlotte’s face in his mind when he had to tell her. It would be the last dream from girlhood gone, a certain innocence of belief would go with it, and he would have given a lot not to do this. He even hesitated before he began again.

  A few spots of rain fell.

  “I know something happened while Mr. Corde was living here,” he said after a moment. “I need to know what it was.”

  The man stared at him. He was obviously weighing in his mind what he should say, how much he could deny and be believed, or if he was not believed, at least get away with.

  Pitt did not move his gaze.

  The man’s shoulders slumped. “I suppose you had better come inside,” he said at last, turning away. “Although I’m not sure what I can tell you.”

  Pitt followed him, closing the door behind himself. The last protest had been merely a gesture, and he knew it. He allowed the man the pretense that it had a meaning.

  The room he led them into was untidy in a homely way. Books and papers littered the surfaces of the tables and chairs and spilled over onto the floor. There were several rather good pictures on the wall, most o
f them at least an inch crooked. There was a piece of wood on a side table, a frog emerging from it, polished to a rich, almost wet-looking brown. Even unfinished, it was a beautiful piece of work. Looking at it, Pitt was not sure if it would not be of greater power left as it was. Completing every detail might reduce it to something far more mundane, a thing anyone might have conceived.

  “Are you going to do anything more to it?” he asked.

  “You want it finished?” the man asked, almost challengingly.

  “No!” Pitt replied quickly, making up his mind in that instant. “No, I don’t. It is right as it is.”

  The man smiled at last. “I apologize, sir. You are not quite the philistine I presumed. Clear yourself a space and sit down.” He waved towards one of the crowded chairs. There was a very old white cat on it. “Never mind him,” the man said casually. “Lewis! Get off!”

  The cat opened one eye and remained where it was.

  “Lewis!” the man repeated, clapping his hands loudly.

  The cat went back to sleep again.

  Pitt picked him up, sat down, and replaced him in the same position on his lap. “Dominic Corde,” he said unwaveringly.

  The man took a very deep breath and began his story.

  Pitt arrived home shortly before midnight. The house was quiet, and there was only the hall light on downstairs. He crept up, wincing at each step that creaked. He dreaded what he was going to have to say, but there was no alternative and no escape. At least it would be able to wait until morning, not that he would sleep … knowing what lay ahead and how Charlotte would feel. He felt wretched himself, and for her it would be far worse.

  But when he reached the landing he saw the crack of light beneath the door. She was still awake. There was no putting it off. Perhaps that was almost a relief. He would not have to lie awake in the dark room, feeling her beside him and waiting, silent and miserable, to tell her when she awoke.

  He opened the door.

  She was sitting up against the pillows with her eyes closed, her hair spread around her. He closed the door without letting the latch go and tiptoed across the room.