Brunswick Gardens

by Anne Perry

  And then an answer came to her which satisfied it all. She clutched the heel in her hand and ran back up the stairs and across the landing and into the study.

  “I’ve got it!” Pitt said before she could speak. He held up a slim book, his face triumphant. “They’re here.”

  She opened her hand and showed him the heel.

  “I found it in the potted palm at the bottom of the stairs,” she said, watching his face. “And that is not all. I … I went into Vita’s bedroom. I know I shouldn’t have, you don’t have to tell me! Thomas … Thomas, she’s hoarded all sorts of little things of Dominic’s, personal things.” She could feel the heat of shame creeping up her face. She would infinitely rather not have had to admit this to him, but there was no alternative now. “Thomas—she is in love with him. Obsessively in love.”

  “Is she …?” he said slowly. “Is she?”

  Charlotte nodded. She held out the heel towards him.

  He took it and turned it over carefully. “In the palm at the bottom of the stairs?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Directly below the top newel?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re saying Unity broke her heel and fell?”

  “She could have. She could have been dizzy at that stage in pregnancy.”

  He looked at her very steadily. “What you mean is that when Vita found her she hid that fact by changing shoes with her! It was Vita who went into the conservatory and stepped into the chemical. Mallory told the truth. Unity died by accident and Vita made it look like murder, to blame Ramsay.”

  “And Unity herself half gave her the idea by calling out to Ramsay—for help,” she added.

  “Possibly. More likely Vita cried out herself,” he corrected her, “when she saw Unity’s body at the bottom of the stairs.”

  “Oh!” She was appalled. It was so calculated, so intentionally cruel. What a cold nerve she must have had to be so opportunist, to seize the moment without needing to stop and think. If she had, it would have gone. She stared at Pitt as a chasm of icelike cold opened up in front of her, a selfishness so deep it truly frightened her.

  He must have seen it, too; the reflection of her horror was in his eyes.

  “Do you really think she did that?” she whispered. “She meant Ramsay to be blamed. But how about his attacks on her? Did she drive him mad with fear? Do you think he knew what she was doing? Then why didn’t he say anything? Because he couldn’t prove it and he thought no one would believe him? Poor Ramsay … he lost his head and lashed out at her. Of course, we’ll never know what she said, how she may have taunted him …” Her voice trailed away into silence.

  “Perhaps …” he said slowly, his brow creased with thought. “But maybe not. Let us reenact it.”

  “What? Ramsay’s death?”

  “Yes. Let’s do it together. You take Vita’s part and I’ll take his. I never doubted it before because there was no reason to. I’ll sit behind the desk.” He suited the actions to the words, pointing towards the door. “You come in over there.”

  “What about the paper knife?” she asked.

  “We have it at the station.” He glanced around the desk and picked up a pen. “Use this. Pretend, for the time being. We’ll ask the maid if she knows exactly where it was afterwards. Do this first.”

  She went to the door obediently, as if she had just come in. She must think of something to say. What would Vita have said when she came in? Anything would do. It was only conversation until she saw the letters.

  “I think it would be a good thing if you had breakfast with us all tomorrow morning,” she began.

  He looked at her in momentary surprise, then realized.

  “Oh. No, I don’t think so. I shall be busy. I have a great deal of work to do on my book.”

  “What are you doing now?” She moved towards the desk.

  “Translations of letters,” he answered, watching her. “Of course, it may have taken a lot longer than this.”

  “I know.” She picked up a paper and looked at it. It was simply a note of a meeting with the parish council. She affected amazement and hurt. “What’s this, Ramsay?”

  Pitt frowned. “It’s the translation of a letter from an early saint,” he replied. “It’s what we are working on. What did you think it was?”

  She tried to think of something with which to make the argument worse.

  “It’s a love letter. Saints didn’t write letters like this.”

  “It’s metaphorical,” he replied. “For goodness’ sake, it isn’t meant to be taken romantically.”

  “And this?” She picked up another piece of paper and brandished it furiously. It was a letter from the bishop about a change in the time of Evensong. “Another spiritual letter, I suppose?” She added heavy sarcasm to her tone.

  “It’s Unity’s translation of the same letter,” he said reasonably. “I disagree with her profoundly. As you can see from my translation, she has misinterpreted the meaning.”

  “It isn’t working,” Charlotte said with a shrug. “I can’t quarrel with that. No one could. It would be ridiculous. It must have been about something else.”

  He stood up. “Well, let us say it was about something else, maybe too personal for her to wish to tell us, and she picked on the letters as an alternative.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Charlotte replied.

  “Neither do I, but whatever it was, let’s try the fight. You had better stand near enough to the desk to reach for the knife.”

  “It might not work,” she pointed out. “You are several inches taller than Ramsay.”

  “About three, I should think,” he agreed. “And you are about three inches taller than Vita. It should be right, to within a fraction.” He put up his hands and placed them around her neck, gently, but forcing her back until she was bent against the desk. She tried pushing, but with his greater height, weight and strength she was at such a disadvantage it was pointless. And he was not tightening his hands around her at all.

  “Pick up the knife,” he instructed.

  She put her hand behind her, fumbling over the desk top. She could not find the pen, but that was chance.

  He reached over for it and gave it to her.

  “Thank you,” she said dryly.

  He pushed her back a fraction further.

  She raised the pen and held it for a moment to give him warning so he could move, as Vita had said Ramsay did, then she brought it down hard, but holding it close to the nib, so it was actually her hand which struck him. She caught his cheek and he winced, but it could have been his throat. She tried again and touched his neck below the ear.

  He stood back and put his hand up to rub where she had hit him, perhaps a little harder than she had meant to.

  “It’s possible,” he said unhappily. “But the quarrel isn’t. That doesn’t make any sense. Do you think he really tried to kill her? Why would he? There was nothing incriminating in the letters, once you know what they are, and when you have the originals it’s easy enough to see. Even without these, there are other copies. It is in a sense public knowledge. Any classical expert could find them. He knew his defense was sure.”

  “Was it something else?” she asked, meeting his eyes.

  “Perhaps not,” he answered very slowly. “Perhaps she always meant to kill him. We only have her word he ever struck her then or the first time.” He reached for the bell cord and pulled it.

  “What are you going to do?” She was surprised.

  “Find out where the paper knife was,” he replied. “From where Ramsay fell, it had to have been within this space here.” He pointed to one end of the desk. “Which is at his left-hand side. Ramsay was right-handed. It’s not a natural place to keep it. It’s awkward. If he stood in front of her, which he must have done to have fallen where he did, then she was leaning backwards exactly where you were. The knife must have been right to her hand, because she would have had no opportunity to turn and look for it. You can’t po
ssibly turn if someone has his hands around your throat and is trying to kill you, or is doing anything you could mistake for trying to kill you. So it can only have been on the front edge, the farthest edge from Ramsay if he: was sitting in his chair, which is where you would use a paper knife.”

  “So where was it?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, but not, I think, where she said.”

  The door opened and Emsley looked in enquiringly. “Yes sir?”

  “You must come into this room regularly, Emsley?”

  “Yes sir, several times a day … when Mr. Parmenter was alive.” A shadow of pain crossed his face.

  “Where was the paper knife usually kept, exactly? Show me, will you?”

  “Which one, sir?”

  “What?”

  “Which one, sir?” Emsley repeated. “There’s one in the hall, one in the library, and one in here.”

  “The one in here,” Pitt said with a trace of impatience.

  “On the desk, sir.”

  “Where on the desk?”

  “There, sir.” Emsley pointed to the far right-hand corner. “It was rather handsome, a model supposed to represent Excalibur … King Arthur’s sword.”

  “Yes, I know. It looked more like a French saber to me.”

  “A French saber, sir? Oh no, sir, if you’ll pardon me; it is quite definitely an old English sword, sir, quite straight and with a Celtic kind of hilt. A knight’s sword. Nothing French about it.” He was indignant, two spots of color on his pale cheeks.

  “Have you two sword paper knives?”

  “Yes sir. The library one looks a little more like you describe.”

  “You are sure? Absolutely certain?”

  “Yes sir. I was a great reader as a boy, sir. Read the Morte D’Arthur a number of times.” Unconsciously he straightened his shoulders a fraction. “I know a knight’s sword from a French saber.”

  “But you are sure the saber was kept in the library and the knight’s sword up here? They couldn’t have been changed at some time?”

  “They could have, sir, but they weren’t. I remember seeing King Arthur’s sword on the desk here that day. Actually, Mr. Parmenter and I had a conversation about it.”

  “You are sure it was that day?” Pitt pressed.

  “Yes sir. It was the day Mr. Parmenter died. I will never forget that, sir. Why do you ask? Does it mean something?”

  “Yes, Emsley, it does. Thank you. Mrs. Pitt and I will be leaving. Thank you for your assistance.”

  “Thank you, sir. Ma’am.”

  Outside in the street in the sun and wind, Charlotte turned to Pitt.

  “She took it up with her, didn’t she? She intended to kill him. There never was a quarrel. She chose a time when the servants were all at dinner and the family were either in the conservatory or the withdrawing room. Even had there been a shouting match, no one would have expected to hear it.”

  He moved to walk on the outside of her, along towards the church. “Yes, I think so. I think from the moment she saw Unity lying at the bottom of the stairs, even before she knew for certain that she was dead, she planned to blame Ramsay. She orchestrated everything to make it seem as if he was losing control of himself, until finally his sanity slipped away from him altogether and he tried to kill her. Then she could kill him, in self-defense, and emerge as the innocent and grieving widow. In time she thought she could marry Dominic, and everything would be as she wanted.”

  “But Dominic doesn’t love her!” Charlotte protested, walking a little faster to keep up with him.

  “I don’t think she believed that.” He looked at her quickly. “When one is in love, passionately, obsessively, one sees what one wants to see.” He forbore from reminding her of her own feelings in the past.

  She kept her eyes straight ahead of her, only the faintest heat in her cheeks.

  “That isn’t love,” she said quietly. “She might have deceived herself into thinking she had Dominic’s well-being at heart, but she didn’t. She never allowed him to know what she planned, or gave him the chance to say what he wanted or did not want. Everything she did was really for herself. That’s obsession.”

  “I know.”

  They walked in silence the last hundred yards to the church doors.

  “I can’t go in this hat,” she said in sudden alarm. “We aren’t dressed for church. We should be in black. It’s a memorial.”

  “It’s too late now.” He strode up the steps, Charlotte following quickly behind.

  An usher stepped forward, a mildly disapproving look on his face as he saw Pitt’s untidy appearance and Charlotte’s blue, feather-decorated hat.

  “Superintendent and Mrs. Pitt,” Pitt said imperiously. “It is police business, and something of an urgency, or I should not have come.”

  “Oh … oh, I see,” the usher responded, obviously not seeing at all. But he stood aside for them.

  The church was about half full. It seemed many people had been uncertain whether to come or not, and some had remained away. Naturally, there had been gossip and speculation as to exactly what had happened and, even more, as to why. However, Pitt noticed several of the parishioners he had visited, notable among them Miss Cadwaller, sitting very upright in a back pew, dressed in a black coat and with a black, beautifully veiled hat—which Charlotte could have told him was at least fifteen years old. Mr. Landells was there as well, his face tremulous as if close to tears. Perhaps he remembered another death too clearly.

  Bishop Underhill was in the pulpit, dressed in magnificent robes, almost shimmering in glory. If he had debated whether he should treat Ramsay’s memorial with full clerical honor or as a disgrace to be kept as private as possible, he had obviously decided in favor of pomp and bravado. He was saying nothing of any personal meaning, nothing peculiar to Ramsay Parmenter, but his sonorous voice boomed out over the heads of the tense congregation and seemed to fill the echoing spaces in the vaults above.

  Isadora sat in the front row, at a glance seeming grave and very composed. She was beautifully dressed, with a wide black hat whose brim swept up one side, adorned with black feathers. But on closer regard, her face was troubled. There was a tension in her shoulders, and she held herself as if some inner pain threatened and was about to explode. Her eyes were steady on the bishop’s face, completely unwavering, not as if she were interested in what he was saying but as if she dared not look elsewhere.

  Across the aisle from her the slanting light through the high windows shed a prism of colors on Cornwallis’s head. He too kept his gaze fixedly in front of him, looking neither to right nor left.

  Charlotte searched for Dominic’s dark head. He should be close to the front. Then she remembered with a jolt that he was part of the clergy, not of the congregation. He would surely have some official duty to perform. Until they called someone to replace Ramsay, this was his church.

  Then she saw him. He was dressed in the robes of his office, and it startled her. He looked so natural, as if he belonged in them, not as if they were put on for Sundays only. She realized in that moment how deep had been the change in him. He was not the Dominic she had known, only playing a new part; he was a different person, changed inside and almost a stranger. She was filled with admiration for him, and a bright, soaring kind of hope.

  Clarice also was watching him. Charlotte could see her face only in profile, and naturally she wore a veil, but it was a very fine one, and the light glinted through it, catching the tears on her cheeks. There was a defiance in the angle of her head, and a very considerable courage.

  Tryphena sat more sullenly, her fair skin making her black clothes and lace veil even more dramatic. She seemed to stare straight ahead of her towards the bishop, who was still speaking.

  But it was Vita who was unmissable. Like her daughters, she was in black, but her dress was exquisitely cut, fitting her slender figure perfectly, and on her it had an elegance and a flair which was unique. The angle of the huge brim of her hat was perfect. It conveyed
individuality, grace and distinction without being ostentatious. The veiling was quite obvious, and yet so sheer it shadowed her face rather than concealing it. Like Clarice, she too was watching Dominic, not the bishop.

  The bishop finally wound to a close. It had all been predictable, very general. He had spoken Ramsay’s name only once. Apart from that initial reference, he could have been speaking about anyone, or everyone, the frailty of mankind, the trust in the resurrection from death to a life in God. It was impossible to judge from his bland, almost expressionless face what his own feelings were, or even if he believed any part of what he was saying.

  Charlotte felt a surge of intense dislike for him. His message should have been glorious, and yet it was oddly without heart. There was no comfort in it, let alone joy.

  When he sat down, Dominic rose to speak. He came to the pulpit. He stood erect, head high, a half smile on his face.

  “I have not much to add to what has been said,” he began. His voice was rich and full of certainty. “Ramsay Parmenter was my friend. He held out the hand of love towards me when I was desperately in need. It was love unfeigned, love that knows no selfishness or impatience, love that looks gently on failure and takes no satisfaction in punishment. He judged my weaknesses in order to help me overcome them, but he did not judge me, except to find me worth saving and worth loving.”

  There was not a sound in the whole congregation, not even a rustle of satin or scrape of broadcloth on barathea.

  Charlotte had never felt prouder of anyone in her life, and the tears prickled sharp in her eyes.

  Dominic’s voice dropped a little, but was still clear even to the very back pew.

  “Ramsay deserves that we should extend to him that same kind of love; and if we are to ask it of God for ourselves, as in the end we all will, then can we, for our own soul’s sake, offer anyone else less than that? My friends … you may not have been blessed by Ramsay as I was, but please join me in prayer for his rest, and his eternal joy in heaven hereafter, when we shall know God as He has always known us, and we shall see all things clearly.” He waited a moment, then bent his head and began the familiar prayer, in which the congregation joined.