by Anne Perry
When the final hymns were sung and the benediction was pronounced, everyone rose to their feet.
“What are you going to do?” Charlotte murmured to Pitt. “You can’t arrest her here.”
“I’m not going to,” he muttered half under his breath. “I shall wait and follow her back to the house. But I won’t let her out of my sight, in case she speaks to anyone, persuades Emsley to change his evidence about the knife or even to destroy the originals of the letters … or gets rid of Dominic’s things out of her bedroom drawer. I can’t …”
“I know.”
Vita was coming down the aisle towards them, magnificent in widow’s weeds, and yet processing more like a bride, her head high, her shoulders straight. She walked with extraordinary grace, refusing to lean on Mallory’s arm and completely ignoring her daughters, who came behind her. She stopped at the door and began to accept the condolences of the congregation as they filed past her in ones and twos.
Charlotte and Pitt were close enough to hear what was said. It was a bravura performance.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Parmenter,” an elderly lady said awkwardly, not knowing what else to add. “How you must grieve … I simply don’t know …”
“You are very kind,” Vita replied with a smile. “Of course, it has been dreadful, but we all have our dark nights to endure, each in our own way. I am most fortunate in the love and support of my family. And no woman could ask for better friends.” She glanced momentarily at Dominic, who was approaching. “For stronger, more devoted or more loyal friends than I have.”
The elderly lady looked a trifle puzzled, but grateful to be relieved of what she had feared would be a nearly impossible situation.
“I’m so glad,” she murmured, not seeing the look of incredulity in Tryphena’s eyes. “I’m so very glad, my dear.” And she hastened away.
Her place was taken by Mr. Landells. He had regained his composure and spoke well. “I am very sorry, Mrs. Parmenter. I know what it is like to lose a beloved companion. Nothing can ever make up for it, but I am sure you will have the strength and the comfort of time to help you find peace of heart.”
Vita needed a moment or two to formulate an answer for that. She looked to where the bishop was moving towards her along the aisle, then back to Mr. Landells.
“Of course,” she said, lifting her chin a little. “We must all trust in the future, however hard that may be. But I have no doubt whatever that God will provide not only all that we need but all that is best for His purposes.”
Mr. Landells’s eyes opened wide with surprise. “I admire you more than I can say, Mrs. Parmenter. You are an example to us all of fortitude and faith.”
She smiled her thanks. Tryphena was standing on the outside of her now, her back to the great doors, and Clarice stood on the other side, nearer the body of the church. Mallory hung back, obviously feeling guilty for even attending a Protestant service. He did not want to abuse the latitude which had granted him permission in the first place. It was worse than alien to him, it was all too familiar—and laden with memories of indecision, faith that was incomplete, argument and ritual without passion, statements equivocal and made without certainty. Charlotte also imagined she saw in the line of his lips a certain resentment, as if, while he did not wish to be there, he also was angry that Dominic should officiate even partially in something which should have been his. He had a long way to grow before he began to understand the kind of love Dominic had spoken of. She considered what injuries had been done to his belief in youth that it was such an easily damaged thing now. How many times did he think he had been let down?
Half a dozen more people passed by, each offering stammered sympathies and hastening away as soon as decency allowed them.
Another elderly lady came, nodding and smiling first to Dominic.
“I could not think what anyone could say which would ease my mind, Mr. Corde, but you did it perfectly. I shall remember your words next time I grieve and feel confused at anyone’s actions. I am so glad you were here to speak for poor Reverend Parmenter.”
“Thank you,” Dominic said with an answering smile. “Your approval means a great deal to me, Mrs. Gardiner. I know the Reverend Parmenter had a great regard for you.”
She looked pleased, and turned to Clarice and then Tryphena. Mallory hung back, as if he did not wish to be included.
The bishop was not part of the group. He nodded unctuously.
“Very kind of you to come, Mrs…. er …”
“I did not come out of kindness,” she said dryly. “I came to pay my last respects to a man I greatly admired for his gentleness. The manner of his death is irrelevant. When he was alive he showed me much generosity. He spent time with me and offered me what support he could.” She dismissed the bishop, leaving him pink-faced. She did not notice Isadora’s eyes lighten or her glance towards Cornwallis and see the answering softness in his face.
“I am sorry for your loss, Mrs. Parmenter,” Mrs. Gardiner continued, looking directly at Vita. “I am sure you will feel it profoundly, and I wish there were some way in which I could help, but I fear that would be intrusive. I can only assure you that we, too, shall miss him, in our own way, and shall think of you with all the goodwill we have.”
“Thank you,” Vita said softly, her voice little more than a whisper. “You are very kind. As I have said to others, the only comfort is that I have such wonderful friends.” Her face softened into a sweet, faraway smile, but on this occasion she did not look at Dominic. “Time will heal all hurts. We must go on with our duty and we shall be made whole again. I know this as surely as I know anything.” She nodded. “You will see. We must go forward, ever forward. The past cannot be changed, only learned from. And I have no doubt whatever that other great leaders will come in the church, leaders whose words will inspire us all to reaffirm our faith. There will be a man whose fire and passion will disperse all our doubts and teach us again what it is to belong to the church.”
“That is very true,” Mrs. Gardiner said sincerely. “I do hope that all things work together for good for you.”
Vita smiled. “I have absolute faith that they will, Mrs. Gardiner,” she answered, and her voice rang with a conviction that made heads turn towards her.
The bishop looked startled and considerably disconcerted. In fact, he seemed on the point of openly disagreeing with her, only Isadora glared at him so fiercely he closed his mouth again, not obedient so much as alarmed in case she had observed something he had not.
Cornwallis looked across at Isadora, and for an instant Charlotte saw a tenderness, unmasked by discretion, which made her catch her breath with the awareness of a world of emotion within yards of her, and to which the rest of the congregation was utterly blind.
More sympathizers passed Vita, each murmuring civilized words, fumbling for something to say, anything, and then escape.
When the last one had gone, Vita turned to Dominic, her face glowing.
“Now, my dear, I think we may go home again and consider this tragedy well conducted, and this part of it closed.”
“I—I suppose so.” Dominic was unhappy with her choice of words.
She held out her hand to him, as if she would take his arm, and he was a trifle dilatory in offering it.
He glanced at Pitt and Charlotte. There was fear in his eyes, but he did not retreat.
“Does it have to be here?” he said hoarsely. Instinctively, he had reached for Clarice’s hand. She moved closer to him and linked her arm in his, standing beside him, staring at Pitt not quite defiantly, but with a fierce protection which did not permit misunderstanding.
Vita looked at them with a frown. “Clarice, you are behaving very inappropriately, my dear. Please try to have a little more control of yourself.”
Clarice glared at her mother. “They have come to arrest Dominic,” she said between her teeth. “What do you think would be appropriate? I can’t imagine anything. My whole world is coming to an end. Perhaps I should just plant
another white cross in the ground and carve on it, ‘Here lie my dreams’ and then take to my bed? I’m not sure how to go into a decline, but I expect there is a book on etiquette for young ladies which will tell me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Vita snapped. “You are making a spectacle of yourself. Superintendent Pitt is here to pay his respects to your father, not to arrest anyone. We all know who was guilty, but I find it deplorable—in fact, close to inexcusable—that you should choose his memorial service to raise the issue.” She swung around to face Pitt. “Thank you for coming, Superintendent. It was very gracious of you. Now, if you will forgive me, it has been a most trying experience, and I should like to return to my home. Dominic?”
Dominic stared at Pitt, his eyes wide with amazement and hope. Clarice still had hold of him and did not move to free herself.
“I have not come to arrest you,” Pitt said quietly. “I know you did not kill Unity Bellwood.”
Clarice’s eyes filled with tears of gratitude and almost unbelievable joy. Without even thinking about the unsuitability of it, and those who might be watching her, she put her arms around Dominic and buried her head in his shoulder, knocking her hat wildly askew, and hugging him as tightly as she could.
“Clarice!” Vita said furiously. “Have you completely lost your senses? Stop it this instant!” She moved forward as if she would physically strike her daughter.
Pitt put out his hand and took her very firmly by the arm.
“Mrs. Parmenter!”
For an instant she froze, then turned angrily towards him, although her attention was still very plainly upon Dominic and Clarice.
“Let go of me, Mr. Pitt,” she commanded.
“No, Mrs. Parmenter, I am afraid I cannot let go of you,” he said gravely. “You see, I know that your husband did not kill Unity Bellwood. Neither did anyone else. She died completely by accident, only you saw your chance to blame a husband with whom you were disillusioned and no longer in love.”
Vita turned gray-white.
“It was you who cried out, ‘No, no, Reverend!’ not Unity at all,” Pitt went on. “She broke her heel at the top of the stairs. It fell into a potted palm, where I found it this morning.”
“That’s nonsense,” Tryphena said suddenly, stepping towards her mother. “There was nothing wrong with Unity’s shoes. I saw them. They weren’t broken.”
“There wasn’t when you saw Unity’s body,” Pitt corrected her. “Mrs. Parmenter exchanged them with her own; that is why the chemical stain from the conservatory was there.” He looked at Mallory. “You said Unity didn’t come into the conservatory that morning. But your mother did, didn’t she?”
Mallory licked his lips. “Yes …”
“And the love letters?” Tryphena demanded, her voice sharp, her face pale. “I suppose Papa wasn’t in love with Unity either? What were they, then? And if they were innocent—which they couldn’t be—why did he try to murder Mama?”
“They were translations of classical love letters,” Pitt replied. “Those in Ramsay’s writing were his translations, those in Unity’s writing were hers, of the same letter.”
“Nonsense!” Mallory said, but with fading conviction. His face, too, was pasty white. “If that were true, he would have had no reason to have attacked Mama.”
“He didn’t.” Pitt shook his head. He was still holding Vita by the arm. She seemed frozen. He could feel her rigidity. “That was the murder in all this. Mrs. Parmenter always intended to kill him if I did not arrest him and have him hanged for Unity’s death. Act by act, she created a picture of him as violent and out of control. The letters were an excellent excuse, as long as we did not realize what they were, and both Ramsay and Unity were dead and could not explain.”
“But—but he attacked her!” Mallory protested.
“No, he didn’t,” Pitt corrected. “She took the paper knife in with her, and she attacked him.”
Dominic was aghast. He stared at Vita as if she had metamorphosed in front of his eyes into something almost beyond imagination.
“I did it for us!” she said urgently, ignoring Pitt, not even trying to pull away from him. “Don’t you see that, my darling? So we could be together, as we were always meant to be!”
Mallory gasped.
Tryphena staggered against the bishop.
“You—you and I?” Dominic’s voice cracked with horror. “Oh, no—I …” He stepped even closer to Clarice. “I don’t …”
“Don’t pretend!” Vita urged, her face softening to a knowing smile. “My dear, it isn’t necessary anymore. It’s all over. We can be honest now. We can tell the world.” Her voice was gentle, utterly reasonable. “You can step into Ramsay’s place. You can be all that he failed to be. It is your destiny to lead, and I will be by your side all the way. I have made it possible for you.”
Dominic closed his eyes as if he could not bear to see her. His whole body clenched.
The bishop swayed on his feet. “Oh, my God!” he muttered helplessly. “Oh, my God!”
“You didn’t do it for me …” Dominic said, in obvious agony. “I never—never wanted you to …”
“Of course you did,” Vita said in a soothing tone, as if she were persuading a child. “I know you love me just as much as I love you.” She shrugged her shoulders, regardless of Pitt’s hold on her. “You’ve told me so in a hundred different ways. You were always thinking of me, caring for me, doing little things for my comfort and my happiness. You gave me so much. I stored every keepsake in my room, where no one else would look. I take them out every night and hold them, just to be close to you …”
The bishop made clicking noises of disgust with his teeth.
Isadora put her heel on his toe and trod hard. He yelped, but no one was listening to him.
“Tell him to go away,” Vita urged, indicating Pitt with a jerk of her elbow. “Dominic, you can do anything; you have the power. You are going to be the greatest leader of the church in this century.” Her eyes shone with eagerness, with pride. “You are going to restore it to the place it belongs, so everyone looks up to it, to the clergy, as they should do. The church is going to be the head and the heart of every community again. You’ll show people; you’ll make it so. Tell this stupid policeman to go away. Tell him why this has happened. It isn’t a crime. It is simply necessary.”
“It wasn’t necessary, Vita,” Dominic answered, opening his eyes and forcing himself to face her. “It was wrong. I love you only in the same way I love everybody, no more than that. I am going to marry Clarice, if she will have me.”
Vita stared at him. “Clarice?” she said, as if the word were meaningless to her. “You can’t. There is no need. We don’t have to pretend anymore. Anyway, it would be quite wrong. You couldn’t do that to her, when you love me. You’ve always loved me, ever since we first met.” Her voice was gaining confidence again. “I remember the way you looked at me, the very first day you were in the house. You knew even then that Ramsay was weak, that he had lost his faith and he was no good to lead the people anymore. I saw your strength even then … and you knew I believed in you. We understood each other. We—”
“No!” Dominic said firmly. “I liked you. That is a completely different thing. You were Ramsay’s wife, and to me you always will be. I am not in love with you. I never was. I am in love with Clarice.”
Slowly Vita’s face changed. The softness died out of it. The wide eyes narrowed and became hard and hot. Her lips drew back into a twist of hatred.
“You coward!” she spat out. “You weak, worthless coward! I killed for you! I endured all that danger, all that play-acting, all those stupid questions and answers, so you could fill your role in destiny, so we could be together! I thought up that brilliant plan and I put it into execution. I thought of everything! And look at you! Afraid to take it up! You are pathetic!” Then her face softened again, melting into smiles. “But I would forgive you, if …”
Dominic turned away, unable to bear any more.
Clarice put her arms around him, and very close together they walked back into the body of the church.
Pitt looked at Cornwallis, who nodded, thin-lipped, touched with a terrible sadness.
Pitt held Vita harder. “Come with me, Mrs. Parmenter,” he said levelly. “There is no more to say. It is all over.”
She looked at Pitt as if she had only just remembered he was there, although he had held her all the time.
“We are leaving,” Pitt repeated. “You have no place here anymore.” He started to walk with her down the steps towards the street. Cornwallis passed him to fetch the carriage.
Charlotte looked for a moment at the doorway into which Dominic and Clarice had disappeared, then, smiling and curiously at peace, she followed after Pitt.
A CONVERSATION
WITH ANNE PERRY
Q. Anne, why did you decide, when you first began writing the Charlotte and Thomas Pitt series, to set your novels in Victorian England?
A. I did not choose the Victorian period with intent. I had been writing nonmystery novels set in many periods, without success. My first mystery, and first book which sold, was The Cater Street Hangman. Believe me, nothing makes you love a period like acceptance!
Now I love it for its atmosphere, contrasts between wealth and poverty, what seems to be and what is, for its glamour and squalor, and for the fact that it is largely before the use of science in detection. It is also a mirror of our own time close enough to be valid, and far enough away to be bearable. I get immense pleasure from the manners which are so much subtler than ours, and therefore fun to write about. Romance can legitimately go on for ages.
Q. How much research have you had to do—in the past and on a continuing basis—to ensure that your novels are historically accurate? Do you enjoy the research?
A. To begin with I had to research a great deal. Now I hope I know the period well enough to write most of the book with only minor checking, except for whichever subject I have chosen that is unusual to that book. For example, photography will be featured in one that is planned, the workings of the Victorian theatre for the same book, 1890s spiritualism for another, and so on.
