Brunswick Gardens

12

PITT LAY IN BED and thought about the evening with a sense of surprise still keeping him wide awake. Dominic had been to see him to tell him that Mallory was not guilty, that he could not be. Pitt already knew the facts and their meaning; Tellman had investigated them on his instruction days before.

What startled him was that Dominic should have seen the proof himself and should have brought it to Pitt, knowing how it had to affect his own position. And yet he had done so, clear-eyed and without equivocation. It had cost him dearly, that much had been very plain in his face. He had looked as if he expected Pitt to take him into custody there and then. He had flinched, but kept his head high. He had searched Pitt’s eyes for the contempt he foresaw… and he had not found it. Curiously, the emotion that came to Pitt was respect. For the first time since they had met each other, as far back as Cater Street, Pitt had felt a surge of deep and quite genuine admiration for him.

For an instant Dominic had seen it and a faint flush of pleasure had colored his face. Then it had gone again as the truth of his situation returned to him.

Pitt had acknowledged what he had said without telling him he already knew. He had thanked Dominic and allowed him to depart, saying only that he would continue to investigate the matter.

Now he lay close to sleep, but still as confused as he had been at the very beginning. The matter was not solved. It could not have been Mallory. He did not believe it was Dominic, although he had had every reason and every opportunity. There were too many contradictions in Ramsay’s guilt for Pitt to accept that with any ease. And yet could it really be Clarice? That was the only other answer, and that did not seem right, either. When he had suggested it to Charlotte she had dismissed it out of hand as totally ridiculous. Not that that was an argument against its possibility, only against its likelihood.

He drifted into restless sleep, half waking every hour or two, and then finally a little before five he was wide awake and his mind turned again to the love letters between Ramsay and Unity Bellwood. He could not understand them. They fitted in with nothing that he knew of either person.

He lay in the dark for half an hour trying to think of anything that would make sense of them, trying to imagine the circumstances in which they could have been composed. What could Ramsay have been feeling to have risked putting pen to paper with such words? He must have been in so great a heat of passion all sense of his own danger had left him. And why write to her when she was there in the house and he could see her within hours, if not minutes? It was the action of a man who had lost all sense of proportion, a man verging on madness.

It came back to that again and again: madness.

Had Ramsay been mad? Was the answer as simple and as tragic as that?

He slipped out of bed, shivering as his bare feet touched the cold floor. He must look at those letters again. Perhaps they would contain some explanation if he studied them enough.

He picked up his clothes. He would dress in the kitchen, so as not to waken Charlotte. It was far too early to disturb her. He tiptoed across the room and pulled the door open. It made a slight squeak, but he managed to close it again silently, or almost.

Downstairs was chilly. The warmth of the evening before had dissipated and only immediately next to the stove could he still feel any heat. At least Gracie had left the scuttle full, to save herself this morning. He lit the lamp and dressed first, then riddled the dead cinders through and after a few moments managed to get the fire going again. He put coals on it very carefully. If he swamped it he would put it out completely. It was definitely a skill.

While it was catching and burning up he filled the kettle and looked out the teapot and fetched the caddy from the cupboard. He took the largest breakfast cup off the hook on the dresser, with its saucer. The fire was burning quite well. He put two more pieces of coal on, then closed the lid. Within moments the stove was beginning to warm. He set the kettle on it, then went through to the parlor and found the letters and the journal again.

Back in the kitchen, he sat down at the table and started to read.

He had been through them all once and was beginning a second time when the sound of the boiling kettle penetrated his thoughts and he put them down and made himself a pot of tea. He had forgotten milk, so he went to the larder and fetched a jug, carefully taking off the little circle of muslin with its trim of beads which kept it covered. He poured the tea and sipped it gingerly. It was too hot.

The letters still made no sense in the pattern of things as he knew them. He sat with the papers spread in front of him and stared, still sipping at the tea and blowing at it now and then. He was achieving nothing, and he knew it.

He did not know how long he sat there, but his cup was nearly empty when he heard Charlotte come in. He looked around. She was wearing her nightgown and a thick dressing robe. He had bought it for her when the children were very small and she had had to get up and down several times during the night, but it still looked soft and very flattering wrapped around her. There were only one or two small mends in it, and a little discoloration on one shoulder where Jemima had been sick, but it could only be seen in a certain light; otherwise it looked like the natural shading of the fabric.

“Are these the love letters?” she asked.

“Yes. Would you like a cup of tea? It’s still hot.”

“Yes, please.” She sat down, leaving him to fetch another cup and pour it for her. She started to read the letter nearest to her, frowning as she did.

He put the tea beside her but she was too absorbed to notice. She picked up a second letter, and a third, and a fourth and fifth. He watched her face and saw incredulity and amazement deepen into a fierce concentration as she read faster and faster.

“Your tea’s getting cold,” he observed.

“Mm…” she replied absently.

“Extraordinary, aren’t they?” he went on.

“Mm…”

“Can you think why he would write such things?” he asked.

“What?” She looked up for the first time. She put her hand out absently for the cup and sipped from it. She pulled a face. “It’s cold!”

“I told you.”

“What?”

“I told you it was getting cold.”

“Oh. Did you?”

He stood up patiently, took the cup from her and poured the tepid tea down the sink, then took the kettle and topped up the teapot, left it a moment, then poured her a fresh cup.

“Thank you.” She smiled and took it.

“Waited on hand and foot,” he murmured, sitting down again and refilling his own cup.

“Thomas…” She was thinking deeply. She had not even heard what he had said. She was placing the letters in pairs.

“Letter and answer?” he asked. “They do seem to go in twos, don’t they?”

“No…” she said with rising intensity in her voice. “No, they’re not letters and answers. Look at them! Look at them carefully. Look at the way this one begins.” She started to read.

“ ‘You who are dearest to me, how can I express to you the loneliness I feel when we are separated? The distance between us is immeasurable, and yet thoughts may fly across it, and I can reach you in heart and mind-’ ”

“I know what it says,” he interrupted. “It’s nonsense. The distance between them was nothing at all, a different room in the same house, at the most.”

She dismissed him with an impatient little jerk of her head. “And look at this: ‘My own beloved, my hunger for you is inexpressible. When we are apart I drown in a void of loneliness, engulfed in the night. Infinity yawns between us. And yet I have but to think of you and neither heaven nor hell could bar my way. The void disappears and you are with me.’ ” She stopped, staring at him. “Well, don’t you see?”

“No,” he admitted. “It is still absurd, just more dramatically put. All her letters are more intense than his, and phrased a great deal more graphically. I told you that before.”

“No!” she said urgently, leaning forward over the table. “I mean, it is almost exactly the same thought-just more passionately worded! They all fall into pairs, Thomas. Idea for idea. Even in the same order.”

He put down his cup. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t think they’re love letters at all-I mean, not in the sense that they wrote them to each other,” she answered eagerly. “They were both students of ancient literature: he only of theological things, but she of all sorts. I think these are two different translations of the same originals.”

“What?”

“The rather drier ones are his, in his hand.” She pointed to them. “The more graphic, more passionate ones are hers. She saw the sexual connotations in them, or put it there herself; he was much more metaphorical or spiritual. I’d lay a wager with you that if we search the house, probably the study, we’ll find the original Latin or Greek or Hebrew, or whatever, of these letters.” Again she waved her hand at them, touching her cup with the sleeve of her gown. “They were probably written by some early saint who fell away, or was drawn into temptation by some wretched woman, no doubt branded an eternal sinner for her ability to draw the said saint away from the path of sanctity. But whoever he was, we’ll find one original from which each pair of these is taken.” She pushed them across to him, her face shining with certainty.

He took them slowly and placed them side by side, comparing the passages as she pointed to them. She was right. All through they were essentially the same ideas expressed in different ways, or by two personalities who were utterly unlike in all their perceptions, their emotions, their use of words, every way in which they saw the world both without and within.

“Yes…” he said with rapidly growing assurance also. “Yes… they are! Ramsay and Unity were never in love. These are only one more issue over which they couldn’t agree. He saw them as declarations of divine love; she saw them as passionate love between a man and a woman, and interpreted them as such. He kept them all because they were part of whatever it was he was working on.”

She smiled back at him. “Exactly. It makes infinitely more sense. The idea of Ramsay being the father of her child can be forgotten completely.” She made a sweeping movement with her hand and nearly knocked the milk jug onto the floor.

Pitt moved it to a safer place.

“Which leaves Mallory,” she said with a frown. “And he swears he did not leave the conservatory, and yet that he didn’t see Unity, either. And we know she went in there while he was there, because of the stain on her shoe.”

“And he didn’t leave the conservatory during that time,” he agreed, “because there was no stain on his shoes.”

“You checked?”

“Of course I checked. So did Tellman.”

“So she went in… and he didn’t leave… so he lied. Why? If he could prove he didn’t leave the conservatory, what difference does it make if she went in and spoke to him or not?”

“None,” he conceded. He drank his tea. Actually, he was getting hungry. “I’ll make some toast.” He stood up.

“You’ll burn it,” she observed, standing also. “Perhaps I should make breakfast? Would you like eggs?”

“Yes, please.” He sat down again quickly, smiling.

She gave him a look of swift understanding of exactly what he had done, but was quite happy to cook, after directing him to stoke the fire again.

It was about half an hour later when they were enjoying bacon, eggs, toast and marmalade and a fresh pot of tea that she returned to the subject.

“It doesn’t make a great deal of sense as it is,” she said with her mouth full. “But if we could find the originals of those letters, we could at least be sure there was no affair between Ramsay and Unity. Apart from coming closer to the truth, don’t you think in honor we should do that? Her family must be heartbroken. Mrs. Parmenter must feel utterly betrayed. I couldn’t bear it if I thought you could write letters like that to someone else.”

He nearly swallowed his bacon whole.

She burst into laughter. “All right, they are not quite your way of putting things,” she agreed.

“Not quite…” He gulped with difficulty.

“But we should go and look,” she urged, reaching for the teapot.

“Yes, I’ll have Tellman do it tomorrow.”

“Tellman! He wouldn’t know a clerical love letter if it landed on his breakfast table in front of him.”

“Not very likely,” he said dryly.

“I think we should go. Today would be a good time.”

“It’s Sunday!” he protested.

“I know that. There will probably be no one at home.”

“There’ll be everybody at home!”

“No, there won’t. They are a church family. They’ll all be at the Sunday service. There’ll probably be a memorial for Ramsay. They’ll be bound to be there.”

He hesitated. He wanted to spend the day quietly at home with his wife and children. On the other hand, if they could find the letters it would prove that Ramsay was innocent at least of that. Which would not help a great deal.

But the longer he thought of it, the more he was driven to seek the truth immediately. He could put it off until tomorrow and do it when the whole family was at home. It would be more open and more distressing for them then. And he would have no pleasure today because his mind would be still on Ramsay Parmenter until the question was answered.

“Yes… I suppose so,” he agreed, finishing the last of his bacon and stretching across for the toast and marmalade. “We might as well do it now as wait until tomorrow.”

Charlotte never even contemplated the possibility of being left in Keppel Street while Pitt went to Brunswick Gardens. He could not conduct a satisfactory search without her. The matter did not arise.

They reached the front door at a quarter to eleven, an excellent time to find everyone away from home, either already at church or on their way. Emsley let them in, registering only the faintest surprise at seeing Charlotte.

“Good morning, Emsley,” Pitt said with a brief smile. “It came to me at the breakfast table this morning how certain letters which seemed to implicate Mr. Parmenter in unfortunate conduct might actually have a very different, and quite innocent, explanation.”

“Indeed, sir?” Emsley’s face brightened.

“Yes. It was Mrs. Pitt who prompted the idea. It is something with which she is familiar, so I brought her with me in order to recognize it the more certainly. If I may go into Mr. Parmenter’s study, I shall search through his papers for the original. That will prove the matter.”

“Yes, yes, of course, sir!” Emsley said eagerly. “I am afraid the family are all at church, Mr. Pitt. It is a memorial service for Mr. Parmenter, and likely to take some little while. I’m sorry, sir. May I offer you any refreshment?” He turned to Charlotte. “Ma’am?”

She smiled at him charmingly. “No, thank you. But I think we should begin with the matter at hand. If we can conclude it before anyone returns, it would be the most heartening news we could offer them.”

“Indeed, ma’am. I do hope so!” Emsley backed towards the stairs even as he spoke, eager to have them on their way, and bowed slightly, excusing himself.

Pitt started up and Charlotte followed him, glancing at the extraordinary hall with its mosaic floor and rich colored tiles on the wall along the first stage, and the Corinthian pillars supporting the landing. It really was most unusual. The huge potted palm at the bottom beneath the upper newel seemed almost ordinary by comparison. It was directly beneath where Unity would have stood when she was pushed. Charlotte hesitated as Pitt strode across the landing towards the study. She would follow him in a moment.

She turned and looked down the stairs at the hallway. It was beautiful, but she could not imagine it as home. What a seething passion there must have been in this house to cause so violent an eruption and two deaths… what love-and hate.

Pitt and Dominic between them had told her much of Unity, and she was fairly sure that she would not have liked her. But there were certain aspects of her character that Charlotte admired, and she understood something of Unity’s frustration, the arrogance and the condescension which had made her strike back. The injustice was intolerable.

But she had aborted Dominic’s child. That Charlotte could never understand, when Dominic was there and prepared to marry her. It was not done from fear, desperation, or the feeling of having been betrayed.

What of the child she had been carrying when she died? Had she intended to abort this one also? She was at least three months into the pregnancy. She must have been well aware of her condition. Charlotte remembered her own pregnancies-first with Jemima, then with Daniel. She had been sick only a little, but the giddiness and the nausea had been too pronounced ever to doubt or to ignore. At first she had not put on any weight, but by the third month there was a pronounced thickening around her waist, and other alterations of a more intimate nature.

Pitt came back out of the study door, looking for her.

She went up the last step and across the landing.

“Sorry,” she apologized hastily, following him in and closing the door.

He looked at her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. Yes, I was just thinking… about Unity, how she felt.”

He touched her very gently, holding her arm for a moment, meeting her eyes, then went back to the bookcases, where he had already started searching for the originals of the letters.

She began with the lower shelves and flipped through one book after another, setting each aside as it proved irrelevant.

“I’m going to look in the library,” she said after about fifteen minutes. “If she was working down there, it could be there rather than here.”

“Good idea,” he agreed. “I’ll finish all these and the ones behind the desk.”

But when she was outside, another thought seized her, and glancing around to make sure no one was in sight, she slipped along the corridor towards the bedrooms. She tried the first one, and guessed it was Tryphena’s from the book by Mary Wollstonecraft on the bedside table. The furniture was mainly in pinks, which somehow suited Tryphena’s soft coloring.

The next room was far larger and extremely feminine, even though the colors were bolder and it had an exotic and very modern air, rather like the main reception room of the house. This was Vita’s taste-touches of the Arabic, the Turkish, and even a Chinese lacquered box by the window.

She stepped in and closed the door, her heart beating high in her chest. There was no earthly excuse if she were caught here. Please heaven the maids were all at the service!

She tiptoed across to the dressing table, glanced at the jars of lavender water, attar of roses, the hairbrushes and combs. Then she opened the top drawer. There were several little pillboxes, some gilded and enameled, one of carved soapstone, one of ivory. She unscrewed the first. Half a dozen pills. They could have been anything. She undid the second. A pair of gold cuff links with initials engraved on them-D.C. Dominic Corde!

She replaced the top with hands trembling a little. She searched further. She found a handkerchief with a D embroidered on it. There was a pearl-faced collar stud, a small penknife, a single glove, a note for a sermon written on the back of a menu but in Dominic’s writing. She knew it from years ago. It had not changed.

She closed the drawer with both hands shaking so visibly she had to sit still and breathe deeply for several moments before she could compose herself sufficiently to stand up and cross back to the door. She could feel her face burning with memory. Ten years ago she had been obsessed with Dominic, so in love with him she could repeat everything he said to her days afterwards. When he came into the room she was almost tongue-tied with emotion. She knew every gesture of his hands, every glance or expression of his face. She followed where he had walked, touched the things he had touched, as if they held some imprint of him even after he had gone. She collected small things that he had lost or no longer wanted-a handkerchief, a sixpence, a pen he had thrown away.

She did not need any deductions to know exactly what Vita had done, and why.

She opened the door slowly and looked around. There was no one. She slipped out and closed the door, going back to the head of the stairs again. Apart from Tryphena, Vita was the only one who could not possibly have pushed Unity. Had Dominic any idea how Vita felt about him?

Anyone else might think it beyond belief that he could not. But Charlotte knew absolutely that he had had no idea how she herself had felt. She recalled vividly his horror and incredulity when he had learned.

Once was possible… but was that ignorance possible twice? Had he known and been… What? Flattered, frightened, embarrassed? Or was it Unity who had seen it and threatened to make it public, to tell Ramsay?

She stood at the top of the stairs again and looked down. The house was silent. Emsley would be waiting somewhere not very far away, in case Pitt called, probably wherever the bells rang, which would be in the servants’ hall and the butler’s pantry. There might be a kitchen maid somewhere, preparing a cold midday meal. There seemed to be no one else, except Pitt in the study.

Unity had quarreled with Ramsay, as had happened so often before. She had stormed out, come along the corridor and across the landing to go downstairs. She had stood there, where Charlotte was now. Perhaps she had shouted one more thing back towards Ramsay, then turned again to go downstairs. She would have held on to the banister rail probably. What if she had slipped?

But there was nothing to slip on or to trip over.

What if she had broken a heel?

But she hadn’t. Her shoes had been perfect, except for the stain from the conservatory floor.

Could she have been dizzy? She was three months with child. Dizzy enough to fall downstairs?

Not very likely.

Charlotte leaned a little over the banister rail and looked down. The potted palm was directly below her. She found it rather an ugly thing. She did not like palms inside the house. They always looked a trifle dusty, and this particular one was full of spikes where old fronds had been cut off. There were probably spiders in it, and dead flies. Disgusting! But how could anyone clean such a thing?

There was something caught in it now! Something about an inch and a half square, and pale. Heaven only knew what that could be!

She went down the stairs slowly, tiptoeing again without knowing why. She peered at the palm from a closer vantage point. The object was wedged between the main trunk and one of the shorn-off spikes. It was cube shaped, or almost.

She moved a little to try to see it from a different angle. The top of it looked like raw wood. But when she bent down to peer through the banisters, the side caught the light, as if it were satin. What on earth could it be?

She went all the way down and squeezed behind the huge brass pot and put her hand in among the fronds, gritting her teeth against the risk of spiders. She had to fumble for several moments before her fingers found the object and pulled it out. It was the heel of a woman’s shoe.

How long had it been there?

Since Unity broke it in falling? Perhaps she had been a little dizzy, turned too quickly, broke the heel and then, losing her balance, called out instinctively, even as she pitched down, a cry of terror as she realized what was happening?

But when she was found her shoe had not been broken!

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 possibly 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.

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.