Brunswick Gardens Read online

  “I beg your pardon for disturbing you, Mrs. Parmenter,” Pitt apologized, closing the door behind him. “I am Superintendent Pitt, from Bow Street. Assistant Commissioner Cornwallis has asked me to conduct the investigation into the death of Miss Bellwood.” He did not offer any explanation. It seemed like an admission that they were prepared to conceal something., or to prejudge the depth and the outcome of the tragedy.

  “Of course,” she said with the ghost of a smile. “I understand, Superintendent.” She turned a little to face him but did not move from her reclining position. The maid waited discreetly in the corner, perhaps in case her mistress should need further restorative or assistance.

  “I imagine you need me to tell you what I know?” Vita Parmenter continued, her voice dropping a little.

  Pitt sat down, more to save her staring up at him than for his own comfort. “If you please.”

  She had obviously prepared herself, and her mind seemed very clear; there was only the slightest trembling in her hands. She kept her amazing eyes steadily upon his.

  “My husband had taken his breakfast early, as he frequently does when he is working. I imagine Unity—Miss Bellwood—had also. I did not see her at the table, but that was not remarkable. The rest of us ate as usual. I do not think we discussed anything of interest.”

  “The rest of us?” he questioned.

  “My son, Mallory,” she explained. “My daughters, Clarice and Tryphena, and the curate who is staying with us at present.”

  “I see. Please go on.”

  “Mallory went into the conservatory to read and study. He finds it an agreeable place, quiet and warm, and no one interrupts him. The maids do not go in there, and the gardener has little to do at this time of year.” She was watching him carefully. She had very clear gray eyes, with dark lashes and high, delicate brows. “Clarice went upstairs. She did not say why. Tryphena came in here to play the pianoforte. I don’t know where the curate went. I was in here also, as was Lizzie, the downstairs maid. I was arranging flowers. When I had finished them I started towards the hall and was almost at the doorway when I heard Unity cry out …” She stopped, her face pinched and white.

  “Did you hear what she said, Mrs. Parmenter?” he asked gravely.

  She swallowed. He saw her throat jerk.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “She said, ‘No, no!’ And something else, and then she screamed and there was a sort of thumping … and silence.” She stared at him, and her face reflected her horror as if she were still hearing it in her head, replaying again and again.

  “And the something else?” he asked, although Cornwallis had already told him what the servants had said. He did not expect her to answer, but he had to give her the opportunity.

  She showed the loyalty he had expected.

  “I … I …” Her eyes dropped. “I am not certain.”

  He did not push her. “And what did you see when you entered the hall, Mrs. Parmenter?” he continued.

  This time there was no hesitation. “I saw Unity lying at the bottom of the stairs.”

  “Was there anyone on the landing above?”

  She said nothing, avoiding his eyes again.

  “Mrs. Parmenter?”

  “I saw a man’s shoulder and back as he went behind the jardiniere and flowers into the passage.”

  “Do you know who it was?”

  She was very pale, but this time she did not flinch; she met his eyes squarely. “I cannot be sure enough to say, and I will not guess, Superintendent.”

  “What was he wearing, Mrs. Parmenter? What did you see, exactly?”

  She hesitated, thinking hard. Her unhappiness was profound.

  “A dark jacket,” she said at last. “Coattails … I think.”

  “Is there any man in the house whom that description would not fit? Do you recall height, build, anything else?”

  “No,” she whispered. “No, I don’t. It was only momentary. He was moving very quickly.”

  “I see. Thank you, Mrs. Parmenter,” he said gravely. “Can you tell me something about Miss Bellwood? What kind of a young woman was she? Why should anyone wish her harm?”

  She looked down with a fractional smile. “Mr. Pitt, that is very hard to answer. I … I dislike to speak ill of someone who has just met with a tragic death, in my house, and so young.”

  “Naturally,” he agreed, leaning forward a little. The room was very comfortable, the warmth of the fire filling it. “Everyone does. I regret having to ask you, but I expect you understand that I must know the truth, and if indeed she was pushed, then it is going to be painful—and inevitably ugly. I am sorry, but there is no choice.”

  “Yes … yes, of course.” She sniffed. “I apologize for being so foolish. One keeps hoping … it is not very sensible. You want to understand how such a thing could have happened and why.” She remained still for some moments, perhaps searching for words to explain.

  The rest of the house was in complete stillness. There was not even a clock audible anywhere. No servants’ footsteps sounded across the hall beyond the door. The maid in the corner seemed like part of the elaborate decoration.

  “Unity was very clever,” Vita began at last. “In a scholastic sort of way. She was a brilliant student of languages. Greek and Aramaic seemed as natural to her as English is to you or me. That was how she helped my husband. He is a theologian, you see, quite outstanding in his field, but his ability with translation is only moderate. He knows fully the meaning of a work, if it is religious, but she could grasp the words, the flavor, the poetic instinct. But she also knew quite a lot of secular history.” She frowned. “I suppose that happens if you study a language? You find yourself learning rather a lot about the people who spoke it … through their writings, and so on.”

  “I should imagine so,” Pitt agreed. He was quite well read in English literature, but he had no knowledge of the classics. Sir Arthur Desmond, who had owned the estate on which Pitt had grown up, had been good enough to educate Pitt, the gamekeeper’s son, along with his own son, now Sir Matthew Desmond. But his learning had leaned toward the sciences rather than Latin or Greek, and certainly Aramaic had not entered his thoughts. The King James translation of the Bible was more than adequate to meet all religious enquiry. Pitt concealed his impatience with difficulty. Nothing Vita had said so far seemed in any way relevant. And yet it must be very difficult for her to bring herself to the point. He should not be critical of the cost to her of this honesty.

  “The Reverend Parmenter was writing a theological book?” he prompted.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes, he has already written two, and a great number of papers which have been highly acclaimed. But this was to be of a much deeper nature than before, and possibly more controversial.” She looked at him closely to make sure he understood. “That is why he needed Unity’s skills in the translation of sources for the work.”

  “Was she interested in the subject?” He must be patient with her. This meandering might be the only way she could bring herself to tell the one bitter truth which mattered.

  Vita smiled. “Oh, not the theological side of it, Superintendent. Not in the slightest. Unity is … was … very modern in her beliefs. She did not believe in God at all. In fact, she was a great admirer of the work of Mr. Charles Darwin.” A look of deep distaste flickered across her eyes and mouth. “Are you familiar with it? Of course you are. At least you have to be aware of what he propounds on the origins of mankind. There was never a more dangerous and daring idea put forward by anyone since … I don’t know what!” She was concentrating fiercely, turning her body on the chaise longue until she faced him more fully, regardless of the discomfort it must have caused her. “If we are all descended from apes and the Bible is not true at all and there is no God, then why on earth should we go to church or keep any of the Commandments?”

  “Because the Commandments are based upon virtue and the best social and moral order we know,” he replied. “Whether they originate with God o
r with the long-fought-for and refined ideas of men. Whether the Bible is right, or Mr. Darwin is right, I don’t know. There may even be some way in which they may both be. If not, I hope profoundly that it is the Bible. Mr. Darwin leaves us with little more than the belief in progress and human morality steadily ascending.”

  “Don’t you believe it will?” she said seriously. “Unity believed it very strongly. She thought we were progressing all the time. Our ideas are getting nobler and freer with every generation. We are becoming more just, more tolerant and altogether more enlightened.”

  “Certainly our inventions are improving every decade,” he agreed, measuring his words. “And our scientific knowledge increases almost every year. But I am not at all sure that our kindness does, or our courage, or our sense of responsibility towards each other, and they are far truer marks of civilization.”

  She looked at him with surprise and confusion in the shadows of her eyes.

  “Unity believed we are far more enlightened than we used to be. We have thrown off the oppression of the past, the ignorance and the superstition. I heard her say so a number of times. And also that we are far more responsible for the care of the poor, less selfish and unjust than ever before.”

  A flash of memory came to him from the schoolroom thirty years ago. “One of the pharaohs of ancient Egypt used to boast that in his reign no one was hungry or homeless.”

  “Oh … I don’t think Unity knew that,” she said with surprise—and what could have been a flash of satisfaction.

  Perhaps she was at last approaching the truths which mattered.

  “How did your husband feel about her views, Mrs. Parmenter?”

  Her face tightened again. She looked down, away from him. “He found them abhorrent. I cannot deny they quarreled rather often. If I do not tell you, then others will. It was impossible for the rest of us to be unaware of it.”

  He could imagine it very easily: the expression of opinions around the meal table, the stiff silences, the innuendo, the laying down of law, and then the contradictions. There was little as fundamental to people as their beliefs in the order of things— not the metaphysics, but their own place in the universe, their value and purpose.

  “And they quarreled this morning?” he prompted.

  “Yes.” She looked at him with sadness and apprehension. “I don’t know what about precisely. My maid could probably tell you. She heard them as well, and so did my husband’s valet. I only heard the raised voices.” She looked as if she were about to add something, then changed her mind or could not find the words for it.

  “Could the quarrel have become violent?” he said gravely.

  “I suppose so.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “Although I find it difficult to believe. My husband is not—” She stopped.

  “Could Miss Bellwood have left the study in a temper and then lost her balance, perhaps stumbled and fallen backwards, by accident?” he suggested.

  She remained silent.

  “Is that possible, Mrs. Parmenter?”

  She raised her eyes to meet his. She bit her lip. “If I say yes, Superintendent, my maid will only contradict me. Please don’t press me to speak any further of my husband. It is terribly … distressing. I don’t know what to think or feel. I seem to be in a whirlpool of confusion … and darkness … an awful darkness.”

  “I’m sorry.” He felt compelled to apologize, and it was sincere. His pity for her was immense, as was his admiration for her composure and her dedication to truth, even at such personal cost. “Of course, I shall ask your maid.”

  She smiled uncertainly. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  There was nothing more to enquire of her, and he would not stretch out the interview. She must greatly prefer to be alone or with her family. He excused himself and went to find the maid in question.

  Miss Braithwaite proved to be a woman in her middle fifties, tidy and sensible in manner, but at present profoundly shaken. Her face was pale and she had trouble catching her breath.

  She was perched on the edge of one of the chairs in the housekeeper’s sitting room, sipping a steaming cup of tea. The fire burned briskly in the small, thoroughly polished iron grate and there was a little-worn rug on the floor and most agreeable pictures on the walls, and several photographs on the side table.

  “Yes,” she admitted unhappily after Pitt had assured her that her mistress had given her full permission to speak freely and that her first duty was to the truth. “I did hear their voices raised. I really couldn’t help it. Very loud, they were.”

  “Did you hear what they were saying?” he asked her.

  “Well … yes, I heard …” she replied slowly. “But if you were to ask me what it was, I couldn’t repeat it.” She saw his expression. “Not that it was vulgar,” she amended quickly. “Reverend Parmenter would never use bad language—it just would not be him, if you know what I mean. A complete gentleman in every way, he is.” She gulped. “But like anyone else, he can get angry, especially when he’s defending his principles.” She said it with considerable admiration. Obviously they were beliefs which she shared. “I just didn’t understand it,” she explained. “I know Miss Bellwood, rest her soul, didn’t believe in God and wasn’t averse to saying so. In fact, took pleasure in it—” She stopped abruptly, a tide of color washing up her face. “Oh, God forgive me, I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. She’ll know different now, poor soul.”

  “The argument was a religious one?” he deduced.

  “Theological, I should say,” she corrected him, ignoring her tea but still holding the cup. “About what certain passages meant. Wasn’t often they could agree. She believed in the ideas of that Mr. Darwin, and a lot of other things about freedom which I would call indulgence. At least that was what she was always saying.” Her lips tightened. “I did wonder sometimes if she said it for devilment, just to get Mr. Parmenter all riled up.”

  “What makes you think that?” he asked.

  “Look in her face.” She shook her head. “Like a child, pushing you so far to see what you’ll do.” She took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Not that it matters now, poor creature.”

  “Where did this argument take place?”

  “In Mr. Parmenter’s study, where they were working, same as always … or nearly always. Once or twice she’d work downstairs in the library.”

  “Did you see or hear her leave?”

  She looked away. “Yes …”

  “And Mr. Parmenter?”

  Her voice dropped. “Yes, I think so. Followed her out into the corridor and up to the landing, to judge from the voices.”

  “Where were you?”

  “In Mrs. Parmenter’s bedroom.”

  “Where is that in relation to the study and the landing?”

  “Other side of the corridor from the study, one door along, further away from the stairs.”

  “Was the door open or closed?”

  “Bedroom door was open. I was hanging clothes up in the cupboard and putting away linen. I went in with my hands full, never bothered to close it. Mr. Parmenter’s study door was closed. That was why I only heard part of what they were saying, even when they shouted at each other.” She looked at him unhappily.

  “But when Miss Bellwood opened the study door to come out, you might have heard what she said then,” he pressed her.

  “Yes …” she acknowledged reluctantly.

  “What was it?”

  He heard footsteps in the passage, light and rapid, a click of heels, but they did not stop.

  The color rose in Braithwaite’s cheeks again, and she was obviously uncomfortable. Modesty and loyalty fought with her sense of duty to the truth—and perhaps fear of the law.

  “Miss Braithwaite,” he said gently, “I have to know. This cannot be concealed. A woman is dead. Perhaps she was a foolish woman, mistaken, unpleasant, or even worse, but that does not take from her the right to an honest enquiry into her death and the nearest to the truth of it that w
e can come. Please tell me what you heard.”

  She looked extremely unhappy, but she did not resist any further.

  “He said she was an arrogant and stupid woman, for all her supposed brains, that she was too obsessed by her ideas of freedom to see that what she was actually talking about was chaos, disorder and destruction,” she said. “He said she was like a dangerous child, playing with the fire of ideas, and one day she was going to burn down the house, and everyone would perish with her.”

  “Did Miss Bellwood reply?”

  “She shouted that he was an arbitrary old man.” She closed her eyes. The words obviously embarrassed her. “And he was too intellectually limited and emotionally crippled to be able to look with honesty at reality.” She hurried the words to get them out as quickly as she could. “That’s what she said, and wicked, ungrateful it was.” She stared at Pitt challengingly. “Where would she be, I’d like to know, if it wasn’t for gentlemen of importance, like Mr. Parmenter, giving her a chance to work for them?”

  “I don’t know. Was there anything else?” he prompted.

  Her lips tightened.

  “I do realize you hate repeating her words, Miss Braithwaite, and that it is far from your own opinion.”

  She shot him a look of gratitude. “Well, she said he was a spiritual coward trading in superstition and fairy stories because he had not the courage to face the truth,” she said bitterly.

  “It sounds like a very unpleasant quarrel indeed,” he observed with a leaden feeling inside. “And you heard him follow Miss Bellwood out onto the landing?”