Brunswick Gardens Read online

  “You are here to find out what happened to poor Unity and see that some justice is done her!” It was more a challenge than a question. Her lips trembled and she controlled herself with difficulty, but her overriding emotion at the moment was anger. Grief would probably follow soon.

  “I am going to try to, Miss Parmenter,” he answered, turning to face her. “Do you know anything that can be of help in that?”

  “Mrs. Whickham,” she corrected, her mouth tightening a little. “I am a widow.” The expression with which she said the last word was unreadable. “I didn’t see it, if that’s what you mean.” She came forward, the light falling bright on her hair as she passed under the chandelier. She looked very English in this exotic room. “I don’t know what I could tell you, except that Unity was one of the bravest, most heroic people in the world,” she went on, her voice charged with emotion. “At whatever the cost, she should be avenged. She, of all the victims of violence and oppression, deserves justice. It’s ironic, isn’t it, that one who fought for freedom so fiercely and honestly should be stabbed in the back?” She gave a sharp little shudder, and her face was very white. “How tragic! But I wouldn’t expect you to understand that.”

  Pitt was startled. He had not been prepared for this reaction.

  “She fell down the stairs, Mrs. Whickham …” he began.

  She looked at him witheringly. “I know that! I meant it in a higher sense. She was betrayed. She was killed by those she trusted. Are you always so literal?”

  His instinct was to argue with her, but he knew it would defeat his purpose.

  “You seem very certain it was deliberate, Mrs. Whickham,” he said almost casually. “Do you know what happened?”

  She gulped air. “She didn’t fall; she was pushed.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I heard her cry out, ‘No, no, Reverend!’ My mother was in the doorway. She’d actually have seen him except for the edge of the screen. As it was she saw a man leaving the landing and going back along the corridor. Why would any innocent person leave instead of going instantly to try to help her?” Her eyes were bright, challenging him to argue.

  “You said it was someone she trusted,” he reminded her. “Who might she have expected to attack her, Mrs. Whickham?”

  “The Establishment, the vested interests in masculine power and the restrictions of freedom of thought and emotion and imagination,” she replied defiantly.

  “I see …”

  “No, you don’t!” she contradicted him. “You have absolutely no idea!”

  He put his hands in his pockets. “No, perhaps you are right. If I were fighting for those things, and were a woman rather than a man, I would expect a high official in the church to be the very bastion of entrenched privilege and the keeping of ideas exactly as they are. It is where I would expect my opposition, even my enemies.”

  The color rushed up her face. She started to speak and then stopped.

  “Whom did she consider her enemies?” he pressed.

  She regained her composure with an effort, her shoulders rigid, her hands stiff. The argument concentrated her mind, and it was easier than grief. “Not anyone in this house,” she responded. “One does not expect such violence behind the face of friendship, not if you are utterly honest yourself and you approach everyone thoroughly openly and without fear or deceit.”

  “You had a very high opinion of Miss Bellwood,” he observed. “Would you mind telling me something more about her, so that I can try to understand what must have happened?”

  She softened a little, her face reflecting an obvious vulnerability and even a dawning awareness of being alone in a new and terrible sense. “She believed in progress towards more freedom for everyone,” she said proudly. “All kinds of people, but especially those who have been oppressed for centuries, forced into roles they did not want and denied the opportunity to learn and to grow, to use the talents they possessed and could have refined into great art.”

  She frowned. “Do you know, Superintendent, how many women who composed music or painted pictures were obliged to publish or show their work only if they used their father’s or their brother’s names?” Her voice rose and she almost choked on her outrage. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, elbows bent a little. “Can you imagine anything worse than creating great art, the realization of your ideas, the visible mark of your soul’s dreams, and having to pretend it was someone else’s just to conform to an oppressor’s vanity? It … it is unspeakable! It is a tyranny beyond any kind of forgiveness!”

  He could not argue with her. Put into those words, it was monstrous.

  “She was fighting for artistic freedom?” he asked.

  “Oh, a great deal more than that!” she said hotly. “She was fighting for freedom of all kinds: the right of people to be themselves, not to have to conform to other people’s old-fashioned ideas of what they ought to be. Do you know what it is like to be alone in your fight, really alone? To have to pretend you don’t understand things in order to pander to the vanity of stupid people, just because they are born a different gender from yourself?” Her face tightened with impatience. “No, of course you don’t! You’re a man, part of the Establishment. You take power as your birthright. Nobody questions you or tells you you haven’t the nature or the intelligence to achieve anything—or even to make your own judgments and decide your own fate!” She looked at him with wide, round blue eyes glowing with contempt. Her slender shoulders were still locked rigid, and her hands were clenched at her sides.

  “My father was a gamekeeper and my mother did the laundry,” he replied, looking straight back at her. “I know quite a lot about birthrights and different people’s places in society. I also know what it is like to be cold and hungry. Do you, Mrs. Whickham?”

  She flushed a deep pink.

  “I … I’m … not talking about … that,” she said, stumbling on her words. “I’m talking about intellectual freedom. It’s a … far bigger thing.”

  “It’s only a bigger thing if you are warm and safe and have food in your stomach,” he responded with just as much feeling as she. “There are lots of battles which are worth fighting, not only Miss Bellwood’s belief in equality of intellectual opportunity and recognition.”

  “Well …” Honesty struggled with grief and anger within her. Honesty won, but only just. “Well, yes, I suppose so. I didn’t mean there weren’t. You asked me about Unity. She challenged the rigid ideas of society, and of the church, and she upset the hypocrites and the cowards who don’t have the spiritual honor or the bravery to dare to think for themselves.”

  “Does that include your father?”

  She lifted her chin. “Yes … yes, it does.” She dared him to disapprove her devastating candor. “If you need the truth, then he’s a moral coward and an intellectual bully. Like most academic men, he’s terrified of new ideas or anything that challenges what he was taught. Unity was full of new perceptions that he was too limited to understand, and he wouldn’t try. Anyway, he hasn’t the imagination. He knew she was surpassing him, so he tried to overpower her, shout her down, intimidate her. I’m speaking metaphorically, or course. You do understand that?”

  “I heard that this morning it was fairly literal,” he pointed out.

  Her eyes suddenly filled with tears and she blinked hard, trying to dispel them, and failed. They slid down her cheeks. She looked like an angry and frightened child.

  Pitt found she stirred his sympathies at the same time as she exasperated him.

  “I am sure such people as Miss Bellwood are very rare,” he said with more humor, and gratitude for that fact, than she was aware.

  “Unique,” she agreed urgently. “You must seek justice, Superintendent … no matter what that is or who stands in the way. You must, for honor’s sake! You mustn’t be afraid of anyone. Unity wasn’t. And she deserves that of her avenger. You mustn’t let privilege or superstition deter you, or … or even pity for who else is affected.” Her voi
ce was husky with the power of her feeling. “If people can be dismissed simply because they are dead, if we don’t owe them anything because they are powerless to demand it from us, then we are worth nothing.” She slashed her hand in the air. “All civilization is worth nothing! The past is meaningless, and the future will forget us just the same. Only we shall have deserved it. Can you fulfill your role in history, Superintendent Pitt?” she demanded. “Are you equal to it?”

  “I have every intention of trying, Mrs. Whickham, because that is my job, whether I like the results or not,” he replied, keeping his expression perfectly straight. Her words were pretentious enough, but behind them she was not unlike his almost-nine-year-old daughter, Jemima. She fed on just such unself-conscious extremes. And her feelings were very easily hurt if she thought anyone was laughing at her.

  Tryphena studied him. “I am glad. It is what must be. I … I only wish my father were not so … implacable, so domineering.” She shrugged. “But I suppose weak people are very often stubborn because they don’t know what else to cling to.”

  There was no courteous answer he could make to that, and he let it pass.

  “Thank you. I’m sorry to have had to ask you these things,” he said formally. “I appreciate your frankness, Mrs. Whickham. Now, would you be kind enough to ask your sister if she would come and see me, either here or in some other room in which she would prefer to talk.”

  “I’m sure she’ll come here,” she replied. “Although I don’t suppose she can tell you anything. She didn’t know Unity as well as I did. And she’ll defend Papa. She’s loyal to people.” Again the flicker of contempt crossed her face. “She cannot see that ideas are more important. Principles must govern us or they are not principles. If we can bend them to suit us, then they are worth nothing! ‘I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honour more!’ Richard Lovelace, you know?” She raised her eyebrows. “No, I don’t suppose you do. Never mind, it is true. I’ll get Clarice for you.” And without waiting for his answer she turned and went out, leaving the door wide open behind her.

  It was more than ten minutes before Clarice Parmenter came in. He heard her quick footsteps moving across the tiles of the hall before he saw her. She was of similar height and build to her sister, but her hair was dark and she was not as pretty. Her mouth was wider and her nose was fractionally crooked, giving her face a lopsided air, perhaps unconsciously humorous.

  She came in and closed the door behind her.

  “I can’t help,” she said without preamble. “Except to say that the whole thing is ridiculous. It must have been an accident. She tripped over something and fell.”

  “Over what?” he asked.

  “I don’t know!” She waved her hands impatiently. They were very fine hands, slender and expressive. “But you don’t push people downstairs because they don’t believe in God! That’s absurd! Well … of course you don’t, if you are a Christian yourself.” She shrugged and made a face. “Actually you burn them at the stake, don’t you.” She did not laugh, she was too near hysteria to dare, but there was a wild flash of humor in her eyes. “We haven’t got any stakes here, but it would be very infra dig to heave someone down the stairs. Execution for blasphemy has to be done with all the proper ceremony or it doesn’t count.”

  He was startled. She was not like anything he could possibly have foreseen. Perhaps she cared more than he had been led to believe. “Were you very fond of Miss Bellwood?” he asked.

  “Me?” She was surprised. Her very gray eyes widened. “Not in the slightest. Oh … I see. You think I am emotionally overwrought, because I made remarks about burning atheists? Yes, I probably am. It isn’t every day that someone dies in this house and we have the police supposing it was murder. That is why you’re here, isn’t it? Doesn’t it upset most people a bit? I thought you would be used to people weeping and fainting.” It was almost a question. She waited for a moment to give him time to answer.

  “I am used to people being very shocked,” he agreed. “Not many people actually faint.” He moved back, inviting her to be seated.

  “That’s convenient.” She perched on the edge of the chair opposite the fire. “I don’t suppose fainting people are much use to you.” She shook her head a little. “I’m sorry. That has nothing to do with anything, has it? I didn’t like Unity particularly, but I do care very much about my father. I really don’t believe he would have pushed her, no matter how much she annoyed him, at least not intentionally. They may have struggled. Could she have pushed him and slipped?” She looked up at him hopefully. “Perhaps if he stepped aside or tried to push her away? That’s possible, isn’t it? That would be an accident. And anyone can have an accident.”

  He sat down opposite her. “That is not what he said, Miss Parmenter. He said he did not leave his study at all. And your mother’s maid and the valet both heard Miss Bellwood call out ‘No, no, Reverend!’ So did your sister.”

  She said nothing. Her face reflected her misery and confusion, and equally her complete refusal to believe her father responsible for anything more than mischance.

  “Would he have been involved in an accident like that and then lied rather than own to it?” Pitt asked, hoping she would say yes. It would answer all the evidence and still not be murder.

  She thought about it for several seconds, then lifted her chin and met his eyes squarely. “Yes. Yes, he would.”

  He could tell that she was lying. It was precisely what Tryphena had said. She was putting her personal feelings for her father before truth. And he thought he might well have done the same thing were he ever to be in a similar dilemma.

  “Thank you, Miss Parmenter,” he acknowledged. “I am sorry I have had to trouble you. I believe there is also a curate living in the house, is that so?”

  She tensed slightly. “Yes. Do you want to see him? I don’t suppose he can help either, but you have to go through the motions, don’t you? I’ll fetch him.” She stood up and went to the door, and then turned as he rose also. “What are you going to do, Superintendent? You can’t arrest my father, can you, without proof or a confession?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “And you don’t have either, do you.” That was a challenge, a statement she desperately wanted to be true.

  “Not so far.”

  “Good! I’ll get the curate for you.” She went out with quick, light steps, and Pitt was left alone to turn over in his mind the peculiar situation in which he found himself. It seemed, from Tryphena’s evidence, and that of the maid and the valet, as if Unity Bellwood had quarreled violently with Ramsay Parmenter, and after being highly abusive, stormed out of the room in temper. He had followed her, continuing the quarrel, and there had been some sort of struggle at the top of the stairs. She had called out, and then had fallen with such impetus she had pitched right to the bottom and broken her neck. It was absurd to enter into a physical struggle over issues of theories of God and the origin of man. It was the last way on earth to prove either argument true. Any bodily conflict between a middle-aged clergyman and a young female scholar was unseemly and held elements of farce. Clarice, the one person who disbelieved it, was certainly right.

  And yet it seemed undeniably what had happened.

  He did not hold any hope that the young curate would be any use whatever. He would probably support Ramsay Parmenter, out of professional and religious loyalty, and disclaim any knowledge of the whole matter.

  The door opened and a startlingly handsome man came in. He was slender, almost Pitt’s height, dark haired with fine aquiline features and a mouth of humor and sensitivity. He was wearing a clerical collar.

  “Hello, Thomas,” he said quietly, closing the door behind him.

  Pitt was so stunned for a moment he could not find speech. The man was Dominic Corde, the widower of Pitt’s wife’s sister, who had been murdered nearly ten years before, when Charlotte and Pitt had first met. If Dominic had not remarried, then presumably they were still brothers-in-law.


  Dominic walked over to the chair by the fireplace and sat down. He looked noticeably older than when Pitt had last seen him. He must be at least forty now. There were fine lines around his brow and around his eyes. The furrows from nose to mouth were deeper, and there were a few gray hairs at his temples. The brashness and the smoothness of youth were gone. Pitt thought, with some reluctance, that it became him. He had not entirely forgotten that when he and Charlotte had met, Charlotte had been in love with Dominic.

  “I can’t believe it,” Dominic said gravely, watching Pitt. “Ramsay Parmenter is a serious and compassionate man dedicated to learning and a life in the church. Unity Bellwood could be enough to try the patience of a saint, at times, but it is outside reality to imagine that Reverend Parmenter would deliberately have pushed her downstairs. There has to be some other explanation.”

  “Accident?” Pitt asked, finding his tongue at last but still standing. “How well do you know him?” What he meant, what was racing through his head, was: What on earth are you doing here in this house, taking holy orders? You, of all people! You who were married to Sarah and seduced maids and at the very least flirted inexcusably with other young women.

  Dominic almost smiled, but the smile died on his lips before it was real.

  “Ramsay Parmenter helped me when I was close to despair,” he said earnestly. “His strength and patience, his calm belief and endless kindness, brought me back from the brink of self-destruction and set me on the best path possible. For the first time I can remember, I am looking towards a future with purpose and use to others. Ramsay Parmenter taught me that—and by example, not word.”

  He looked up at Pitt.

  “I know it is your job to learn what happened here this morning, and you are honor-bound to do that, wherever it leads you. But you want the truth, and that will not include Ramsay Parmenter indulging in violence against another person, even Unity, no matter how far she provoked him.” He leaned forward a little, his face creased with urgency. “Think about it, Thomas! If you are a rational man and are trying to persuade someone of the reality and the purpose and the beauty of God, the very last thing you would do is attack them. It makes no conceivable sense.”