Brunswick Gardens (16 page)

“I see.” Pitt leaned back in his chair and shoved his hands hard into his pockets.

“Blackmail?” Marshall asked, watching him with sympathy. “Or a great love affair? Betrayal of the wife, a woman wronged after thirty years of loyal marriage?”

“No,” Pitt said with a smile. “Not this time. I don’t think Vita Parmenter would be the sort of woman to allow such a thing to happen or to react with wounded violence if it did. Anyway, she is one of the only two members of the family who could not have pushed Unity. If you had said she was strangled after she fell, then she could have.”

“No … just the fall,” Marshall said definitely, sucking in his breath. “Which still leaves you with several possibilities. Thwarted love—If I can’t have you, no one will. Blackmail of any of the men in the house if he were the father of the child and she threatened exposure—or if he feared he was the father.” He was looking at Pitt as he spoke. “Jealousy of another man because he was not the father and felt she had betrayed him with somebody else—and was a slut, or worse.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Or jealousy of one of the women if the father were the
curate. Or even possibly one of them to defend the father of the child from blackmail.”

“Thank you,” Pitt said sarcastically. “I had thought of most of those for myself.”

“Sorry.” Marshall smiled bleakly. “As I said, there are times when I think you have a worse job than I do. The people I deal with are at least beyond all mortal pain. And with this particular one, it would have been brief, a few seconds at most.”

Pitt had known it, but it was still a certain satisfaction to hear it said aloud. It was one less hurt to think of.

“Thank you,” he said, his tone without the cutting edge. “Is there anything else at all? Any evidence that could help? We know the time. We know what happened. I don’t suppose anything on the body gives an indication of who pushed her— height, weight, a thread of fabric, the mark of a hand?”

Marshall looked at him witheringly. “I can tell you that the stain we found on her shoe was a substance used for killing pests out of a greenhouse or conservatory.”

“Since we found it on the conservatory floor, that doesn’t help,” Pitt replied. “Except that Mallory said she was not there, and apparently she was. People often lie out of fear, not necessarily guilt.”

“Have you thought that more than one of them may be involved?” Marshall suggested helpfully, his eyes wide and steady. “Perhaps the father of her child and someone willing to protect him?”

Pitt glared at him and rose to his feet, unintentionally scraping the chair on the floor. “Thank you for your information, Dr. Marshall. I shall leave you to your own task, before you think of anything more to make mine even worse.” And then with a half smile he went to the door.

“Good day!” Marshall called out cheerfully.

    Pitt went directly to Cornwallis’s office. It was necessary to inform him of Dr. Marshall’s finding. He doubted it would alter
his instructions regarding the case, but it was necessary for the assistant commissioner to know. If it came to light later, as it almost certainly would, he would appear incompetent if he were not fully aware.

“How long?” he asked, standing beside the window, the patterns of early spring sunlight on the oak floor near his feet.

“About three months,” Pitt replied, watching Cornwallis’s face and seeing him wince. He knew that for a moment he had hoped her condition had predated her arrival in Brunswick Gardens.

Cornwallis turned back towards Pitt, his face bleak. There was no need to spell out what it meant. Every one of the possibilities was potentially disastrous and certainly tragic.

“This is very bad,” he said quietly. “What impression did you form of Parmenter? Is he a man likely to have been tempted by a young woman and then panic?”

Pitt tried to think honestly. He recalled Ramsay’s rather ascetic face, the deep grief and confusion in his eyes, the anger he betrayed in flashes when he spoke of Charles Darwin.

“I don’t believe so,” he answered carefully. “He disliked her, at times intensely, but it seemed for her ideas—” He stopped, remembering Ramsay’s remarks about her immorality. But would he have made them if he himself were part of it?

“What?” Cornwallis demanded, his attention sharp.

“He felt she was immoral,” Pitt explained. “But he did not say in what way in particular. He might not have meant sexually.”

Cornwallis raised his eyebrows in a look of disbelief.

Pitt did not argue. It was a fragile attempt and he knew it. He had understood Ramsay to mean unchastity at the time, not some intellectual dishonesty or selfishness, coldness or cruelty, or any of the other human sins. It was a convention of the language that the word
immorality
usually conveyed only one meaning.

“I don’t think he would have mentioned it to me if he were
involved,” he pointed out. “Especially after she was dead. He would have to know we would discover her condition.”

“You think he’s innocent?” Cornwallis was puzzled. “Or that this has nothing to do with it?”

“I don’t know,” Pitt confessed. “If he is guilty, then he is brilliantly subtle in some aspects and uniquely clumsy in others. I don’t understand it at all. The physical evidence seems plain enough. Four people heard her cry out ‘No, no, Reverend.’ ”

“Four?” Cornwallis asked. “You said the maid, the valet, and one of the daughters. Who’s the fourth?”

“Mrs. Parmenter. She avoided saying so directly, but she must have. She didn’t deny it, she was merely evasive about the words, naturally enough.”

“I see. Well, keep me informed—” Before he could add anything further there was a knock on the door, and upon Cornwallis’s word, a constable put his head in and said that Sir Gerald Smithers from the Prime Minister’s office was here and wanted to see Captain Cornwallis urgently. Immediately behind him Smithers appeared, pushing past him and coming into the room with a smile that crossed his face and disappeared without trace. He was a very ordinary working man except for his air of supreme assurance. He was beautifully dressed in a discreet and expensive way.

“Morning, Cornwallis,” he said hastily. He glanced at Pitt. “Mr.… I’m glad you came here. Most convenient.” He closed the door, leaving the constable on the outside. “Miserable business in Brunswick Gardens. Must all work together on it. I’m sure you appreciate that.” He glanced at each of them as if it were a question, but did not wait for an answer. “Anything further?” he addressed himself to Cornwallis.

Cornwallis was tense, his body rigid, almost as if he were balancing himself against the pitch and roll of the quarterdeck.

“Yes. Unity Bellwood was three months with child,” he replied.

“Oh.” Smithers absorbed the shock. “Oh, dear. I suppose
something of the sort was to be expected. Very unfortunate. What are you doing to contain the situation?”

“I have only just learned of it,” Cornwallis answered with surprise. “I doubt we can keep it concealed. It may well prove to be the motive for the crime.”

“I trust it will not come to that.” Smithers waved his hand, the sunlight catching small, monogrammed, gold cuff links. “It is our responsibility to see that it does not.” He looked at Pitt at last. “Is there any chance that it was simply an accident?”

“She was heard by four people to call out ‘No, no, Reverend!’ “ Pitt pointed out. “And there was nothing to trip over.”

“What people?” Smithers demanded. “Are they reliable? Are they to be believed? Could they be mistaken on second thoughts?”

Cornwallis was standing as if to attention, his face bleak. Pitt knew him well enough to be aware the formality was a mask for dislike.

“One is Parmenter’s wife,” he said before Pitt could reply.

“Oh! Good.” Smithers was eminently pleased. “She cannot be forced to testify against him.” He rubbed his hands. “The outlook is improving already. What about the others?”

The pattern of sunlight faded on the floor. Outside the noise in the street was steady.

“Two are servants.” Pitt answered this time. He saw the satisfaction increase in Smithers’s eyes. “And the last is his daughter, who is adamant,” he finished.

Smithers’s eyebrows rose. “Young woman? A bit hysterical, is she?” He was smiling. “Lightly balanced? In love, perhaps, feeling parental disapproval and reacting with emotionalism?”

His whole body had relaxed.

“I’m sure she can be persuaded to reconsider. Or at worst be discredited, if it should come to that necessity. But I am trusting that you will see it does not.” He looked at Pitt meaningfully.

“Then we had better hope for proof of some other solution,” Pitt replied, trying to conceal the contempt he felt. “She would
make an excellent witness. She is intelligent, articulate and extremely angry. She believes passionately in honesty and justice and is not likely to be persuaded to conceal something she perceives as monstrous. If you are hoping she will perjure herself to defend her father, I think you will be disappointed. She had an extremely high regard for Miss Bellwood.”

“Indeed?” Smithers said coldly, his lip curling. He regarded Pitt with distaste. “Well, that sounds unnatural. What normal young woman would choose the hired help, however well educated, over her own father?” He stared at Cornwallis. “I don’t think anything more need be said about that! It speaks for itself. Most unpleasant. Do try to keep that out of the matter, for decency’s sake and the feelings of the family.”

Cornwallis was now thoroughly angry, but he was also confused. He had no idea what Smithers was referring to. His years at sea had taught him much of men and of command, of mental and physical leadership, of courage and in many ways of wisdom. But there were areas of human relationships of which he was completely ignorant, and he knew little of the society of women.

“Yes sir,” Pitt said to Smithers, his eyes wide. He had seldom disliked a man so quickly or so much. “Although if it comes to trial, Mrs. Whickham will almost certainly testify, since she heard Miss Bellwood cry out, and any prosecution would find her an excellent witness. Her views on justice and integrity would command respect.”

“I beg your pardon?” Smithers was taken aback. “You said ‘his daughter.’ Who is Mrs. Whickham?”

“His daughter,” Pitt replied steadily. “She is widowed.”

Smithers was thoroughly angry.

“I understood you to imply she had unbalanced fondness for Miss Bellwood, preferring her to her own family,” he accused.

“I said she had a great admiration for Miss Bellwood’s fight for educational and political rights for women,” Pitt corrected him. “And for justice in general, and would be highly unlikely
to perjure herself in order to defend whoever murdered her friend, even if it should prove to be someone in her own family.”

Smithers’s eyebrows shot up.

“Oh! You mean a ‘new woman’! One of those absurd and grossly unfeminine creatures who want women to behave like men, and men to accept it?” He gave a sharp laugh. “Well, if that is so, it is a good thing that you are merely investigating, and not making the final decisions as to what shall be done.” He turned to Cornwallis. “If this wretched Parmenter is guilty, it would be the best thing for everyone if it could be proved he had some mental collapse, plead guilty but insane, and have the matter dealt with with discretion and dispatch.” His voice was sharp. “Poor man must have been afflicted by madness. He can be taken care of in a suitable institution where he cannot harm anyone. His family need not be told any more than necessary. Justice will be tempered with mercy.” He smiled, a baring of the teeth, but he was pleased with the phrase.

Rain spattered against the windows like a shower of tiny stones.

Cornwallis stared at Smithers, his face white. “And if he is not guilty?” he asked, his voice quiet and very low.

“Then someone else is,” Smithers retorted simply. “If it is the Roman Catholic son then it hardly matters, and if it is the new young curate, that is unfortunate but not tragic.” He swiveled back to Pitt. The rain was streaming down the window now, a typical March storm. “But whatever the answer, it is of the utmost importance that you reach a conclusion with all haste. Ideally I should like … it would be best … if you were able to make some statement by tomorrow. Can you do that?”

“Not unless Reverend Parmenter confesses,” Pitt replied.

Smithers smiled icily. “Then see if you can bring that about. Point out the advantages to him. It would be greatly in his best interest. I am sure you can persuade him of that.” He issued it as a command. “Keep me informed, in case I can be of any assistance.”

“Which government department, sir?” Cornwallis asked.

“Oh, this is not official,” Smithers said, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “Just a word of counsel, as it were. I am sure you understand. Good day, gentlemen.” And without waiting any further he went back to the door, hesitated a moment, then went out.

“If Parmenter has lost his hold on sanity,” Pitt said with bitter sarcasm, “enough to have an affair with a radical ‘new woman’ in his own home and then murder her by throwing her downstairs, I doubt he will be open to arguments of reason as to why he should quietly submit to being locked up in an asylum, private or public. I don’t think I shall be equal to persuading him at all.”

“You will not be trying!” Cornwallis rejoined, his back to the window, the gray light draining the color from the room. “The whole idea is monstrous!” He was so angry he was unable to keep still. He was white to the lips. “You cannot protect a faith rooted in honor, and obedience to the laws of justice and integrity, by lying.” He paced back and forth. “Compassion is the greatest of all virtues, but it is not a matter of the liberty to move blame or cover sin by deceit. That erodes the very rock on which it all rests. Forgiveness comes after remorse, not before.”

Pitt did not interrupt him.

Cornwallis moved jerkily, his shoulders locked, his fists clenched, knuckles shining where the skin was tight. “And he did not even consider the possibility that Parmenter may not be guilty. I admit it is most likely, but it is not certain, and the man denies it.”

He swung around and went back towards the window, but still looking at Pitt as he spoke. “Smithers has no right to assume without proof beyond a reasonable doubt. If we deny Parmenter his proper hearing in court, if he wants it, we are guilty of hideous injustice … unforgivable, because we are charged with upholding the law, administering it. If we fail, who can
anyone hope in?” He stared at Pitt almost challengingly, although it was his own outrage which spoke.