Brunswick Gardens (17 page)

“So I have your instructions to continue the investigation?” Pitt asked.

“Weren’t you going to?” Cornwallis was dismayed.

Pitt smiled at him. “Yes, I was, but I was not necessarily going to tell you so … if it would have placed you in an invidious position.”

“Thank you,” Cornwallis acknowledged with the flicker of an answering smile. “But I do not wish to be protected from my responsibility. I am ordering you to do everything you can to discern the truth, and the whole truth, about what happened in Brunswick Gardens. I shall give it to you in writing, if you feel that prudent.”

Outside the rain stopped.

“Thank you, but I feel it imprudent,” Pitt replied. He wanted to be tactful, but sometimes Cornwallis did not understand the necessities of politics. “A straight line is not always the shortest route between two points,” he added.

There was a flicker of understanding in Cornwallis’s eyes, but his anger at Smithers was still too hot to permit him to relax. “Take whatever route you judge,” he said. “But do it! Do I make myself plain?”

Pitt straightened up a fraction.

“Yes sir. I shall tell you as soon as I have anything definite.”

“Do.” Cornwallis drew breath as if to ask something, then changed his mind and wished Pitt good day.

    There was no more physical evidence to pursue. Pitt could think of no practical way of learning who had been the father of Unity’s child, at least until he had a great deal more knowledge about the various members of the household. Dominic he had known in the past, although not in the last six or seven years, when it seemed a great deal had happened to him. In honesty he
had to admit it was grossly unjust to judge a man on his past and not include his present.

He should learn something of Mallory Parmenter also. He had little reason to suspect him, except for the mark on Unity’s shoe, but that was understandable, if childish and lacking either the dignity or the maturity of judgment he would have expected from a man about to enter the priesthood of any faith.

But first he must look far more deeply into the character of Ramsay Parmenter. If he were indeed as close to mental or emotional imbalance as the murder of Unity suggested, then there must have been some indication of it, if he could understand the signs.

He had spent the latter part of yesterday enquiring where he might find those who had known Ramsay over the years. It was Tellman who had discovered a university friend and fellow student now living in Highbury, towards the outskirts of London, and made an appointment for Pitt to see him.

Pitt took the train to the Islington and Highbury Stations, and then a hansom to the quiet residence of the Reverend Frederick Glover, in Aberdeen Park near St. Saviour’s Church.

“How can I assist you, sir?” Glover enquired, leading Pitt into a small, overcrowded study. It was lined on every wall with books, except where tiny windows in deep bays overlooked a garden bright with early flowers and sheltered by trees and moss-laden walls. At any other time Pitt would have asked him about the garden, perhaps learned a few aspects of gardening skill. It was obviously a place tended with love and great joy.

But Ramsay Parmenter’s situation precluded all else for the moment.

“I believe you studied at university with Ramsay Parmenter,” Pitt said, accepting the invitation to sit in a large, brown leather chair at least half facing the window.

“I did,” Glover agreed. “I told your man that yesterday.” He looked at Pitt with a mild manner. He was in his late fifties, a tall man grown portly with the years, his hair receding far across the
top of his head. His features were pleasant, although his nose was rather too long. In youth he must have been cornely enough. His nature had marked his face with kindness but by no means foolishness.

“Why is it you are interested in Ramsay Parmenter?” He did not need to explain his question. He did not discuss people lightly, and he did not break a confidence. It was in his manner and his polite attention, but a certain distance that commanded respect.

There was no useful answer except the truth, or at least some part of it.

“Because there has been a tragedy in the Parmenter house,” Pitt replied, crossing his legs and settling comfortably into the chair. “At the moment we do not know exactly what happened. There are accounts which appear to conflict with the physical evidence, and indeed with people’s retelling of it.”

“A police matter, and of some gravity.” Glover nodded. “Or you would not be concerned. Did you not say you were from Bow Street?” His brow wrinkled. “I thought Parmenter lived in Brunswick Gardens.”

“He does. The matter is very delicate.”

“I think you had better tell me the truth, Superintendent, and I will be of whatever assistance I can.” He looked puzzled. “Although what I could tell you I cannot imagine. I have not seen Ramsay Parmenter in years. I have met him briefly at functions, of course, but it must be fifteen or even twenty years since I spoke to him at any length. Precisely what is this about? You may trust my calling to keep in confidence anything we say. It is my duty, as well as my wish.”

“I will tell you, Reverend Glover,” Pitt replied. “But I would prefer to ask you questions first. They will not be of a private or confidential matter.”

Glover locked his hands across his rather ample stomach and leaned his head very slightly to one side, ready to listen.

From the ease with which Glover assumed it, Pitt imagined that it was an attitude he adopted fairly frequently.

“When did you first meet Ramsay Parmenter?” Pitt began.

“In 1853, when we went up to university,” Glover replied.

“What manner of young man was he? What kind of student?”

“A quiet man in his personal life, rather intense.” Glover retreated into memory, his eyes focused on the past. “We used to tease him because he had little sense of humor. He was extremely ambitious.” He smiled. “Personally, I have always thought God must have an excellent appreciation of the humorous and the absurd, or He would not have begotten us as His children or thereafter have loved us. We are so very often ridiculous.”

He was watching Pitt quite closely behind his benign and rather casual manner. “Apart from that, I perceive the ability to laugh as a supremely sane and intelligent response to both the trials and the pleasure of life,” he continued. “Sometimes it is the foundation and the outward sign of courage. But you did not come here to hear my philosophy. I beg your pardon. Ramsay was an excellent student, even brilliant. Certainly far better than I. He passed all his examinations with high marks, often the best.”

“What was he ambitious to achieve?” Pitt asked curiously. He was not quite sure what a young theologian desired. “High office in the church?”

“Ah, that was part of it, without question.” Glover nodded. “But also to write the definitive work on some subject or other. That is a kind of immortality, after all. Not, of course, that that is the sort the soul achieves. I admit, this would be a matter of vanity, would it not? I did not mean to imply that Ramsay was vain.”

“Wasn’t he?”

Glover shrugged, surrendering the point. “Yes, he was. Academically, at least. And he was also a brilliant preacher. He had great fire and enthusiasm in those days, and a very fine voice.
His vocabulary was wide and varied, and his knowledge broad enough he seldom repeated himself.”

It did not sound like the man Pitt had met. Had Unity Bellwood’s death robbed him of that fire, or had it faded before then?

“You expected him to have a brilliant future, an outstanding career in the church?” Pitt asked aloud.

“I think we all did,” Glover agreed. There was a shadow of regret in his face, a slight pinching of the lips, something around the eyes.

“But he did not quite fulfill it,” Pitt concluded. He could still see a reflection of the gold of daffodils in the corner of his vision, and a ripple of light across the grass.

“Not as I saw it for him then.” Glover looked back at him, trying to measure how much more to say. “I expected the … the passion to remain, the tremendous sense of conviction. I expected something more personal than learned, and heaven help me, rather dry books.”

“What happened to his passion?” Pitt pressed.

Glover sighed, a gentle sound, sad and without blame.

“I am not sure. I can only guess. When I knew him he had fewer doubts than any of the rest of us.” He smiled to himself. “I can remember sitting up all night drinking terrible wine and talking fiercely about all manner of things: God and the meaning of life, the fall from Eden, the role of Eve, predestination, grace and works, the justification for the Reformation, all manner of heresies about the nature of the Godhead … we picked them all apart. Ramsay was the one who seemed to doubt himself least. His arguments were always so cogent, so perfectly reasoned, that he usually won.”

“Did you know him after he left university?” Pitt asked.

“Oh, for a while. I recall his meeting Vita Stourbudge and courting her.” His eyes had a faraway look, soft and mildly amused. “We all envied him that. She was so very pretty.” He shook his head. “No,
pretty
is the wrong word; she was more
than that. She was utterly charming, full of enthusiasm and intelligence. I am sure he loved her, but even had he not, he could hardly have done better for a wife. She supported him in everything. She seemed as dedicated as he was.” He gave a little laugh. “And, of course, she was an excellent catch in that her father was a man of both wealth and distinction, and a pillar of the church.”

So Vita had not changed. Pitt could see in her now the woman Glover described, except he had not known of her family background, but it did not surprise him.

“Has he written the definitive works on any of the questions you discussed?” he asked. They were all subjects he had never even considered. For him religion had been a matter of behavior based on the true foundations of a faith in a greater being—simply, one he had been taught in childhood—and a moral conduct springing from the ever-deepening understanding of compassion and honor. Perhaps he had that much in common with Cornwallis, in spite of their having come by it so differently.

“Not so far, I think,” Glover replied. “His work is highly respected by the Establishment, but for the general reader a little—” He stopped, unable to decide on the word.

Pitt looked beyond him to the daffodils and the sun.

“Abstruse,” Glover finished. “Too difficult to understand because of the complexity of the arguments. Not everyone is intellectually equipped to grasp such things.”

“But you do?” Pitt brought his attention back with reluctance. It all seemed irrelevant to the issue.

Glover smiled apologetically. “Actually, I don’t. I only read half of it. That sort of thing bores me stiff. A live debate was all right, at least when I was young, because I liked to argue. But when the opponent is not there in the flesh—or perhaps ‘in the mind’ would be more accurate—it has no appeal to me. I admit, Superintendent, I don’t care about the obscurities of higher learning. It is my weakness, professionally speaking.”

“And Ramsay Parmenter does care?”

“He used to. I don’t feel any passion in his work nowadays. There is no point in your asking me. I don’t know. It may be that I am lacking the ability to follow him. There are certainly those who do. He is much admired.”

“Can you refer me to someone who could tell me more of his present convictions and abilities?”

“If you wish. But you still have not told me why you need to know.”

“A young woman died in tragic circumstances in his home. There is much about it which needs explanation.”

Glover was obviously startled; he jerked further upright and his hands dropped. “Suicide?” he said sadly, his voice subdued with shock. “Oh, dear. I am so sorry. Of course it does happen, I am afraid. A love affair, I daresay. Was she with child?” He saw from Pitt’s face that it was so. He sighed. “How very tragic. Such a waste. I always feel it is so unnecessary. We should have a better way of coping with such things.” He took a deep breath. “But what can Ramsay’s academic achievements possibly have to do with it? Oh, dear—it was not one of his daughters, was it? I do recall the younger one, Clarice her name is, I think, was to be married to some young man, but at the last moment refused to enter the arrangement. The betrothal never took place. All very unfortunate. I think she expected rather too much of a romantic nature and would not make the necessary compromises with life.” He smiled ruefully, his expression not unsympathetic.

“No,” Pitt replied, making a note of the incident in his mind. “It was not one of Ramsay’s daughters. She was a scholar of ancient languages, assisting him in his work.”

Glover still looked puzzled.

“It was not suicide,” Pitt enlarged. “At present it seems it could only have been intentional.”

Glover was stunned. “You mean murder?” he said hoarsely. “Well, it would not be Ramsay, I assure you, if that is what you
are thinking. He has not the passion now, apart from the cruelty, which he never had.”

When he recalled his meeting with Ramsay Parmenter, Pitt was not surprised. But he had assumed the cleric’s cool demeanor was shock, the self-control expected of a man of his position. It still startled him to have someone else say such a thing. It was a defense, and yet it was also a damnation. When had the passion died, and why? What had killed it?

Glover was watching him. “I am sorry,” he said, his face a little crumpled with contrition. “I should not have said that.” A self-mockery filled his eyes. “Perhaps I am jealous of his intellectual ability and angry because he did not realize it as I thought he should. I wish I could help you, Superintendent, but I fear I know nothing of use. I am extremely sorry about the young woman’s death. May I at least offer you a cup of tea?”

Pitt smiled. “I should rather walk around your garden, and perhaps you can tell me how you grow such magnificent daffodils?”

Glover rose to his feet instantly, almost in a single movement, ignoring the twinge of pain in his back. “With the greatest pleasure,” he responded, and he proceeded to explain his method even before they were through the door, waving his hands to illustrate his meaning, his face filled with enthusiasm.