Brunswick Gardens (43 page)

P
ITT WENT HOME
early. It was good to have some time to spend with his family. The verdict of the inquest on Ramsay Parmenter had been exactly what he’d expected. While the balance of his mind was turned he had attacked his wife, and she had defended herself. Death by misadventure.

Now Pitt forced the matter out of his mind and simply put on his oldest clothes and pottered in the garden. There was not a great deal to be done. The growing season had barely begun. The weeds had not established themselves, but there was always tidying of one sort or another, things to mend. And perhaps it was not too cold to sow the first seeds.

Daniel and Jemima helped him. They each had their own marked-out pieces of earth where they could grow what they pleased. Daniel’s was largely designed with stones, which he had taken to collecting, but there was a small fuchsia bush in it, at the moment looking rotted and very sad.

“It’s dead!” Daniel said tragically. He reached to yank it out by the roots. Jemima watched, feet together, face glowering, full of sympathy.

“Probably not,” Pitt said, restraining Daniel with one hand, bending down to examine the offending plant. “They do that in winter. Sort of snuggle down. It will waken up when it gets warmer, and grow some more leaves.”

“Will it?” Daniel said doubtfully. “It looks dead to me. Where would it get new leaves from?”

“It will grow them. It will feed out of the soil, if we look after it.”

“Shall I water it?” Daniel said helpfully.

“No, I think the rain will do that,” Pitt put in before Daniel could go further than a step.

“Well, what shall I do?” Daniel asked.

Pitt thought. “Put a little compost around the roots. That’ll keep it warm and give it something to eat,” he suggested.

“Will it?” Daniel’s expression was hopeful at last.

They worked happily until nearly seven o’clock, then Daniel and Jemima went in to supper and hot baths, now extremely necessary, and Pitt changed out of his gardening clothes and went to the parlor. He ate yesterday’s potato, cabbage and onions, refried till it was hot and full of crisp pieces, along with cold mutton and a little of last summer’s rhubarb chutney, then apple pie with a flaky crust, and cream.

At about quarter to nine Charlotte picked up Emily’s latest letter.

“Shall I read it to you?” she offered. Emily’s handwriting was not of the neatest, and it became more idiosyncratic the more enthused she was.

Pitt smiled, sliding down a little further in his chair and preparing to be entertained, if not by Emily’s actual travels, at least by her comments upon them.

Charlotte began: “ ‘My dear Charlotte and Thomas.

“ ‘I suppose I should begin by saying I miss you all. There is a sense in which I do. I think a dozen times a day how I would love to share with you the marvelous things I am seeing and the enormous variety of people I meet. The Italians themselves are superb, so full of the love of life and beauty, and far more welcoming of foreigners than I had expected. At least on the outside. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of something else, a look between two of them with their wonderful eyes, which makes
me wonder if they secretly find us very gauche and a bit tedious. I hope I am not of that sort! I try to behave with dignity, not as if this is the first time I have ever seen such ravishing loveliness: the light on the landscape, ancient buildings, the sense of history.

“ ‘After all, what could be lovelier than England in the spring? Or the summer? Or especially the autumn?

“ ‘Yesterday we went for a drive to Fiesole. I wish there was time to do it again. The views! We came back via Settignano, and there was a place on the road where we could see Florence, which was quite breathtaking. It made me think of old Mr. Lawrence and his stories of Dante on the bridge. At that moment nothing seemed impossible, or even unlikely.

“ ‘But tomorrow we are off to Rome! “O Rome! My country! City of the soul!” as Lord Byron says. I can hardly wait! If it is all I dream and hope, then one day, regardless of who has been murdered or how or why, then you must both pack up everything and come as well! What is money worth if one cannot spend it seeing the glories of the world? I have been reading too much Byron! If there can be such a thing. Do I make any sense?

“ ‘I shall write you from there! All my love, Emily. P.S. Jack sends his love as well, of course!’ ”

Charlotte smiled at him over the papers.

“How very Emily,” he answered with deep satisfaction.

“I must write to her.” Charlotte folded it up and put it back into the envelope. “I have nothing so exotic to tell her. May I relate the wretched situation here? I shall tell her about Dominic, of course. That is barely a secret.”

“Yes, tell her about poor Ramsay Parmenter, if you like,” he agreed. There seemed no harm in it. And Emily could keep her own counsel if need be.

Mention of Ramsay Parmenter made him think again of the notebook. The notes in it seemed to make no sense, and yet they must have done, at least to Ramsay himself. It did not matter
any longer. The case was over. But he could not let his mind rest until he had done his best to understand his failure. How else could he salvage at least the wisdom to do better next time?

He picked up the book and opened it to the first entry. There was no date. It seemed to concern a fisherman, or someone whose name was Fisherman, and an ill-fated expedition, or holiday, to somewhere described as “summer-clime.” The next two pages were on the same subject. Then there followed what appeared to be jottings of ideas for an essay or a sermon on life and disappointment. It did not seem very promising.

Half a dozen pages on he found a reference to “the master” and “the ringer,” and a comment with an exclamation mark— “What a carillon that must have been!”—and then the question “But when?” Then: “A peal of bells, but what time? A funeral knell, a burial of other things, did the call to prayer come from that, I wonder!” And on the following page: “Poor soul!” and “But who is the walking dead?”

Charlotte looked up, her expression curious.

“Send my love to Emily,” he offered.

“I will. What are you reading?”

“Ramsay Parmenter’s notebook.”

“What does he say? Does it explain anything?”

“Nothing at all. It doesn’t even appear to be sense, just odd words and phrases.”

“For example?”

“A whole lot about ‘the master’ and ‘the ringer,’ different peals of bells, and the walking dead. I assume that must be metaphorical.”

She smiled. “Well, it certainly isn’t literal, I hope!”

“No, of course not.”

“Maybe it is metaphorical,” she agreed. “Although the peals of bells sounds bland enough. Perhaps they are all notes on services and sermons and that sort of thing. I should think you have to have ideas far in advance in order to give a decent
sermon every week. You can’t just hope it will come by Saturday afternoon.”

“Possibly. There were notes earlier on life and disappointment.”

“Miserable subject. Perhaps he was going to say something about real values, or faith, or something?” she suggested, her pen still in the air.

“Nothing about faith so far. I’ll read some more. Don’t let me interrupt your letter to Emily.”

She smiled brightly. “You mean don’t interrupt you anymore. I take your point, so subtly put.”

He pulled a slight face at her and returned to Ramsay’s notebook. There was more about the fisherman. Apparently Ramsay did not like him and considered him in a sense to have been a thief, but the object stolen was not specified.

Then he returned to the master and the ringer again. The writing was becoming very jerky, as if written under great emotional pressure: “The ringer!! Where did it all begin? That was it! What a damnable thing. The same tune played over … is that it? Oh Master, Master, what have you done? In God’s name why?”

Pitt stared at the page. There was such passion in it. It could not possibly be written of bell ringing. No one would care so fiercely about such a thing. And why write about it? Who was the master? It did not seem to be a religious reference.

Did “ringer” mean a double, a look-alike, one person mistaken for another?

But who? There had been no questions of identity in this case. The only people who were not members of the Parmenter family, known to each other for years, were Unity Bellwood and Dominic. And Pitt was perfectly certain about Dominic.

And that left Unity. But how did her identity matter? What difference would it make if she were who she said or not?

Ringer … for whom? Or was it bell ringing after all?

Or Bellwood? Was it a mildly oblique way of referring to Unity Bellwood?

Master! There were Latin phrases here and there in the notes. Master … 
dominus
 … “Dominic!”

He did not realize he had spoken aloud until Charlotte looked up, her eyes wide, her brow furrowed with alarm.

“What?”

“I just understood what one of these references meant,” he explained.

“What does he say?” she demanded, her own letter now totally ignored.

“I don’t know yet. I’ve only just begun to decipher it.” It was not very subtle really. The notes were never meant for anyone else’s eyes, certainly not to fool Mallory or Dominic himself, or Unity.

Now the references took on a very different meaning. It made excellent sense … sense that chilled him and sent a coldness running through his mind till it seemed almost like a physical thing in the warm, familiar room. He would tell Charlotte nothing of it yet.

He read on. It was inescapable now. Ramsay believed Dominic to have known Unity in the past. The references to tragedy were easy to see, although not specifically what it had been, only that its nature was personal and inspired a deep guilt in one or both of them. Ramsay concluded that Unity had lost Dominic for some time, perhaps years, and on discovering where he was, had sought the position in Brunswick Gardens solely in order to follow him there. Thinking again of the urgency of her application for the position, when her qualifications were so high, that was not difficult to believe.

There was a very clear mention of blackmail in order to force Dominic to reestablish the old relationship between them, regardless of his wishes, which, since he had run away in the first place, it was safe to presume he did not want.

There were brief, rather jagged notes, Ramsay’s writing becoming
less even, far less controlled, as if his hand had shaken and he had gripped the pen too hard. There were occasional scratches and blots. They expressed fear not only in the words but in the black, spiky letters on the page. Ramsay thought Dominic had killed Unity rather than allow her to break up his new life with its public respect and hope of dignity and gentle progress towards acceptance and advancement.

He had not intended anyone else to read this. To judge from the different tones of the ink, even different colors in some places, it had been written over a space of time. There was no reason to doubt it had been written contemporarily with the events themselves. Pitt could not escape the conviction that Ramsay had genuinely thought Dominic guilty of Unity’s death, and it had caused him pain and a deep and terrible sense of his own failure. If he had considered his own death, it would not have been from guilt over Unity but from despair because his life had seemed to him devoid of purpose or success. Everything he had attempted had turned to ashes. Dominic was the last blow, and the worst. There were undeniable accents of the desire to escape, to find an end, becoming stronger. Pitt could not evade them.

He closed the book with the chill inside him consuming.

The room around him was so comfortable it jarred against his inner misery, making him more acutely conscious of the world of difference between the physical and the reality of the mind and the heart. The flames flickered gently in the hearth, sending a wavering light onto Charlotte’s skirt, her arms and shoulder and cheek. It made her hair almost copper and shadowed the hollow of her neck. Her hands moved rhythmically as she wrote. There was no sound but the clock on the mantelpiece, the flames and the movement of her pen over the paper, and the very faint burning of the gas lamp. It was all so familiar, comfortable, a trifle worn with use. Some of the things had been secondhand, part of someone else’s life before theirs, but probably just as loved. He took the safety of it all for
granted. He had always been happy here. There were no dark-nesses, no regrets.

As if sensing his stillness, Charlotte looked up.

“What is it? What have you found now?”

“I’m not completely sure,” he prevaricated.

She was not to be so easily put off. “Well, what is it you think?”

“I think perhaps Ramsay Parmenter was not guilty of pushing Unity down the stairs …” he said slowly, watching her face.

She understood. “Then who was?” she said hesitantly, her eyes on his.

“It’s only a thought.” He was being evasive.

She was not to be put off.

“Why? What has he written in that book?” she demanded.

“It’s all in a kind of code, not very obscure if you understand that he’s using a sort of dog Latin, puns and so on …”

“Thomas!” Now her voice was sharp. “You are frightening me. Is it so bad you can’t bring yourself to be honest with me?”

“Yes …” he said quietly.

Her face paled. She stared at him with hollow eyes. “Dominic?”

“Yes.” He had thought he would get some kind of satisfaction from being able to show her Dominic’s weakness, but now that he had not only the chance but no escape from the necessity, there was nothing but sadness. And he felt it not only for her but within himself as well. He had believed the letter of gratitude in Ramsay’s desk, and it had brought him surprising warmth.

“What does it say?” Charlotte pressed. “What does Ramsay say that makes you think it was Dominic? Couldn’t he be wrong? Or trying to put blame from himself?” There was no accusation in her voice or in her eyes. She knew he was not enjoying it this time. She was only looking for escape.

He opened the book and read out the first relevant passage to her. Her schoolroom Latin was quite quick enough to understand.