Brunswick Gardens (19 page)

“You find that surprising?” she observed acutely.

“I …” He hesitated.

“I can see it in your face, young man.” She smiled, not unkindly.

“Yes, I do,” he admitted. Should he tell her they were brothers-in-law? It might prejudice her answers. Although looking at her wrinkled face with its bright eyes, perhaps it would have no effect whatever. Then he remembered with distinct discomfort her observation about remarks upon other people reflecting more upon the speaker than the object. “Please explain to me. I can see you have grounds for your belief.”

“It concerned Miss Dinmont’s brother,” she said, taking another sip of her tea.

He waited.

“I am afraid he was not a very good man, but she still felt a great loss when he died. One does. The ties of blood cannot easily be dismissed, no matter how much one might care to. And he was her younger brother. I think she felt a great sense of failure over him.”

“And Mr. Corde?”

“I sat with her for some time after the news came of her brother’s death,” she went on at her own pace. She could not allow some young policeman who needed the attention of a good barber to hurry her in explaining something of importance in principle, if not of any actual use. “She is a good churchgoer. Naturally, Reverend Parmenter came to offer her his comfort. There was to be a funeral, here in this parish.”

He nodded and took another sandwich.

“She was very distressed,” she continued. “The poor man had no idea what to say or to do when faced with real grief. He read various scriptures which were perfectly appropriate. I daresay he reads them to everyone who has been bereaved. But his heart was not in it. One can tell.”

She looked sad, her eyes far away. “I had the profound impression he did not believe the words himself. He spoke of the resurrection of the dead as if it were a railway timetable.” She set down her cup. “If the trains run on time it is very convenient, but it is not a miracle of God, it is not a matter for joy and eternal hope. It is very irritating if they do not, but it is not the end of all light and life. One will merely be obliged to wait rather longer. And railway platforms, while not being ideal, are by no means hell, nor oblivion.” She looked at him over the top of her teacup. “Although I have at times felt they were akin. But that was when I was younger and the reality of death seemed a great deal further away. And I was in a hurry then.”

“And Dominic Corde?” he asked, smiling back at her and taking the last of the cakes.

“Ah … that was quite different,” she declared. “He came later, I think two days later. He simply sat down next to her, took her hand in his. He did not read, but told her in his own words of the thieves on the crosses on either side of Our Lord, and then of Easter morning, and Mary Magdalene seeing Him in the garden and mistaking Him for the gardener until He spoke her name.” There was a sudden misting of tears in her eyes. “I think it was knowing her name that made the difference. Suddenly poor Miss Dinmont realized that God knows each of us by name. Love is a personal thing, Thou and I, not a matter of arguments and teachings. That is the power which transcends all else. In those few moments she was comforted. Mr. Corde understood that. Reverend Parmenter did not.”

“I see,” he said gently, surprised at himself that he did see, perfectly.

“Would you like some more tea?” she offered.

“Yes, please, Miss Cadwaller, I would,” he accepted, holding out his cup and saucer. “I think I understand something now about Reverend Parmenter which I did not before.”

“Of course you do,” she agreed, lifting up the pot and pouring from it. “The poor man lost his belief, not in what he was doing but why he was doing it. Nothing can replace that. All the reason in the world does not warm the heart, nor comfort grief and failure. The ministry is about loving the unlovable and helping people to bear pain and suffer unexplainable loss without despair. In the end it is about trust. If you can trust God, all else will fall in its place.”

He did not argue or even comment. She had summed up in a few words all that he had been struggling to find. He finished his tea, talked a little more of commonplace things, admired her china and the embroidered cloth on the table, then thanked her and took his leave.

By five o’clock he was at the home of Bishop Underhill,
trying to clarify in his mind what he could ask him that would teach him anything further about Ramsay Parmenter. Surely as Ramsay’s bishop, Underhill would have insights more profound than anyone else? Pitt was afraid he might meet with a rebuff based on the sanctity and privilege of their relationship. He was prepared to be politely refused.

However, when the bishop came into the red and brown library where Pitt had been asked to wait, his air was anything but one of calm and assured denial. He closed the door behind him and faced Pitt with his features creased by acute anxiety, his thinning hair ruffled, his shoulders braced as if expecting an almost physical onslaught.

“You are the policeman in charge of this miserable affair?” he asked Pitt accusingly. “How long do you expect it to take before you can reach an acceptable conclusion? It is all very distressing indeed.”

“Yes sir,” Pitt agreed, standing almost to attention. After all, he was in the presence of a prince of the church. Underhill was due respect. “Any crime is distressing, and this one peculiarly so,” he added. “That is why I have come here, in the hope that you can help me learn exactly what happened.”

“Ah!” The bishop nodded, looking slightly more hopeful. “Do sit down, Superintendent. Make yourself comfortable, sir, and let us see what we can accomplish. I am very pleased you have come.” He sat down on the red leather chair opposite the brown one on which Pitt had sat, and gave him his earnest attention. “The sooner we can resolve this, the better for everyone.”

Pitt had an uncomfortable moment’s thought that their ideas of resolution were not the same. He told himself instantly that he was being unjust.

“I am making enquiries as speedily as I can,” Pitt assured the bishop. “But beyond the physical facts, which seem indisputable, it immediately becomes far less clear.”

“I understand the unfortunate young woman was most difficult in manner and morality, causing ill feeling. She quarreled
with Reverend Parmenter and fell down the stairs.” He breathed heavily, his mouth closing in a tight line, the muscles of his cheek and jaw tensed. “You have no doubt she was pushed, I presume, or you would not take any further interest in the matter. A simple domestic tragedy does not require your investigation.” A flicker of hope lit his eyes.

“There is no indication that she tripped, sir,” Pitt replied. “But her cry, apparently accusing Reverend Parmenter, makes it necessary we investigate the incident more thoroughly.”

“Cry?” The bishop’s voice lifted sharply. “Precisely what did she cry out, Superintendent? Surely that is open to interpretation? Have you found any other evidence whatever to suggest that a man of Reverend Parmenter’s reputation and learning would so lose his wits, all his life’s work, as to push her? Really, sir, it defies belief.”

“She cried out ‘No, no, Reverend!’ ” Pitt replied.

“Could she not have slipped and called for his assistance, as the nearest person to her and the most likely to come to her aid?” the bishop said urgently. “Surely that is a far more likely explanation? I am sure if you put that to the person who heard the cry, they will confirm it to you.” He said it almost in the tone of an order—and an assumption that it would be obeyed.

“That is not what they say, sir,” Pitt answered, watching his face. “But it is possible she cried ‘No, no’ to the person who pushed her, and then called out to Mr. Parmenter to help her. But she did not use any words such as
help
or
please.”

“Of course.” The bishop leaned forward. “She fell before she could. That is most easily explained. She may even have begun to and been cut off by her fall, poor creature. It seems we have resolved the matter already. Most excellent.” He smiled, but there was no warmth in it.

“If it was not Reverend Parmenter who pushed her, then it was someone else,” Pitt pointed out. “The servants are all accounted for, as are Mrs. Parmenter …” He saw the bishop wince. “And Mrs. Whickham. This leaves Miss Clarice Parmenter,
Mr. Mallory Parmenter, and the curate who is lodging there at present, Mr. Dominic Corde.”

“Ah, yes … Corde.” The bishop leaned back in his chair. “Well, it is probably young Mallory Parmenter. Very regrettable, but a lightly balanced young man of emotional instability. You will not be aware of his history, but he has always been of a doubting and argumentative nature. As a youth he quibbled over everything. He could accept nothing without making an issue over it.” He drew his mouth tight in an expression of annoyance as memory became sharp. “One moment he was bursting with enthusiasm, the next he was equally full of criticism. Altogether an unsatisfactory young man. His rebellion against his father, his entire family and all its values, is witness of that. I cannot think why he should do something so violent and tragic, but I have never understood such behavior. I can only deplore and regret it.” He frowned. “And, of course, pity the victims,” he added hastily.

“Miss Bellwood was with child,” Pitt said bluntly.

The bishop paled. The satisfaction drained from his face. “How very unfortunate. From some liaison before she was employed, I presume?”

“Since. I am afraid it is very probable the father was one of the three men in the house.”

“Only of academic import now.” The bishop stretched his neck, easing his collar as if it were tight. “We can never know who it was, and we must assume it was young Parmenter, and that was his reason for … killing her. It is the lesser sin, Superintendent, and there is no need to blacken the young woman’s reputation by letting it become public now. Let us allow her to rest in peace, poor creature.” He swallowed. “It is not a necessity, nor is it our place, to judge her weakness.”

“It may be Mallory Parmenter,” Pitt agreed, unreasonably angry deep inside himself. He had no right to judge the bishop; he had no idea what young Mallory had been like, or how he
had tried his patience. All the same, his dislike was intense. “But it may not,” he added. “I cannot act without proof.”

The bishop looked agitated. “But what proof can you have?” he demanded. “No one has confessed. The act was not seen, and you have just told me any of three people could have been responsible. What do you propose to do?” His voice was rising. “You cannot leave the matter unsolved! All three men’s reputations will be ruined. It would be quite monstrous.”

“Can you tell me something further about Mallory Parmenter, something specific, Bishop Underhill?” Pitt asked. “And Dominic Corde, perhaps? Certainly you must know Ramsay Parmenter better than almost anyone else, in some ways.”

“Yes … of course. Well … I’m not sure.”

“I beg your pardon?”

A flicker of discomfort crossed the bishop’s face. He started to explain himself. “I have known Mallory Parmenter for a long time, naturally. As a boy he was always a little difficult, lurching from one enthusiasm to another, as I have said. Most people grow out of it. He does not seem to have. Could not make up his mind what to do with his life. Indecisive, you see?” He stared at Pitt critically. “Considered going up to Oxford to study, but didn’t. Never fell in love. No one would meet his impossibly high criteria. Lived in a world divorced from reality. An idealist. Never came to terms.” He hesitated.

“Yes?” Pitt prompted after a moment.

“Unsound,” the bishop finished, satisfied with the word. “Yes, unsound. Obvious enough now, I am afraid.”

Pitt took that to refer to his conversion to Rome, but did not say so. “And Mr. Corde?” he asked.

“Ah. Yes. A most promising man.” Underhill’s voice was suddenly filled with satisfaction, a momentary smile on his mouth. “Most promising. Always a joy to see someone discover a true faith and be prepared to sacrifice all to follow it.”

“Is it a sacrifice?” Pitt asked innocently, thinking of the despair Dominic had described and the peace he now saw in
Dominic’s face and his manner. “I should have thought it the opposite. Surely he has gained far more than anything it could have cost him?”

The bishop flushed angrily. “Of course! You misunderstood me. I was speaking of …” He flapped his hand. “It is not something I can describe to you, the years of study, of self-discipline, the financial restrictions of a very minimal income. Gladly undertaken, but of course it is a sacrifice, sir.”

“And you believe Dominic Corde is a morally excellent man, above the weakness and temptations of vanity, anger or lust …”

The bishop sat forward in the great red chair. “Of course I do! There is no question. I take most unkindly even the suggestion that—” He stopped abruptly, aware of just how far he was committing himself. “Well … naturally, I am speaking as I find, Superintendent. I have many reasons to believe … there has never been the slightest word …”

“And Ramsay Parmenter?” Pitt asked without hope of any answer of meaning, let alone value.

“A man hitherto of unimpeachable reputation,” the bishop replied grimly.

“But surely, sir, you know him better than merely by repute?” Pitt insisted.

“Of course I do!” The bishop was unhappy now, and thoroughly annoyed. He shifted his position in his chair. “It is my calling and my vocation, Superintendent. But I know of nothing in his nature or his acts to suggest he was not all he seemed and that he had any weaknesses graver than those that afflict all mankind.” He seemed about to add something, then changed his mind. Pitt wondered if he was remembering that it was he who had recommended Ramsay Parmenter’s forthcoming promotion.

“Doubts about his vocation, his faith?” he pressed. “Moods of despair?”

The bishop’s tone became condescending.

“We all have doubts, Superintendent. It is merely human to do so, a function of the intelligent man.”

Pitt had a sense of futility arguing with him. He was prevaricating in order to leave room for himself to appear in the right whatever the outcome.