Brunswick Gardens (30 page)

His body relaxed. His hands lay easy on the desk. “How do you say such a thing diplomatically?” he asked with a grin. “Your Majesty, I think maybe your conjugal relations are a trifle irregular, and you may wish to reconsider them or counsel with the Almighty?”

She laughed, a sudden ripple of joy at absurdity.

“And he would say, ‘I am sorry, but I am quite satisfied with arrangements as they are, thank you. And if you repeat this suggestion in public, I shall be obliged to incarcerate you. And when I have the appropriate excuse, I shall bring your life to a premature end. It would be better if you were to acknowledge to everyone that it is all in order and meets with your approval.’ ” She stood up, suddenly serious again, her voice charged with emotion. “I should far rather go out with all guns blazing than be branded by the enemy and marred by his crime, for his purposes. I apologize for the mixed metaphors and for usurping your naval imagery.”

“I consider it a compliment,” he returned.

“Thank you.” She moved to the door. “At first I felt very foolish coming, but you have made me at ease. You are very gracious. Good day.”

“Good day, Mrs. Underhill.” He opened the door for her and watched her leave with regret. He nearly spoke, to detain her a moment longer, but realized how ridiculous that would be.

He closed the door and went back to his desk, but he sat for nearly a quarter of an hour without moving or taking up his papers again.

7

P
ITT SAT IN
the hansom as it clattered through the early morning traffic. It was just after eight, and he had been up late the evening before listening to Charlotte’s account of her day. She had said little about Grandmama, and only touched on her luncheon with Aunt Vespasia, but she had repeated Vespasia’s opinion that men did not murder over ideas but over passions.

A brewer’s dray lumbered past them, the horses magnificent with their plumed manes and gleaming brasses. The air seemed loud with the sound of hooves, the cries of street traders. A dog barked and someone shouted to a cabby. The hansom jolted forward again and then came to a sharp stop. There was a crack of a whip, and then they set off at a brisker pace.

Pitt could imagine Vespasia saying that. He could see her still-beautiful face clearly in his mind. She would probably be dressed in ivory, silver-gray or lilac, and she usually wore pearls in the daytime.

She was right. People killed because they cared about something so fiercely they lost all sense of reason and proportion. For a time their own need eclipsed everyone else’s, even drowned out their sense of self-preservation. Sometimes it was carefully-thought-out greed. Sometimes it was a momentary fear, even a physical one. Seldom was it revenge. That could be exacted in
so many other ways. On rare occasions he had come across crimes resulting from blind, insensate rage.

But as Vespasia said, it was always a passion of some sort, even if only the cold hunger of greed.

Which was why, in spite of the evidence, he found it hard to believe that Ramsay Parmenter would have killed Unity deliberately. Pitt had to learn who the father of her child was. Fear would be a highly understandable motive. Was she a woman who would have blackmailed him, or even betrayed him and ruined his career?

Why not? Hers was ruined. There was very little purpose to be gained, but there was a kind of justice.

Charlotte had told him of Tryphena’s emotional and rather disconnected account of Unity’s past and of the hurt of some tragedy in it, and of a love which had been far more than a slight romance, a hope and a dream. Apparently it had left Unity deeply marked.

She had been a complex woman. After all, as it transpired he did need to know more of her. If Ramsay were the father, why had she entered into such a relationship with him? What in his dry, pedantic character could possibly have attracted her?

Or was it not personal but rather his position which tempted her? Was exposing his frailty a kind of revenge for her, for all the years of bigotry she had suffered at the hands of men like him? Pitt tried for a moment to imagine himself in her place, an outstanding intellect, a hunger to work, an ambition; all thwarted and denied by prejudice, confronted in every direction by polite, blind condescension. He had tasted a little of it himself, because of his birth and his father’s misfortune. He knew injustice, bitter and fatal in his father’s case. He had lain alone in his small room under the eaves and burned with rage and misery for him after his deportation for a theft he did not commit. Pitt and his mother might well have starved had it not been for Sir Arthur Desmond’s kindness. It was the tutor that he
shared with Desmond’s son who had taught him to speak well, and that had marked the difference in his career.

But he understood discrimination, even if he had been taught most of the arts which enabled him to overcome the greater part of it. Unity Bellwood never could, because she would always be a woman. If there was a deep, ineradicable anger in her, he could understand it.

He could probably arrest Ramsay Parmenter on the evidence he had, including the previous night’s extraordinary attack. But any lawyer worthy of his calling would have the case dismissed when it reached court, if it ever did. And once the case had been tried, even if he could thereafter prove Ramsay’s guilt, he could not bring the charge a second time. It must be proved now or not at all.

He needed to know more about both Dominic and Unity Bellwood. Their pasts might teach him something to explain it all or to alter his perception entirely. It was something he dared not overlook. Events, as he knew them, were incomplete. They made no sense. He must at the very least know who was the father of Unity’s child. He winced within himself as he thought how it would hurt Charlotte if it were Dominic. There was a shabby, mean-spirited part of himself which would be pleased if it were. He was ashamed of that.

He arrived at Brunswick Gardens, paid the cabby and ignored the paperboy crying out the latest news, which was a heated discussion which had been raging as to whether there was land, ice or sea at the North Pole. A device had been created by two Frenchmen, a Monsieur Besançon and a Monsieur Her-mite, to settle the matter once and for all. It was a hot air balloon of sufficient size to carry five men, with excellent accommodation and provisions, a number of dogs to draw a sledge, and even a small boat. The death of Unity Bellwood paled in comparison. Pitt went up to the front door with a ghost of a smile. The door was opened by Emsley, looking extremely unhappy.

“Good morning, sir,” he said without surprise. His expression suggested that Pitt was the realization of his worst fears.

“Good morning, Emsley,” Pitt replied, stepping inside to the vestibule, then the extraordinary hallway where Unity had met her death. “May I speak with Mrs. Parmenter, please?”

Emsley must already have decided what he would do in the event of Pitt’s arriving.

“I shall inform Mrs. Parmenter you are here, sir,” he announced gravely. “Of course, I cannot say whether she is able to see you.”

Pitt waited in the morning room with its strongly Middle Eastern flavor, but he was only peripherally aware of it. It was no more than ten minutes before Vita opened the door and came in, closing it behind her. She looked fragile and ill with worry. There was an enormous bruise purpling around her right eye and a scar still shining red with spots of blood on her cheek. No art of powder or rouge could have hidden it, even had she been a woman who used such things.

He tried not to stare at it, but it was such a startling blemish on an otherwise lovely face, that it was almost impossible not to.

“Good morning, Mrs. Parmenter,” he said. He had no need to affect pity or shock; both were too deep in him to have hidden. “I am sorry to have to disturb you on such a matter, but I cannot leave it unexplained.”

Instinctively her hand moved to her cheek. It must have been extremely painful.

“I am afraid your journey is wasted, Superintendent,” she answered very quietly. He could only just hear her words, her voice was so low and husky. “There is nothing for you to do, and I have no statement to make. Of course, I realize that Mrs. Pitt will have told you what she observed yesterday evening. In her position she could hardly have done otherwise.” She made an effort to smile, but it was thin and close to tears, a defense rather than a politeness. “But it is a personal matter between my
husband and myself, and will remain so.” She stopped abruptly, staring up at him as if uncertain how to continue.

He was not surprised. He would have been surprised had she told him freely what had happened and accused Ramsay. She had too much dignity and loyalty to speak openly of her injuries, most especially now. He wondered what violence she might have suffered in the past. Sometimes women did, considering it part of their situation of dependence and obedience. Misbehavior earned the right of a husband to beat his wife. The law acknowledged it, and a woman had no recourse. It was within Pitt’s memory when it had been illegal for a wife to run away from home to avoid anything her husband might choose to do, short of inflicting a crippling or fatal injury.

“I know I cannot force you, Mrs. Parmenter,” he replied quietly. “And I respect your desire to protect your family and what you may feel to be your duty. But violence has resulted in death in this house a few days ago. This is no longer entirely a personal quarrel which can be dismissed and forgotten. Have you seen a doctor?”

Again her hand rose to her cheek, but she did not touch the inflamed skin. “No. I do not think it is necessary. What could he do? It will heal by itself in time. I shall treat it with cold compresses and a little feverfew for headache. Oil of lavender is excellent also. There is no permanant damage.”

“To the cheek, or to your marriage?” he asked.

“To my cheek,” she replied, not taking her eyes from his. “I thank you for concerning yourself with my marriage. You are a man of kindness and good manners. But to you as a policeman, I have no complaint to make, and therefore it does not enter into your professional sphere.” She sat down a little wearily in one of the chairs and looked up at him. “It was a domestic incident, such as happens all over England every day of the week. It was a misunderstanding. I am sure it will not happen again. We have all been under a great pressure since Unity’s death.”

She drew in her breath and waited while Pitt sat opposite her.
“It has affected my husband most of all, quite naturally,” she went on, her voice quiet, confidential. “He worked closely with her and … and—” She stopped. The rest of the truth hung between them in a chasm of the unknown and the feared. She must be as aware as he was of the implications of Ramsay’s violence towards her the previous evening. He had only to look at her to see the extent and the viciousness of it. Ramsay had not merely slapped her. That might have left a weal, fingermarks, never the bruising that disfigured her now, or the slashing cut. He must have struck her with a closed fist, and a great deal of weight behind it. The cut made by his signet ring was plain. To protest otherwise could deceive no one. Whatever she chose to say, he had seen the wound and could come to only one conclusion.

“I understand, Mrs. Parmenter,” he said with a tight smile, not for her silence but for the tragedy which lay behind it. “Now I would like to speak to the Reverend Parmenter, if I may.” It was not really a question, only a demand courteously phrased.

She misunderstood him. “Please don’t!” she said urgently. She stood up and took a step towards him. He stood also.

“I could not bear him to think I had called you!” She went on urgently. “I didn’t! I forbade any of the family from mentioning the incident at all, and he may not even know that Mrs. Pitt was here at that time.” She shook her head vigorously. “I certainly did not tell him. Please, Superintendent. This is a completely private matter, and unless I complain you cannot involve yourself.” Her voice rose and her eyes were wide and dark. “I shall tell you I walked into a door. I slipped and fell. I caught myself on a piece of furniture. It was a ridiculous accident. There was no one else present at the time, so no one can contradict me. If Mrs. Pitt thought otherwise, I shall deny it. She misunderstood. I was hysterical and did not know what I said. There! There is nothing for you to do.” She looked at him with defiance, even the shadow of a smile. “You cannot possibly make evidence of it because no one saw anything. If I deny it, then it never happened.”