Brunswick Gardens (32 page)

Pitt got off the train at Chislehurst Station and walked through a bright, windy late morning towards the crossroads by the cricket ground. There he made enquiries as to the nearest public house and was directed to take the right-hand road and follow it about five hundred yards to where he would find St. Nicholas’s Church and the fire station on his left, and the Tiger’s Head public house on his right.

There he had an excellent luncheon of fresh bread, crumbly Lancashire cheese, rhubarb pickle and a glass of cider. On further enquiry he was told where to find Icehouse Wood and the house there which was still occupied by the group of eccentric and unhappy people whom, apparently, he sought.

He thanked the landlord and went on his way. It took him no more than twenty minutes to find the place. It was situated deep among the bare trees and should have been beautiful. The blackthorn was in blossom in drifts of white, and the earth was starred with pale windflowers, but the house itself had an air of dilapidation which spoke of years of misery and neglect.

How on earth had the elegant and sophisticated Dominic Corde come to be here? And what had brought Ramsay Parmenter to cross his path?

Pitt walked across the overgrown lawn and knocked on the door, heavily overhung by honeysuckle not yet in bud.

His knock was answered by a young man in ill-fitting trousers and a waistcoat which had lost several of its buttons. His long hair hung over his brow, but his expression was agreeable enough.

“Have you come to mend the pump?” he asked, looking at Pitt hopefully.

Pitt remembered his early experience on the estate farm.

“No, but I can try, if you are having trouble.”

“Would you? That’s terribly decent of you.” The young man opened the door wide and led Pitt through untidy and chilly corridors to the kitchen, where piles of dishes sat on the wooden bench and in a large earthenware sink. The young man seemed
oblivious of the mess. He pointed to the iron pump, which was obviously jammed. He did not seem to have the faintest idea what to do about it.

“Do you live here alone?” Pitt asked conversationally as he began to examine the pump.

“No,” the young man said easily, sitting sideways on the table and watching with interest. “There are five or six of us. It varies. People come and go, you know?”

“How long have you had this pump?”

“Oh, years. It’s been here longer than I have.”

Pitt looked up and smiled. “Which would be?”

“Oh, seven or eight years, as far as I recall. Do we need a new one? God, I hope not. We can’t afford it.”

Seeing the general state of disrepair, Pitt could believe that. “It’s rather rusted,” he observed. “It looks some time since it was cleaned. Have you any emery?”

“What?”

“Emery,” Pitt repeated. “Fine gray-black powder for polishing metal. You might have it on cloth or paper.”

“Oh. Peter might have. It will be on the cupboard over here if he has.” And obediently he looked and came up with a piece of cloth, holding it triumphantly.

Pitt took it and began to work on the rusted pieces.

“I’m looking for a friend—a relative, actually,” he remarked as he rubbed. “He was here almost four years ago, I believe. His name is Dominic Corde. Do you remember him?”

“Certainly,” the young man answered without hesitation. “In a rare state when he came. Never seen a man more despairing of himself and the world … except Monte, and he drowned himself, poor devil.” He smiled suddenly. “But don’t worry about Dominic. He was fine when he left. Some clergyman came here looking for Monte, and he and Dominic got on marvelously well. Took a while, of course. These things do. Talk the leg off an iron pot, that clergyman, but it seemed to be what Dominic needed.”

Pitt had taken off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He was working hard on the pump.

“I say, that’s awfully decent of you,” the young man said admiringly.

“How did Dominic get into that state?” Pitt asked, sounding as casual as he could.

The young man shrugged.

“Don’t know. Something to do with a woman, I think. It wasn’t money, I know that, and it wasn’t drink or gambling, because you don’t stop those instantly, and he didn’t do either when he was here. No, I’m pretty sure it was a woman. He’d been living in Maida Vale with a whole lot of other people, men and women. He didn’t talk about it much.”

“You don’t know where, do you?”

“Hall Road, I believe. Can’t tell which number. Sorry.”

“Never mind. I expect I can find it.”

“Brother, is he? Cousin?”

“Brother-in-law. Can you pass me that cloth?”

“Are you going to get that working? That would be marvelous.”

“I think so. Hold that for me.”

    It was late by the time Pitt returned home, and he told Charlotte nothing about his expedition to Chislehurst. The following day, the sixth since Unity’s death, he took Tellman with him and went to search for the house in Maida Vale where Dominic had lived before meeting Ramsay Parmenter and finding his vocation in the church.

“I don’t know what you expect to learn,” Tellman said dourly. “What difference does it make what he did five years ago, or who he knew?”

“I don’t know,” Pitt said sharply as they walked towards the railway station. It was a fairly direct route to St. John’s Wood Station, and then a short distance from there to Hall Road. “But it must have been one of the three of them.”

“It was the Reverend,” Tellman said, keeping step with him with difficulty. Pitt was three inches taller, and his stride was considerably longer. “You just don’t want it to be him because of the trouble it will cause. Anyway, I thought Corde was your brother-in-law. You don’t think your brother-in-law murdered Miss Bellwood, do you?” He looked sideways at Pitt, anxiety and a certain disgust in his lantern-jawed face.

Pitt was jolted. He realized how significant a part of him would find it very acceptable that Dominic should be guilty.

“No, I don’t!” he snapped. “But are you suggesting I should not bother to investigate him because he is a relation … by marriage?”

“So that’s what this is, is it?” Tellman’s voice was heavy with incredulity. “Duty?”

They crossed the platform and climbed onto the train. Tellman slammed the door shut behind them.

“Has it occurred to you that I might be just as eager to prove him innocent?” Pitt asked as they sat down, facing each other across an empty compartment.

“No.” Tellman looked back at him. “You haven’t got a sister, so who is he? Mrs. Pitt’s brother?”

“Her elder sister’s husband. She is dead. She was murdered ten years ago.”

“Not by him?”

“Of course not! But his behavior was far from admirable.”

“And you don’t believe he’s reformed? Become a minister and all.” Tellman’s voice was ambivalent. He was not sure what he thought of the church. Part of him believed it was the Establishment. He preferred a nonconformist preacher, if he went to church at all. But religion was still sacred, any Christian religion … maybe any religion at all. He might despise some of its show and resent its authority, but respect for it was part of the dignity of man.

“I don’t know,” Pitt replied, staring out of the window as a cloud of steam drifted past and the train launched forward.

It took them until early afternoon to find the right house in Hall Road. It was still occupied by a group of artists and writers. It was difficult to tell how many, and there seemed to be several children, as well. They were all dressed in a Bohemian way, bits of costume of different styles, even some oriental clothing, startling in this quiet and very English suburb.

A tall woman who introduced herself simply as Morgan assumed the leadership and answered Pitt’s questions.

“Yes, Dominic Corde did live here for a short while, but it was several years ago. I am afraid I have no idea where he is now. We have not heard from him since he left.” Her face with its wide eyes and fine lips showed a shadow of sadness. She had a mane of fair hair which she wore loose, except for a woven ribbon band around her brow, like a green crown.

“It is the past I am interested in, not the present,” Pitt explained. He saw Tellman disappear along the corridor and assumed he was, as had been previously agreed, going to speak to some of the other inhabitants.

“Why?” She looked at him very directly. She had been working on a painting, which stood on a large easel behind her, when he had interrupted. It appeared to be a self-portrait, the face peering through leaves, the body half hidden by them. It was enigmatic and in its way very beautiful.

“Because present events make it necessary I know what happened to several people in order that an innocent man may not be blamed for a crime,” he answered. It was oblique, and something less than the truth.

“And you want to blame Dominic for it?” she assumed. “Well, I shan’t help you. We don’t talk about each other, especially to outsiders. Our way of life and our tragedies are private, and no concern of yours, Superintendent. No crime was committed here. Mistakes, perhaps, but they are ours to mend, or not.”

“And if it is Dominic I am trying to absolve?” he asked.

She looked at him steadily. She was beautiful, in a wild way,
although she was well past forty and there was something in her which still held all the unfinished rebellion of youth. There was no peace in her face. He wondered what her relationship with Dominic had been. They seemed as different from each other as possible, and yet he had changed almost completely in the last few years. Perhaps during his time there they had complemented each other in some way. He had been restless then, incomplete, and she might have fed his needs.

“From what crime?” she asked, her brilliant eyes steady and almost unblinking.

He had to remind himself that he was the interrogator, not she. He pushed his hands into his pockets and relaxed a little. With his shaggy hair and crooked tie, pockets full of odds and ends, he did not look nearly as out of place in this house as Tellman did.

“But he did live here for some time?” he repeated calmly.

“Yes. We have no reason to deny that. But there is nothing here to concern the police.” Her jaw tightened. “We live very ordinary lives. The only thing about us which is unusual is that we share a large house, seven of us and the children, and we are all artists of one sort or another. We weave, paint, sculpt and write.”

“Did Dominic practice any of these things?” he asked with surprise. He had never imagined him to possess any sort of talent.

“No,” she said reluctantly, as if it were an admission. “You still have not told me what crime you are investigating or why I should answer any of your questions.”

Footsteps passed along the corridor, hesitated, then continued.

“No, I haven’t,” he agreed. “Something happened here which distressed him very much—so much, in fact, that he was close to despair. What was it?”

She hesitated. The indecision was mirrored in her eyes.

He waited.

“One of our number died,” she said at length. “We were all distressed. She was young, and we were very fond of her.”

“Was Dominic in love with her?”

Again she waited before she answered. He knew she was weighing what to tell him, how much of the truth she could conceal without leading him to other things, more deeply secret.

“Yes,” she said, still looking directly at him. Her eyes were extraordinary, light blue and burningly clear.

He did not disbelieve her, but he was sure that somehow her reply covered something unsaid and more important.

“How did she die?” He would not know if she told him the truth, but he could ask neighbors and make enquiries at the local police station. There would be a record of it. “What was her name?”

The resentment was stiff in her face and the set of her square shoulders and long back.

“Why do you want to know? What can it possibly have to do with your present enquiry? She was young and sad, and she hurt no one. Leave her in peace.”

He caught the intonation of tragedy in her voice, and of defensiveness. If she did not tell him, he would certainly enquire. It would not be difficult to find out, only time-consuming.

“Another tragedy has occurred, Miss Morgan,” he said gravely. “Another young woman is dead.” He saw the blight in her face, as if he had struck her. She seemed scarcely able to believe him.

“Another … How?” She stared at him. “What … what happened? I don’t believe it could be …” But obviously she did. It was too painfully clear.

“I think you should tell me what happened here.”

“I have told you.” Her hands clenched. “She died.”

“Of what cause?” he insisted. “Either you can tell me, Miss Morgan, or I can make enquiries and find out through the local police station, doctor, church—”

“Of an overdose of laudanum,” she said angrily. “She took it to sleep, and one night she took too much.”

“How old was she?”

“Twenty.” She dared him to construe meaning into that, but even as she did so she knew she was defeated.

“Why?” he asked quietly. “Please don’t make me draw this out of you, Miss Morgan. I am going to have to find the answer. It takes longer this way, but it will not alter anything.”

She turned from him, staring at her vivid painting, examining every leaf and flower in it. When she spoke her voice was low and fierce with emotion. “We used to believe that for love to be real, its highest and noblest form, it must be free, unfettered by any restrictions or bonds, any … any unnatural curbs upon its will and its honesty. I still believe that.”

He waited. The constructive arguments that came to his lips had no place here.

“We tried to practice it,” she went on, her head bent a little, the light shining on her hair, pale like early wheat. “We were not all strong enough. Love should be like a butterfly. If you close your hand on it, you kill it!” She clenched her fist. She had surprisingly powerful hands, square-fingered, smudged with green paint. She jerked her hand open. “If you love someone, you should be prepared to let them go, too!” She stared at him challengingly, waiting for him to comment.

“Would you leave your child if it became boring to you or interrupted what you wanted to do?” he asked.