Brunswick Gardens (45 page)

Caroline was staring at him and sensing his newer, sharper unhappiness.

“I need to know for myself,” he said with slight evasion. “What sort of letters did you forward?” He saw her raised eyebrows. “I mean, were they personal or tradesmen’s accounts?”

She relaxed a little. “Mostly tradesmen’s accounts, I think. There were very few of them anyway.”

“A tailor’s bill perhaps?”

“Why? Do his clothes matter in this … crime?”

“Not at all. But if I were to find the tailor, he might know where Dominic went afterwards. A man quite often keeps the same tailor for years, if he is happy with him.”

In spite of every intention of good manners, Caroline could not help smiling. Pitt had never in the decade she had known him looked as if his clothes were the right size, let alone ever tailored for him.

He read the thought in her eyes, and laughed.

“I’m sorry.” Caroline blushed. “I really did not mean to hurt your feelings….”

“You didn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. One day perhaps I shall have a coat made to fit me, but there are other things a hundred times more important. Dominic’s tailor?”

“I can’t remember his name, but he bought his shirts at Gieves, off Piccadilly. Is that any help?”

“It may be. Thank you. Thank you very much.” He made as if to rise.

“Thomas!”

“Yes?”

“Please tell me when you know. If—if Dominic is guilty, Charlotte is going to be so hurt. Whatever his faults, he was part of our family … for many years. I was very fond of him. I did
not realize how much until after he had gone. He was very grieved by Sarah’s death, more than he realized to begin with. I think he felt in some way he should have done something to prevent it.” She gave a little shake of her head. “I know that is foolish, and it is extremely self-important to imagine we could have prevented fate … but when a thing is hard to bear we look for ways in which it need not have happened. We think that perhaps we can prevent anything like it again … and if we can, then it follows we could have the first time.”

“I know,” he said gently. “I will tell you what happens, and of course I shall make it as easy for Charlotte as I can.”

“Thank you, Thomas.” She rose also, seemed to want to add something, then realized they had already said all there was.

He told her a few pleasant details about the children, and they parted at the door. He walked to the corner, found another cab, and went back to the center of the city. In Piccadilly, he found the shirtmakers, and after showing the proof of who he was and explaining the gravity of the case, he enquired if indeed they had served Dominic Corde in the past. It took some five minutes to acquire the address where Dominic had been staying when he had last ordered from them, approximately six years before. Possibly since then his income had decreased and he had reduced his taste in fine shirts.

The address was on Prince of Wales Road in Haverstock Hill, a considerable journey to the north and west. It was late afternoon by the time he found the right house. It was large and a trifle shabby, the sort of place which was originally built to accommodate an abundant family and had since been broken up into a series of apartments or rooms for a dozen or so individuals without dependents or companions.

He knocked at the door, noticing the paint peeling on the edges of the panels and a few spots of corrosion on the knocker itself.

His knock was answered by a middle-aged man with a ragged beard and clothes faded to an agreeable nondescript color by
the bleaching effect of the sun and too-frequent laundering. He looked at Pitt with surprise.

“Yes? Forgive me, but do I know you, sir?”

“No. My name is Thomas Pitt. I am enquiring after a Mr. Dominic Corde, who used to live here several years ago.” He left no doubt in his voice, no room for argument.

The man’s face shadowed slightly, so very little that, had he not been facing the light, Pitt might not have seen it at all.

“I’m sorry. He left here a long time ago. I cannot tell you where he is now; I have no idea. And he left no forwarding address.” That too was a statement which permitted no space for further speech on the subject.

“I know,” Pitt said firmly. “I am quite aware of where he is now. It is the past which concerns me.”

The first few spots of rain spattered on the footpath.

The man’s face was bland but firm, his expression closed. “I am sorry, I can be of no assistance, sir. I bid you good day.” He made as if to close the door. Everything in his body, the faint droop of his shoulders, the heavy solidity of his stance, spoke of exhaustion and a weight of sadness rather than anger. Watching him, Pitt felt cold, in spite of the softness of the evening light and the fact that the air was still mild. This was where it had happened, whatever it was.

“I am sorry, sir,” he said gravely. “But I cannot allow the matter to be closed. I am from the police, in command of the Bow Street station, and the assistant commissioner has directed me to investigate a case of murder.” He saw the man wince and his pale blue eyes open wide. He was surprised, but not incredulous.

The coldness sharpened inside Pitt. He could see Charlotte’s face in his mind when he had to tell her. It would be the last dream from girlhood gone, a certain innocence of belief would go with it, and he would have given a lot not to do this. He even hesitated before he began again.

A few spots of rain fell.

“I know something happened while Mr. Corde was living here,” he said after a moment. “I need to know what it was.”

The man stared at him. He was obviously weighing in his mind what he should say, how much he could deny and be believed, or if he was not believed, at least get away with.

Pitt did not move his gaze.

The man’s shoulders slumped. “I suppose you had better come inside,” he said at last, turning away. “Although I’m not sure what I can tell you.”

Pitt followed him, closing the door behind himself. The last protest had been merely a gesture, and he knew it. He allowed the man the pretense that it had a meaning.

The room he led them into was untidy in a homely way. Books and papers littered the surfaces of the tables and chairs and spilled over onto the floor. There were several rather good pictures on the wall, most of them at least an inch crooked. There was a piece of wood on a side table, a frog emerging from it, polished to a rich, almost wet-looking brown. Even unfinished, it was a beautiful piece of work. Looking at it, Pitt was not sure if it would not be of greater power left as it was. Completing every detail might reduce it to something far more mundane, a thing anyone might have conceived.

“Are you going to do anything more to it?” he asked.

“You want it finished?” the man asked, almost challengingly.

“No!” Pitt replied quickly, making up his mind in that instant. “No, I don’t. It is right as it is.”

The man smiled at last. “I apologize, sir. You are not quite the philistine I presumed. Clear yourself a space and sit down.” He waved towards one of the crowded chairs. There was a very old white cat on it. “Never mind him,” the man said casually. “Lewis! Get off!”

The cat opened one eye and remained where it was.

“Lewis!” the man repeated, clapping his hands loudly.

The cat went back to sleep again.

Pitt picked him up, sat down, and replaced him in the same position on his lap. “Dominic Corde,” he said unwaveringly.

The man took a very deep breath and began his story.

    Pitt arrived home shortly before midnight. The house was quiet, and there was only the hall light on downstairs. He crept up, wincing at each step that creaked. He dreaded what he was going to have to say, but there was no alternative and no escape. At least it would be able to wait until morning, not that he would sleep … knowing what lay ahead and how Charlotte would feel. He felt wretched himself, and for her it would be far worse.

But when he reached the landing he saw the crack of light beneath the door. She was still awake. There was no putting it off. Perhaps that was almost a relief. He would not have to lie awake in the dark room, feeling her beside him and waiting, silent and miserable, to tell her when she awoke.

He opened the door.

She was sitting up against the pillows with her eyes closed, her hair spread around her. He closed the door without letting the latch go and tiptoed across the room.

She opened her eyes. “Thomas! Where have you been? What did you find?” She saw his face and froze, her eyes wide and dark in the lamplight.

“I’m sorry …” he whispered.

“What?” She spoke jerkily, swallowing on nothing. Her voice lowered. “What is it?”

He sat on the edge of the bed. He was tired and cold, and he wanted to undress and feel the fleecy warmth of his nightshirt next to his skin, and wriggle down under the blankets beside her. But that was not the way to say what he had to. This must be done face-to-face.

“I found where Dominic lived before he went to Maida Vale. I went to Cater Street and saw your mother. She gave me the name of his shirtmaker …”

“Gieves,” she said huskily. “I could have told you that. How did that help?”

“They had his address on record …”

“Oh. Where was it?”

He was putting off the time when he would have to tell her the part that mattered, that would hurt.

“Haverstock Hill.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Of course not. You didn’t know Dominic then.”

“What was he doing there?”

Should he answer the question she meant? What was his occupation? He could tell her about his financial affairs, his speculation, his banking advice. It was irrelevant. He was tired and cold. It was midnight already.

“He was having an affair with Unity Bellwood, who lived in Hampstead and was working for one of his clients.”

Her face was very white. “Oh.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I suppose it matters, or you wouldn’t be having to tell me.” She searched his eyes. Her voice dropped even lower. “And you wouldn’t look like that. What is it, Thomas? Did—did Dominic kill her?” She looked as if she were waiting to be physically struck.

“I don’t know.” He put his hand on her shoulder and ran it gently down her arm, holding her. “But he lied by implication and omission, and it seems he had pretty good cause. She took the affair very seriously. He got her with child, but for whatever reason, she had it aborted.”

Her face crumpled with pain and confusion, and her eyes filled with tears. She bent her head into his shoulder, and he tightened both his arms around her. There was no point in stopping now. Best to tell her all of it, far better than stopping and having to start again.

“He ran away, fled, leaving her behind.” His voice was soft and hollow in the silence. “Apparently he panicked. He was very upset indeed. Whether he was upset that she was with
child, and demanded she have it aborted, or whether he was distressed she aborted it, and ran away because he couldn’t face that, no one seemed to know. But he went one night, without telling anyone or leaving any clue as to where he was going. I don’t know where he did go. But a few months later he turned up in Maida Vale without any belongings except his clothes, and no mail was forwarded from Haverstock Hill.”

Charlotte pulled back from him, but her eyes were closed and her jaw was clenched. He could feel her body clenched also.

“And he had an affair with the girl Jenny, and she was with child as well … and she took her own life,” she said very quietly, her voice thick with pain. “Then he ran away to Icehouse Wood, where Ramsay Parmenter found him.”

“Yes.”

“And then the terrible coincidence that Unity took a job with Ramsay—”

“It wasn’t a coincidence. She saw the job advertised in an academic journal, and Dominic’s name was mentioned. She knew he was there. That was why she wanted the job so very much.”

“To be with Dominic again?” She shivered. “How he must have felt when he saw her arrive!” She stopped abruptly, her face pinched. “Was that why he … are you sure he did, Thomas? Absolutely sure?”

“No. But she was with child again … and can you believe it was Ramsay Parmenter? You met him. Do you believe he made love to her almost as soon as she was in the house? And more to the point, can you believe she made love with him, when Dominic was there?”

“No …” She looked down, away from him. “No.”

They sat together, huddled closely in silence as the minutes ticked by.

“What are you going to do?” she said at last.

“Face him,” he answered. “If Unity’s child wasn’t Ramsay’s
then Ramsay had no reason to kill her, and I can’t accept blindly that he did.”

“Then why did he try to kill Vita?”

“God knows! Perhaps by then he really was mad. I don’t understand it. It doesn’t make any sense. Perhaps he felt the net closing around him and he committed suicide, and she lied about it to protect him. She probably thinks he was guilty. She won’t know anything about Dominic and Unity.”

She looked at him with a slight frown. “You don’t suppose she thought he was guilty and killed him, do you?”

“No, of course not! She found the love letters he and Unity—” He had temporarily forgotten them.

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “But they were real! You said yourself they were in his handwriting—and hers! Thomas, it makes no sense at all. Did … was she carrying Dominic’s child, and then fell in love with Ramsay? Could she possibly do that? Could anybody? And Dominic killed her in jealousy … Oh, Thomas! She was calling out to Ramsay to help her!” She closed her eyes very slowly and buried her face in his shoulder. Her hand reached across the bedclothes and found his. She clung to him so hard she bruised his fingers.

“I can’t let it go,” he said, bending his cheek to touch her hair.

“I know,” she answered. “I know you can’t.”

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