Anne Perry: Brunswick Gardens

She looked at him with surprise and confusion in the shadows of her eyes.

“Unity believed we are far more enlightened than we used to be. We have thrown off the oppression of the past, the ignorance and the superstition. I heard her say so a number of times. And also that we are far more responsible for the care of the poor, less selfish and unjust than ever before.”

A flash of memory came to him from the schoolroom thirty years ago. “One of the pharaohs of ancient Egypt used to boast that in his reign no one was hungry or homeless.”

“Oh… I don’t think Unity knew that,” she said with surprise-and what could have been a flash of satisfaction.

Perhaps she was at last approaching the truths which mattered.

“How did your husband feel about her views, Mrs. Parmenter?”

Her face tightened again. She looked down, away from him. “He found them abhorrent. I cannot deny they quarreled rather often. If I do not tell you, then others will. It was impossible for the rest of us to be unaware of it.”

He could imagine it very easily: the expression of opinions around the meal table, the stiff silences, the innuendo, the laying down of law, and then the contradictions. There was little as fundamental to people as their beliefs in the order of things- not the metaphysics, but their own place in the universe, their value and purpose.

“And they quarreled this morning?” he prompted.

“Yes.” She looked at him with sadness and apprehension. “I don’t know what about precisely. My maid could probably tell you. She heard them as well, and so did my husband’s valet. I only heard the raised voices.” She looked as if she were about to add something, then changed her mind or could not find the words for it.

“Could the quarrel have become violent?” he said gravely.

“I suppose so.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “Although I find it difficult to believe. My husband is not-” She stopped.

“Could Miss Bellwood have left the study in a temper and then lost her balance, perhaps stumbled and fallen backwards, by accident?” he suggested.

She remained silent.

“Is that possible, Mrs. Parmenter?”

She raised her eyes to meet his. She bit her lip. “If I say yes, Superintendent, my maid will only contradict me. Please don’t press me to speak any further of my husband. It is terribly… distressing. I don’t know what to think or feel. I seem to be in a whirlpool of confusion… and darkness… an awful darkness.”

“I’m sorry.” He felt compelled to apologize, and it was sincere. His pity for her was immense, as was his admiration for her composure and her dedication to truth, even at such personal cost. “Of course, I shall ask your maid.”

She smiled uncertainly. “Thank you,” she murmured.

There was nothing more to enquire of her, and he would not stretch out the interview. She must greatly prefer to be alone or with her family. He excused himself and went to find the maid in question.

Miss Braithwaite proved to be a woman in her middle fifties, tidy and sensible in manner, but at present profoundly shaken. Her face was pale and she had trouble catching her breath.

She was perched on the edge of one of the chairs in the housekeeper’s sitting room, sipping a steaming cup of tea. The fire burned briskly in the small, thoroughly polished iron grate and there was a little-worn rug on the floor and most agreeable pictures on the walls, and several photographs on the side table.

“Yes,” she admitted unhappily after Pitt had assured her that her mistress had given her full permission to speak freely and that her first duty was to the truth. “I did hear their voices raised. I really couldn’t help it. Very loud, they were.”

“Did you hear what they were saying?” he asked her.

“Well… yes, I heard…” she replied slowly. “But if you were to ask me what it was, I couldn’t repeat it.” She saw his expression. “Not that it was vulgar,” she amended quickly. “Reverend Parmenter would never use bad language-it just would not be him, if you know what I mean. A complete gentleman in every way, he is.” She gulped. “But like anyone else, he can get angry, especially when he’s defending his principles.” She said it with considerable admiration. Obviously they were beliefs which she shared. “I just didn’t understand it,” she explained. “I know Miss Bellwood, rest her soul, didn’t believe in God and wasn’t averse to saying so. In fact, took pleasure in it-” She stopped abruptly, a tide of color washing up her face. “Oh, God forgive me, I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. She’ll know different now, poor soul.”

“The argument was a religious one?” he deduced.

“Theological, I should say,” she corrected him, ignoring her tea but still holding the cup. “About what certain passages meant. Wasn’t often they could agree. She believed in the ideas of that Mr. Darwin, and a lot of other things about freedom which I would call indulgence. At least that was what she was always saying.” Her lips tightened. “I did wonder sometimes if she said it for devilment, just to get Mr. Parmenter all riled up.”

“What makes you think that?” he asked.

“Look in her face.” She shook her head. “Like a child, pushing you so far to see what you’ll do.” She took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Not that it matters now, poor creature.”

“Where did this argument take place?”

“In Mr. Parmenter’s study, where they were working, same as always… or nearly always. Once or twice she’d work downstairs in the library.”

“Did you see or hear her leave?”

She looked away. “Yes…”

“And Mr. Parmenter?”

Her voice dropped. “Yes, I think so. Followed her out into the corridor and up to the landing, to judge from the voices.”

“Where were you?”

“In Mrs. Parmenter’s bedroom.”

“Where is that in relation to the study and the landing?”

“Other side of the corridor from the study, one door along, further away from the stairs.”

“Was the door open or closed?”

“Bedroom door was open. I was hanging clothes up in the cupboard and putting away linen. I went in with my hands full, never bothered to close it. Mr. Parmenter’s study door was closed. That was why I only heard part of what they were saying, even when they shouted at each other.” She looked at him unhappily.

“But when Miss Bellwood opened the study door to come out, you might have heard what she said then,” he pressed her.

“Yes…” she acknowledged reluctantly.

“What was it?”

He heard footsteps in the passage, light and rapid, a click of heels, but they did not stop.

The color rose in Braithwaite’s cheeks again, and she was obviously uncomfortable. Modesty and loyalty fought with her sense of duty to the truth-and perhaps fear of the law.

“Miss Braithwaite,” he said gently, “I have to know. This cannot be concealed. A woman is dead. Perhaps she was a foolish woman, mistaken, unpleasant, or even worse, but that does not take from her the right to an honest enquiry into her death and the nearest to the truth of it that we can come. Please tell me what you heard.”

She looked extremely unhappy, but she did not resist any further.

“He said she was an arrogant and stupid woman, for all her supposed brains, that she was too obsessed by her ideas of freedom to see that what she was actually talking about was chaos, disorder and destruction,” she said. “He said she was like a dangerous child, playing with the fire of ideas, and one day she was going to burn down the house, and everyone would perish with her.”

“Did Miss Bellwood reply?”

“She shouted that he was an arbitrary old man.” She closed her eyes. The words obviously embarrassed her. “And he was too intellectually limited and emotionally crippled to be able to look with honesty at reality.” She hurried the words to get them out as quickly as she could. “That’s what she said, and wicked, ungrateful it was.” She stared at Pitt challengingly. “Where would she be, I’d like to know, if it wasn’t for gentlemen of importance, like Mr. Parmenter, giving her a chance to work for them?”