Anne Perry: Brunswick Gardens

“I don’t know. Was there anything else?” he prompted.

Her lips tightened.

“I do realize you hate repeating her words, Miss Braithwaite, and that it is far from your own opinion.”

She shot him a look of gratitude. “Well, she said he was a spiritual coward trading in superstition and fairy stories because he had not the courage to face the truth,” she said bitterly.

“It sounds like a very unpleasant quarrel indeed,” he observed with a leaden feeling inside. “And you heard him follow Miss Bellwood out onto the landing?”

“I think so. I was trying not to hear. It… it wasn’t meant for anyone else, sir. I bent over and started putting the linen in the drawers. And I wouldn’t hear their feet, because the corridor and the landing’s carpeted. Next thing I heard was her giving a little cry, and then a sort of thump, and then her calling out.”

“What words did she call out?”

“I… I don’t know as I’m not sure now,” she equivocated, but the lie was naked in her face. She concentrated on her tea, setting the cup down carefully on the table near her.

“What did she say, Miss Braithwaite? I am sure you can remember if you try.”

She did not reply.

“Do you not wish to help the police discover the truth of what happened?” he persisted.

“Well, yes, of course… but…”

“But what you heard is so damning to someone that you would rather protect him than repeat it.”

She was thoroughly alarmed.

“No… I… you’re puttin’ me in the wrong, sir, and I’ve done nothing.”

“What did you hear, Miss Braithwaite?” he said gently. “It is very wrong indeed to lie to the police or to conceal evidence. It makes you a part of whatever happened.”

She looked horrified and her voice was sharp with fear. “I’ve no part in it!”

“What did you hear, Miss Braithwaite?” he repeated.

“She said, ‘No… no, Reverend!’ ” she whispered.

“Thank you. And what did you do?”

“Me?” She was surprised. “Nothing. Their quarrels is none of my business. I finished with the linen and started tidying the room. Then I heard Mr. Stander call out that there was something terribly wrong, and of course I went to see what it was, like we all did.” She met his eyes unhappily. Her voice dropped. “And there was Miss Bellwood lying on the floor in the hall.”

“Where was the Reverend Parmenter?”

She was sitting very still, her knees close together, her hands folded.

“I don’t know. The study door was closed, so I suppose he was in there.”

“You didn’t pass him in the corridor?”

“No sir.”

“Did you see anyone else?”

“No… no, I don’t think so.”

“Thank you. You have been most helpful.” He wished she could have told him something different, something that would make murder less likely, but he had pressed her hard, and she had told him the truth as she knew it.

He went upstairs and spoke to Stander, Parmenter’s valet, who said very much the same. He had been brushing a suit in the dressing room and had caught only the occasional word, but he had heard Unity Bellwood cry out and then say ‘No, no, Reverend!’ as nearly as he could remember, and then Mrs. Parmenter call for help. He was extremely reluctant to admit it, but he knew Miss Braithwaite had heard the same, and he did not equivocate.

Pitt could no longer put off speaking to Ramsay Parmenter himself and asking him for his own account of what had happened. He dreaded it. If Parmenter denied his involvement then there would have to be a further investigation. Step by step, Pitt would have to draw from the family each miserable piece, until Parmenter was cornered and desperate, dragged down by the weight of detail, fighting against the inevitable.

If he confessed it would be quicker, but still a wretched and destructive affair, the sort of thing that, in spite of himself, he pitied, regardless how sordid or absurd.

He knocked on the study door.

“Come in.” The voice was gracious, the diction perfect. He should have expected it. This was a man used to preaching in church. He was apparently on the brink of becoming a bishop.

Pitt opened the door and went inside. The room was oak-paneled and very formal. The left wall was lined with bookcases; to the right was a large oak desk. The windows ahead stretched almost from floor to ceiling and were curtained in heavy velvet which did not quite match the wine color of the Indian carpet on the floor.

Ramsay Parmenter was standing beside the fireplace. He looked older than Pitt had expected, considerably older than Vita. His hair was receding from his brow and was gray at the temples. He had regular features and must have been handsome enough in his youth, in a quiet way. It was a careful face, that of a thinker and a student. Now he looked harassed and deeply unhappy.

Pitt introduced himself and explained why he was there.

“Yes… yes, of course.” Ramsay came forward and offered his hand. It was an odd gesture from a man who had just been implicated in murder. It was as if he did not realize it. “Come in, Mr. Pitt.” He pointed to one of the large leather chairs, although he himself remained standing with his back to the fire.

Pitt sat down, simply to convey that he intended to remain until the conversation was concluded.

“Will you please tell me what happened between yourself and Miss Bellwood this morning, sir?” he asked. He wished the man would sit down, but perhaps he was too tense to remain in one position. He was shifting his weight from foot to foot, even though he did not actually move from the spot on which he stood.

“Yes… yes,” Ramsay answered. “We quarreled, as I am afraid we did rather frequently.” His mouth tightened. “Miss Bellwood was a very fine scholar of ancient languages, but her theological opinions were unsound, and she insisted upon airing them, even though she was well aware that everyone in the house found them offensive… except perhaps my younger daughter. I am afraid Tryphena is rather willful and likes to feel she is independent in her thought… whereas in fact she is rather easily led by someone of Miss Bellwood’s power of conviction.”

“That must have been distressing for you,” Pitt observed, watching Ramsay’s face.

“It was most displeasing,” Ramsay agreed, but there was no increase of emotion in him. If he were angry he concealed it perfectly. Perhaps it had happened for so long he was used to it now.

“You quarreled,” Pitt prompted.

Ramsay shrugged. He was obviously unhappy, but there was no sign of anxiety in him, still less of actual fear. “Yes, rather fiercely. I am afraid I said some things to her which I now regret… in light of the fact that we no longer have the opportunity to find any resolution between us.” He bit his lip. “It is a very… very… unfortunate thing, Mr. Pitt, to find you have spoken in anger your last words to someone… the last words they will hear in their life… before entering the… hereafter.”

It was a strange speech for a man of religion. It was obviously without heat, even without certainty. He was searching for words and casting aside what to Pitt would have been the obvious ones. There was no mention of God or of judgment. Perhaps he was more deeply shocked than he pretended. If he had indeed killed her, as Braithwaite seemed to believe, then he should be in a state of inner numbness.

And yet all Pitt could see in his face was confusion and doubt. Was it conceivable he had blocked the horror of it out of his mind and did not actually remember?

“Miss Bellwood left this room in considerable anger,” Pitt said aloud. “She was heard shouting at you, or at least speaking very loudly and offensively.”