Anne Perry: Brunswick Gardens

“Yes… yes, indeed,” Ramsay agreed. “I am afraid I spoke to her equally offensively.”

“From where, Reverend Parmenter?”

He opened his eyes wide. “From where?” he repeated. “From… from here. From this room. I… I went to the doorway, I followed her that far… then… then I realized the futility of it.” His hands clenched. “I was so angry I was afraid I would say things I might later regret. I-I returned to my desk and continued to work, or tried to.”

“You did not go after Miss Bellwood onto the landing?” Pitt kept the disbelief out of his voice with difficulty.

“No.” Ramsay sounded surprised. “No. I told you, I was afraid the quarrel would become irreparable if I continued it. I was very angry with her.” His face pinched with remembered irritation. “She was a remarkably arrogant and objectionable young woman at times.” He shifted his weight again and moved a little farther from the fire. “But she was an excellent scholar, in her way, even though areas of her understanding were limited and biased by her own very eccentric beliefs.” He looked at Pitt directly. “Rather more of emotion than of the intellect, I fear. But then she was a woman, and young. It would be unfair to expect more of her. Like all of us, she was limited by her nature.”

Pitt regarded him carefully, studying his features to try to understand the emotions which prompted such a mixed and peculiar speech. That he had disliked Unity Bellwood was apparent, but it seemed he was trying to be both honest and as charitable as that dislike allowed him. And yet there was no discernible sense of tragedy in him, as if he had not grasped the reality of her death. Even the maid and the valet appeared to have more appreciation of the shadow of murder over them. Did Parmenter really feel that the reasons for her scholastic inabilities could possibly matter now? Or was this his way-at least temporarily-of escaping the horror of what it seemed he had done? Pitt had seen people retreat into trivialities to escape the overwhelming before. Women sometimes compulsively occupied themselves with food or housework in times of bereavement, as if the exactness of placement of a picture on a wall were of permanent importance. Silver must be polished like mirrors, ironing make fabric as smooth as glass. Perhaps the attending to irrelevancies in reasoning was Parmenter’s way of keeping his mind from the truth.

“Where were you when you heard Mrs. Parmenter call out for help and that something dreadful had happened?” Pitt asked.

“What?” Ramsay looked surprised. “Oh. I did not hear her. Braithwaite came and told me there had been an accident, and I went to see what it was, naturally, and if I could help. As you know, help was impossible.” He looked at Pitt without wavering.

“You did not follow Miss Bellwood out and continue your quarrel on the landing?” Pitt asked, although he knew what the answer would be.

Ramsay’s rather sparse eyebrows rose. “No. I already told you, Superintendent, I did not leave the room.”

“What do you believe happened to Miss Bellwood, Reverend Parmenter?”

“I don’t know,” Ramsay said a little more sharply. “The only thing I can suppose is that she somehow slipped… overbalanced… or something. I am not really sure why it needs a policeman from Bow Street to look into the affair. Our local people are perfectly adequate, or even the doctor, for that matter.”

“There is nothing to trip over on the stairs. No carpets or stair rails to come loose,” Pitt pointed out, still watching Ramsay’s face. “And Stander and Miss Braithwaite both heard Miss Bellwood call out ‘No, no, Reverend’ just before she fell. And Mrs. Parmenter saw someone leaving the landing and heading in this direction.”

Ramsay stared at him and slowly horror filled his face, etching the lines around his nose and mouth deeper. “You must have misunderstood!” he protested, but his skin was very white and he seemed to have difficulty forming his words, as if his lips and tongue would not obey him. “That is preposterous! What you are suggesting is that… I pushed her!” He gulped and swallowed. “I assure you, Mr. Pitt, I found her most irritating, an arrogant and insensitive young woman whose moral standards were highly questionable, but I most certainly did not push her.” He drew in his breath. “Indeed, I did not touch her at all, nor did I leave this room after our… difference.” He spoke vehemently, his voice rather loud. His eyes did not waver in the slightest from meeting Pitt’s, but he was afraid. It was in the beads of sweat on his skin, the brightness of his eyes, the way his body was held rigid.

Pitt rose to his feet. “Thank you for your time, Reverend Parmenter. I shall speak to the rest of the household.”

“You… you must find out what happened!” Ramsay protested, taking a step forward and then stopping abruptly. “I did not touch her!”

Pitt excused himself and went back downstairs to look for Mallory Parmenter. When Braithwaite and Stander realized that everything rested upon their word, they might both retract their statements, and Pitt would be left with nothing, except a death and an accusation he could not prove. In a way that would be perhaps the most unsatisfactory outcome of all.

He crossed the spectacular hallway, the body of Unity Bellwood now removed, and found Mallory Parmenter in the library. He was staring out of the window at the spring rain now beating against the glass, but he swung around as soon as he heard the door opening. His face was full of question.

Pitt closed the door behind him. “I am sorry to disturb you, Mr. Parmenter, but I am sure you will appreciate that I need to ask further questions.”

“I suppose so,” Mallory said reluctantly. “I don’t know what I can tell. I have no knowledge of my own as to what happened. I was in the conservatory all the time. I didn’t see Miss Bellwood at all after breakfast. I assume she went upstairs to the study to work with my father, but I don’t know that or what happened after.”

“Apparently they quarreled, so Reverend Parmenter says, and according to the maid and the valet, who both heard them.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Mallory replied, looking down at his hands. “They quarreled rather often. Miss Bellwood was very opinionated and had not sufficient tact or sense of people’s feelings to refrain from expressing her beliefs, which were contentious, to put it at its best.”

“You did not care for her,” Pitt observed.

Mallory looked up sharply, his brown eyes wide. “I found her opinions offensive,” he corrected himself. “I had no personal ill will against her.” It seemed to matter to him that Pitt believed this.

“You live at home, Mr. Parmenter?”

“Temporarily. I am shortly to go to Rome, to take up a position in a seminary there. I am studying for the priesthood.” He said it with some satisfaction, but he was watching Pitt’s face.

Pitt was floundering. “ Rome?”

“Yes. I do not share my father’s beliefs either… or lack of beliefs. I do not mean to disturb your sensibilities, but I am afraid I find the Church of England to have lost its way somewhat. It seems not so much a faith as a social order. It has taken me a great deal of thought and prayer, but I am sure of my conviction that the Reformation was a profound mistake. I have returned to the Church of Rome. Naturally my father is not pleased.”

Pitt could think of nothing to say which did not sound foolish. He could hardly imagine Ramsay Parmenter’s feelings when his son had broken such news to him. The history of the schism between the two churches-the centuries of blood, persecution, proscription and even martyrdom-was part of the fabric of the nation. Only a few months before-the past October, to be exact-he had closely observed Irish politics, rooted in passionate hatred between the two religions. Protestantism was immeasurably more profoundly and intensely critical, whether one agreed with those ethics or not.