Anne Perry: Brunswick Gardens

“I see,” he said grimly. “It is hardly surprising you found Miss Bellwood’s atheism offensive.”

“I was sorry for her.” Again Mallory corrected him. “It is a very sad thing for a human being to be so lost as to believe there is no God. It destroys the foundation of morality.”

He was lying. It was in the sharpness of his voice, the quick bright anger in his eyes, the speed with which he had replied. Whatever he had felt for Unity Bellwood, it was not pity. Either he wished Pitt to think it was or he needed to believe it himself. Perhaps he did not think a candidate for the priesthood should feel personal anger or resentment, especially towards someone who was dead. Pitt did not want to argue about the foundation of morality, although a rebuttal rose to his tongue. The number of men and women whose morality was founded in love of man rather than love of God was legion. But there was something closed in Mallory Parmenter’s face which made the idea of reasoning on the subject pointless. It was a conviction of the heart rather than the mind.

“Are you saying, as kindly as possible, that Miss Bellwood’s morality was questionable?” Pitt asked mildly.

Mallory was taken aback. He had not expected to have to reply. Now he did not know what to say.

“I… I don’t know in any immediate sense, of course,” he denied it. “It is only the way she spoke. I am afraid she advocated a great many things which most of us would find self-indulgent and irresponsible. The poor woman is dead. I should greatly prefer not to discuss it.” His tone was final, ending the matter.

“Did she air these views in this house?” Pitt asked. “I mean, did you feel she was influencing members of your family or your staff in an adverse way?”

Mallory’s eyes widened in surprise. Apparently this was something that had not occurred to him. “No, not that I am aware. It was simply-” He stopped. “I prefer not to speculate, Superintendent. Miss Bell wood met her death in this house, and it appears more and more as if you are not satisfied it was accidental. I have no idea what happened, or why, and I cannot be of material assistance to you. I’m sorry.”

Pitt accepted the dismissal for the present. There was nothing to be gained from forcing the issue now. He thanked Mallory and went to look for Tryphena Parmenter, who seemed to be the one most profoundly distressed by Unity Bellwood’s death. He learned that she had gone upstairs to her bedroom, and he sent a maid to ask if she would come down to see him.

He waited in the morning room. Someone had now lit an excellent fire there, and already the chill was off the room. The rain beating against the windows was quite an agreeable sound, making him feel isolated in warmth and safety. The room was also furnished in highly fashionable taste, with a considerable Arabic influence, but softened to blend with the English climate and materials for building. The result was more to Pitt’s taste than he would have expected. The onion dome shapes stenciled on the walls and echoed in the curtains did not seem alien, nor did the geometrically patterned tiles in green and white around the fireplace.

The door opened and Tryphena came in, her head high, eyes red-rimmed. She was a slender, handsome woman with thick, fair hair, excellent skin, and a very slight space between her front teeth that was revealed when she opened her mouth to speak.

“You are here to find out what happened to poor Unity and see that some justice is done her!” It was more a challenge than a question. Her lips trembled and she controlled herself with difficulty, but her overriding emotion at the moment was anger. Grief would probably follow soon.

“I am going to try to, Miss Parmenter,” he answered, turning to face her. “Do you know anything that can be of help in that?”

“Mrs. Whickham,” she corrected, her mouth tightening a little. “I am a widow.” The expression with which she said the last word was unreadable. “I didn’t see it, if that’s what you mean.” She came forward, the light falling bright on her hair as she passed under the chandelier. She looked very English in this exotic room. “I don’t know what I could tell you, except that Unity was one of the bravest, most heroic people in the world,” she went on, her voice charged with emotion. “At whatever the cost, she should be avenged. She, of all the victims of violence and oppression, deserves justice. It’s ironic, isn’t it, that one who fought for freedom so fiercely and honestly should be stabbed in the back?” She gave a sharp little shudder, and her face was very white. “How tragic! But I wouldn’t expect you to understand that.”

Pitt was startled. He had not been prepared for this reaction.

“She fell down the stairs, Mrs. Whickham…” he began.

She looked at him witheringly. “I know that! I meant it in a higher sense. She was betrayed. She was killed by those she trusted. Are you always so literal?”

His instinct was to argue with her, but he knew it would defeat his purpose.

“You seem very certain it was deliberate, Mrs. Whickham,” he said almost casually. “Do you know what happened?”

She gulped air. “She didn’t fall; she was pushed.”

“How do you know?”

“I heard her cry out, ‘No, no, Reverend!’ My mother was in the doorway. She’d actually have seen him except for the edge of the screen. As it was she saw a man leaving the landing and going back along the corridor. Why would any innocent person leave instead of going instantly to try to help her?” Her eyes were bright, challenging him to argue.

“You said it was someone she trusted,” he reminded her. “Who might she have expected to attack her, Mrs. Whickham?”

“The Establishment, the vested interests in masculine power and the restrictions of freedom of thought and emotion and imagination,” she replied defiantly.

“I see…”

“No, you don’t!” she contradicted him. “You have absolutely no idea!”

He put his hands in his pockets. “No, perhaps you are right. If I were fighting for those things, and were a woman rather than a man, I would expect a high official in the church to be the very bastion of entrenched privilege and the keeping of ideas exactly as they are. It is where I would expect my opposition, even my enemies.”

The color rushed up her face. She started to speak and then stopped.

“Whom did she consider her enemies?” he pressed.

She regained her composure with an effort, her shoulders rigid, her hands stiff. The argument concentrated her mind, and it was easier than grief. “Not anyone in this house,” she responded. “One does not expect such violence behind the face of friendship, not if you are utterly honest yourself and you approach everyone thoroughly openly and without fear or deceit.”

“You had a very high opinion of Miss Bellwood,” he observed. “Would you mind telling me something more about her, so that I can try to understand what must have happened?”

She softened a little, her face reflecting an obvious vulnerability and even a dawning awareness of being alone in a new and terrible sense. “She believed in progress towards more freedom for everyone,” she said proudly. “All kinds of people, but especially those who have been oppressed for centuries, forced into roles they did not want and denied the opportunity to learn and to grow, to use the talents they possessed and could have refined into great art.”

She frowned. “Do you know, Superintendent, how many women who composed music or painted pictures were obliged to publish or show their work only if they used their father’s or their brother’s names?” Her voice rose and she almost choked on her outrage. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, elbows bent a little. “Can you imagine anything worse than creating great art, the realization of your ideas, the visible mark of your soul’s dreams, and having to pretend it was someone else’s just to conform to an oppressor’s vanity? It… it is unspeakable! It is a tyranny beyond any kind of forgiveness!”