Anne Perry: Brunswick Gardens

For an instant Dominic had seen it and a faint flush of pleasure had colored his face. Then it had gone again as the truth of his situation returned to him.

Pitt had acknowledged what he had said without telling him he already knew. He had thanked Dominic and allowed him to depart, saying only that he would continue to investigate the matter.

Now he lay close to sleep, but still as confused as he had been at the very beginning. The matter was not solved. It could not have been Mallory. He did not believe it was Dominic, although he had had every reason and every opportunity. There were too many contradictions in Ramsay’s guilt for Pitt to accept that with any ease. And yet could it really be Clarice? That was the only other answer, and that did not seem right, either. When he had suggested it to Charlotte she had dismissed it out of hand as totally ridiculous. Not that that was an argument against its possibility, only against its likelihood.

He drifted into restless sleep, half waking every hour or two, and then finally a little before five he was wide awake and his mind turned again to the love letters between Ramsay and Unity Bellwood. He could not understand them. They fitted in with nothing that he knew of either person.

He lay in the dark for half an hour trying to think of anything that would make sense of them, trying to imagine the circumstances in which they could have been composed. What could Ramsay have been feeling to have risked putting pen to paper with such words? He must have been in so great a heat of passion all sense of his own danger had left him. And why write to her when she was there in the house and he could see her within hours, if not minutes? It was the action of a man who had lost all sense of proportion, a man verging on madness.

It came back to that again and again: madness.

Had Ramsay been mad? Was the answer as simple and as tragic as that?

He slipped out of bed, shivering as his bare feet touched the cold floor. He must look at those letters again. Perhaps they would contain some explanation if he studied them enough.

He picked up his clothes. He would dress in the kitchen, so as not to waken Charlotte. It was far too early to disturb her. He tiptoed across the room and pulled the door open. It made a slight squeak, but he managed to close it again silently, or almost.

Downstairs was chilly. The warmth of the evening before had dissipated and only immediately next to the stove could he still feel any heat. At least Gracie had left the scuttle full, to save herself this morning. He lit the lamp and dressed first, then riddled the dead cinders through and after a few moments managed to get the fire going again. He put coals on it very carefully. If he swamped it he would put it out completely. It was definitely a skill.

While it was catching and burning up he filled the kettle and looked out the teapot and fetched the caddy from the cupboard. He took the largest breakfast cup off the hook on the dresser, with its saucer. The fire was burning quite well. He put two more pieces of coal on, then closed the lid. Within moments the stove was beginning to warm. He set the kettle on it, then went through to the parlor and found the letters and the journal again.

Back in the kitchen, he sat down at the table and started to read.

He had been through them all once and was beginning a second time when the sound of the boiling kettle penetrated his thoughts and he put them down and made himself a pot of tea. He had forgotten milk, so he went to the larder and fetched a jug, carefully taking off the little circle of muslin with its trim of beads which kept it covered. He poured the tea and sipped it gingerly. It was too hot.

The letters still made no sense in the pattern of things as he knew them. He sat with the papers spread in front of him and stared, still sipping at the tea and blowing at it now and then. He was achieving nothing, and he knew it.

He did not know how long he sat there, but his cup was nearly empty when he heard Charlotte come in. He looked around. She was wearing her nightgown and a thick dressing robe. He had bought it for her when the children were very small and she had had to get up and down several times during the night, but it still looked soft and very flattering wrapped around her. There were only one or two small mends in it, and a little discoloration on one shoulder where Jemima had been sick, but it could only be seen in a certain light; otherwise it looked like the natural shading of the fabric.

“Are these the love letters?” she asked.

“Yes. Would you like a cup of tea? It’s still hot.”

“Yes, please.” She sat down, leaving him to fetch another cup and pour it for her. She started to read the letter nearest to her, frowning as she did.

He put the tea beside her but she was too absorbed to notice. She picked up a second letter, and a third, and a fourth and fifth. He watched her face and saw incredulity and amazement deepen into a fierce concentration as she read faster and faster.

“Your tea’s getting cold,” he observed.

“Mm…” she replied absently.

“Extraordinary, aren’t they?” he went on.

“Mm…”

“Can you think why he would write such things?” he asked.

“What?” She looked up for the first time. She put her hand out absently for the cup and sipped from it. She pulled a face. “It’s cold!”

“I told you.”

“What?”

“I told you it was getting cold.”

“Oh. Did you?”

He stood up patiently, took the cup from her and poured the tepid tea down the sink, then took the kettle and topped up the teapot, left it a moment, then poured her a fresh cup.

“Thank you.” She smiled and took it.

“Waited on hand and foot,” he murmured, sitting down again and refilling his own cup.

“Thomas…” She was thinking deeply. She had not even heard what he had said. She was placing the letters in pairs.

“Letter and answer?” he asked. “They do seem to go in twos, don’t they?”

“No…” she said with rising intensity in her voice. “No, they’re not letters and answers. Look at them! Look at them carefully. Look at the way this one begins.” She started to read.

“ ‘You who are dearest to me, how can I express to you the loneliness I feel when we are separated? The distance between us is immeasurable, and yet thoughts may fly across it, and I can reach you in heart and mind-’ ”

“I know what it says,” he interrupted. “It’s nonsense. The distance between them was nothing at all, a different room in the same house, at the most.”

She dismissed him with an impatient little jerk of her head. “And look at this: ‘My own beloved, my hunger for you is inexpressible. When we are apart I drown in a void of loneliness, engulfed in the night. Infinity yawns between us. And yet I have but to think of you and neither heaven nor hell could bar my way. The void disappears and you are with me.’ ” She stopped, staring at him. “Well, don’t you see?”

“No,” he admitted. “It is still absurd, just more dramatically put. All her letters are more intense than his, and phrased a great deal more graphically. I told you that before.”

“No!” she said urgently, leaning forward over the table. “I mean, it is almost exactly the same thought-just more passionately worded! They all fall into pairs, Thomas. Idea for idea. Even in the same order.”

He put down his cup. “What are you saying?”

“I don’t think they’re love letters at all-I mean, not in the sense that they wrote them to each other,” she answered eagerly. “They were both students of ancient literature: he only of theological things, but she of all sorts. I think these are two different translations of the same originals.”