Anne Perry: Brunswick Gardens

“Where was the paper knife usually kept, exactly? Show me, will you?”

“Which one, sir?”

“What?”

“Which one, sir?” Emsley repeated. “There’s one in the hall, one in the library, and one in here.”

“The one in here,” Pitt said with a trace of impatience.

“On the desk, sir.”

“Where on the desk?”

“There, sir.” Emsley pointed to the far right-hand corner. “It was rather handsome, a model supposed to represent Excalibur… King Arthur’s sword.”

“Yes, I know. It looked more like a French saber to me.”

“A French saber, sir? Oh no, sir, if you’ll pardon me; it is quite definitely an old English sword, sir, quite straight and with a Celtic kind of hilt. A knight’s sword. Nothing French about it.” He was indignant, two spots of color on his pale cheeks.

“Have you two sword paper knives?”

“Yes sir. The library one looks a little more like you describe.”

“You are sure? Absolutely certain?”

“Yes sir. I was a great reader as a boy, sir. Read the Morte D’Arthur a number of times.” Unconsciously he straightened his shoulders a fraction. “I know a knight’s sword from a French saber.”

“But you are sure the saber was kept in the library and the knight’s sword up here? They couldn’t have been changed at some time?”

“They could have, sir, but they weren’t. I remember seeing King Arthur’s sword on the desk here that day. Actually, Mr. Parmenter and I had a conversation about it.”

“You are sure it was that day?” Pitt pressed.

“Yes sir. It was the day Mr. Parmenter died. I will never forget that, sir. Why do you ask? Does it mean something?”

“Yes, Emsley, it does. Thank you. Mrs. Pitt and I will be leaving. Thank you for your assistance.”

“Thank you, sir. Ma’am.”

Outside in the street in the sun and wind, Charlotte turned to Pitt.

“She took it up with her, didn’t she? She intended to kill him. There never was a quarrel. She chose a time when the servants were all at dinner and the family were either in the conservatory or the withdrawing room. Even had there been a shouting match, no one would have expected to hear it.”

He moved to walk on the outside of her, along towards the church. “Yes, I think so. I think from the moment she saw Unity lying at the bottom of the stairs, even before she knew for certain that she was dead, she planned to blame Ramsay. She orchestrated everything to make it seem as if he was losing control of himself, until finally his sanity slipped away from him altogether and he tried to kill her. Then she could kill him, in self-defense, and emerge as the innocent and grieving widow. In time she thought she could marry Dominic, and everything would be as she wanted.”

“But Dominic doesn’t love her!” Charlotte protested, walking a little faster to keep up with him.

“I don’t think she believed that.” He looked at her quickly. “When one is in love, passionately, obsessively, one sees what one wants to see.” He forbore from reminding her of her own feelings in the past.

She kept her eyes straight ahead of her, only the faintest heat in her cheeks.

“That isn’t love,” she said quietly. “She might have deceived herself into thinking she had Dominic’s well-being at heart, but she didn’t. She never allowed him to know what she planned, or gave him the chance to say what he wanted or did not want. Everything she did was really for herself. That’s obsession.”

“I know.”

They walked in silence the last hundred yards to the church doors.

“I can’t go in this hat,” she said in sudden alarm. “We aren’t dressed for church. We should be in black. It’s a memorial.”

“It’s too late now.” He strode up the steps, Charlotte following quickly behind.

An usher stepped forward, a mildly disapproving look on his face as he saw Pitt’s untidy appearance and Charlotte’s blue, feather-decorated hat.

“Superintendent and Mrs. Pitt,” Pitt said imperiously. “It is police business, and something of an urgency, or I should not have come.”

“Oh… oh, I see,” the usher responded, obviously not seeing at all. But he stood aside for them.

The church was about half full. It seemed many people had been uncertain whether to come or not, and some had remained away. Naturally, there had been gossip and speculation as to exactly what had happened and, even more, as to why. However, Pitt noticed several of the parishioners he had visited, notable among them Miss Cadwaller, sitting very upright in a back pew, dressed in a black coat and with a black, beautifully veiled hat-which Charlotte could have told him was at least fifteen years old. Mr. Landells was there as well, his face tremulous as if close to tears. Perhaps he remembered another death too clearly.

Bishop Underhill was in the pulpit, dressed in magnificent robes, almost shimmering in glory. If he had debated whether he should treat Ramsay’s memorial with full clerical honor or as a disgrace to be kept as private as possible, he had obviously decided in favor of pomp and bravado. He was saying nothing of any personal meaning, nothing peculiar to Ramsay Parmenter, but his sonorous voice boomed out over the heads of the tense congregation and seemed to fill the echoing spaces in the vaults above.

Isadora sat in the front row, at a glance seeming grave and very composed. She was beautifully dressed, with a wide black hat whose brim swept up one side, adorned with black feathers. But on closer regard, her face was troubled. There was a tension in her shoulders, and she held herself as if some inner pain threatened and was about to explode. Her eyes were steady on the bishop’s face, completely unwavering, not as if she were interested in what he was saying but as if she dared not look elsewhere.

Across the aisle from her the slanting light through the high windows shed a prism of colors on Cornwallis’s head. He too kept his gaze fixedly in front of him, looking neither to right nor left.

Charlotte searched for Dominic’s dark head. He should be close to the front. Then she remembered with a jolt that he was part of the clergy, not of the congregation. He would surely have some official duty to perform. Until they called someone to replace Ramsay, this was his church.

Then she saw him. He was dressed in the robes of his office, and it startled her. He looked so natural, as if he belonged in them, not as if they were put on for Sundays only. She realized in that moment how deep had been the change in him. He was not the Dominic she had known, only playing a new part; he was a different person, changed inside and almost a stranger. She was filled with admiration for him, and a bright, soaring kind of hope.

Clarice also was watching him. Charlotte could see her face only in profile, and naturally she wore a veil, but it was a very fine one, and the light glinted through it, catching the tears on her cheeks. There was a defiance in the angle of her head, and a very considerable courage.

Tryphena sat more sullenly, her fair skin making her black clothes and lace veil even more dramatic. She seemed to stare straight ahead of her towards the bishop, who was still speaking.

But it was Vita who was unmissable. Like her daughters, she was in black, but her dress was exquisitely cut, fitting her slender figure perfectly, and on her it had an elegance and a flair which was unique. The angle of the huge brim of her hat was perfect. It conveyed individuality, grace and distinction without being ostentatious. The veiling was quite obvious, and yet so sheer it shadowed her face rather than concealing it. Like Clarice, she too was watching Dominic, not the bishop.

The bishop finally wound to a close. It had all been predictable, very general. He had spoken Ramsay’s name only once. Apart from that initial reference, he could have been speaking about anyone, or everyone, the frailty of mankind, the trust in the resurrection from death to a life in God. It was impossible to judge from his bland, almost expressionless face what his own feelings were, or even if he believed any part of what he was saying.