Brunswick Gardens Part 20

"Where are you accustomed to finding it?" the bishop said tartly.

Isadora stifled a giggle. Cornwallis heard it distinctly, but the bishop was too far away to be sure.

"You see!" he challenged, mistaking the noise for a sneeze. "You will catch cold. Most foolish, and if I may say so, self-indulgent. Others will have to care for you and perform your duties. Please come in at once."

Cornwallis was livid. He was glad his face was still hidden until he crossed into the bar of light.

"I am accustomed to finding the land many miles away," he said almost between his teeth. "I apologize for prevailing upon Mrs. Underhill's good nature as hostess in asking her to allow me the pleasure of walking in her garden at twilight. I fear I have trespa.s.sed upon your hospitality too much and caused an ill feeling I did not intend. Perhaps I should take my leave before I do further damage."

The bishop was obliged to swallow his anger. That was the last thing he wished. He had not yet even broached the subject which was the purpose of the evening, let alone concluded a satisfactory understanding.

"I would not hear of it," he said hastily, forcing a sickly smile to his lips. "I am sure there is no damage done at all. I daresay I worry about my wife's health too much. A single sneeze means nothing whatsoever. It was most remiss of me to mention it. I forget how much a man of the sea must miss such a thing as a garden. One takes it for granted when it is there all the time. I am delighted you enjoyed it. Please come in and warm yourself."

He stood back while Isadora, then Cornwallis, stepped through the doorway inside, then he closed the door behind them. He even made the grudging sacrifice of offering Cornwallis the position closest to the fire. He did not think of offering it to Isadora. His concern for her health stretched only so far.

He did not raise the subject of Ramsay Parmenter until they were well into the second course of the meal, an excellent fish pie.

"How is your man proceeding with the tragedy in Brunswick Gardens? Has he had success in excluding anyone from suspicion yet?"

Cornwallis wished he could answer with some a.s.surance.

"Unfortunately not. It is a subject in which it is extremely difficult to find proof." He took another mouthful of the pie.

The bishop's face darkened. "What is your considered judgment as to whether he will succeed before so much damage is done to the Reverend Parmenter's reputation that he is effectively unable to continue?" he demanded.

"So far there is no suspicion outside the immediate family," Cornwallis replied carefully.

"But you have said his miserable daughter is perfectly prepared to testify against him!" the bishop pointed out. "It cannot be long before she makes some catastrophic remark and the word spreads like fire. Then think of the damage that will be done by such rumors. How will we check it, when we have no proof?" The strength of his fear was sharp-edged in his voice. "We shall be seen to condone his act. We shall appear to be trying to conceal it, to protect him from the consequences of his crime. No, Captain Cornwallis, it is entirely unacceptable. I cannot afford the risk of such indecision." He sat up very straight. "I am speaking for the church. This is not leadership, this is allowing events to dictate to us, not us to be master of events."

Isadora cringed under his tone. She opened her mouth, but there was nothing she could say which would not make it worse. She looked from Cornwallis to her husband, and back again.

Cornwallis did not want to quarrel with a bishop, any bishop, least of all with one who was Isadora's husband. But if he were to behave with honor he had no choice.

"I will not act until I know the truth," he said steadily. "If I charge Ramsay Parmenter, and I cannot prove it in court, then he is free, and suspicion rests either on Mallory Parmenter or Dominic Corde, regardless of whether they are guilty or not. And if I then find proof of Ramsay's guilt, I can do nothing about it."

"I do not want you to charge him, for G.o.d's sake!" the bishop said furiously, leaning forward with elbows on the table. "Use your brains, man! That would be disastrous. Think what it would do to the reputation of the church. Your duty is to find moral proof of his guilt, not physical. Then we can have him committed to an asylum, where he can hurt no one and be cared for in privacy and decency. His family will not suffer, and Corde can continue with his no doubt promising career in the church unlimited by any implication of scandal. What happens to Mallory is not our concern. He has chosen the Church of Rome."

Cornwallis was revolted. He could not keep it from his face.

"I am a policeman, not a physician to the insane," he said icily. "I have no idea whether a man is mad or not. All I can deal in is whether he is proven to have committed a given act. And I do not know whether Ramsay Parmenter pushed Unity Bellwood to her death or whether it was someone else. Until I do, I am not prepared to make any statement on the subject. That will have to be acceptable to you, because there is no alternative." He laid down his knife and fork as if he would eat no more.

The bishop stared at him. "I am sure," he said slowly, "that when you have had time to consider the matter more fully, and the implications of what your att.i.tude will do to a church towards which I believe you have some loyalty, then you will reconsider your situation." He gestured to the footman waiting near the door. "Peters, will you remove the plates and bring in the meat."

Isadora closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Her hands were shaking. She set down her gla.s.s before she spilled it.

For her sake only, Cornwallis stayed for the remainder of the meal.

8

AN HOUR OR SO after breakfast on Monday, Dominic was walking up the stairs feeling annoyed because he could not find his penknife. He kept putting things down and forgetting where. It must be part of the strain they were all feeling. He was halfway up when he heard raised voices coming from Ramsay's study. He could not distinguish the words, but it was clearly Ramsay himself and Mallory, and the discussion was acrimonious in the extreme. There seemed to be accusations and denial on both parts. Before he reached the top, the study door flew open and Mallory stormed out, slamming the door behind him. His face was flushed and his lips tight in a thin, furious line. after breakfast on Monday, Dominic was walking up the stairs feeling annoyed because he could not find his penknife. He kept putting things down and forgetting where. It must be part of the strain they were all feeling. He was halfway up when he heard raised voices coming from Ramsay's study. He could not distinguish the words, but it was clearly Ramsay himself and Mallory, and the discussion was acrimonious in the extreme. There seemed to be accusations and denial on both parts. Before he reached the top, the study door flew open and Mallory stormed out, slamming the door behind him. His face was flushed and his lips tight in a thin, furious line.

Dominic made as if to walk past him, but Mallory obviously wanted to continue a battle, and Dominic was an excellent target.

"Shouldn't you be out with parishioners or something?" he demanded. "That would be more use than waiting around here trying to comfort Mother. There's nothing you can say or do that will make any difference." His eyebrows rose high. "Unless, of course, you can confess to having killed Unity? That would be really useful."

"Only temporarily," Dominic replied tartly. There were times when Mallory annoyed him intensely, and this was one of them. Mallory was very superior about belonging to the "one true faith," and yet he allowed himself to be extraordinarily petty-minded and motivated by malice. "Because the police will will almost certainly find out the truth in a while. Pitt is very good indeed." He said it spitefully, and was rewarded with seeing the color ebb from Mallory's face. He had intended to frighten him. At least half his mind believed Mallory was guilty of Unity's death...more than he believed it could be Ramsay. almost certainly find out the truth in a while. Pitt is very good indeed." He said it spitefully, and was rewarded with seeing the color ebb from Mallory's face. He had intended to frighten him. At least half his mind believed Mallory was guilty of Unity's death...more than he believed it could be Ramsay.

"Oh, yes," Mallory said with as much sarcasm as he could muster and control. "I forgot you were related to the police. Your late wife, wasn't it? What an odd family for you to marry into. Not a very good move for your career. I am surprised at you, seeing how ambitious you are, and keen to curry favor."

They were standing at the stairhead. A maid pa.s.sed below them across the hall carrying a mop and bucket of water. Dominic could just see the lace cap on her head. He turned back to Mallory.

"I married Sarah for love," he said levelly. "It was several years before her sister married a policeman. And yes, it was an odd thing for her to do. But then Charlotte never did things to advance her social position. I don't expect you to understand that."

"A family of that sort, it would have to be love," Mallory observed. "You would still be better employed now in going out and being some use in the parish. There is nothing here that I couldn't do better."

"Indeed?" Dominic affected surprise. "Then why haven't you? All I have observed you doing so far is retreating into your room to study books."

"Great truths are to be found in books," Mallory replied loftily.

"Of course they are. And precious little good they do if that's where they remain," Dominic responded. "Your family needs your comfort, your rea.s.surance and loyalty, not quotations out of books, however wise or true."

"Rea.s.surance?" Mallory's voice rose sharply. "Of what? What can I rea.s.sure them about?" His mouth twisted in a smile that failed. "That Father did not kill Unity? I don't know that. I wish to G.o.d I did. But someone killed her, and it wasn't me. I a.s.sume it was you...I certainly want to think it was you!" Suddenly there was real terror in his voice. "She followed you around often enough, always arguing with you, mocking you, making intrusive, cruel little remarks." He nodded. "I caught her eye more than once when she was looking at you. She knew something about you, and she was letting you understand that. I don't know anything about you before you came here, but she did."

Dominic felt the blood drain from his face, and he knew Mallory saw it. The victory was bright in the younger man's eyes.

"It is you who should be afraid of Pitt," Mallory said triumphantly. "If he is anything like as clever as you suggest, whatever it is Unity knew, he'll dig it up."

"You look as if you would like that, Mal." Clarice's voice cut across them from the stairs, below and behind them both. Neither of them had heard her come up, even though the wood was uncarpeted. "Isn't that rather unchristian of you?" She opened her eyes wide as if the question were innocent.

Mallory colored, but it was temper more than shame.

"I suppose you would like it to be me?" he continued, his voice brittle. "That would suit you nicely, wouldn't it? Not your beloved father you are so quick to protect all the time, and not the curate he created out of G.o.d knows what. Only your brother. Does that fit in with whatever your morality is?"

"It is not you believing it is Dominic I object to," she replied quite calmly. "That may be honest, I don't know. It is your pleasure in it, your sense of some kind of victory that you still find him entangled in darkness and tragedy. I had not realized you hated him so much."

"I-I don't hate him!" Mallory protested, but now he was defending himself, backed into a corner. "That's a terrible thing to say...wrong-and...quite untrue."

"No, it isn't," she said, coming up to the top step and onto the landing. "If you could have seen your own face as you spoke just now, you wouldn't bother denying it. You are so afraid for yourself, you'll blame everyone, and this is a wonderful chance to get back at Dominic because Unity found him so attractive, more attractive than you."

Mallory laughed. It was an ugly, jerky sound, and there was no real amus.e.m.e.nt in it, only a tearing kind of humor at something that hurt, and that he could not share.

"You are stupid, Clarice!" he accused her. "You think you are so clever, but in reality you have always been stupid. You think you stand back and watch, and see everything. And you see nothing. You're blind to Dominic's real nature." His voice was rising and getting louder. "Have you ever asked him where he was before he came here? Have you asked about his wife or why he chose to join the church now, at forty-five, and not in the beginning? Haven't you ever wondered?"

Her face was grim and pale, but she did not look away from him. "I don't take the same pleasure in unearthing people's past weaknesses and grief as you do," she answered unflinchingly. "I never even thought about it." It was a lie. Dominic could see that in her eyes, and that she was hurt by it. He had not realized before that she was vulnerable. It had never occurred to him that, under the wild humor and the family loyalties, there was a woman capable of such feeling.

"I don't believe you," Mallory said flatly. "You are so desperate to have it be anyone but Father, you must have thought of Dominic."

"I've thought of everyone," she agreed very quietly. "But mostly I've thought about how we are going to cope with it when we do know. How are we going to treat that person? How are we going to treat each other? How are we going to make up for the things we have thought unjustly, the things we've said and can't take back and can't forget?" She frowned very slightly. "How are we going to live with the knowledge of what we have seen in each other this last week that is ugly and self-serving and cowardly, but we hadn't ever had reason to see before? I know you better than I ever wanted to, Mal; and I don't like all of it."

He was angry, but much more deeply than that, he was hurt. He tried to find something to say to justify himself, and nothing was good enough.

She must have seen the wound in him. "It isn't over yet," she said with a little shrug. "You can always change...if you want to. At least...maybe you can."

"I don't want anyone to be guilty," he said stiffly, his cheeks pink. "But I must face the truth. Confession and repentance are the only way back. I know I didn't kill her, therefore it was either Dominic or Father...or you! And why on earth would you kill her?"

"I wouldn't." She lowered her eyes, and her face was full of confusion and fear. "Will you let me pa.s.s, please? You are blocking the way, and I want to go and see Papa."

"What for?" he asked. "You can't help. And don't go in there telling him comfortable lies. It will only make it worse in the end."

Suddenly she lost her temper, swinging around on him furiously. "I'm not going to tell him anything, except that I love him! It is a pity that you can't do that! You would be a lot more use to everyone if you could!" And she whirled away, banging her elbow against the newel, and oblivious of it, marched across the landing to the far corridor and up to Ramsay's door. She threw it open without knocking and disappeared inside.

"Perhaps you had better go and read another book," Dominic said acidly. "Try the Bible. You could look for the bit which says 'A new commandment I give, that ye love one another'!" And he started down the stairs towards the hall.

He met Vita coming out of the morning room with a bowl of hyacinths in her hands. She stopped in front of him, her eyes steady, wide and searching. He knew she must have overheard at least some of the quarrel, if only the raised voices.

"They're getting dry in here," she said pointlessly, not looking at the hyacinths. "I suppose it's the fire. I think I should put them back in the conservatory for a while. Maybe there's something else in there that would do." She started to walk across the hall, and he went after her.

"May I carry that for you?"

She pa.s.sed the bowl to him, and together they went into the conservatory. She closed the gla.s.s doors and led him to the garden end, where there were other pots of flowers on the bench. He put the hyacinths down.

"How much longer is it going to go on?" she said softly. She looked close to tears, as if she were mastering herself only with difficulty. "It is breaking us, Dominic!"

"I know." He longed to be able to help. He could feel her pain and fear in the air as tangibly as the scent of the winter lilies and the paper-whites.

"You were quarreling with Mallory, weren't you?" She spoke still looking down at the flowers.

"Yes. But it was nothing important, just nerves getting both of us."

She turned and smiled at him, but there was reproof in her expression. "That's kind of you, Dominic," she said gently. "But I know that is not true. Please don't try to protect me. I can see what is happening to us. We are frightened of the police, frightened of each other...frightened of what we may learn which will change the world we know forever." She closed her eyes tightly; her voice trembled. "Something has started which we cannot stop, cannot control, and none of us can see the end of it. Sometimes I am so afraid I feel as if my heart will stop."

What could he possibly say or do that would not make it worse, sound stupid or insensitive, offer false comfort neither of them believed?

"Vita!" He used her Christian name without realizing it. "There is only one thing we can do. Live each hour as it comes and do the very best we can. Behave with honesty and kindness, and trust in G.o.d that somehow in the end it will be bearable."

She stared up at him. "Will it, Dominic? I think Ramsay is having some kind of breakdown." She gulped. "One moment he is the man we are all used to, patient and calm and so reasonable it is...almost boring." She shivered. "The next he loses his temper completely and is a different person. It is as if there is a terrible rage inside him against the world, against...I'm not sure...against G.o.d...because He is not there and Ramsay has spent so many years, so much time and energy, thinking He was."

"I haven't seen...anger," he said slowly, trying to remember the times he had talked with Ramsay and the emotions there had been. "I think he's disappointed because it isn't as he thought. If he were angry, it would only be with people, those he may feel misled him. But if they did, then they were misled themselves. That can only make one sad...you cannot blame them."

"You can't, because you are honest," she continued, a twisted little smile on her lips. "Ramsay is very confused, very...I am not sure. I think in a way frightened." She searched Dominic's face to see if he understood what she meant. "I feel so sorry for him. Does that sound arrogant of me? I don't mean to be. But sometimes I can see the fear in his eyes. He is so alone...and I think also ashamed, although he would never admit it."

"Doubt is nothing to be ashamed of," he answered, keeping his voice very low. He did not want some pa.s.sing servant to hear. "In fact, it takes a special kind of courage to keep behaving as if one believed when one can't anymore. I don't think there is any more terrible loneliness in the world than to lose one's faith when one has once had it."

"Poor Ramsay," she whispered, knotting her hands together, looking down at them. "When people are afraid they do strange things, far outside the character you think you know. I remember my brother once, when he was afraid ..."

"I didn't know you had a brother."

She gave a little laugh. "Why should you? I don't speak of him very often. He was older than I, and he did not behave very well some of the time. My father was very upset and terribly disappointed. When Clive got into debt gambling once, and couldn't pay, he lost his head completely and took silver from the house and sold it. Of course, he didn't get nearly as much as it was worth, and Papa had to pay twice as much to redeem it. It was all horrible, and not like Clive at all. But he did it because he was frightened."

Dominic felt a great heaviness inside him.

"You think Ramsay killed Unity, don't you?"

She shut her eyes tightly. "I am afraid of it...yes. I know it could not have been you." She made it a simple statement of fact, unquestionable. "And I don't believe it was Mallory. I...Dominic, I heard her call out!" She gave a little shudder. "That in itself wouldn't be enough, but I've seen him lose his temper." Almost unconsciously her hand went up to her cheek, where the bruises were still dark and painful. "He had no control at all. He was a different person. He would never have done that to me in-in his normal self. He has never raised a hand to me in all our lives." She shuddered. "Something is happening to him, Dominic. Something very terrible...as if there is something inside him which is broken. I-I don't know what to do!"

"Neither do I," Dominic admitted unhappily. "Perhaps I should try talking to him again?" It was the last thing he wanted to do, and he felt intrusive even thinking of it, but how could he leave her to face this alone? Ramsay was the man she loved, and she was watching him drown in some emotional vortex she could neither understand nor help. He was being sucked away from her, from them all. Dominic knew only too well what it was like to be dragged down and suffocated by despair. He had wanted to kill himself during those few weeks at Icehouse Wood. It was only cowardice which had held him back, not any love of life, or hope. But Ramsay had not backed away from him or allowed embarra.s.sment to keep him from stretching out his hand.

"No ...," Vita said gently. "Not yet, anyway. He will only deny it, and it will make him upset. I am sure you have tried already...haven't you?"

"Yes-but ..."

She laid her hand on his arm. "Then, my dear, the kindest thing you can do is visit people who are expecting him. Do his duties that he is at present incapable of doing for himself. Keep up the dignity and respect he used to have for people, and do not let them see what has become of him. Do it for their sakes also. They need what he could do for them if he were himself. There are things to be organized, decisions to be made which are beyond him at the moment. Do it for him...for all of us."

He hesitated. "I don't really have the authority ..."

She spoke with absolute certainty, her head high, her voice clear. "You must take it."

He wanted to do that, to find an honorable excuse to leave the house with its suspicion and anger, the fear that seemed to permeate everything like a coldness into the bones. He did not want to quarrel with Mallory again, or face Tryphena's grief, or try to think of a way to approach Ramsay without badgering or being intrusive or accusatory, and leaving him feeling even more alone than before.

The only person he found he could think of with any sense of relief, surprisingly, was Clarice. She was outrageous. Some of the things she said were appalling. But he could understand why she said them, and in spite of his better judgment, he did think they were funny, even if no one else did. There was an honesty of emotion in her which he respected.

"Yes," he said decisively. "Yes, that would be the best." And without allowing time for any further discussion he bade Vita good-bye and collected the necessary addresses and information, then took his hat and coat and left.

It was one of those spring days when the wind drives the clouds across the skies so that one moment everything is bathed in light and the next there is chill and shadow, and the moment after, silver and gold again as the sun slants on falling rain. He walked briskly. He would have run had it not been ridiculous, such was his sense of momentary freedom.

He fulfilled all his errands, extending them where possible. Even so, at half past five he had no further reason to remain away from Brunswick Gardens, and was home again by six.

The first person he encountered was Clarice. She was alone on the terrace in the early evening light. The terrace was sheltered and warm, out of the wind, and she was enjoying a few moments of solitude. His immediate thought was that he had intruded.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, and was about to turn and leave.

"No!" she said hastily. She was dressed in muslin, near white, with a green-and-white shawl over her shoulders. He was surprised how it became her. It made him think of summer, cool shaded mornings when the light is clear, before anyone thinks of what will be done in the day.

She smiled. "Please stay. How were your visits?"

"Unremarkable," he replied honestly. He never thought of being other than honest with Clarice.

"But nice to be out," she said perceptively. "I wish I had some reason to escape. Waiting is the worst of it, isn't it?" She turned away and stared at the lawn and the fir trees. "I sometimes think h.e.l.l is not actually something awful happening, it's waiting for something and never being absolutely sure if it will happen, so you soar on hope, and then plunge into despair, and then up again, and down again. You get too exhausted to care for a while, then it all starts over. Permanent despair would almost be a relief. You could get on with it. It takes so much energy to hope."

He said nothing, trying to think.