Could people really change? Of course it was possible. But was it probable?
There was a cold unhappiness inside Pitt, because part of him wanted to think this case was Dominic all over again, the old Dominic he had known before. And Dominic was surely far more likely to be guilty than Ramsay Parmenter, dry, ascetic, intellectual, tormented Ramsay, filled with doubts and arguments, seeking immortality by writing some abstruse interpretation of theology.
Tellman had said very little throughout the journey. He had seen a glimpse of a world which disturbed him, and he needed to think about it alone.
As soon as Pitt was inside the door Charlotte asked him.
"Yes," he answered, taking off his coat and following her through to the parlor. She was so concerned she had barely touched him, and left him to hang up his coat and scarf himself.
"Well?" She turned and faced him. "What happened? What did you find out?"
"I"ve had a long journey and I"d like a cup of tea," he replied, stung by her eagerness. The old care for Dominic was just as sharp.
She looked surprised. "Gracie is getting you one. It will be here in a moment. Would you like something to eat as well? I"ve got fresh bread and cold mutton."
"No. Thank you." He was being ungracious, and he knew it. What should he tell her about Dominic? If he lied, and Dominic were guilty, she would blame him for not having been honest. "I found the house where Dominic lived before he went to Icehouse Wood."
"Icehouse Wood?" she questioned. "You didn"t tell me about Icehouse Wood. Where is it? It sounds horrible."
"Chislehurst. It isn"t nice. It could be, if it weren"t neglected." He sat down by the fire, stretching his feet out and leaving her standing.
She stared down at him. "Thomas! What is wrong? What is it you won"t tell me?"
He was too locked up in anger and indecision to smile at her illogic.
"What did you find out about Dominic?" Her voice was sharper and he could hear the fear behind it. He turned to look up at her. It was the end of the day and she was tired, too. There was very little color in her cheeks and her hair was coming out of its pins. She had been too preoccupied to tidy herself up for his return. The anxiety was written plainly on her face, the fine lines around her eyes, the shadows in them, the tightness of her mouth.
He loved her too much to be invulnerable. He despised part of himself even as he answered.
"He lived in a large house in Maida Vale with several other people. They believed in love without commitment, more or less do-as-you-please. He had two mistresses. One was a girl called Jenny, who was twenty ..." He saw her wince, but ignored it. "He got her with child. She felt frightened and alone. She was no longer able to share him. He wouldn"t choose between the two. She took an overdose of laudanum and killed herself. He knew he was to blame, and he ran away in despair...to Icehouse Wood...which is where Ramsay Parmenter found him, close to suicide."
"Poor Dominic," she said softly. "He must have felt as if there was nothing left in life."
"Well, for Jenny and her child...there wasn"t!" he lashed back instantly. Suddenly his anger was overwhelming. The sheer useless, horrible tragedy of it was more than he could bear. And now Dominic was wearing a clerical collar and convincing little old ladies like Alice Cadwaller that he was a shepherd for the weak and the innocent. Not to mention Vita Parmenter, who seemed to think him the strength and the conscience of the house, and heaven only knew what Unity Bellwood had felt for him. And now here was Charlotte, of all people, who had known what he was like, had seen him hurting her own sister, instead of despising him and pitying Jenny, saying "Poor Dominic."
Charlotte was white-faced. "That was a terrible thing to say, Thomas!" She was trembling.
Gracie opened the door with a tray of tea and neither of them noticed her.
"It was a terrible thing to do." He could not draw back now. "I did not want to tell you, but you asked me."
"Yes, you did!" she accused, not loudly now but very quietly, her voice low and angry and hurt. "You wanted me to know that Dominic had done something so wretched I could never forget it."
That was true. He had wanted her to know. He had wanted to break the false, idealized notion she had of him and make her see him as he had had to: real, shallow, selfish, tortured with guilt...but for how long? Long enough to change...or not?
Gracie put the tray on the table. She looked like a frightened child. This was the only home she knew, and she could not bear quarrels in it.
Charlotte turned around to her. "Thank you. You"d better pour it out. I"m afraid we have had some rather unpleasant news about Mr. Corde, my brother-in-law. Things I would rather were not true, but it seems they are."
"Oh," Gracie said with a gulp. "I"m sorry."
Charlotte tried to smile at her but did not succeed. "I shouldn"t really be so upset. I"ve known him long enough it should not surprise me." She watched Gracie pour out the tea and, after a moment"s hesitation, take a cup over to Pitt.
"Thank you," he accepted.
Gracie put Charlotte"s cup near her and went out.
"I suppose you think he was the father of Unity"s child and that she was blackmailing him, so he killed her," she said flatly.
"Well, you have no right to say that," he retorted, stung by the unfairness of it. "I have not concluded anything of the sort. I have no proof which of them killed Unity, nor any hope of getting any practical evidence of the act itself. All I can do is find out more about each of them and hope it shows something or absolves one of them. What would you have me do...a.s.sume Dominic"s innocence?"
She turned away. "No, of course not. I"m not angry that you found this out, just that it pleases you. I want you to be as hurt and as miserable about it as I am." She stood stiff-backed, staring away from him out of the darkened window.
He felt excluded, because he understood what she meant, and yet the dark, cold little voice inside him still almost wished Dominic to be guilty.
He slept very badly and woke late in the morning. He went downstairs and found Tellman drinking tea in the kitchen, talking to Gracie. He stood up the moment Pitt came in, his face coloring slightly.
"You might as well finish it," Pitt said curtly. "I have no intention of going out without breakfast. Where is Mrs. Pitt?"
"Upstairs, sir," Gracie replied, watching him carefully. "Sorting the linen."
"I see. Thank you." He sat down at the kitchen table.
Gracie put a bowl of porridge in front of him and started to warm the frying pan for kippers. He wanted to say something to comfort her, to tell her that this unease in the house was only a pa.s.sing thing. But he could think of nothing. And half an hour later, when he left, he still had not mentioned it, nor had he been upstairs to speak to Charlotte.
He sent Tellman off to learn what he could of Mallory Parmenter"s past, his conversion to the Church of Rome, and his personal habits and relationships.
He began to seek more of Unity Bellwood"s past, and spent a miserable Sat.u.r.day interrupting the brief leisure time of people who had known her in a more personal way. He found out her previous address from Ramsay Parmenter, and now he called upon the house in Bloomsbury, less than fifteen minutes from his own home. He walked rapidly, striding out and pa.s.sing neighbors without recognizing them, still consumed in his own anger and unhappiness.
There was an air to the house not unlike the one he had been to in Maida Vale. There were similar works of art on the walls, piles of books in and out of cases, a sense of being intentionally different. He was received ungraciously by a bearded man of about fifty who agreed that, yes, Unity Bellwood had lived there some three or four months ago and had left to go to a position which he knew nothing about.
"How long did she live here?" Pitt asked. He was not going to be put off because he was a nuisance and was disturbing a quiet Sat.u.r.day morning when people wished to relax and not be bothered with strangers.
"Two years," the man replied. "She had rooms upstairs. They are relet now to a nice young couple from Leicestershire. She can"t have them back, and I"ve nothing else." He looked at Pitt belligerently. His regard towards Unity was plain.
Pitt pressed him until he lost his temper, and then went on to speak to all the other residents of the house who were at home, forming a picture of Unity which added little to what he already knew. She was academically outstanding, but her arrogance and her pa.s.sion had both caused fierce reactions in people. Those who admired her had done so intensely, and felt her death to be both a public and a personal loss. She had represented great courage in the fight against oppression of all kinds, of bigotry, of narrow and unjust laws, and against those limitations of the mind which seek to regiment the emotions and restrict the true liberty of thought and ideas. He heard in her echoes of Morgan"s cry for the n.o.bility of free love.
From those who hated her he heard the notes of envy and fear. They were frightened of her. She disrupted what they knew and understood. She threatened their peace of mind and unsettled thought.
He also detected through their stories, of both those who admired her and those who scorned her, a consistent thread of manipulation, a love of power and the will to use it, even for its own sake.
He pursued it until after dark. His back ached, he was exhausted and hungry, and had found he still knew little he could not have guessed. He could no longer put off going home. He walked along the footpath in Gower Street, crossed the intersection at Francis Street and Torrington Place, and went on. His feet hurt. Perhaps that was why he was walking more and more slowly.
There was damp in the air and a slight haze around the new moon above the bare branches of the trees. It was possible they had not seen the very last of the frost. What should he say to Charlotte? She had been so angry this morning she had refused to be present so she would not have to speak to him.
Did she care for Dominic so very much...even now? He was part of a past Pitt could never share in, because it had happened before he had known her. It was part of the life she was born to, of sufficient money and beautiful dresses, not hand-me-downs from Aunt Vespasia or gifts from Emily. It was parties and dances, soirees, the theater, having one"s own carriage instead of using a hansom on the rare occasions one went out. It was being known in fashionable circles, never having to explain yourself, to conceal the fact that your husband worked for a living, that you had only one resident maid and no manservant. It was the whole world of leisure.
It was the whole world of idleness, of seeking petty occupations with which to fill your day, and at the end wondering why you were still unsatisfied. Even Dominic had grown tired of it and chosen, with a pa.s.sion, to do something difficult and consuming with his life. That was what Charlotte admired in him, not his handsome face or his charm or his social position. He had no social position.
She had said "Poor Dominic." Did he ever want to hear her say "Poor Thomas" like that?
Never! The thought made his stomach hurt.
He turned the corner into Keppel Street. He was a hundred yards from home. He lengthened his stride. He turned up his own step and opened the front door. He would pretend nothing had happened.
The lights were on. He heard no sound. She could not be out. Could she?
He swallowed hard. He wanted to shout. He could feel panic welling up inside him. This was ridiculous. He had been wrong to be pleased about Dominic, but it was not a sin so grievous as- He heard laughter from the kitchen, women"s laughter, light and happy.
He strode down the corridor, his feet heavy on the linoleum, and threw the door open.
Charlotte was standing beside the flour bin near the dresser and Gracie was next to the sink with a tray of small cakes. There was milk all over the floor. He looked at the mess, then at Gracie, lastly at Charlotte.
"Don"t step on it!" she warned. "You"ll slip. Don"t worry, it isn"t all I have. It"s only half a pint. It looks terrible like that, but it isn"t really bad."
Gracie put down the cakes and reached for a cloth. Charlotte took a mop and squeezed it out, then began to swab up, looking at Pitt as she did and sending the milk in even wider circles. "You must be tired. Have you had anything to eat?"
"No." Was it going to be all right?
"Would you like scrambled eggs? I"ve got enough milk for that...I think. Perhaps it had better be an omelette. I can do that with water. And I have a confession to make."
He sat down, keeping his feet out of the way of the mop.
"Have you?" He tried to sound light, unafraid.
She looked down at the mop, guiding it back to the right place. "Daniel put his foot through one of the sheets," she said. "I looked at them all. They"re all on their way out. I bought four new pairs, and pillow slips to go with them. Two pairs for us, one each for Daniel and Jemima." She looked up to see what he would say.
Relief overwhelmed him like a tidal wave. He found he was smiling, even though he had not meant to. "Excellent!" He did not even care how much they had cost. "A very good thing. Are they linen?"
She still looked a little cautious. "Yes...I"m afraid so. Irish linen. It was a good bargain."
"Even better. Yes, I would like an omelette. And have we any pickle left?"
"Yes, of course." She smiled slowly. "I never run out of pickle. I wouldn"t dare," she added under her breath.
"Neither should you." He tried to sound sincere, but he was too happy. He almost wanted to laugh, just because what he had was so precious. Happiness was not in taking what you pleased, as Morgan thought, but in knowing the infinite value of what you had, of being able to look at it with grat.i.tude and joy. "Never run out of pickle," he reaffirmed.
She looked at him under her eyelashes and smiled.
That Sunday, John Cornwallis was invited to dine yet again at the house of Bishop Underhill. It never occurred to him not to accept. He knew why the bishop had sent the invitation. It was entirely to do with the matter of Unity Bellwood"s death. He wanted to know if there was further progress-and to urge Cornwallis to avoid scandal at any cost.
Cornwallis had no desire to allow the church to come into disrepute, even among those who were ignorant or insincere enough to judge the message of the Gospel by the failure of one of its servants to live up to even the ordinary laws of the land, let alone the higher laws of G.o.d. But neither did he intend to allow an actual wrong to be committed in order to hide an apparent one. He had nothing else to say to Bishop Underhill. He would have sent a polite note of apology except he wanted to go to dinner, to see the bishop"s wife again. If he refused, she might think he imagined the bishop"s expediency was hers also and that she shared in his cowardice. He had never thought it for a moment. The shame in her eyes had haunted him, her helplessness to deny the bishop without disloyalty.
He dressed very carefully. He wished to appear at his best. He told himself it was because the bishop was in a sense the enemy. He was fighting for a different cause. When sailing into conflict one flew all the flags on the masthead, colors streaming in the wind. There must not be a speck of dust on the black broadcloth of his jacket, and neither on his white collar or shirtfront. Cuff links and studs must gleam. Boots must be without dullness or smear.
He presented himself at exactly the hour stated, neither five minutes before nor five minutes after. He was welcomed by the footman and shown into the withdrawing room, where Isadora was waiting for him. She was dressed in very dark blue, soft as the night at sea. He could remember just that sort of sky after twilight in the Caribbean. She looked pleased to see him. She was smiling.
"I am so sorry, Mr. Cornwallis, the Bishop has been detained, but he will not be long, perhaps half an hour at most."
He was delighted. His spirits soared immediately. He had to stop himself from allowing it to show in his face. What should he say? What would be honest, and not too bold, yet polite? He must say something!
"I"m sure it won"t matter." Was that a foolish thing to say? As far as he was concerned if the bishop never came, so much the better! "I-I have no real news to tell him. It is all...insubstantial."
"I imagine it will be," she agreed. A shadow crossed her face. "Do you think they will be able to prove it?"
"I don"t know." He knew what she was worrying about. At least he thought he did. A darkness would hang over Parmenter forever, his guilt neither proved nor disproved. He would always be suspect. It was almost a worse sentence than guilt outright, because there was a resentment as well, the feeling he had cheated justice. "But if there is anyone who can solve it, it will be Pitt," he added.
"You think very highly of him, don"t you?" she said with a smile touched by anxiety.
"Yes I do." There was no equivocation in his mind.
"I hope it is capable of proof. Some things aren"t." She glanced towards the French doors and the garden, where the light was fading, casting deep shadows under the tangled branches of the trees, although they were still bare. "Would you like to walk?"
"Yes," he said without hesitation. He loved gardens at twilight. "Yes, I would."
She led the way, stopping to allow him to open the door for her, then stepping through into the soft night air, rapidly cooling after the fragile warmth of the day. But if she felt cold through the thin fabric of her dress, she ignored it.
"There is not much to see, I"m afraid," she said as she walked over the gra.s.s. "Just a glimmer of crocuses under the elms." She pointed towards the far end of the lawn, and he could make out the blur of white and purple and gold across the bare earth. "I think I"ve brought you under false pretenses. But you can smell the narcissi."
He could. There was a delicate sweetness in the air, clean and sharp as only white flowers can be.
"I love the change between day and night," he said, lifting his face to look up at the sky. "Everything between sunset and darkness. There is so much room for imagination. You see things in a different way from the glare of daylight. There"s a richer beauty, and an awareness of how fleeting it all is, how ephemeral. It makes everything infinitely more precious, and there is a sense of regret in it, an understanding of time, and loss, that heightens everything." He was talking dreadful nonsense. In the morning he would be mortified with embarra.s.sment when he remembered.
And yet it was what he meant, and he did not stop. "And at dawn, from the first white fin of light in the east, right through until the clean, cold white daylight, its pale mists clearing across the fields, the dew over everything, there is an unreasoning hope you cannot explain-or feel at any other time." He ceased abruptly. She must be thinking him a complete fool. He should never have come. He should have stayed inside, talking polite rubbish until the bishop arrived and tried to coerce him into arresting Ramsay Parmenter and having him declared insane.
"Have you noticed how many flowers have their best perfume at dusk?" she asked, still walking a little ahead of him, as if she also were reluctant to go back to the warm room and the lights and the fire. "If I could have anything I wanted, I would live overlooking water, a lake or the sea, and watch the light on it every evening. The earth consumes the light. The water gives it back." She turned to him. He could see the faint glimmer of her fair skin. "It must be marvelous to watch the dawn or the sunset at sea," she said softly. "Are you afloat in an ocean of light? Please don"t tell me you aren"t! Don"t you feel as if you are half in the sky, a part of it all?"
He smiled widely. "I hadn"t put it in such excellent words, but yes, that is exactly it. I watch the seabirds, and feel as if I am doing almost the same thing, as if the sails are my wings."
"Do you miss it terribly?" Her voice came out of the near darkness, close to him.
"Yes," he said with a smile. "And then when I was at sea I missed the smell of the damp earth, the wind in the leaves and the colors of autumn. Perhaps you can have everything, but you certainly cannot have it all at once."
She gave a little laugh. "That is what memories are for."
They were walking close together. He was very aware of her beside him. He would have liked to touch her, to offer her his arm, but it would have been too obvious. It would break the delicacy of the moment. The cloud bank was deepening over the west. He could barely see her, and yet he had never felt more aware of anyone.
Suddenly the lights from the house shone out over the gra.s.s. Someone had opened the French windows. The bishop was silhouetted against the warm color of the room, staring out at them.
"Isadora! What on earth are you doing out there? It"s pitch-dark!"
"No, it isn"t," she contradicted him. "It"s only late twilight." Her eyes were used to it, and she had not been aware of the change.
"It"s pitch-dark!" he repeated crossly. "I don"t know what made you take our guest out at this hour. There"s nothing whatever to see. It was most thoughtless of you, my dear."
The addition of the words my dear my dear somehow added insult to the injury of rudeness. They were so obviously not meant, except to disguise the irritation behind them. Cornwallis controlled his temper because the man was a bishop and this was his house-or more accurately, his garden. somehow added insult to the injury of rudeness. They were so obviously not meant, except to disguise the irritation behind them. Cornwallis controlled his temper because the man was a bishop and this was his house-or more accurately, his garden.
"It is my fault," he said very clearly. "I was taking great pleasure in the smell of the evening flowers. I am still not used to the feeling of the earth under my feet."