"No. I looked at that. It was perfect."

"Or even one's own feet," she went on. "Were the shoes all right? Nothing loose or broken, no wobbly heels or loose laces? I've tripped over my own feet before now."

"No wobbly heels or laces at all," he said with a slight smile. "Only a dark stain, which Tellman says comes from something spilled in the conservatory, and that means Mallory Parmenter lied about having seen her this morning."

"Perhaps he was out of the conservatory for some reason for those few moments?" she suggested. "She went in, but she missed seeing him."

"No, he wasn't, or he would have trodden in the same thing when he went out," he reasoned. "And he hadn't. Tellman checked for that, too."

"Does that mean anything?" she asked.

"Probably not, except that he was frightened and told a stupid lie. He didn't know she called out."

"Could she have called out 'No, no,' to one person and called the Reverend to help her?" she said quickly. "I mean 'No, no!' and then his name to call him to come to her?"

He sat up a little, his attention sharpening. "Possibly...just possibly. I shall at least hold it in mind. He admits quarreling with her very badly, but he swears he did not leave the study."

"Why would Mallory want to kill her? The same reason?"

"No...he's very dedicated to his calling, at least he appears so, but he has no doubts." He stared into the fire, watching as the coals settled. He would have to put more on in a few minutes. "It seems from the little I know so far as if Parmenter was very troubled in his faith, and it was Unity Bellwood's intellectual challenge to religion which angered him. Mallory seems to have no such conflict."

"Well, who else is there?"

He pursed his lips and stared back at her; she could not read the expression in his eyes. They were bright and gray, and very clear.

"Who is there?" she repeated, a shiver of apprehension running through her.

"One of the daughters who disliked Unity, but not a great deal, so far as I know...and the curate."

She dismissed the daughter. She knew him well enough to be certain it was the curate who was on his mind.

"Goon!"

He hesitated for a moment, as if unsure how to tell her. He drew in his breath and let it out slowly. "The curate is Dominic Corde ..."

For just an instant, gone again before it was there, she thought he was making a bad joke, then she knew he was serious. There was a furrow between his brows that was only there when something troubled him and he did not understand it.

"Dominic! Our Dominic?" she said.

"I had never thought of him as 'ours,' but I suppose you could say so," he agreed. "He has taken the cloth...can you imagine it?"

"Dominic has?" It did not seem possible. With a wave of memory so sharp it was as if it had carried her physically back ten years, she recalled being in her parents' home in Cater Street, her mother's exasperation because she would not behave appropriately and encourage suitable young men. She could not imagine loving anyone but Dominic then. She had cared for Sarah, of course, but been painfully jealous of her as well. Then Sarah had been killed, and the whole world had been thrown into turmoil. Dominic had shown his weaknesses. In the s.p.a.ce of a week he had fallen from an idol of gold to one of clay. Disillusion had been bitter indeed, mixed as it was with grief and fear.

In the end she had learned to love Pitt, not as a dream or an ideal but as a real man, human, exasperating at times, fallible, challenging, but with a courage and honesty Dominic had never had. And for Dominic she had learned a friendship rooted in tolerance and a certain kindness. But Dominic giving his life to religion! That was beyond her power to imagine.

"Dominic is a curate in Reverend Parmenter's house?" Her voice rose, her disbelief still sharp.

"Yes," he replied, watching her carefully, searching her face. "Dominic is the other person who could conceivably have killed Unity Bellwood."

"He couldn't!" she said instantly.

A shadow crossed his eyes. "Probably not," he agreed. "But someone did."

She sat silently, trying to think of another explanation, something that would make sense of the little she knew, that would not sound silly and defensive when she said it, but nothing came. Pitt leaned forward and put more coal on the fire. Eventually, after twenty minutes with no sound but the ticking of the clock, the flames and settling of coal in the fire, and the wind splattering rain in gusts onto the window, she spoke about something else. Her sister Emily was on the Grand Tour, and her letters from Italy were full of anecdotes and descriptions. She told him about the latest, written from Naples and including vivid descriptions of the bay, of Vesuvius, and of her trip to Herculaneum.

At eleven o'clock the following morning, when courteous enquiry had a.s.sured her that Pitt would be busy pursuing the medical evidence and reporting to Cornwallis, Charlotte alighted from a hansom in Brunswick Gardens and pulled the bell at number seventeen. She could not help but notice the drawn blinds and the discreet crepe on the door, and that they had gone so far as to put straw on the roadway to m.u.f.fle the horses' hooves, even though Unity had not been a member of the family.

When a somber butler answered she smiled at him.

"Good morning, ma'am. May I be of any a.s.sistance?" he enquired.

"Good morning." She produced her card and offered it to him. "I am sorry to trouble you at such an unfortunate time, but I believe there is a Mr. Dominic Corde staying here? He is my brother-in-law. I have not seen him for some years, but I should like to offer him my congratulations on his recent ordination." She did not mention Unity's death specifically. Possibly it had not been in the newspapers, and even if it had, a household such as this might disapprove strongly of ladies who read of such things. Ignorance was a far better approach.

"Certainly, ma'am. If you care to come in I shall see if Mr. Corde is at home." He led her through the vestibule and across a most extraordinary hallway she would have liked to look at more carefully. He left her in a morning room only slightly less exotic. He took her rain-spotted hat and cloak and departed, presumably to ask the curate if indeed he had a sister-in-law, and if so did he wish to see her.

It was less than ten minutes before the door opened and she swung around to see Dominic, older, definitely touched with a little gray, and handsomer than she had remembered. Maturity suited him; whatever pain he had experienced had refined the callowness from him. The old arrogance had been replaced by something wiser. And yet it still seemed absurd to see a clergyman's high, white collar around his neck.

Suddenly her voice dried in her throat.

"Charlotte!" He came forward with a rueful smile. "I suppose Thomas told you about the tragedy here?"

"Actually, I came to congratulate you on your calling and your ordination," she said with slightly stiff politeness, and not a great deal of truth.

His smile widened, and now there was humor in it. "You were never a good liar."

"Yes, I was!" she said instantly. "Well...not bad."

"You were terrible!" He looked her up and down. "There is no need to ask how you are, you are obviously very well indeed. How is Emily...and your mother?"

"In excellent health, thank you. Mama has married again." This was perhaps not the moment to mention that it was to a man seventeen years her junior, an actor, and a Jew.

"I am glad, it sounds wonderful." He was obviously envisioning someone older than Caroline, probably a widower, solid and respectable-in fact, as unlike Joshua Fielding as possible.

Charlotte's resolve vanished. "He's an actor." She blushed. "He's a great deal younger than Mama, and extremely attractive." She was very satisfied with the amazement on his face.

"What?"

"Joshua Fielding," she elaborated, watching him with pleasure. "He's one of the best actors on the London stage at the moment."

He relaxed, his shoulders easing, the familiar smile curving his lips. "For a moment I believed you."

"So you should," she approved. "It is the precise truth, except that I omitted that Grandmama has never forgiven her, because he is Jewish and because she will not live under the same roof with them. She made such a fuss refusing to, that when Mama ignored her she had no choice but to leave. She lives with Emily and Jack now, and she doesn't like it much because she has hardly anything to complain about, other than that she has no one to talk to. Actually, Emily and Jack are on holiday in Italy at the moment."

"Jack?" he asked, looking at her with curiosity in his eyes, and something that for an instant was close to amus.e.m.e.nt.

"After George's death, Emily married again, too. He is a member of Parliament," she explained. "He wasn't when she married him, but he is now."

"Is it really so long since we last met?" His voice rose in surprise, but there was pleasure in his face and a happiness to see her. "You make it sound as if it were decades. Are you still the same?"

"Oh, definitely. But you are not!" She looked pointedly at the white collar.

He touched it a trifle self-consciously. "No. No, a lot has happened to me since then." He did not elaborate, and for a minute there was a sudden uncomfortable silence, before the door opened and a most striking woman came in. She had very large, wide-set eyes and unusual features combining humor and strength. She was quite small in build, and extremely elegant. She wore dark colors, very plain, as if intending to create a sober effect, and yet the bodice was so beautifully cut it was anything but sober. Far from appearing like mourning, the gown enhanced the clarity of her skin and accentuated the grace of her figure.

Dominic turned as he heard her.

"Mrs. Parmenter, may I present my sister-in-law, Mrs. Pitt. Charlotte, Mrs. Parmenter."

"How do you do, Mrs. Pitt," Vita said politely, her eyes going quickly to Charlotte's dark brown skirt, a.s.sessing neither her income nor her social rank, as other women might, but her skin, her eyes and lips, her very handsome shoulders and bosom. Her smile was cool.

"How do you do, Mrs. Parmenter," Charlotte replied with a smile, as if she had not noticed. "I came to congratulate Dominic on his vocation. It is most excellent news. I know my mother and sister will be happy for him, too."

"You must have lost touch for some time," Vita observed, not quite critically but with a very slight arch of her perfect eyebrows.

"I am afraid we had. I am delighted for the opportunity to meet again, although I offer my sympathies on the news which has made it possible. I am deeply sorry."

"I am amazed you know of it already," Vita said with surprise. The very slightest smile curved her generous mouth. "You must read the very earliest editions of the newspapers."

Charlotte put on an air of surprise. "Is it in the newspapers already? I did not know that. But then I have not seen them." She left the suggestion unspoken that she did not do such things.

Vita was temporarily thrown off balance. "Then how did you know of our tragedy? It is hardly common discussion."

"Superintendent Pitt told me because of the family connection. He is my husband."

"Oh!" For a moment it seemed as if Vita were going to laugh. Her voice strayed dangerously near hysteria. "Oh...I see. That explains everything." She did not expand on what she meant by that, but a curious expression filled her eyes and then was gone. "It was kind of you to call," she added quietly. "I imagine you have much to learn since the last time you met. We are naturally not entertaining at present, but if you would care to take luncheon with us, you would be most welcome."

Dominic shot her a glance of appreciation, and she smiled in answer.

"Thank you," Charlotte accepted before she might change her mind.

Vita nodded to her, then turned to Dominic. "You will not forget to collect the black ribbon for us this afternoon, will you?" She touched his arm briefly with her fingers.

"No, of course not," he said quickly, meeting her eyes.

"Thank you," she murmured. "Now, if you will excuse me."

When she had gone Dominic gestured to Charlotte to sit down, and he sat opposite her.

"Poor Vita," he said with feeling, his face reflecting both his sympathy and the warmth of his admiration. "This is temble for her. But I expect you know that as well as I do." He bit his lip, his eyes full of regret. "We have both experienced the same horror and the fear that grows worse every day. The thing about this is that we all know it must have been someone in the house, and it seems to have been Reverend Parmenter himself. I expect Thomas told you?"

"A little," she conceded. She wanted to offer some kind of comfort, but they both knew there was none. She also wanted to warn him, but again, they had both already lived through all the dangers, the obvious ones of saying and doing something ill-judged, of telling less than the truth to cover the small acts of stupidity or meanness which one would so much rather others did not know of. And there were always some. And the less-obvious traps, the desire to be honest and to tell something one believed to be true, to find when it was too late that one had known only half the truth, and the rest of it altered everything. It was too easy to judge and too hard to teach oneself to forget. One saw far more than one wished to see of the weaknesses and the vulnerabilities of other people's lives.

She leaned a little forward. "Dominic, be terribly careful," she said impulsively. "Don't do-" She stopped, smiling at herself. "I was going to say 'Don't do anything quickly,' but that's nonsense. Then I was going to say 'Don't try to solve it yourself,' and 'Don't try to rescue anyone.' I think I had better not say anything at all. Just do what you think right."

He smiled back at her, for the first time since she had seen him again allowing himself to relax.

But luncheon was agonizingly tense. The food was excellent. Course after course was served, beginning with soup, followed by perfectly cooked fish, then meat and vegetables, and no one did justice to any of it. Ramsay Parmenter had decided to eat with his family and their guest. He presided at the table, offering a stiffly worded grace before they began. Charlotte could not help thinking he sounded as if he were addressing a public meeting of town councillors, not a loving G.o.d who must know him infinitely better even than he knew himself.

Everyone echoed the "Amen" and began to eat.

"Had we better get some thick veiling as well as ribbons?" Clarice asked with her soup spoon halfway to her mouth. "I am sure Dominic wouldn't mind fetching it from the haberdasher, would you?" She looked across at him.

"Not at all," he agreed quickly.

"Don't bother for me," Tryphena said grimly. "I shall not be going anywhere that requires a hat."

"You'll require a hat for the garden if it rains," Clarice pointed out. "And knowing England in spring, that is even more certain than death or taxes."

"You are not dead, and you have no money, so you don't pay taxes!" Tryphena snapped.

"Precisely," Clarice agreed. "And I am rained on regularly." She looked at Dominic. "Do you know what to get?"

"No. But I thought I would ask Mrs. Pitt to come with me, and I am sure she will know."

"Please don't trouble yourself." Vita looked across at Charlotte with a smile. "We did not mean to impose upon you like that."

Charlotte smiled back at her. "It would be a pleasure to help. And I should be delighted to have the opportunity to talk to Dominic and hear his news."

"It is not very far to the haberdasher," Tryphena said dryly, bending to her soup again. The light shone on her fair hair, making a halo of it. "Half an hour at the most."

"Dominic is going to make the arrangements for Unity's funeral," Vita explained. "In the circ.u.mstances it seems more appropriate." Her face pinched a little, but she did not add anything further.

"Funeral!" Tryphena jerked her head up. "I suppose you mean something in church, something pompous and self-important, with everyone wearing mourning to make a parade of the grief they don't feel. That's what you want the black: for. You are all hypocrites! If you couldn't care about her and appreciate her when she was alive, what good is it to sit in solemn rows like crows on a fence pretending you do now?"

"That will do, Tryphena!" Vita said sternly. "We already know your feelings and we do not require to hear them again, certainly not at the table."

Tryphena looked from her mother to Ramsay at the head. "Do you imagine your G.o.d believes you?" she demanded, her voice hard-edged and brittle. "He must be a fool if He's taken in by your poses. I'm not! Nor is anyone who knows you." She swiveled to face Mallory. "Why do you all treat your G.o.d as if He's an idiot? You use stilted language and go on explaining yourselves over and over, as if He didn't understand you the first time. You speak to Him the same way you speak to old ladies who are deaf and a bit senile."

Clarice bit her lip and covered her mouth with her napkin. She made sounds as if she had something stuck in her throat.

"Tryphena, either hold your tongue or leave the table!" Vita said sharply. She did not even glance at Ramsay; presumably she had given up hope that he would step in to defend himself or his beliefs.

"So do you," Clarice said challengingly, lowering her napkin again.

"I don't talk to G.o.d at all!" Tryphena swung back to stare at her sister angrily. "It's ridiculous. It would be like talking to Alice in Wonderland or the Cheshire cat."

"You might get a better audience from the March Hare or the Mad Hatter," Clarice suggested. "They would be mad enough to listen to you repeat yourself over and over on social finances, free love, artistic liberty and general license for everyone to do as they please and hope someone else will pick up the bits."

"Clarice!" Vita said sharply, her eyes hard, her body stiff. "You are not helping! If you cannot say something appropriate to the occasion, please say nothing at all."

"Clarice never says anything appropriate on any occasion," Tryphena said with a sneer, bitter and full of hurt.

Charlotte knew what Tryphena was doing. For some reason Unity Bellwood's death had wounded her more than she could contain, and her anger was against everyone else who did not share her loneliness and loss, or whose fear she could not see. Charlotte looked up at Ramsay Parmenter, sitting at the head of the table, nominally presiding, but in effect doing nothing.

She turned to Vita and saw a shadow of an old tiredness cross her features, and she wondered how many times before Vita had had to make the decisions, mark where the boundaries of behavior should be, when she had expected it of him. Perhaps that was the ultimate loneliness, not the bereavement of death but the isolation of failure to share in life, to find yourself linked to the sh.e.l.l of your dreams when the substance has gone.

"Well, fortunately the church will pick up our shortcomings and say all the appropriate things." Mallory pa.s.sed his soup plate to the maid who was collecting the dishes. "At least as far as it goes."