their previous case. There was so little to follow in Unity’s death that Pitt could find nothing for Tellman to do. It was all so insubstantial. It depended upon emotion and opinion. All the facts he had were that Unity Bellwood was three months with child and that the father was probably one of the three men in the Parmenter house, any one of whom would be ruined by the fact, were it known. She had been overheard to quarrel with Ramsay on several occasions, the last immediately prior to the fall down the stairs which had killed her. He denied having left his study. Mrs. Parmenter, her daughter Tryphena, the maid and the valet had all heard Unity cry out to him the moment before she fell.
Other minor facts, perhaps relevant, perhaps not, were that Mallory Parmenter had been alone in the conservatory and denied seeing Unity, but she had a stain on her shoe which could only have been obtained by crossing the conservatory floor within the short space of time when he was there. There had been no stain on the hem of her dress, but she had probably lifted that instinctively against the possibility of dust or soil on the path. Was Mallory’s denial guilt or simply fear?
It all added up to suspicion, but certainly not the sort of proof Pitt could present to a court. He must have that to proceed, and yet he did not even know what he was looking for, or even if it existed.
He hailed a hansom and gave the driver the address Ramsay had given to him.
“All the way, guv?” the driver said in surprise.
Pitt collected his wits. “No … no, you had better take me to the station. I’ll catch a train.”
“Right y’are then.” The man looked relieved. “In yer get.”
Pitt got off the train at Chislehurst Station and walked through a bright, windy late morning towards the crossroads by the cricket ground. There he made enquiries as to the nearest public house and was directed to take the right-hand road and follow it about five hundred yards to where he would find St. Nicholas’s Church and the fire station on his left, and the Tiger’s Head public house on his right.
There he had an excellent luncheon of fresh bread, crumbly Lancashire cheese, rhubarb pickle and a glass of cider. On further enquiry he was told where to find Icehouse Wood and the house there which was still occupied by the group of eccentric and unhappy people whom, apparently, he sought.
He thanked the landlord and went on his way. It took him no more than twenty minutes to find the place. It was situated deep among the bare trees and should have been beautiful. The blackthorn was in blossom in drifts of white, and the earth was starred with pale windflowers, but the house itself had an air of dilapidation which spoke of years of misery and neglect.
How on earth had the elegant and sophisticated Dominic Corde come to be here? And what had brought Ramsay Parmenter to cross his path?
Pitt walked across the overgrown lawn and knocked on the door, heavily overhung by honeysuckle not yet in bud.
His knock was answered by a young man in ill-fitting trousers and a waistcoat which had lost several of its buttons. His long hair hung over his brow, but his expression was agreeable enough.
“Have you come to mend the pump?” he asked, looking at Pitt hopefully.
Pitt remembered his early experience on the estate farm.
“No, but I can try, if you are having trouble.”
“Would you? That’s terribly decent of you.” The young man opened the door wide and led Pitt through untidy and chilly corridors to the kitchen, where piles of dishes sat on the wooden bench and in a large earthenware sink. The young man seemed oblivious of the mess. He pointed to the iron pump, which was obviously jammed. He did not seem to have the faintest idea what to do about it.
“Do you live here alone?” Pitt asked conversationally as he began to examine the pump.
“No,” the young man said easily, sitting sideways on the table and watching with interest. “There are five or six of us. It varies. People come and go, you know?”
“How long have you had this pump?”
“Oh, years. It’s been here longer than I have.”
Pitt looked up and smiled. “Which would be?”
“Oh, seven or eight years, as far as I recall. Do we need a new one? God, I hope not. We can’t afford it.”
Seeing