began to understand that love is commitment,” he said quietly. “Making promises and keeping them, being there when people need you, whether it suits you or not. She grew up … and the rest of you didn’t. You were still playing. Poor Jenny.”
“That’s unfair!” Her voice was raised and angry. “You weren’t here! You don’t know anything about it!”
“I know Jenny is dead, because you just told me, and I know Dominic felt the height of his guilt, because I know where he went after here.”
“Where did he go?” she demanded. “Is he all right?”
“You care?” He raised his eyebrows.
She snatched her hand back as if she would like to hit him but did not dare to. He wondered if she had been the other woman. He thought probably not.
“Was Unity Bellwood ever here?” he asked instead.
She looked totally blank. “I’ve never heard of her. Is she the girl who is dead this time?” In spite of herself there was an edge of sorrow in her voice, and perhaps guilt, too.
“Yes. Only she didn’t kill herself. She was murdered. She was with child as well.”
She looked down. “I’m sorry. I would have staked anything I had he would never do anything like that again.”
“Perhaps he hasn’t. I don’t know. Thank you for being honest with me.”
“I had no choice,” she said grudgingly.
He smiled, a wide smile of both humor and victory.
It was late when he arrived home. Tellman had told him a little more about the establishment in Hall Road, all of which was much as he might have guessed. A group of people had begun pursuing a kind of freedom they believed passionately would bring them happiness. It had instead brought them confusion and tragedy. They had changed at least some of their ways, but were loath to admit error or let go of the dream. Jenny was seldom spoken of. Tellman had learned of her from one of the children, a ten-year-old boy with a less-guarded tongue who found lurid tales of London’s Whitechapel District too fascinating to miss, in exchange for a little factual information about his own, to him very boring, household.
“Immoral,” Tellman had said damningly. “They should know better. They aren’t poor or ignorant.” He had great compassion for the old or the sick, the very poor, although he was reluctant to let anyone see it. But from those he considered his betters, or who thought they were, he expected high standards, and when they fell below them, he had only contempt. “No respect,” he added. “No decency.”
Pitt had sat all the way on the train wondering what he was going to tell Charlotte. She would be bound to ask. Anything to do with Dominic she would naturally care about intensely. His behavior to Jenny had been close to inexcusable. The fact that she had thought she could live with sharing him with another woman was no answer. He was twice her age. He had been married to Sarah and knew perfectly well that such liberty was almost certain to fail. He had been as shallow thinking and as indulgent as when he had lived in Cater Street, taking pleasure where it was offered and thinking no further than the moment.
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