the landscape, ancient buildings, the sense of history.
“ ‘After all, what could be lovelier than England in the spring? Or the summer? Or especially the autumn?
“ ‘Yesterday we went for a drive to Fiesole. I wish there was time to do it again. The views! We came back via Settignano, and there was a place on the road where we could see Florence, which was quite breathtaking. It made me think of old Mr. Lawrence and his stories of Dante on the bridge. At that moment nothing seemed impossible, or even unlikely.
“ ‘But tomorrow we are off to Rome! “O Rome! My country! City of the soul!” as Lord Byron says. I can hardly wait! If it is all I dream and hope, then one day, regardless of who has been murdered or how or why, then you must both pack up everything and come as well! What is money worth if one cannot spend it seeing the glories of the world? I have been reading too much Byron! If there can be such a thing. Do I make any sense?
“ ‘I shall write you from there! All my love, Emily. P.S. Jack sends his love as well, of course!’ ”
Charlotte smiled at him over the papers.
“How very Emily,” he answered with deep satisfaction.
“I must write to her.” Charlotte folded it up and put it back into the envelope. “I have nothing so exotic to tell her. May I relate the wretched situation here? I shall tell her about Dominic, of course. That is barely a secret.”
“Yes, tell her about poor Ramsay Parmenter, if you like,” he agreed. There seemed no harm in it. And Emily could keep her own counsel if need be.
Mention of Ramsay Parmenter made him think again of the notebook. The notes in it seemed to make no sense, and yet they must have done, at least to Ramsay himself. It did not matter any longer. The case was over. But he could not let his mind rest until he had done his best to understand his failure. How else could he salvage at least the wisdom to do better next time?
He picked up the book and opened it to the first entry. There was no date. It seemed to concern a fisherman, or someone whose name was Fisherman, and an ill-fated expedition, or holiday, to somewhere described as “summer-clime.” The next two pages were on the same subject. Then there followed what appeared to be jottings of ideas for an essay or a sermon on life and disappointment. It did not seem very promising.
Half a dozen pages on he found a reference to “the master” and “the ringer,” and a comment with an exclamation mark— “What a carillon that must have been!”—and then the question “But when?” Then: “A peal of bells, but what time? A funeral knell, a burial of other things, did the call to prayer come from that, I wonder!” And on the following page: “Poor soul!” and “But who is the walking dead?”
Charlotte looked up, her expression curious.
“Send my love to Emily,” he offered.
“I will. What are you reading?”
“Ramsay Parmenter’s notebook.”
“What does he say? Does it explain anything?”
“Nothing at all. It doesn’t even appear to be sense, just odd words and phrases.”
“For example?”
“A whole lot about ‘the master’ and ‘the ringer,’ different peals of bells, and the walking dead. I assume that must be metaphorical.”
She smiled. “Well, it certainly isn’t literal, I hope!”
“No, of course not.”
“Maybe it is metaphorical,” she agreed. “Although the peals of bells sounds bland enough. Perhaps they are all notes on services and sermons and that sort of thing. I should think you have to have ideas far in advance in order to give a decent sermon every week. You can’t just hope it will come by Saturday afternoon.”
“Possibly. There were notes earlier on life and disappointment.”
“Miserable subject. Perhaps he was going to say something about real values, or faith, or something?” she suggested, her pen still in the air.
“Nothing about faith so far. I’ll read some more. Don’t let me interrupt your letter to Emily.”
She smiled brightly. “You mean don’t interrupt you anymore. I take your point, so subtly put.”
He pulled a slight face at her and returned to Ramsay’s notebook. There was more about the fisherman. Apparently Ramsay did not like him and considered him in a sense to have been a thief, but the object stolen was not specified.
Then he returned to the master and the ringer again. The writing was becoming very jerky,