hand and regarded him rather as an elderly and weather-beaten thrush might have.
“Well, Superintendent,” she said, nodding a little, “what is it you want to hear? I do not care to speak unkindly. I always judge people by what they say of others. One’s unkind comments reveal far more of oneself than one realizes.”
“Indeed, Miss Cadwaller,” he agreed. “But in cases of sudden and violent death, where justice must be served and injustice avoided, it is usually necessary to speak truths one would otherwise prefer to keep to oneself. I would like you to tell me your opinion of Ramsay Parmenter. I believe you have known him for at least twenty years.”
“I have, in a manner of speaking,” she agreed. “Shall we say I have observed him. It is not the same thing.”
“You do not feel you know him?” He took a sip of his tea and a bite of his sandwich, trying to make it last for two.
“He had a public face which he showed to his parishioners,” she explained. “If he had a private one or not I do not know.”
“How do you know this was not his private face as well?” he asked curiously.
She looked at him with patient amusement. “Because he addressed me as if I were a public meeting, even when we were alone; rather as he addressed God … like someone he wished to impress but not to become too closely acquainted with, in case we should trespass upon his privacy or disturb his plans or his ideas.”
Pitt kept himself from smiling only with great difficulty. He knew precisely what she meant. He had sensed exactly that same distance in Ramsay. But considering their relationship and the circumstances, he had expected it. For Miss Cadwaller it was different.
“I believe he was of the greatest help to Mr. Corde when he was in distress some few years ago,” he observed, wondering how she would respond to the idea.
“That does not surprise me.” She nodded. “Mr. Corde has spoken most highly of him. Indeed, his regard and gratitude are most heartening. He is a young man of deep conviction, and I believe he will be of great service to the Lord.”
“Do you?” Pitt asked politely. He could not imagine Dominic Corde as a minister. Preaching from the pulpit was one thing. It was almost like acting, which he had always thought Dominic would be good at, in a minor way. He had the eyes, the beautiful profile, the charm, the bearing, and an excellent voice. And he knew how to be the center of attention gracefully; it was in not being the center that he exhibited less grace. Ministering quietly to the needs of people was something very different.
“You find that surprising?” she observed acutely.
“I …” He hesitated.
“I can see it in your face, young man.” She smiled, not unkindly.
“Yes, I do,” he admitted. Should he tell her they were brothers-in-law? It might prejudice her answers. Although looking at her wrinkled face with its bright eyes, perhaps it would have no effect whatever. Then he remembered with distinct discomfort her observation about remarks upon other people reflecting more upon the speaker than the object. “Please explain to me. I can see you have grounds for your belief.”
“It concerned Miss Dinmont’s brother,” she said, taking another sip of her tea.
He waited.
“I am afraid he was not a very good man, but she still felt a great loss when he died. One does. The ties of blood cannot easily be dismissed, no matter how much one might care to. And he was her younger brother. I think she felt a great sense of failure over him.”
“And Mr. Corde?”
“I sat with her for some time after the news came of her brother’s death,” she went on at her own pace. She could not allow some young policeman who needed the attention of a good barber to hurry her in explaining something of importance in principle, if not of any actual use. “She is a good churchgoer. Naturally, Reverend Parmenter came to offer her his comfort. There was to be a funeral, here in this parish.”
He nodded and took another sandwich.
“She was very distressed,” she continued. “The poor man had no idea what to say or to do when faced with real grief. He read various scriptures which were perfectly appropriate. I daresay he reads them to everyone who has been bereaved. But his heart was not in it. One can tell.”