ask your maid.”
She smiled uncertainly. “Thank you,” she murmured.
There was nothing more to enquire of her, and he would not stretch out the interview. She must greatly prefer to be alone or with her family. He excused himself and went to find the maid in question.
Miss Braithwaite proved to be a woman in her middle fifties, tidy and sensible in manner, but at present profoundly shaken. Her face was pale and she had trouble catching her breath.
She was perched on the edge of one of the chairs in the housekeeper’s sitting room, sipping a steaming cup of tea. The fire burned briskly in the small, thoroughly polished iron grate and there was a little-worn rug on the floor and most agreeable pictures on the walls, and several photographs on the side table.
“Yes,” she admitted unhappily after Pitt had assured her that her mistress had given her full permission to speak freely and that her first duty was to the truth. “I did hear their voices raised. I really couldn’t help it. Very loud, they were.”
“Did you hear what they were saying?” he asked her.
“Well … yes, I heard …” she replied slowly. “But if you were to ask me what it was, I couldn’t repeat it.” She saw his expression. “Not that it was vulgar,” she amended quickly. “Reverend Parmenter would never use bad language—it just would not be him, if you know what I mean. A complete gentleman in every way, he is.” She gulped. “But like anyone else, he can get angry, especially when he’s defending his principles.” She said it with considerable admiration. Obviously they were beliefs which she shared. “I just didn’t understand it,” she explained. “I know Miss Bellwood, rest her soul, didn’t believe in God and wasn’t averse to saying so. In fact, took pleasure in it—” She stopped abruptly, a tide of color washing up her face. “Oh, God forgive me, I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. She’ll know different now, poor soul.”
“The argument was a religious one?” he deduced.
“Theological, I should say,” she corrected him, ignoring her tea but still holding the cup. “About what certain passages meant. Wasn’t often they could agree. She believed in the ideas of that Mr. Darwin, and a lot of other things about freedom which I would call indulgence. At least that was what she was always saying.” Her lips tightened. “I did wonder sometimes if she said it for devilment, just to get Mr. Parmenter all riled up.”
“What makes you think that?” he asked.
“Look in her face.” She shook her head. “Like a child, pushing you so far to see what you’ll do.” She took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Not that it matters now, poor creature.”
“Where did this argument take place?”
“In Mr. Parmenter’s study, where they were working, same as always … or nearly always. Once or twice she’d work downstairs in the library.”
“Did you see or hear her leave?”
She looked away. “Yes …”
“And Mr. Parmenter?”
Her voice dropped. “Yes, I think so. Followed her out into the corridor and up to the landing, to judge from the voices.”
“Where were you?”
“In Mrs. Parmenter’s bedroom.”
“Where is that in relation to the study and the landing?”
“Other side of the corridor from the study, one door along, further away from the stairs.”
“Was the door open or closed?”
“Bedroom door was open. I was hanging clothes up in the cupboard and putting away linen. I went in with my hands full, never bothered to close it. Mr. Parmenter’s study door was closed. That was why I only heard part of what they were saying, even when they shouted at each other.” She looked at him unhappily.
“But when Miss Bellwood opened the study door to come out, you might have heard what she said then,” he pressed her.
“Yes …” she acknowledged reluctantly.
“What was it?”
He heard footsteps in the passage, light and rapid, a click of heels, but they did not stop.
The color rose in Braithwaite’s cheeks again, and she was obviously uncomfortable. Modesty and loyalty fought with her sense of duty to the truth—and perhaps fear of the law.
“Miss Braithwaite,” he said gently, “I have to know. This cannot be concealed. A woman is dead. Perhaps she was a foolish woman, mistaken, unpleasant, or even worse, but that does not take from her the right to an honest enquiry into her death and the nearest to the truth of it that we can come. Please tell me what you heard.”
She looked extremely unhappy, but she