Brunswick Gardens by Anne Perry Page A

he had swallowed ice. There was a bitterness in Ramsay he had never seen unmasked before, a depth of confusion which was more than mere tiredness or the shock of death and accusation, a fear far older and more familiar than anything this day had brought. It was the loss of inner belief, the core of hope that lies deeper than reason. For the first time he was touched by the possibility that Ramsay really could have killed Unity. It no longer seemed beyond the realm of the thinkable that she had assaulted his faith one time too many, and his loss had escaped his control and he had lashed out, she had slipped, overbalanced, and the next moment she had pitched down the stairs to lie dead at the bottom. It was a hideous mischance. They could have quarreled a hundred times and even physically struck each other without any serious injury done.Perhaps in the innocence of his intent Ramsay had not realized that it was at the very least a manslaughter—and the end of his career.
    But it was still a far cry from murder.
    How could Dominic begin to help? What could he say to reach Ramsay’s despair?
    “You taught me that faith is a thing of the spirit, of trust, not knowledge,” he began.
    “It was what I believed at the time,” Ramsay retorted with a dry laugh. He looked very directly at Dominic. “Now I am terrified, and all the faith on earth is not going to help. That wretched policeman seems to think that Unity was pushed, and that is murder.” He leaned forward earnestly. “I did not push her, Dominic. I never left the room until after she was dead. I cannot imagine any of the servants did …”
    “They didn’t,” Dominic agreed. “They were all accounted for and in sight of someone else, or performing duties they could prove.”
    Ramsay stared at him. “Then it could only be one of my family … or you. And both thoughts are dreadful. Faith may be gone, a dream from which I have awoken, but kindness is real, help to another person in their distress will always be precious and good and lasting. You are my one real success, Dominic. When I think I have failed, I remember you, and I know I have not.”
    Dominic was hideously uncomfortable. He had wanted to speak honestly to Ramsay, to brush aside the usual politeness and trivialities with which real emotion was hidden, and now that it had happened he did not know how to face it. Such naked hunger for comfort embarrassed him; it was personal, a debt between them. Ramsay had given his hand and pulled Dominic out of the morass of his despair, a morass of his own making. Now Ramsay needed the same help, needed to know he had succeeded, that Dominic was what he wished him to be. And he was afraid Dominic had killed Unity Bellwood.
    And he would know why!
    “And Mallory is my son,” Ramsay went on. “How can I bear to believe it was he?”
    Should Dominic remind him it was his name, or to be exact his title, that she cried out … not “Dominic,” not “Mallory.” The words came to his lips, and then he could not say them. It was futile. He had not killed her. If Ramsay had not, it left only Mallory … or the impossible … Clarice! No one else could have.
    “There must be something they have not thought of,” he said miserably. “If … if there is anything I can do to help, please allow me to. Any duties …”
    “Thank you,” Ramsay said quickly. “I think perhaps in the circumstances it is right for you to make the funeral arrangements. You might begin that tomorrow. I imagine it will be very quiet. She had no family, I understand.”
    “No … no, I believe not …” It was ridiculous. They were sitting in a quiet study with its books and papers and the fire flickering in the hearth, making civilized remarks about the details for the funeral of a woman they each believed the other might have killed.
    Except that Dominic found himself believing more and more wretchedly that Ramsay simply refused to recognize what had happened. He was still in a