Pitt could no longer put off speaking to Ramsay Parmenter himself and asking him for his own account of what had happened. He dreaded it. If Parmenter denied his involvement then there would have to be a further investigation. Step by step, Pitt would have to draw from the family each miserable piece, until Parmenter was cornered and desperate, dragged down by the weight of detail, fighting against the inevitable.

If he confessed it would be quicker, but still a wretched and destructive affair, the sort of thing that, in spite of himself, he pitied, regardless how sordid or absurd.

He knocked on the study door.

“Come in.” The voice was gracious, the diction perfect. He should have expected it. This was a man used to preaching in church. He was apparently on the brink of becoming a bishop.

Pitt opened the door and went inside. The room was oak-paneled and very formal. The left wall was lined with bookcases; to the right was a large oak desk. The windows ahead stretched almost from floor to ceiling and were curtained in heavy velvet which did not quite match the wine color of the Indian carpet on the floor.

Ramsay Parmenter was standing beside the fireplace. He looked older than Pitt had expected, considerably older than Vita. His hair was receding from his brow and was gray at the temples. He had regular features and must have been handsome enough in his youth, in a quiet way. It was a careful face, that of a thinker and a student. Now he looked harassed and deeply unhappy.

Pitt introduced himself and explained why he was there.

“Yes… yes, of course.” Ramsay came forward and offered his hand. It was an odd gesture from a man who had just been implicated in murder. It was as if he did not realize it. “Come in, Mr. Pitt.” He pointed to one of the large leather chairs, although he himself remained standing with his back to the fire.