That he had disliked Unity Bellwood was apparent, but it seemed he was trying to be both honest and as charitable as that dislike allowed him. And yet there was no discernible sense of tragedy in him, as if he had not grasped the reality of her death. Even the maid and the valet appeared to have more appreciation of the shadow of murder over them. Did Parmenter really feel that the reasons for her scholastic inabilities could possibly matter now? Or was this his way-at least temporarily-of escaping the horror of what it seemed he had done? Pitt had seen people retreat into trivialities to escape the overwhelming before. Women sometimes compulsively occupied themselves with food or housework in times of bereavement, as if the exactness of placement of a picture on a wall were of permanent importance. Silver must be polished like mirrors, ironing make fabric as smooth as glass. Perhaps the attending to irrelevancies in reasoning was Parmenter’s way of keeping his mind from the truth.

“Where were you when you heard Mrs. Parmenter call out for help and that something dreadful had happened?” Pitt asked.

“What?” Ramsay looked surprised. “Oh. I did not hear her. Braithwaite came and told me there had been an accident, and I went to see what it was, naturally, and if I could help. As you know, help was impossible.” He looked at Pitt without wavering.

“You did not follow Miss Bellwood out and continue your quarrel on the landing?” Pitt asked, although he knew what the answer would be.

Ramsay’s rather sparse eyebrows rose. “No. I already told you, Superintendent, I did not leave the room.”

“What do you believe happened to Miss Bellwood, Reverend Parmenter?”

“I don’t know,” Ramsay said a little more sharply. “The only thing I can suppose is that she somehow slipped… overbalanced… or something. I am not really sure why it needs a policeman from Bow Street to look into the affair. Our local people are perfectly adequate, or even the doctor, for that matter.”