Midnight at Marble Arch (23 page)

Pitt said nothing, thinking slowly.

Delacourt was watching his face. “A small victory,” he admitted, “when you want to beat the man to pulp, and then tear him apart for what he has done to a woman you care about. But it is better than nothing—and it can be a foundation on which to build if you ever do get him to court on a heavier charge.”

“Thank you, Mr. Delacourt,” Pitt said. “You have spared me more time than you can probably afford. And although only moderately encouraged, I am at least wiser. I understand why people take the law into their own hands. They have looked hard at those of us who are supposed to protect them, or at the very least avenge them, and see that we are powerless. I shall try to prevent the Portuguese ambassador from taking action … even though I still can’t say that I am entirely averse to it. In his place I would do so, and then leave immediately for Portugal and never return.”

Delacourt shrugged. “Frankly, Mr. Pitt, so would I.”

Pitt hesitated, wanting to say more, but not knowing what, precisely. “Thank you,” he said finally. “Good day.”

Outside in the street he walked slowly, oblivious of passersby, of
the traffic, even of the open brougham with a beautifully dressed woman riding in it, parasol up to protect her face from the sun, colored silks fluttering in the slight breeze.

What Delacourt had said to him filled his mind. He believed that it was true, but he was unable to accept that there was no possible way to fight. There had to be. They must make it so, whatever that demanded of them. To be helpless was unendurable.

He came to the curb and waited a moment or two for a brewer’s dray to pass, then crossed the road.

Instead of thinking of Jemima, he was now thinking about Daniel. How many men feared for their sons? What would Pitt do if Daniel, grown to adulthood, should be wrongly accused of such a violent and repulsive crime?

The answer was immediate and shaming. His instinctive reaction would be to assume that the woman was lying, to protect herself from blame for some relationship she dared not acknowledge. His own assumption would be that Daniel could not be at fault, not seriously.

In six or seven years, Daniel would be a young man, with all the hungers and the curiosity that were there for every young man. His father was probably the last person with whom he would discuss such things. How would Pitt know what Daniel thought of women who perhaps teased him, provoked him, with little or no idea what tigers they were awakening?

He crossed Drury Lane into Long Acre, only peripherally mindful of the traffic.

How would he prevent Daniel from becoming a young man who treated women as something he had the right to use, to hurt, even to destroy? Where did such beliefs begin? How would he ever make certain his son could lose any competition with the same grace as when he won? That he would govern himself in temper, loss, even humiliation? The answer was obvious—he must learn at home. Would it be Pitt’s fault if Daniel grew up arrogant, brutal? Of course it would.

If Neville Forsbrook was guilty of raping Angeles Castelbranco and thereby causing her death, was it Pelham Forsbrook’s fault as well as Neville’s? Probably. Would that same father defend him now if he
was accused? Almost certainly. Any man would, not only to save his child, and out of a refusal to believe he was guilty, but also to defend himself. Pelham Forsbrook would be socially ruined, and perhaps professionally damaged irreparably, if his son was convicted of such a crime.

The defense would be savage, a fight for survival. Was Pitt prepared to involve himself in that? Winning would not bring Angeles back, and the risks were great.

But if he did not try? What would that cost?

Without being aware of it he increased his pace along the footpath. How would he feel if it was his daughter, his wife who was violated in such an intimate and terrible way? What if it was not so immediate, so visceral? What if it was Charlotte’s sister Emily? He had known her as long as he had known Charlotte.

What if it was Vespasia? Age was no protection. No woman was too young, or too old. Vespasia had such courage, such dignity. Even to imagine her violation was a kind of blasphemy. It jerked him to a stop on the footpath with a pain that was almost physical. He must not allow Neville Forsbrook, or anyone else, to break his world in pieces like that. Whatever the cost, to stand by and do nothing, paralyzed with fear and hopelessness, was even worse. He must think how to attack. It was they who should feel frightened and cornered, not he, not the women he cared for, or any others.

He started along the pavement again, moving as if he had purpose.

10

W
HILE STUDYING CATHERINE QUIXWOOD
’
S
diaries more closely, Narraway found something he hadn’t taken notice of before. Notations like reminders: small marks, sometimes initials, quite often figures, as if for a time of day. Others were larger numbers, and he copied them down to see if they might be telephone numbers, even though there were no names of exchanges in front of them. Perhaps she knew the areas in which people lived sufficiently well that a reminder was not necessary.

He questioned the staff at Quixwood’s house about the numbers.

“No,” Flaxley said unhappily when he showed her the pages. “I don’t know what she meant by that.”

“Telephone numbers?” he asked.

She looked at them again. Most of them were four digits. “Perhaps—I don’t know.”

They were sitting in the housekeeper’s room again, a sudden squall of rain battering against the windows. Flaxley was pale and tired, even though she had little to do except consider what position she would be able to obtain after it became known she had worked for a victim of rape and murder. People were terrified of scandal and there were plenty of good lady’s maids. Narraway was acutely conscious of that as he sat opposite her.

Having achieved nothing with his questions so far, he changed direction and became blunter.

“Did she ever speak to you about Mr. Hythe?”

“Not often,” she replied. “Just that he was a very pleasant gentleman. It was only really in connection with what dress to wear.” She smiled for a moment. “She did not care to dress in the same gowns if she was aware she had done so on a previous meeting with the same person.” There was affection in her voice, in her eyes, and for a moment it seemed her mind was back in the happier past.

“She knew he would notice?” Narraway said quickly. He hated to break the spell of memory, and yet he had to learn all he could.

For an instant there was a flicker of contempt in her eyes, but she carefully concealed it. “No, my lord, most gentlemen don’t know more than if they like a thing or if they don’t. Another lady, of course, would know exactly, and might even be unkind enough to remark on it, but mostly ladies dress to make the best of their appearance and have the confidence then to forget about themselves and behave with wit and charm.”

Narraway had never considered the subject before, but it made perfect sense. He could see it true, above all, of Vespasia. He could not imagine her dressing to impress anyone else.

But that did not answer the question of whether Catherine had been in love with Alban Hythe or not. Or, for that matter, anyone else.

Was there any point in asking Flaxley? He looked at her rather bony face, still smudged with grief and now anxiety. Her skin was scrubbed clean, her eyelids a little puffed. Her hair was pinned up
neatly, but without softness, without care. He suddenly felt profoundly sorry for her. A year ago he would have brushed by the idea of being no longer needed as merely a part of life that had to be accepted. But now it was a pain he felt in his own flesh and understood.

“Miss Flaxley,” he said, leaning forward slightly and meeting her eyes with more urgency, “it was clearly important to Mrs. Quixwood that she meet with Mr. Hythe. She seems to have made arrangements to do so increasingly as often as every week or even twice a week, in the month before her death. Other plans were set aside to fit with his convenience, and as far as I can find out, she mentioned these meetings to no one else. In fact she barely referred to the acquaintance at all. It was not exactly secret, but it was certainly discreet.”

Flaxley did not reply, but her gaze never left his.

“It was important to her that they meet,” he went on. “She dressed carefully, but not so as to draw undue attention to herself, not as if she were meeting a lover with whom she dared to be seen.” He stopped as he saw the flare of anger in Flaxley’s eyes.

“Please describe her manner before she went out on these occasions, and when she returned,” he pressed. “I know I am asking you to speak of things that normally you would regard as a trust that you could not ever betray, but someone abused her terribly, Miss Flaxley. Someone beat her and caused her death as surely as if they had put their hands around her throat and choked the life out of her.” He saw the tears spill over and run down her cheeks and he ignored them. “If that was Alban Hythe, then I want to see him hang for it. And if it was not, then I want to save him. Don’t you?”

She nodded so minutely it was hardly a movement at all.

“How was she, Miss Flaxley? Excited? Frightened? Anxious? Sad? Tell me. It is too late to protect her now. And if it is loyalty to Mr. Quixwood you are considering, either for his sake, or for your own—and I am aware that you will need his goodwill in securing another position—I will tell him nothing that you say unless I have to, and even then I will attribute it to another source.”

She was surprised, confused, sad to the point of rocking herself back and forth very slightly, as if the movement offered some relief.

“She was anxious,” she said in little more than a whisper. “But not as if she were going to meet a lover, more as if she was going to hear something that was good news, or … or bad news. She liked Mr. Hythe, but more than that I think she trusted him.”

She looked down, avoiding Narraway’s eyes. “I have known her, in the past, when she was a little in love with a gentleman—though, of course, she never did anything … wrong. She wasn’t excited like that over Mr. Hythe. But she would never miss an appointment, no matter what else had to be rescheduled. And it seemed to grow more important to her as time went by. I swear, my lord, I don’t know why. I’d tell you if I knew, whatever it was. I’d tie a rope myself to hang whoever did that to her.”

Narraway believed her. He said so, thanked her and took his leave. There was nothing more to be gained. He made a note in his mind to speak to Vespasia and see if a position could be found for Flaxley among her friends. Then he smiled as he walked out of the front door, down the steps, and turned toward the square. He was becoming soft. What was the fate of one maid in a city of millions? A year ago he had held the fates of whole nations in his hands!

How the mighty have fallen!
Or was it just a realignment of his focus? Perhaps one a trifle overdue.

W
HEN HE SPOKE TO
Quixwood a couple of days later, again in the library of the club, they seemed to have achieved nothing new. Quixwood was tired. It was easy to imagine he had found sleep elusive. He looked thinner than before and the lines in his face deeper. There was a certain hectic light in his eyes.

Narraway felt a gnawing pity for him, and a guilt that he had no real progress to report.

“She saw him often?” Quixwood said, his voice curiously flat, as if he was deliberately trying to keep it unemotional.

“Yes, at least once a week, or more, in the last month of her life,” Narraway agreed. “But judging from her diary, and what Flaxley says of her dress and her manner, it was not a love affair.”

Quixwood gave a tiny, painful laugh. “Dear Flaxley. Loyal to the end, even when it has become absurd. She’s a good servant. It’s a shame I have no possible position for her now. If Catherine was not meeting Hythe for an affair, what could it have been? He is a handsome man, at least ten years younger than she was, maybe more.”

He smiled, blinking hard. “Catherine was beautiful, you know? And perhaps she was bored. After all, I could not spend all day with her. But I loved her.” He stared at some point in the distance, perhaps at a vision or a memory only he could see. “I assumed she knew it. Maybe I should have told her so more … more believably.”

“She seemed to have many interests,” Narraway said after a few moments of silence that dragged heavily. The footsteps of servants could be heard on the wooden floor in the passageway outside.

Quixwood looked up. “You mean other than going to museums and galleries?”

“She seemed to find Africa as fascinating as many others do, especially with the present unrest.”

“Unrest?” Quixwood said quickly.

“The Jameson Raid in particular,” Narraway elaborated.

“Oh.” A brief smile crossed Quixwood’s face and vanished again. “Yes, of course. That trial should start soon. The man can’t have had the wits he was born with.” He sighed. “Although I admit that in the beginning I can see how many would have thought it was a grand adventure, with money to be made.” He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, his voice thick with unshed tears. “I … I went home the other day. I can’t stay away forever.”