Midnight at Marble Arch (31 page)

Castelbranco stared at him in horror, swaying a little on his feet.

“Rafael,” Pitt continued, his voice even lower, “the jury will be composed entirely of men, as it is everywhere. Some of them may be fathers, some may not. Most of them will have seen women who were not their wives, whom they lusted after, particularly when they were young and unmarried. They will all, at times, have been tempted to behave badly, and I daresay most of them will have done so, to one degree or another. And most of them will have been accused of things they considered unfair, whether related to love affairs or not. Forsbrook would be there, sober and sad-faced, swearing to his innocence, very English, very gentlemanly. He will say that she was beautiful and he complimented her. She misunderstood, her English not being fluent.”

Castelbranco blinked back tears.

Pitt forced the pictures of Angeles out of his mind, and then—with even more difficulty—made himself forget Jemima: her passionate face so like Charlotte’s; the trust in her eyes when she looked at him, the father who had protected her all her life.

“Angeles will not be there to tell them what truly happened,” he said. “All I can offer you is the promise that I will not forget it, and if I can ever prove Forsbrook’s guilt without crucifying Angeles in the process, I will do it. But if I rush forward and try, and fail, then even if I had all the proof in the world afterward, I could not try him a second time. The law does not allow anyone to be tried twice for the same offense. And he will know that as well as I do. Let the threat, at least, remain over his head.”

Castelbranco nodded very slightly. Too broken to speak, he turned and walked out of the door, leaving it open behind him, and Pitt alone in the room.

14

I
T WAS A HOT
summer day at the Old Bailey, the central criminal court in London, when the trial of Alban Hythe, charged with the rape of Catherine Quixwood, began.

The gallery was crowded. Narraway was thankful for his influence—without it, he would not have been able to find a seat, except possibly at the very back. He had wanted to ask Vespasia if she would come. He would have valued her opinion, possibly even her advice. If he was honest with himself, most of all he would have liked her company. He knew this was going to be painful.

He had considered calling her; his hand had hovered over the telephone, and then he’d realized how often he had asked for her time recently, and never for any social or pleasurable reason, such as attending the opera or the theater. She had always been willing, even gracious about accepting, but surely one day she would politely and gently refuse. She must have put up a warning hand to hundreds of men
during her life, to tell them that they were asking too much, presuming on friendship a trifle too often.

Was he doing that?

He was not used to rejection, not when it actually mattered, and he realized with a shock like a stab of physical pain that it mattered. If she were to turn away from him it would hurt him in a way and with a depth that he had not experienced for years.

He had been attracted to women who had chosen someone else before. It happened to almost everyone. It had stung his vanity more than his heart. He had felt embarrassment, even self-doubt and despondency at times. But to be rebuffed by Vespasia, however softly or reluctantly, would wound him in a place he had considered invulnerable. He must not allow it to happen. The friendship was important enough to him that the loss of it was frightening.

So he sat alone near the front of the gallery as the proceedings began. The jury was called and sworn in, and the charge was read. Symington was willing to defend Hythe free of charge, simply for the interest and fame of the case. But clever, inventive, and individual as he was, Narraway was concerned. Not only the evidence but the mood of the court was overwhelmingly against Hythe.

Hythe stood in the dock, high above the well of the room. He looked so pale as to seem almost gray. He made no movements, no sounds, except to state his innocence in a voice so quiet that the judge had to ask him to repeat it.

Maris Hythe would be waiting outside, perhaps alone. She would not be permitted to hear the evidence, in case she might be called to testify. Could there be a more exquisite torture of the mind?

The charge did not include murder, only the brutal rape and beating. In his opening statement, Algernon Bower, Queen’s Counsel for the prosecution, faced the jury and spoke with a soft but curiously penetrating voice. He was not a large man, barely of average height, but he had a presense that could not be ignored. His face was powerful, with a dominant nose and keen eyes. He had a high forehead where, Narraway knew, his dark, straight hair was beginning to thin; although today, of course, Bower wore the lawyer’s costume of a white wig.

“We will prove to you, gentlemen,” he said levelly, removing almost all emotion from his tone, “that the accused man was having a love affair with the dead woman, Catherine Quixwood, and that he visited her late on the evening of her death. She herself was the one who let him into her home. No servants saw him, but that is because she wanted it so. She herself had dismissed them.”

The jurors stared at him, somber and unhappy. There was a distinct rustle of movement in the gallery.

Next to Narraway, a large man pursed his lips in disapproval. His thoughts were almost as clear on his face as if he had spoken them aloud.

“We may never know exactly what happened,” Bower continued. He looked at the jurors as an actor regards his audience, weighing them. “But we will prove beyond any doubt at all that there was a terrible quarrel, which became physically violent. You may surmise the cause of it to be that Mrs. Quixwood had grown tired of Mr. Hythe’s attentions, or even that her conscience had at last asserted itself and she had decided to think again of her loyalty to her husband.” He held up a hand, although Symington, in his seat on the other side of the aisle, had made no move to interrupt him.

“We will prove to you, through medical and other evidence,” Bower went on, “that this quarrel ended in the most brutal rape and beating of Mrs. Quixwood, leaving her broken and bleeding on the floor. Later she crept on her hands and knees over to the sideboard, where she poured an overdose of laudanum into her glass of Madeira wine and thus took her own life.”

There were head-shakes in the jury box. A woman in the gallery let out a cry of horror.

Narraway winced. Despite the heat in the room, he was cold, as if despair were settling inside him and filling his body. It was as well he had not asked Vespasia to be here, even had she been willing to come. This was, in a sense, the beginning of a public execution. She could be spared that.

Bower finished and Symington stood up. His face looked as it had in his office when Narraway had engaged him on the case: smooth,
handsome, younger than he actually was. The light caught his pale wig, which concealed almost all his hair, but there was no sign whatever of his quick, wide smile or the totally irresponsible sense of humor that was ordinarily characteristic of him. Watching him now, Narraway had no idea if Symington had a plan, much less a believable idea how to defend Alban Hythe. Narraway himself certainly had none.

Symington stood in front of the jury. He smiled at them charmingly, but the warmth was without lightness. One of them frowned at him, looking as if he disapproved that anyone should attempt to excuse Hythe. Two smiled back, maybe sorry for him because in their eyes he was already beaten.

“A dreadful crime.” Symington’s smile vanished and it was as if the sun had gone down, changing him entirely. “I’m sorry that you will have to listen while the police surgeon tells you, probably in detail, how poor Mrs. Quixwood was raped and beaten, almost to death.” He shook his head fractionally. “It will be a terrible experience for you. I have had to go through the details as part of my duty, and I admit it turned my stomach and all but made me weep in pity for her.”

Bower fidgeted. He neither liked nor trusted Symington, and as much was clear in his face.

Symington was still facing the jurors. “And just as powerful as grief, it frightened me, because it could happen to any woman, to those I love.” He lowered his gaze and met theirs individually. “And to those you love—your wives, your daughters. Catherine Quixwood was a respectable, married woman, behind locked doors in her own house on the evening of the crime. Who could be safer?”

He hesitated.

The jurors were clearly uncomfortable. Many of them looked away.

Symington spread his hands. “It would be much more comfortable if it were in some way her fault. If she brought this upon herself, then we are all right, because we won’t do the things she did, will we?”

Suddenly his voice became stronger, darker in tone and yet also more intimate. “But we are not here to think of ourselves, or even to thank God for our own comfort and safety. We are here to learn the truth about the tragedy and horror of other people’s lives—to look at
them honestly, to rise above our own fears and prejudices, should we have them. We all feel terror, not just of violence, but of loss, of disgrace, of public humiliation, of the impulse to lie rather than be stripped in front of the world.”

He shrugged very slightly, and the smile lit his face again. “But we are chosen by our fellows, by fate, if you like, to be fair, to be honorable above our everyday selves and to set our natural proclivity toward self-protection aside. I ask you to be merciful to the quirks and the weaknesses that we all have, and to be relentlessly just to the facts.”

The jurors looked puzzled. One middle-aged man blushed hotly.

“I will show you how else this terrible thing could have happened,” Symington said finally. “And why Alban Hythe had no part in it at all. I will convince you of this until in good conscience you cannot return a verdict of guilty. You cannot see him hang.” He smiled again, warmly, as if he liked them, and turned away, walking quite casually back to his place.

Narraway wondered how much of that was bluff. Watching him, listening, he could see no doubt in Symington at all.

Bower called his first witness: a very nervous man in a plain, dark suit that did not fit him comfortably. Narraway recognized him only when he told the court that his occupation was as butler to Rawdon Quixwood.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Luckett,” Bower started, as he walked over toward the high witness box, which was something like the prow of a ship, or a tower several feet above the floor of the courtroom, “but I must ask you to turn your mind back to the evening of May the 23rd. Mr. Quixwood was in the city at a function, I believe, at the Spanish Embassy, and Mrs. Quixwood had allowed all the servants to retire early, leaving her alone in the withdrawing room. Is that correct?”

Luckett was clearly distressed and having some difficulty composing himself. The judge looked at Symington to see if he objected to Bower putting so many words into the witness’s mouth, but Symington remained seated in his place, smiling and silent.

“Mr. Luckett …” the judge prompted.

“Yes …” Luckett said jerkily. “Yes, she often allowed us to retire if
she knew she would need nothing.” He gulped. “She was very considerate.”

“She did not even retain a footman to answer the door?” Bower said with surprise.

“No, sir,” Luckett replied, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Did you yourself go to bed, Mr. Luckett?”

“No, sir. I went for a walk. I know some of the younger servants, girls, went to the servants’ quarters before I left, and the housekeeper was sitting up with a pot of tea. The cook was doing something in the kitchen, I believe.” He was twisting his hands. He knew, as did the rest of the court, what was coming next.

In the gallery no one moved.

“Did Mrs. Quixwood send for you?” Bower asked.

“No … no, sir.”

“But you did return to the front of the house? What time would that have been?”

“I … can’t say, sir. I didn’t look at the clock. It was late.”

“Why did you go back after Mrs. Quixwood had expressly dismissed you?”

“I returned from my walk and saw the lights still on, sir. It was a lot later than Mrs. Quixwood usually retired. I thought she must have forgotten to turn them down. And … and I wished to check the front door a last time.”

“Would you tell us what you found, Mr. Luckett?” Bower looked grave. He was an excellent prosecutor. It flickered through Narraway’s mind that he would also have been a good undertaker. He had an expression made for disaster.

Luckett gulped. “I—I went into the vestibule and I saw … I saw Mrs. Quixwood lying on the floor. For an instant I thought she had slipped and fallen, perhaps fainted.” He was not looking at Bower but at some terrible memory within himself. “She was sort of … sprawled out, on her side. There … her … her clothes were torn and there was blood on the floor. I bent to touch her and I could see that she was … dead.”

“What did you do then, Mr. Luckett?” Bower said gently.

“I—I sent the footman for the police. Then I went back into the housekeeper’s room and informed her of what I had found.”