Midnight at Marble Arch (35 page)

“Four years, maybe?” The man turned back to the horse. “There y’are, girl. That’s yer lot for now. Got other things ter do but talk ter you all day. Spoiled rotten, you are, an’ all.” He picked up his brushes and patted her gently with his free hand.

“Going to clean the harness?” Pitt asked.

“Gotter,” the man replied. “Not as I mind, like. It’s a good job.” He led the way to the tack room and Pitt followed.

“May I help?” Pitt asked, mostly to keep the man in conversation, but also because it would be a physical job with good memories attached, something with assured purpose. He found he wanted very much to do it.

The man looked Pitt up and down. “Get yourself dirty, ’ands and cuffs all messed.”

Pitt answered by taking off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.

A few minutes later they were both working hard. It took one or two fumbles before Pitt had the art back, but the rhythm of it returned quickly, to his intense satisfaction.

“That must have been very hard for Sir Pelham,” Pitt said, returning their conversation to the main subject

“Took it bad,” the man agreed, nodding as he watched Pitt work. “Strange one, that. Never know wot ’e’s thinkin’. Mind, that’s true of a lot o’ the gentry. Never knew whether ’e loved ’er, or was just angry ’cos she were leavin’. Not as I s’pose she’d ’a got away very far, poor soul.”

“Unless there was somebody else?” Pitt made it half a question.

“If there were, they were so bleedin’ careful no one ever knew of it.” The man looked sad, as if he had wished there had been. Pitt could see it through his eyes; Eleanor Forsbrook had belonged to another world: one he served, and caught glimpses of in unguarded moments, one whose inner life he could only imagine—still, he had liked her. In a sense she was a prisoner of her circumstances also, but with less freedom than he, a neighbor’s groom.

Pitt worked on the leather silently for a few more minutes before pursuing the thought.

“I suppose young Neville found it hard too. Was he close to his mother?” he asked casually. Pitt had been close to his own mother. They were survivors together after his father was sent away. His education, equal with that of Sir Arthur Desmond’s son, had separated them in mind, and in language, but the affection, although hardly ever put
into words, had never been doubted. When she had died it had been the end of a part of his life.

Perhaps that had been at least in part why he had found it easy to love Charlotte. He had trusted women all his life. He had seen too closely their loyalty, sacrifice, and stoicism for it not to be part of his belief system.

“Did it change him?” he asked aloud, referring again to Neville Forsbrook.

“No,” the man said, shaking his head. “More’s the pity. Always was a cruel little bastard. Sorry, sir. Shouldn’t ’a said that.” But there was not a shred of regret in his weathered face.

“Said what?” Pitt asked with a smile.

“That’s right, sir. Thank you,” the man agreed, his eyes bright.

“Fancy a glass of cider when this is done?” Pitt invited him.

The man surveyed the harnesses a little doubtfully.

“It’ll take less time with two of us,” Pitt pointed out.

“In’t yer got nothin’ else ter do, important gent like yerself?”

“Probably, but it’ll wait. Everybody has to have an hour or two off sometime. And a glass of cider and a sandwich. Cheese and pickle?”

“Done,” the man agreed instantly. “You’re a rum one, an’ no mistake. Maybe we’ll be all right after all!”

Pitt bent to the harness again to hide the pleasure he felt at the compliment, and the hope that he would live up to the trust.

16

I
T WAS A QUIET
summer evening as Vespasia walked along the gravel path beside Victor Narraway, moving from dappled sunlight into the shade. They had met by design at the end of a busy and, for him, unsatisfactory day. He was troubled, and as had happened so often lately, he sought her company. He couldn’t help it.

“Do you believe it?” she asked him directly.

He sighed. “I would like to, but frankly it is highly unlikely, and I know of nothing whatever to substantiate it. It makes no sense.”

She measured her words with care. “What did he actually claim? That Catherine had asked for further information about various financial investments because she was concerned her husband might lose money? Or that the money might be invested in ventures of dubious morality?”

“Briefly, yes, the latter,” he agreed. “But if Quixwood had money invested dubiously, why not simply ask him? She was his wife. Surely
he would tell her? He would have to, if indeed he lost heavily. They would need to reduce their circumstances, possibly even sell the house and move to somewhere less expensive.” He matched his step more evenly with hers. “It doesn’t seem reasonable that she would need to know the details to the depth a banker such as Hythe could explain them to her.”

Vespasia could think of no counter for that. He was correct.

“But if he is telling the truth, then she did want exactly such details,” she argued.

“He is not telling the truth,” Narraway said patiently. “If something is unbelievable, then do not believe it.” His smile was twisted, unhappy. With anyone else he might have been impatient.

“Alternately,” she continued, “suppose that he is telling the truth. Then there must be some facts of which we are not aware. It does not make sense, therefore it is incomplete. Why would an otherwise sensible woman seek financial facts about her husband’s affairs by secretly cultivating the company of another man in financial business?”

“Because he is younger, handsomer, and a great deal more affectionate and interesting,” he answered sadly. “The explanation is not difficult.”

“Or else she does not trust her husband to tell her the truth,” she offered. “That also is a very old story.”

“It would be a stronger argument if it were her money and he invested it foolishly and dared not tell her,” he said. “But she had no money of her own, as far as I can tell.”

“I know,” she replied. “I took the precaution of finding out about that myself. It is his money. He is a man of remarkable financial acuity. He has multiplied his original inheritance from his grandfather at least ten times.”

“Then she should’ve trusted him,” he pointed out.

“To be wise, certainly, even to be fortunate,” she responded. “But not necessarily to be ethical.”

He was startled. He stopped and turned to face her. “Hence the detailed information. What is she afraid he might be doing?”

“Ah.” She stopped also, and met his eyes. “That I don’t know,” she
admitted. “I’m going to attend the Jameson trial tomorrow, and see what more I can learn of the whole affair of the British South Africa investment, including Dr. Jameson’s part in it, and his connections to Mr. Cecil Rhodes, who apparently has financed this fiasco.”

“You won’t get in,” Narraway warned. “Three-quarters of London Society have been trying to obtain seats. They are harder to find than tickets for the opening night of a play.”

“The trial is probably more dramatic,” Vespasia said drily. “Don’t concern yourself. I have done favors for certain people in the past. I have called upon one or two in particular, and I believe I shall be fortunate.”

“I see.” Different emotions conflicted in his face. “I hope you will tell me if you learn anything at all that would be of use. The situation for Alban Hythe has become desperate.”

She stared at him, and he colored very slightly. She was about to make a fairly sharp retort when she realized he was in some way uncomfortable, but she did not know why.

“Of course I shall tell you,” she said more gently. “That is my purpose in going. If it were merely for the result of the trial, I should be perfectly content with reading it in the newspapers. I don’t see how they can do anything other than find him guilty. Whether you approve of it or not, he is unquestionably guilty of a serious misjudgment.”

His smile was wry, and quite gentle. “Of course he is guilty, my dear,” he replied. “He failed. It wasn’t even a glorious failure; it was an idiotic one.”

“Oh, Victor, how wise we have become. It isn’t always very pleasant, is it,” she asked with a smile.

“I think politics, and military escapades in particular, already have fools enough,” he answered. After a moment or two, he offered her his arm so they might continue their stroll under the trees.

V
ESPASIA NEEDED TO DRAW
on more than one favor in order to obtain a seat at the High Court of Judicature for the second day of the trial of
Leander Starr Jameson. It was June 21, the longest day of the year. She was also obliged to rise early and be at the court over an hour before the proceedings commenced, such was the interest in the issue, and the almost hectic support for Dr. Jameson himself.

She accompanied the Hon. Hector Manning, a longtime friend who had held a position of some weight in the Foreign Office, and thus was able to obtain a place in the gallery himself. No one had the temerity to question the fact that he brought a lady with him. There were many among the crowd who recognized her. She smiled and nodded to a few of them.

She had dressed in muted colors: silvers and grays, and a charcoal silk so dark as to seem almost black in the shadow, as befitted the occasion. A man was fighting not only for his freedom, but also for what was probably of more value to him: his honor.

After they had taken their seats, Hector, still a very distinguished-looking man, leaned toward her and spoke quietly. “Unless you’ve changed beyond recognition, you have some better reason for being here than mere curiosity. Were that all, you would never have forced yourself to ask a favor of me. As I recall our last meeting, some twenty years ago, you did not view me with particular pleasure.”

She did not wish to be reminded of it, but his question was fair and he deserved an answer.

“You are quite right,” she conceded, looking not at him but straight ahead of her at the rapidly filling seats. The slight buzz of conversation made their voices inconspicuous among the rest. On impulse she decided to be moderately frank. “A friend of mine is concerned about some of the financial repercussions of this whole affair. I wish to learn far more of it than I know at the moment …”

He swiveled in his seat to stare at her with concern, even anxiety. “I hope you do mean a friend, and not yourself? And even if it is merely a friend, please do not involve your own finances in any way at all; not yet.”

She saw the gentleness in his eyes and was a little abashed to recognize an affection she had once dismissed.

“I have no money whatever in Africa, nor shall I, I promise you,” she said with a slight smile. “But I appreciate your warning.”

“I have no right to tell you not to rescue anyone …” he began, then drew in his breath and let it out in a sigh, “but don’t, please.”

Should she tell him the truth? It was unpleasantly deceitful to cause him completely unnecessary anxiety, and yet the rape of Catherine Quixwood seemed to be so far from the escapades of Leander Jameson that she could hardly expect Hector Manning to believe her. She did not have any explanation to make sense of it.

“It is a matter of proving someone innocent of a terrible act,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “So far as I know, no one I am acquainted with needs financial assistance, I promise you.”

He relaxed fractionally. “This whole venture was an appalling mess, you know. Is this friend of yours involved in it?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said frankly. “I am not being deliberately evasive, Hector. I really don’t know. If I can understand the raid better, it may answer a few very delicate questions.”

“You’re not going to tell me any other details, are you?” he concluded.

She smiled at him. “Not unless I have to. It would be indiscreet.”

Before they could discuss it any further the court was called to order and the trial commenced.

Vespasia listened with total attention. She already had a certain amount of information with which to catch up. She had never personally met Dr. Jameson, and now studied him with interest while the totally predictable formalities were conducted.

He entered the courtroom and walked toward his chair, taking his seat with care to arrange his dark frock coat so as not to crease it.

Every single person in the room was watching him, a fact of which he could not have been unaware. There was a dull flush visible over his complexion, even darkened by sun as it was. If he recognized anyone, he gave no sign of it.

Vespasia watched him with a growing interest. He was a physician by training, not a soldier, and looking at him now she wondered what course of events had led him to this situation. She could very easily imagine him listening with attention to the symptoms of an injury or illness, then gravely prescribing a treatment. He sat with his large head
a little to one side, as if weighing some deep consideration. He had fine, dark eyes—half concealed by drooping lids—a prominent nose and a full-lipped mouth. His hair was receding a trifle, his mustache neatly trimmed. It seemed the face of a city man, a doctor, a professor, or even a clergyman, not a soldier leading adventurers across an African border, armed with Maxim guns and Lee Metford rifles.