Midnight at Marble Arch (40 page)

Quixwood gripped the railing in front of him. “No.”

“Would you have acted differently had you known?” Bower asked.

“Naturally. I would have required an explanation from her, and then forbidden her to continue. It was foolish … and …” he swallowed
convulsively, “… ill-considered, at best. As it turned out, it seems to have been tragic. I had no idea she was so … so emotionally fragile. I had not seen it in her character.”

Bower nodded sagely. “She had always been of good judgment until this … friendship?”

“Yes. Excellent. Catherine was a beautiful and gracious woman.”

“You were happy in your marriage?”

“Very. No one who knew Catherine would be surprised at it. Many men envied me my good fortune. And I held myself to be fortunate.” Quixwood stood quite still. Never once did his eyes stray up toward Hythe in the dock, or toward the jury.

“Did she ever give you cause to be concerned that she was forming a romantic attachment to another man? Please think carefully. I regret asking such an ugly question, but circumstances force me to.” Bower looked genuinely distressed.

“I understand,” Quixwood said softly. “If you please, let us get it over with. Allow me to answer the question you are leading toward too delicately.” He straightened his shoulders with an effort. “Yes, looking back with hindsight, it is perfectly possible that my wife was having an affair with Alban Hythe. He is a charming man and has many interests Catherine shared—interests I myself had not time to indulge in. She may have hungered for someone with whom to discuss them. It never occurred to me at the time. I trusted her absolutely. She had the freedom to come and go as she wished. We—we did not have children, and I asked no social duties of her except the occasional dinner party.”

Vespasia could feel a wave of sympathy for him emanating in the courtroom. The jury was all but overcome by emotion.

Quixwood took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. “Perhaps I should have asked more of her; then she would not have …” He was unable to complete the thought aloud.

Bower did not press him.

“We have heard that you were attending a function at the Spanish Embassy when the police informed you of Mrs. Quixwood’s death,” Bower continued.

“Yes,” Quixwood agreed. “At the Spanish Embassy. I was in conversation
with Lord Narraway when I was told … told that Catherine had been … attacked.”

There was a shudder of horror in the gallery, a sigh. Two or three women let out little moans of pity and grief.

“Quite so.” Bower nodded. “I regret raising the question, had you noticed any change in Mrs. Quixwood’s behavior over the last few months before the incident? Was she absentminded? Did she wear any very attractive new clothes? Did she seem to take more than the usual care over her appearance? Was she evasive about where she had been or whom she had met?”

Quixwood smiled bleakly and the pain in his face was evident.

“You are asking me if she was having a love affair. The answer is that I noticed nothing at the time. Perhaps I should have, but I deal in major finance, enormous sums of money, all of which belong to other people. It is a great responsibility. I paid her too little attention.” He blinked several times and took a moment to regain control of his grief.

Quixwood had said nothing against Hythe whatever, and yet at this moment Vespasia knew the jury would have convicted him without even retiring to debate the issue. The anger and the pain in their faces testified to it more vividly than words. Symington would have to be more than a genius, he would need to be a magician to turn this tide.

“Mr. Quixwood, I will not harrow you by asking you to describe for us your feelings as you traveled back home, or when you saw your wife’s body broken and bleeding on the floor, hideously violated,” Bower said gravely.

“Please tell the jury, Mr. Quixwood—briefly, if it is easier for you—what you yourself did after that terrible night, in order to assist the investigation. As much as you can recall. I am sure the Court appreciates that it has been a nightmare for you, one in which your memory may be imperfect.”

Vespasia was aware of the skill of the question, the careful making of room for error. It would be almost impossible now for Symington, who was furiously scribbling notes to himself, to trip him up. Was that on purpose because Bower feared Quixwood would make errors? Or was it a usual precaution he would have taken with anyone?

Quixwood hesitated, as if arranging his thoughts, then began. His voice was low and very clear, his eyes downcast. He looked like a man controlling terrible pain.

“That night, as I recall, I asked Lord Narraway to give me any help he could personally. He was very gracious, and seemed to me to care deeply, both for justice in general, and in this case in particular. I knew of him, of course, when he was head of Special Branch, but I found him in this instance a man of remarkable compassion. He seemed genuinely appalled at the savagery of the crime, and moved to do whatever he could to find out who was guilty. I’m not sure if I ever told him how much his support meant to me.”

There was another murmur of approval around the gallery and a few of the jurors smiled.

Vespasia felt the bitterness of the irony, that Quixwood was thanking Narraway now, when Narraway was off trying to do everything in his power to help free Hythe.

“He spent a great deal of time at my home,” Quixwood went on thoughtfully. “He read through Catherine’s diaries, something I would find too painful to do, but which I was glad that he did.” He looked at the jury. “The items are all in evidence, so he has not had to testify. I believe Catherine’s maid authenticated them.”

“Thank you, Mr. Quixwood,” Bower said with a gracious gesture, an inclination of his head in respect.

Symington sat fidgeting, and Vespasia felt a wave of pity for him. It was clear he knew that Bower was asking such questions only to keep Quixwood on the stand and draw the jury’s sympathy even more. There was no real evidence to give. But if Symington challenged him on it and won, then the trial would be virtually at an end. So he must drag it out as long as he could, to give Pitt and Narraway a chance to find the new evidence they were searching for. Bower had all the cards to play and Symington was desperate.

Bower was smiling now. It was a gentle, friendly smile, one of compassion. “Mr. Quixwood, was your wife a beautiful woman?”

Quixwood blinked hard several times before replying. “Yes, she was, in every way. Her face was uniquely lovely, full of life and wit and
grace. She could be terribly funny, when she wanted to, and without unkindness. She loved beauty of every kind, and knowledge. She was interested in everything. You may think I say that now because I loved her, but ask anyone who knew her and they will say the same.”

“Have you ever had instances before where another man craved her attention more than was appropriate?” Bower asked.

“Yes, but Catherine was well able to decline without ill feeling,” Quixwood answered. “I suppose every truly lovely woman has to learn that art.”

“So you had no cause to fear for her?”

“Of course not! For God’s sake …” His voice broke. “She was in her own home with the doors locked and … and a full complement of servants!” Quixwood said in a sudden burst of anguish. “What should I fear? I was out at a reception my business required I attend. What sane man would imagine such a … a …” He struggled to regain his control, but failed. He bowed his head and quickly wiped at his cheeks.

For a moment Vespasia thought Pitt and Narraway had to be wrong, at least in the assumption that Quixwood could have had anything to do with the crime. Perhaps it was Pelham Forsbrook, in revenge for Quixwood having been Eleanor’s lover—if that was true. Yes, surely that made more sense? She would say so to Symington, when she had the chance.

“I have no further questions for this witness, my lord,” Bower said. He looked at Symington with slightly raised eyebrows.

Symington rose to his feet, then seemed to hesitate. He looked at Quixwood, then at the jury. No one moved.

“Mr. Symington?” the judge asked courteously.

Symington smiled, a charming, almost luminous smile that Vespasia knew he could not possibly mean. The only chance he had was to win some sympathy from the jury, create some shred of doubt in their minds.

“Thank you, my lord,” Symington said gracefully. He looked up at Quixwood. “I hate this. Heaven only knows how you have suffered already, Mr. Quixwood, and I cannot imagine what you have lost in this whole terrible tragedy. I do not believe that the accused was the
man who did this thing, but I do not believe that putting you through any further agony will assist me in proving that. I offer you my sincerest regrets over the fearful death of a woman who seems by every account to have been beautiful in all respects.”

He sat down again, to the amazement of the gallery, the jury, and the judge. Even Bower looked momentarily wrong-footed.

Vespasia felt her heart sink. Pitt and Narraway could not possibly have found anything yet. Why on earth did Symington not think of something to give them time? Was the man a fool? Or did he know he was beaten, and could see no point in stretching out the pain?

Bower stood up again, victory flushing his cheeks, making his eyes bright.

“The prosecution rests, my lord.”

Symington was pale as he stood again and asked the judge for an adjournment so he might speak privately with his client before beginning the defense.

Perhaps hoping that they could have a speedy end, the judge granted an adjournment until the following morning.

Vespasia stood up slowly, a little stiff, and waited a few minutes while the crowd pushed and jostled its way out. She did not want to linger, but she could not think of anywhere else to go. She had reached the main doors to the street and was hesitating there when she heard her name called. She turned to find Symington at her elbow.

“Lady Vespasia, may I speak with you, perhaps in half an hour or so? It is extremely pressing, or I wouldn’t trouble you.”

“Pressing is a magnificent piece of understatement, Mr. Symington,” she replied. “If there is anything at all that I can do, I am entirely at your disposal.”

“I’m afraid I must ask you to wait because now is the only chance I have to see Hythe again before tomorrow morning, although I have very little idea what I can say to him that will help, except a final plea to tell me the truth. I have nothing with which to defend him.”

“Of course I will wait.” She gave the only answer possible. “If you can show me where I may do so without being asked to leave?”

“I have the use of a room. Thank you.”

She followed where he directed her; as soon as he left her alone in the small room, she rose to begin to pace the floor. Her mind went over and over the facts she knew, seeking for any escape whatever.

The minutes ticked by. She heard voices and footsteps outside, but no one disturbed her.

They were going to lose tomorrow. It seemed inevitable. And Narraway was so convinced that Hythe was not guilty. Perhaps he was capable of deeper emotion than she had considered, but he would never be a sentimental man, following wishes where his reason denied. The violence against Catherine Quixwood had appalled him. He had never known her in life, yet in her terrible death she had touched something in him deeper than anger or pity at a crime.

Assuming both Catherine and Hythe were innocent of any romantic or physical liaison and it was, as Pitt and Narraway had conjectured, a matter of his finding information for her regarding investment in the fiasco of the Jameson Raid, then why did Hythe not say so now? If he were the man he claimed to be, what could possibly be worse than the fate of conviction and hanging for a shocking crime you didn’t even commit?

Lady Vespasia wondered what love or honor would make her willing to silently face such a hideous death.

Surely he was doing it for someone. And if so, it had to be Maris, whom he loved, and who had been loyal to him throughout. To save her from what, though? Destitution? But if he was prepared to remain silent about the truth to protect her, that could only mean that the truth would ruin someone else.

That in turn must be Quixwood. Or perhaps Pelham Forsbrook?

Would Hythe trust either of them, though? Not without something that committed them to keeping their word about caring for Maris. What could that be?

Vespasia was still pondering it all when Symington returned. The courage and grace he had shown in the courtroom had vanished. He looked totally beaten.

She did not ask if he had succeeded in getting information from Hythe; the answer was apparent.

“I don’t know what else to do,” he said, dropping into a chair and indicating with a weary gesture that she should sit opposite him.

She remained standing, unable to relax, but he appeared too exhausted to stand again.

“Mr. Symington, a reason for Mr. Hythe’s refusal to defend himself has occurred to me,” she said gravely. “He believes he cannot be saved, which in the circumstances is a reasonable assumption. However, if he is as noble a man as his wife believes, then he will not fight a hopeless battle for his own life or honor when to give in silently might preserve some measure of comfort and protection for her.”

Symington looked up, frowning. “Narraway suggested much the same thing. We realized if he is hanged, as he well might be, then her life will be wretched, and unless she has family, she will probably also be destitute.”

“So what if Quixwood has promised to look after her, even given Hythe some written commitment that cannot be broken?” she suggested. “On condition, of course, that Hythe does not reveal the financial information that he obtained for Catherine?”

“It’s certainly possible. But how the devil do we prove all this?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But for the sake of a man’s life, we must spend all the time we have left trying. I intend to go to Thomas Pitt’s home and wait for his return. He and Lord Narraway will solve this, if it can be done.”

“I shall come with you,” he insisted. “We have no time to waste in relaying messages to each other. Come.”