Midnight at Marble Arch (46 page)

“Though his reputation would hardly be untouched, after the evidence in court,” Vespasia pointed out.

“Neither name was mentioned,” Narraway said, his face tight with
anger. “And anyone who did name them could be sued for libel. Quixwood still has the vast weight of public sympathy.”

“If we do this right, we’ll get both of them,” Pitt answered.

“If we do this right, we’ll be damned lucky!” Narraway retorted with a shrug. “But let’s try.”

“Are you sure?” Vespasia asked cautiously. “If we lose it would be a disaster.”

“Of course it would,” he agreed. “But if we don’t try it’s a disaster for certain—and one of cowardice, because we’d be giving up, to avoid taking a risk.”

Vespasia smiled very, very slightly. “I thought you would say that.”

T
HE NEXT EVENING
P
ITT
and Narraway were together in Bryanston Square, waiting until Neville Forsbrook should appear. Stoker was in the Mews, just in case Neville left the house that way. Elmo Crask had already been and gone. They had agreed three men should be sufficient to follow Forsbrook, and they dared not trust anyone else with their plan, nor did they want to involve more men in something which was, at the very best, questionable.

They were in a hansom cab, slumped down so as to be all but invisible from the street. The cab driver was actually an agent from Special Branch, but he had no idea of the purpose they were pursuing.

Crask had been gone from Forsbrook’s house for nearly half an hour. To Pitt it seemed like far longer.

He was wondering if Neville could have gone out of the back into the Mews to take his father’s carriage and Stoker had missed him, or been unable to get a message to them at the front of the house. He was about to suggest going to look when the front door opened and Neville Forsbrook came out onto the step, hesitated a moment, then walked down to the pavement.

Narraway sat up instantly. “Get Stoker,” he told Pitt. “I’ll meet you just beyond the corner.”

Pitt was out on the road in a moment and going rapidly in the opposite
direction from Neville, keeping the hansom between them for as long as possible so he would not be seen if Forsbrook glanced behind.

As soon as he reached the corner, he crossed the road and started to run along the distance of George Street to Bryanston Mews.

Stoker was looking back and forth, and saw him immediately. Together, they returned to Upper George Street. A glance told them that the hansom now faced the other way, and Neville Forsbrook was no longer in sight. They raced along the pavement and scrambled into the cab as it lurched forward and the horse broke into a trot.

They caught up with Neville on Great Cumberland Place just as he hailed a cab. They had already assumed he was going to Quixwood’s house in Lyall Street, and so were not surprised when his cab crossed Oxford Street and went south on Park Lane. They expected him to turn right on Piccadilly and then along Grosvenor Place, and then finally right again on any of the possible turns toward Eaton Square.

The light was fading and the traffic was growing heavier. They needed to follow him more closely. There were carriages and goods wagons in among the lighter, faster hansoms. Pitt found himself leaning forward. It was completely pointless, but it was instinctive, as if he could urge the horse himself.

They reached Piccadilly and there was a jam as two four-wheelers all but collided. In a matter of seconds everyone had stopped, but twenty yards ahead of them Forsbrook’s cab was clear and racing toward Hyde Park Corner. Surely it would turn down Grosvenor Place, but what if it didn’t?

Pitt clenched his hands and fidgeted with impatience. How long would it take for Forsbrook to face Quixwood and attack him, kill him, if that was what he intended? What if the whole tragedy played itself out before they got there? It would be a disaster, and they would be to blame. No, he would, not Narraway or Stoker. Narraway was a civilian, Stoker Pitt’s subordinate. The responsibility was entirely his.

What could he do? It was too far to run … wasn’t it? He glanced sideways at the street, considering it. Perhaps he should go on foot, and have Narraway and Stoker follow him in the cab?

Pitt tried to suggest it just as the carriages ahead unlocked and theirs lurched forward, picking up speed, weaving in and out dangerously. He broke out in a sweat of relief. He did not deserve the rescue, he thought. This was a totally irresponsible idea. But it was too late to back out now.

It was another full ten minutes before they pulled up outside Quixwood’s house off Eaton Square. There was no hansom outside, and nothing on the street except one Brougham coming toward them with a man and woman in it, their outlines visible but without color in the fast-fading light.

Narraway swore and leaped onto the pavement. Pitt and Stoker were only a step behind him. It was the middle of summer and the air was still warm. His clothes stuck to his body with sweat.

Narraway tugged on the front door’s bellpull. Seconds later, he yanked it again.

Silence. Another cab rattled along the street.

The door opened and a footman stood there patiently, his face expressionless.

“Yes, sir. May I help you?”

“Lord Narraway. I need to see Mr. Quixwood immediately,” he said.

“I’m sorry, sir, that won’t be possible,” the footman replied calmly.

“I’m not asking you,” Narraway snapped. “I’m telling you. This is business of state.”

“My lord, Mr. Quixwood is not at home,” the footman said. “He left about five minutes ago.”

“Alone?” Narraway demanded.

“No, sir, there was a Mr. Forsbrook with him—”

“Where did they go?” Narraway cut across him. “Now, man! Quickly!”

The footman was trembling. He was the same man who had been there the night Catherine Quixwood had been killed.

Narraway controlled himself with an effort and spoke again, more gently. “I need to find them both, immediately. Mr. Quixwood’s life is in danger.”

The footman gulped. “He said to tell you, my lord, that he had gone to the house of Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould. He said you would know where that was.”

Narraway stood motionless, as if an icy wind had frozen him.

“And Forsbrook was with him?” Pitt whispered, horrified.

“Yes, sir.”

Narraway whirled around, leaving Pitt and Soker to follow him down the steps and into the hansom again, shouting Vespasia’s address at the driver. They were barely seated when the cab lurched forward. It threw them hard backward and then swung them against the sides as it swept around the corner and picked up a crazy speed.

None of them spoke as they hurtled along the now lamplit streets. The horse’s feet were loud on the stones; the wheels rattled. One moment they were almost at a gallop, the next veering around a corner and skidding to straighten up before pitching forward again.

Pitt’s mind created all sorts of pictures of what might be happening, and what situation they would meet. What if the footman had lied to them, on Quixwood’s orders, and the two men had not gone to Vespasia’s house at all? Or what if they were actually at Pitt’s own house, and it was Charlotte, Daniel and Jemima who were in danger? Might Neville Forsbrook this moment be raping Jemima? The thought was unbearable.

Instinctively Pitt leaned forward and shouted at the driver to go faster, but his voice was lost in the hiss and clatter of their progress.

Or what if Quixwood had murdered Forsbrook and left him in his own house, and was escaping now to who knows where?

They slowed to a stop outside Vespasia’s house. Pitt all but fell onto the pavement. Once again there was no other vehicle in sight, but now it was fully dark. It must be an hour or so short of midnight.

Narraway was beside him and Stoker just behind as they moved silently up to the front door. What if no one was able to let them in? The maids might even be locked up by Forsbrook or Quixwood.

Who was the master anyway? Was Forsbrook Quixwood’s hostage, or the other way around? Or were they truly allies?

Or was this a fool’s errand and they were not here at all?

Pitt could feel hysteria welling up inside him.

Narraway shot out a hand and gripped Pitt’s arm, his fingers like a vise. “Back,” he whispered. “Garden door.”

“Wait here,” Pitt whispered to Stoker. “In case they try to run.” Then he turned and led the way. There was a brief, highly undignified scramble over the wall and down again, then they tiptoed through the garden, probably treading on all kinds of flowers.

The light from the sitting room streamed through the French doors and across the grass. The curtains were at least half-open; there seemed to be no one in the room, then Pitt saw a shadow move beyond the curtains, and then another. He froze. He looked at Narraway and observed that he too had seen.

Might it simply be Vespasia and her maid? He motioned Narraway to stand well to the side, and he himself moved out of clear sight of the windows. Feeling his way he took one step at a time until he was just outside the glass. Inch by inch he leaned forward and got a better look.

Inside, Vespasia was standing motionless in front of Neville Forsbrook, her face pale. On one side of her, between her and the door, Rawdon Quixwood was standing facing them. He had a revolver in his hand, held steady. It was pointing downward, but any second he could lift it and shoot Vespasia and, when she fell, Forsbrook.

Pitt stepped back slowly and motioned to Narraway. When they were a couple of yards from the window he whispered urgently.

“Quixwood has a gun. Forsbrook appears unarmed. They have Vespasia. They’re talking, but through the glass I couldn’t hear what they’re saying.”

“Quixwood’s playing for time until we get here,” Narraway said softly. “Then he’ll shoot Forsbrook, and claim it’s self-defense, which I daresay it will be, by then.”

“Why here?” Pitt asked. “Why not do it at his own house?”

“Because this way he comes out the hero. He can claim he was trying to prevent Neville from committing another hideous act,” Narraway answered bitterly. “And I daresay both of us will be accidental deaths as well, blamed on Forsbrook.”

“He’d never get away with that,” Pitt said. “Vespasia would …”
Then he stopped, realizing that Vespasia would be part of the tragedy as well. His brain seemed to be unable to think.

“I’ll go in from the kitchen,” Narraway whispered. “Give me time, and then you go in from this way. We might be able to surprise him that way.”

“What about Forsbrook?”

“To hell with him,” Narraway hissed. “We’ve got to get Vespasia out of there. I’m going.”

Pitt grasped his arm, holding him with all his power, but the older man was stronger than he had expected. “Stop it!” Pitt said savagely. “If you pull us off balance we’ll alert them and will both be shot. I’ll go round to the kitchen. I know my way, and I know how to break in without making a noise. Wait for me, then come in this way!”

Narraway drew in breath to argue.

“Do as you’re damn well told!” Pitt said under his breath. “I’m head of Special Branch—you’re a civilian. Stay here!” And without waiting for further argument he let go of Narraway and crept through the flower bed.

He found the scullery window and, after fishing in his pockets, came up with a piece of sticky paper and a small, very neat glass cutter. He put the paper on the window near where the catch was and quickly, carefully, cut out a circle, holding on to an edge of the paper. He removed the glass soundlessly and reached his hand through the opening.

A few moments later he had the window open and was inside. It was dark and he had to move very carefully. If he tripped over anything, upset a pile of boxes or bumped into anything, he would alert Quixwood to his presence.

Step by step he went through the kitchen and into the hall. Outside the sitting-room door he stopped. He could now hear the voices inside.

“You think Pitt will come?” Forsbrook asked huskily, his voice laced with fear. “He won’t. Why should he?”

“Because he’s following you, you fool!” Quixwood snapped. “He told you I’d betray you so you’d come and attack me.”

“You
could
betray me,” Forsbrook said loudly, his voice wavering now. “They’ll let Hythe go and come after you. They know you poisoned the wine. Why would you do that if you didn’t know she would be raped?” It was clear panic was mounting in him, and that he was close to losing control.

“That’s what they want you to think, you fool!” Quixwood said, his voice scalding with contempt. “Get a grip on yourself. They’ll come here. I told the footman to tell Narraway where I’d gone.”

“Why should he care what happens to me?” Forsbrook demanded. He was nearly shouting now. “Pitt would see me hanged for that Portuguese girl. He knows it was me, he just can’t prove it.”

“No, he can’t prove it,” Quixwood agreed. “Or any of the others.”

“They don’t know about the others!” Forsbrook yelled. “And if you tell them I raped Catherine, I’ll tell them you paid me to.”

“No you won’t,” Quixwood said levelly.

“If you shoot, you’ll hit Lady Vespasia.” Forsbrook’s voice was almost falsetto, panic tearing through him. “How are you going to explain that? The bullet’ll go through her and into me. You won’t be able to say it was my fault!” Now he was crowing, high and shrill, sudden victory in sight.

Pitt chose that instant to open the door, pushing it hard and following straight in behind it.

Quixwood had moved a yard or two from where he had been when Pitt had seen him through the window. He was closer to Vespasia. He heard Pitt and swung around to face him, the gun in his hand. He smiled.

“At last! But slow, Commander. There’s your rapist. Or perhaps I should say ‘my rapist.’ He’s the one who raped and beat poor Catherine. But I daresay you know that. Though, I must admit, I hadn’t expected you to work it out.”

Forsbrook started to speak, then changed his mind. He held Vespasia, tight and hard in front of him. “Quixwood’s mad. He kidnapped me and now he’s trying to kill me. I don’t know who murdered his wife. She must have had some other lover, if it really wasn’t Hythe.”