Midnight at Marble Arch

chapter



14



IT 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.”

“Thank you, Mr. Luckett,” Bower said gravely. “Did you let anyone into the house that evening, before Mrs. Quixwood’s death? Did you hear the doorbell ring, or were you made aware in any way of anyone entering the premises?”

Luckett stared at him with the same expression of revulsion he might have worn had he discovered a caterpillar in his dinner.

“No, sir, I did not.”

Bower raised his eyebrows. “Then how did any visitor gain entrance?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“But you locked the door before leaving for your walk?” Bower would not allow him to evade the issue.

“Yes, sir.”

“So who unlocked the door and let in whoever attacked Mrs. Quixwood?”

Luckett said nothing.

“You did place the bolts in their sockets, did you not?” Bower insisted.

“Yes, sir. Mr. Quixwood expected to be very late from his function. When that happens he stays at his club.” Luckett looked as if he were having teeth drawn.

“Just so,” Bower agreed. “So who let in the man who raped Mrs. Quixwood and beat her?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Must she not have let him in herself?” Bower demanded.

“It would seem so,” Luckett said very quietly.

“Thank you.” Bower turned to Symington.

Symington rose to his feet. He smiled up at Luckett.

“It does seem rather as if she let him in herself, doesn’t it?” he said ruefully. “But my learned friend has run the whole question into one. Let me rephrase it. Did Mrs. Quixwood ring for anyone to open the door? Or was there anyone else in the house who could have answered the door and let someone in, for whatever purpose?”

“No, sir.” Luckett regarded him warily.

“So Mrs. Quixwood opened the door. Is there any way to know whom she expected to be on the other side? A friend? Someone in trouble needing her counsel or help, perhaps? Even Mr. Quixwood, returning from his function earlier than he had expected? Or someone with an urgent message?”

“Yes, sir. It could have been any of those,” Luckett agreed with relief.

“Had Mr. Quixwood ever mislaid his key?”

“He did not carry a key, sir. It was his house. He would expect one of us to answer the door. But, like I said, he had intended to spend the night at his club.”

“Quite my point.” Symington smiled dazzlingly. “You have been butler to the household for several years, and a footman before that, I believe? You must have known Mrs. Quixwood since her marriage?”

“Yes, sir.” There was warmth in Luckett’s face, swiftly followed by grief.

“My learned friend said she must have let in the man who attacked her so terribly. Do you suppose she imagined he was there for that purpose?”

“Of course not!” Luckett was astonished.

“My thought exactly,” Symington agreed. “She let him in believing him to be harmless, even a friend. Thank you, Mr. Luckett.”

The judge looked at Bower, who declined to pursue the subject and instead called Inspector Knox.

Narraway realized he was sitting with his shoulders so tense his neck ached. At least Symington was putting up a fight. But he had been given no ammunition. Every avenue Narraway had followed regarding Catherine’s inquiries for financial advice had proved useless. She had inherited no money of her own, and Quixwood himself kept his affairs from her. They were complicated and extremely successful, as was to be expected with his profession.

Knox was sworn in and Bower began immediately asking him about the message he had received, and his arrival at the Quixwood house. Knox described what he had seen, being as brief as he could about the details. Apart from the fact that his voice trembled, he might have been speaking of a burglary, not what at that point had seemed to be a particularly dreadful murder.

“After you had sent for the police surgeon, what did you do then, Inspector Knox?” Bower asked.

“I sent my men to see if they could find how the attacker had gained entry, sir,” Knox replied. “We found nothing out of order at that time, and in the daylight the following morning we ascertained that that was indeed the case. He must have been let in through the front door.”

“And did you ever find evidence to contradict that?”

“No, sir.”

“But you looked?” Bower insisted.

“Yes, sir.”

“I shall call the police surgeon to give his own evidence,” Bower warned him. “But from the information he gave you, what did you conclude had happened to cause Mrs. Quixwood’s death?”

Symington rose to his feet. “My lord, Mr. Bower has asked the witness a question, and at the same time directed him not to answer it. How can the poor man know what to say?” He looked apologetic, and slightly amused.

“Perhaps you should rephrase your question, Mr. Bower,” the judge suggested. “Or else have the police surgeon testify now, and recall Inspector Knox after you have established how Mrs. Quixwood met her death.”

There was a rustle of interest in the gallery. Two of the jurors nodded. But it was light without substance, and Narraway knew it. It would make no difference in the end.

Without any outward loss of composure Bower said he would release Knox, and he sent for Dr. Brinsley.

Narraway half listened as Brinsley described the appalling injuries sustained by Catherine Quixwood. He used no emotive adjectives, and somehow his calm voice and bleak, sad face made the brutality of it even more horrific. The packed court could not but be reminded of the intimate and intense vulnerability of all of them.

Narraway had heard it before, but it still appalled him. He had seen her body lying on the floor, but he had not then imagined the fearful damage done to her. Only when Knox and Brinsley had described it to him had it become real.

The court listened in silence. There was no sound in the gallery, no whisper or rustle of movement, only the occasional gasp. A little farther along the row Narraway saw a woman reach out and take hold of her husband’s hand, and his fingers close over hers tightly.

What could have possessed any man to do such things? Surely only gut-wrenching fear or insane hatred drove this kind of depravity?

Why had he gone there, whoever he was—Hythe or anyone else? If she had intended to break off an affair, why had she let him into the house without a servant within call? Had the man in question never lost his temper before, never shown any inclination toward violence? Was that possible? Had she never had any other bruises, cuts, abrasions, from him before—nothing to show his nature?

Narraway fished in his pocket and found a pencil and paper. Hastily he wrote a note to Symington, then gave it to the usher to pass it to him.

“And what was the ultimate cause of Mrs. Quixwood’s death, Dr. Brinsley?” Bower asked after the doctor had finished.

“Her wounds were severe,” Brinsley replied. “But she actually died of an overdose of laudanum, taken in Madeira wine.”

“Self-administered?” Bower asked.

“No idea,” Brinsley said tartly.

“Could it have been just a little more than the usual medicinal dose?” Bower persisted.

“It was several times the usual medicinal dose,” Brinsley answered him. “No one could take that much by accident.”

“You are saying it was suicide,” Bower stated.

Brinsley leaned forward over the railing of the witness stand, his face flushed. “I am saying it was approximately four times the usual medicinal dose, Mr. Bower. She appears to have drunk it voluntarily, but whether she put the laudanum in the wine herself, or it was added by someone else, I have no idea, and—so far as I know—neither do you.”

Bower’s eyes flashed with temper but he did not retreat. “Is it possible that, out of shame at her betrayal of her husband, and the pain and humiliation of being raped by her lover—which inevitably her husband would come to know of—she deliberately took her own life?”

Brinsley glared at him. “I am not going to speculate, sir. I am a doctor, not a clairvoyant.”

“Have you known of women who have been raped who have taken their own lives?” Bower said between his teeth.

“Of course. People take their own lives for all sorts of reasons, and frequently we do not ever fully understand them,” Brinsley answered.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Bower responded with exaggerated patience. “Your witness, Mr. Symington.”

Symington rose and strolled over to the witness stand. He looked up at Brinsley and smiled.

“You must see many tragic and distressing cases, Dr. Brinsley.”

“I do,” Brinsley agreed.

“You have described poor Mrs. Quixwood’s wounds in some detail for Mr. Bower. I won’t ask you to go over them again. I think all of us are distressed enough. Just tell me one thing about them, if you please. Were they all sustained during that one awful attack?”

Bower stood up slowly. “Is my learned friend suggesting some other attack took place that same evening, my lord? That is preposterous! There are no grounds whatsoever for such a suggestion. And even if there had been such a … a mythical attack, how would Dr. Brinsley differentiate one wound from another?”

Symington looked at Bower as if he had taken leave of his wits.

“Good gracious,” he said incredulously. “Such a thing never occurred to me. She would hardly have let a second attacker into the house after sustaining one attack. What on earth are you saying?”

“It was your suggestion, sir!” Bower all but spat the words.

“Not at all,” Symington shook his head. “I was thinking that if her lover was prone to violence, then there might have been old bruises, half-healed scars, abrasions, from earlier quarrels. A deep bruise can take some time to disappear altogether.”

“I saw no older injuries at all,” Brinsley replied, but now his face was keen with a spark of interest.

“Then would it be reasonable to assume, from the evidence, of course, that the attack was sudden, and would have been completely unexpected?” Symington pushed his hands into his pockets and leaned back a little to look up at the doctor on the stand.

“It would indeed,” Brinsley agreed. “In fact, if the same man had ever shown any violence toward her, I imagine she would’ve been very careful not to let him in without male servants well within earshot. We can’t say for certain, but I think it is safe to assume that it was unexpected.”

“Then one may also assume that she was not afraid of him?” Symington waved his hands in denial. “Oh, I’m sorry. That was simply my own thought. Foolish of me. Of course she was not afraid of him, or she would not have let him in. Thank you, Dr. Brinsley.”

Bower half stood, then changed his mind and sat again, his face hard-edged and angry.

The court adjourned for luncheon. Narraway glanced up at the dock and saw Alban Hythe rise to his feet, looking back at the court only once before the jailers led him away. His face was white, terrified, and despairing, searching for even one person who believed in him.

Was Narraway such a person? He thought he was, but even still, he was glad Hythe had not met his eyes, or recognized him, because he was not certain what his own eyes would’ve revealed. The only thing he was sure of beyond any doubt at all was that he had no idea how to help him.


IN THE EVENING NARRAWAY sat alone in his study and weighed in his mind everything he knew or believed about Catherine Quixwood and Alban Hythe. He had read Catherine’s social diary. Was it really credible, as Hythe claimed, that she had been seeing him in order to learn more about major investments her husband might have made.

Did she actually know or understand enough of Quixwood’s finances to fear that he would lose badly? There was no hint of economic study or skill in what Narraway had learned of her. Her education was what would be expected of a young woman of her social class. She was well read in literature, spoke a little French, knew English history, and had the usual familiarity with the classics. She had added greatly to the last of these in her own private reading and attendance at various lectures. As far as he could see, none of them had concerned economics or investment strategy.

Her own private spending involved supervision of the kitchen expenses, and a dress allowance, which she had never exceeded. Quixwood himself saw to all other bills, and he was more than comfortably situated.

Was Hythe telling the truth, or building an elaborate, and frankly rather ridiculous, excuse for having met Catherine so frequently, where they could speak without being watched or overheard? If he offered that to Symington, without highly credible evidence, no jury would believe it.

What would such evidence be? Was it all paper investment, or real? Was it conceivable that the figures in Catherine’s diary were not telephone numbers but amounts of money? Thousands of pounds? Had Quixwood sunk a lot of his fortune in something Catherine had feared was morally or ethically questionable? Or in something she feared to be against British interests? In the Transvaal? Or in diamonds or gold specifically? In some venture with Cecil Rhodes? In the Pitsani Strip, in railways, in building? If Catherine was worried, why on earth look for vague information from Alban Hythe? Why not simply tell Quixwood that she was afraid, and ask him for assurance that he was not taking risks with their safety?

Was there any point in learning as much as he could about some dubious investment Quixwood might have considered, this late in the game? And what could any of it have to do with the rape?

The answer was almost certainly, nothing at all.

He went to bed tired and discouraged, and slept badly.