Midnight at Marble Arch

chapter



17



STOKER CAME INTO PITT’S office and closed the door.

“Morning, sir,” he said as he walked over and sat down on the other side of the desk. Pitt would not have presumed to sit without permission when this had been Narraway’s office, he thought wryly. Stoker was becoming comfortable. Possibly that was a good thing; on the other hand, it might be a mark of the changing times.

“What do you have on Neville Forsbrook?” Pitt asked him.

Stoker pursed his lips. “Not sure it’s a lot of use,” he said a little awkwardly. “He’s never crossed the law, or if he has then his father paid people off for him and they kept quiet. Couple of whispers …” He hesitated.

“What, exactly?” Pitt pressed. “If it’s nothing out of the usual I don’t care: bad gambling debts, or fights … unless someone was very badly hurt. Did he seriously damage anyone? Use a knife? Maim or disfigure anyone?”

“No. Most of his trouble was with prostitutes,” Stoker replied with evident distaste. “One or two brothels had to be paid off, and accepted the money only on the condition he didn’t return.”

“Go on,” Pitt said sharply.

“Well, I don’t know if it’s true,” Stoker said tentatively. “But there’s word going round, very quietly, that Neville beat a prostitute pretty badly, and her pimp returned the favor, but with a knife. Left a few marks Forsbrook’ll carry for the rest of his life. At least that’s how the story goes.”

“How much credit do you give it?” Pitt was interested, but he was well aware that people boasted for many reasons, perhaps to build up their reputations as bad men to cross. It was a part of their image, and their vanity.

“Difficult to check,” Stoker replied. “Couldn’t get a precise date, but I have a guess. Forsbrook took a sudden holiday, and no one saw him at any functions for a couple of months. Told everyone he took a trip to Europe, but I haven’t been able to confirm that yet.”

“Where in Europe did he supposedly go?”

“Somewhere unusual,” Stoker answered with a twisted smile. “Nowhere on the Grand Tour, where he’d expect to be seen. Sofia, or Kiev, or someplace like that. Not going to run into any of your neighbors there.”

“You believe the story?”

Stoker chewed on his lip. “Put it this way: if he raped those two girls—Angeles Castelbranco, and then Alice Townley—it would fit the pattern that he tried it on a prostitute first, and got himself beaten for it. So badly he had to get away from London until he was healed.”

He shifted his weight. “On the other hand, if he didn’t rape either of them, then he could quite genuinely have taken a holiday in Sofia, or anywhere else. We might be able to prove he went to those places, if we dig, but there’s no real way we can prove he didn’t—unless we can show with certainty where he actually was. But I’d give a week’s pay if it turns out his father didn’t cover the tracks so no one’ll find them.”

“Interesting,” Pitt said thoughtfully.

“But of no use,” Stoker pointed out.

“Unless we can find the pimp who allegedly cut him and learn exactly where the scars are.”

Stoker grinned. “Yeah? I can see young Mr. Forsbrook letting us take a good look at the more private parts of his body to verify a pimp’s story!”

Pitt pulled a sour face. “But if it’s true, then it’s undoubtable that Forsbrook fits the pattern of rage and savagery extremely well. Tell me, do you believe it, Stoker?”

Stoker was suddenly grim and very steady. “Yes, sir, actually I do. I talked to quite a lot of people. No one is willing to say much against him. His father’s got a great deal of power in financial circles.”

He chewed his lip uncertainly. “There is a bit of a whisper that Pelham took a pretty hard fall over this Jameson Raid affair. Put more money into it than he can afford to lose. Bit of bad advice, I should think. Reckoned on us annexing the Transvaal.”

“Bad advice?” Pitt questioned. “From whom?”

“Well, you’d have to think you knew something before you risked your shirt on a raid like that, wouldn’t you?” Stoker said reasonably. “Inside information somewhere.”

“Yes,” Pitt agreed. “But that doesn’t excuse Neville Forsbrook of anything, even if it’s true.”

“And it would be difficult to trace Pelham Forsbrook’s dealings,” Stoker said. “A lot of it’s confidential, and there’s no way to judge why he backed one person and not another.”

“You’re right,” Pitt agreed. “It’s a waste of time, and could make us a lot of enemies where we need friends. Just look for anything recent in young Forsbrook’s life that seems odd.”

“There’s nothing Portuguese,” Stoker said straightaway. “Him or his father, I looked at that already.”

“And what about Neville Forsbrook’s income? Is all of it directly from his father? Any inheritance from his mother?”

“Not much, and he doesn’t come into it until he marries,” Stoker said with a shrug. “He’s tried one or two things, a couple of years in the army, but he didn’t take kindly to the discipline. Gave it up. Good leader, not such a good follower.”

“Thank you, Stoker. See what else you can find that’ll tie into rape.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let me know as soon as you can. Now I have to go and see the Home Secretary.”

“About this?” Stoker was concerned.

Pitt smiled bleakly. “I don’t know. He didn’t inform me.”


PITT STOOD ON THE carpet in front of the Home Secretary’s desk, too angry, and too aware of his own guilt, to do anything but remain at attention.

“The situation in Africa is very delicate, Pitt,” the Home Secretary said irritably. “You can hardly be unaware of the Jameson fiasco, and the massive reparations we are going to have to pay to Kruger and the Boers.” He said it with considerable bitterness, and Pitt could not help wondering if he too had suffered some personal reversal in the disaster.

“Yes, sir, I am aware of that,” Pitt said grimly. “And of Mr. Churchill’s warning that sooner or later, if we are not very careful, we will find ourselves at war with the Boers in Africa, which will include the Cape as well. In my own judgment he is probably correct. I am also aware that feeling is very divided here in England, and many regard Jameson as a hero. We are doing what we can to forestall any violent demonstrations—either for him or against him—but it is largely a police matter of public order.”

“I know it is not Special Branch’s responsibility!” the Home Secretary snapped. “That’s not why you are here. I want to know why the devil are you inquiring into the personal affairs of Pelham Forsbrook. I thought I made it clear in my note to you that the very nasty scandal surrounding the Portuguese Ambassador and his family was to be left alone. What was it about my orders that you failed to understand?”

Explanations raced through Pitt’s mind, but he knew none of them were what the Home Secretary wanted to hear.

“For God’s sake, Pitt!” the Home Secretary went on furiously. “Even Castelbranco himself understands that there is no proof of anything, and irresponsible accusations will serve no one. The poor girl is dead and nothing can bring her back. Let what is left of her reputation be preserved from further speculation, for her parents’ sake, if nothing else.”

He prodded a finger in Pitt’s direction. “You are not a policeman to hound the case to its bitter end, you are head of Her Majesty’s Special Branch! Your concerns are the safety of this nation within its own borders, the catching of anarchists, traitors, enemies of the state and its people. Didn’t Narraway make that clear to you, for heaven’s sake?”

Pitt clenched his hands behind his back, where the Home Secretary could not see them, and let his breath out slowly.

“Yes, sir. Lord Narraway explained my responsibilities in some detail, and the width of my remit, in pursuit of those ends. I believe that an attack on the family of a friendly nation’s ambassador falls very clearly within that realm. We cannot afford the reputation of being a country where foreign women are not safe from rapists. Still less can we appear to be indifferent to such atrocities, as if they were commonplace in London, and we thought nothing of it.”

“Don’t be absurd!” the Home Secretary snapped, his face scarlet. “And offensive. Nobody is dismissing the tragedy, but to say that it is rape is irresponsible. There is only a hysterical girl’s account, totally without proof, that anything at all took place. You cannot and must not slander a man’s reputation with such a suggestion. Not to mention the wretched girl’s. What on earth do you imagine people are saying about her? Have you thought of that?”

Pitt made an intense, almost painful effort to keep his self-control. His body ached. His mouth was dry. “I have made no remarks at all to suggest that Miss Castelbranco was raped, or even assaulted, sir,” he said between his teeth. “Her own church has declined to give her proper rites of burial, on the assumption that she lost her virginity, became with child in an illicit affair, and then intentionally took her own life.” He was unable to stop his voice from shaking. He was angry enough to face down the Queen, never mind a mere Cabinet Minister.

The blood drained from the Home Secretary’s face, leaving him gray. “The matter is tragic indeed,” he said quietly. “But it is not our fault—”

“It is our fault if we do nothing about it,” Pitt cut across him, quite aware of what he was doing. He was past caring for the niceties.

“Slandering Neville Forsbrook’s name will not help.” The Home Secretary was growing angrier as the exchange slipped out of his control. “One injustice does not help another. And if you imagine it will, you are the wrong man to have replaced Narraway. I didn’t like the man, but by God, he had better judgment than this!”

“Actually, sir, my inquiries about Neville Forsbrook’s past behavior had nothing whatever to do with the death of Angeles Castelbranco,” Pitt said very carefully, measuring every word. “The Portuguese ambassador will become aware of it only in the future, if it should prove relevant. Which is why I considered it prudent, as well as morally right, to inquire now.”

The Home Secretary glared at him. “What the devil do you mean? Explain yourself,” he demanded.

“Another young woman was raped, and survived the assault, although she was injured,” Pitt replied, fixing his gaze on the Home Secretary’s eyes. “The family does not wish to make a complaint, for the girl’s sake. She is only seventeen. It would ruin her socially, prevent her from making a fortunate marriage, and ensure that for the rest of her life this repulsive violation follows her everywhere.”

The Home Secretary stared at him, aghast. “And what has this to do with Forsbrook?” It was clear in his face that he knew what Pitt was going to say. He had tensed, as if anticipating a physical blow.

“She named Neville Forsbrook as her rapist,” Pitt said. “She described the circumstances, the time, and the place. Naturally I had it looked into. She refused to tell me the house in which it happened, but it was very easy to find out. There were not so many balls held in London that night. Her attendance was not secret, nor was that of Forsbrook. The rooms, the paintings, the other details were simple to ascertain.”

The Home Secretary let out his breath slowly.

“I see. And what is it you imagine this will accomplish? Let alone what it has to do with Special Branch?” he asked.

Pitt raised his eyebrows. “I would like to find out if Neville Forsbrook raped Angeles Castelbranco and thus brought about her death. I think that is the concern of Special Branch, but if you think the Foreign Office better equipped to handle the investigation, I shall be delighted to turn over all the facts that I have so far obtained.”

“Don’t be so damned impertinent, sir!” the Home Secretary snapped. Then he leaned back in his chair and stared at Pitt, still standing on the carpet in front of the desk, towering over him. “Be careful! Pelham Forsbrook is a very powerful man indeed. If you malign his son and you cannot prove it, he’ll have your job, and I can’t save you. Not that I shall try.”

Pitt felt the cold seep through him as if he were sinking into icy water. “I shall be very careful, sir,” he said in little more than a whisper. “But the man has to be stopped. The next victim could be your daughter.”

“Granddaughter,” the Home Secretary corrected him bitterly. “Again, be careful!”

“Yes, sir.”


LATE IN THE AFTERNOON Pitt went again to the Portuguese Embassy. He must see Castelbranco and tell him the latest news, as he had promised he would.

When he reached the embassy, Rafael received him immediately in the quiet study. Pitt had considered what he was going to say, and knew perfectly well what it might cost him, but he had no doubt as to what it would cost him if he did not.

“You have news,” Castelbranco said softly. “I can see it in your face. What has happened?” There was anxiety in his voice and his eyes looked Pitt up and down.

His gentle tone stiffened Pitt’s resolve. He had gained a profound regard for the Portuguese ambassador over the last weeks, even a kind of affection. In many people grief shows more vividly their weaknesses; it shakes the fault lines in their character. In Castelbranco, though, it had marked more profoundly his strengths. There was a fortitude in him that was rare.

“It is good of you to come,” the ambassador said quietly. “May I offer you some refreshment? I have whisky, if you wish it, but in view of the pleasantness of the weather, you might prefer something lighter? I have been drinking a concoction my wife enjoys, a mixture of fruit juices.” He stood still, waiting for Pitt’s answer.

“That sounds excellent,” Pitt agreed honestly. “We’ll keep the whisky for the autumn.”

Castelbranco took a glass from the cupboard and filled it from a jug on the sideboard, then they both sat down. Under different circumstances, Pitt reflected sadly, they would have truly enjoyed each other’s company.

On the way to the embassy, he had been trying to reach a decision. Now in this calm room he no longer wavered. It was disobedience to the spirit of the Home Secretary’s orders, but to obey would be a betrayal of this man Pitt had come to think of as almost a friend.

Castelbranco was waiting for Pitt to speak. The silence would stretch comfortably only so long.

“They are almost certainly going to find Alban Hythe guilty in the next few days,” Pitt said at last. “I’m not certain it is the correct verdict, but there is little to refute it. However, the man who was head of Special Branch before me, and for whom I have an immense regard, believes Hythe is innocent.”

Castelbranco’s face creased with an even deeper sense of tragedy.

“More injustice,” he said softly. “The whole matter of violence toward our women stirs a hysteria in us we don’t seem to manage very well. Terror and unreason rage through it all. Can you do anything to help?”

“I doubt it,” Pitt admitted. “But I know Lord Narraway won’t give up. As you will recall the charge is that they were lovers who quarreled, not that he attacked her at random.”

Castelbranco smiled bleakly. “I am aware of your point, Mr. Pitt. I do not imagine that this young man assaulted my daughter. She told her mother it was Neville Forsbrook. I do not doubt her.” There was a question in his eyes. It was not a challenge, but his gaze was direct and unwavering. “I don’t know why this man Quixwood would say that it could not be. Perhaps in his own grief his memory is disturbed. His loss is terrible, and the whole of London knows that his wife betrayed him.”

“It is an awful situation,” Pitt agreed. “But not what I came to discuss. I have made it my business to learn much more about Neville Forsbrook, and that is the reason I came this evening in particular. The Home Secretary has commanded me to cease my investigations in the matter. If I don’t he has threatened to remove me from my command—in fact, I imagine from the Service altogether.”

“Then you cannot continue!” Castelbranco said in alarm, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes wide. “You have done all you can to find justice for my daughter, and been a good friend to me. What ill return I would offer you to ask more!”

“I can at least tell you what I know,” Pitt answered. “I have, in fact, discovered quite a lot about Forsbrook.” He repeated what Stoker had told him regarding the incident with the prostitute and the resulting violence from the pimp, as well as Neville Forsbrook’s prolonged absence from England. He also mentioned the rumors of Pelham Forsbrook’s violent nature, and that his wife, Neville’s mother, had supposedly fled—whether to an imaginary lover or a real one, no one knew—and had been tragically killed in a carriage accident.

“It explains much,” Castelbranco said quietly, staring into his empty glass. “But it does not excuse it. Neville is dangerous. Do you not think he will continue to hurt others?”

“Yes, I do,” Pitt answered. “I would very much like him to be stopped, but so far I have no idea how I can do that.” He fished in his pockets and brought out a folded piece of paper. On it was a name and address. He held it out to Castelbranco. “This is a man I knew on and off when I was in the regular police. It would be necessary to pay him, but he is not greedy and he is extremely discreet. He can make inquiries for you, if you wish.”

Castelbranco took the paper and read it. “Elmo Crask? Is that how you pronounce it?”

“Yes. He is unimpressive to look at. He appears harmless, untidy, as if easily fooled, but he cultivates that intentionally. He is very clever indeed and has a memory like an elephant. But consider before you approach him.” Even as he said it Pitt still wondered if he was doing the right thing. It was what he himself would want, but that did not make it wise. He had not told Charlotte what he intended because he thought she might well disapprove.

Castelbranco was waiting, watching him.

“No matter how careful he is, it is possible that one way or another Pelham Forsbrook will come to hear of it. There may be no proof that you are behind the inquiry, but it would be the obvious conclusion.”

“What can he do that is worse than what his son has done?” Castelbranco asked with a quiver in his voice.

“He can certainly strike where it hurts,” Pitt said miserably. “He can start more rumors about your daughter, ask even crueller questions. Please don’t take it for granted that he wouldn’t. If he believes he is protecting his son’s reputation, he will be as determined as you are, and far less scrupulous.”

“Such behavior would surely prove his son’s guilt,” Castelbranco pointed out. “But I hear what you say, and I shall weigh it before I approach this …” he looked again at the piece of paper, “… Elmo Crask. I know it is not only a matter of the past—there is the future to consider as well, all the other young women Neville could destroy, the other families who will be wounded forever by loss.”

Pitt stood up and held out his hand. “I’m sorry to offer so little.”

“It is much.” Castelbranco stood as well, his voice suddenly husky. “You have already gone far beyond the bounds of your office. I hope you do not suffer for it.” He firmly held on to Pitt’s hand for several seconds before releasing it.

Pitt left, and went out into the warm summer night hoping desperately that he had made the right decision, that he had acted with wisdom, not merely out of emotion.


HE TOOK A HANSOM cab and rode through the heavy traffic barely noticing it, his mind in turmoil. He wanted to be at home, surrounded by the comforts he was familiar with, and put other people’s grief out of his mind, at least for a few hours.

But he knew home would not afford him that. He would look at all he had, the things that were precious to him beyond measure, the center of all value and happiness in his life, his wife and children, and he would not be able to forget. By the time he reached the quiet of Keppel Street, and his own house, he had no answers, only a greater clarity as to the questions.

Charlotte was happy to see him, as always. If she had concerns, she was wise enough to keep them until after supper when he would undoubtedly be more willing to listen—or, at the very least, not hungry.

Jemima was excited and full of energy, her eyes shining, her face flushed. He half listened as she told him in hectic detail about something to do with a musical performance. He had learned to feign an appearance of understanding, nodding at the right times. She did not expect him to understand. Charlotte understood, and that was sufficient.

Daniel rolled his eyes now and again, then when it was his turn to receive the attention he asked numerous questions about the geography of the Empire, and answered them himself. His knowledge was impressive and Pitt told him so, to his son’s immense pleasure.

Later, Pitt was standing in front of the French windows, which were wide open, the perfume of damp soil drifting into the room, when Charlotte approached him. The last of the light was on the tops of the neighbors’ trees. Starlings circled in the air. Apart from a very slight breeze moving the leaves, and a dog barking on and off in the distance, there was hardly any sound.

“What is it?” she asked quietly, coming to stand beside him.

“What is what?” His mind had been wandering and he could not remember the last thing he had said to her.

“Thomas! I know you are worrying about something. I imagine it is to do with Angeles Castelbranco.” There was a degree of exasperation in her voice, but it was gentle.

“Questions, to which I don’t know the answers,” he replied.

She linked her arm through his and stood close enough so he could feel the warmth of her body. “About Angeles?” she asked. “You are not sure it was Neville Forsbrook, are you? It was. I saw him taunting her. He knew exactly what he was doing, and why it would hurt her.”

“In spite of the fact that Rawdon Quixwood swears Neville was somewhere else and couldn’t have been involved?” He smiled very slightly, disengaging his arm from hers and then putting it around her and holding her even closer.

“Is that the question you’re asking yourself?” she said. “Why on earth Rawdon Quixwood would lie to protect Neville Forsbrook?”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Assuming he is lying.”

Charlotte weighed it in silence for several moments before she spoke.

“People lie for several reasons,” she said thoughtfully. “To protect themselves, or someone they love; or, of course, someone they are being pressured to protect. Or they lie to achieve something, or to avoid something. Do people lie to protect an ideal? Or because the truth is something they can’t afford to believe, for some reason? Something they just don’t want to believe? Refuse to?” She watched him, waiting for the answer. “Or are afraid to?” she added.

“Or maybe because of blackmail?” he answered. “Or debt? And if that’s the case, then the question arises, what could Rawdon Quixwood possibly owe either Neville or his father?”

“Maybe they knew something about Catherine that he wants to keep secret?” she suggested. “After all, the poor woman can’t protect herself now.”

“But she was already dead when Quixwood stepped forward to swear Forsbrook was innocent regarding Angeles,” he said grimly.

“Then it would have to be something that mattered very much. Considering how Catherine died, Rawdon Quixwood would be the very last man in London to protect a rapist.”

“And yet I think he’s lying,” Pitt responded. “I just can’t work out what the truth could be. Nothing I imagine makes any sense.”

“Let’s go through the scenarios one by one, then,” she suggested. “What might Forsbrook have, either father or son, that Quixwood would want? Not money, I don’t think. Vespasia said Quixwood got out of an African investment before the Jameson Raid, and she is all but certain that Forsbrook didn’t. She said he looked like a ghost at the Jameson trial.”

“All right,” Pitt agreed. “Not money. To protect someone? That’s obvious—to protect Neville, but why? Pelham Forsbrook certainly had nothing to do with Angeles’s rape. And she and the other young girl, Alice Townley, specifically said they were raped by Neville. Neither of them mentioned his father.”

“You’re right,” she said, biting her lip. “It’s difficult. Fear? Who is afraid of what? Or … Quixwood and the Forsbrooks are not related, are they?”

“No,” he said, turning it over in his mind. “Not by blood, or any business alliance that we can see.”

“Then something else,” Charlotte suggested. “If we start off assuming that Angeles and Alice Townley are telling the truth, then Quixwood is lying.”

“Indeed,” Pitt said, putting his other arm around her and tightening his hold. “But how do we find out why?”

She laid her head on his shoulder. “If it isn’t the men, try the women,” she suggested. “Neville Forsbrook’s mother must have had some influence on him.”

“She’s dead,” he reminded her, but as he said it the beginning of an idea stirred in his mind. “But I’ll try that tomorrow.”