Midnight at Marble Arch

chapter



19



CHARLOTTE WAS COMPLETELY UNPREPARED when Vespasia arrived, with Peter Symington immediately behind her. Vespasia looked magnificent, dressed in an exquisitely cut costume of dark blue-gray with flawless white silk at the neck and pearls on her ears. If the intent had been somberness appropriate for a trial, she had just missed it.

“I apologize, my dear,” Vespasia said as a stammering Minnie Maude held the parlor door open for her. “But the situation is desperate. May I introduce Mr. Symington. As you know, he has undertaken the defense of Alban Hythe, for what I fear will be scant reward, and we are on the brink of defeat. We are beaten on every side and unless we can think of something tonight, tomorrow will deal us the coup de grâce. Although there will be little of grace about it. I do not like Mr. Bower, who represents the prosecution. There is a self-righteousness in the man, and a lack of imagination.” The vitality and determination in her face seemed to reject the possibility of both tragedy and defeat. Symington was clearly weary and bruised from battle, but the warmth of his smile robbed Charlotte of complaint.

“How do you do, Mrs. Pitt?” Symington said quietly. “I am aware that we are intruding, and I apologize.”

“You are most welcome,” Charlotte said sincerely. “Have you come straight from court? It’s early, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he replied. “The judge allowed me time. I’m sure he assumes it’s so that I can prepare myself for a strategic surrender. But we are not quite at the last ditch. Lady Vespasia hopes that Commander Pitt and Lord Narraway might yet be of assistance.”

Charlotte’s mind raced. She had no idea where either Pitt or Narraway might be. What should she do if they did not return until late? It was only just after three in the afternoon.

“Have you eaten?” she said practically. No one’s mind was at its best when lacking nourishment.

“Yes, we have had luncheon, thank you,” Vespasia said, still standing. “But perhaps Minnie Maude would be kind enough to make us tea. I remember in the past most profound conversations across the kitchen table. Might that be possible again?”

Charlotte did not bother to consult Symington. His easy smile as he stood suggested he would agree.

“Of course,” she said quickly. “Minnie Maude will make us tea, and we’ll have some cake as well. Neither hunger nor discomfort must mar our thoughts. I shall use the telephone to see if Mr. Stoker can help us get a message to Thomas. I also imagine Lord Narraway’s manservant might be able to find him, if it is possible.”

“Excellent.” Vespasia nodded. She and Symington followed Charlotte to the kitchen, followed by a startled and uncomfortable Minnie Maude.

Around the kitchen table, with plenty of tea and some very good homemade cake, they brought Charlotte up to date with the day’s happenings in the courtroom.

“What we lack is any kind of proof,” Vespasia said unhappily.

Symington ate the last of his cake. “I would settle for a witness or two and a good deal of suggestions,” he said. “You can scare people into admitting all kinds of things, if you get the balance exactly right. I would like to prove Hythe innocent, but at this point I’d be grateful for reasonable doubt.”

Vespasia thought for several moments. “Let us consider what we know for certain,” she said. “In the order of their happening, as far as is possible.” She looked at Charlotte. “What does Thomas know?”

“That about four years ago Eleanor Forsbrook ran away from home,” Charlotte said. “We don’t know whether it was with a lover or not, nor do we know who that lover was, if there was one, may have been. Possibly she was beaten beforehand, but we have no evidence yet.”

“No evidence yet? Then how do you know this?” Symington asked her.

“My husband found out from a man who works nearby in Bryanston Mews,” she answered. “Thomas said he was intending to find the doctor who examined Eleanor’s body after the accident, to see if any of the injuries inflicted were old.

“We also know that Neville Forsbrook beat a prostitute very badly, five or six years ago, when he was about sixteen,” Charlotte continued. “And the woman’s pimp beat Neville equally badly, in return. Apparently he scarred him with a knife.” She pulled a slight face at the thought.

“And your husband knows this for certain?” Symington asked. “Or he believes it?”

“He believes,” Charlotte answered reluctantly. “And he also believes that Neville raped Angeles Castelbranco, and so do I,” she went on.

Symington looked puzzled. “Is this a Special Branch case, Mrs. Pitt?” His voice implied that he doubted it.

“There is no case,” she told him. “It’s just a tragedy we saw, one we care about very much.”

“I heard about Angeles,” Symington said thoughtfully, and there was a sudden sharp pain in his face. “I gather she was quite young.”

“Yes.” Charlotte kept her composure with difficulty. “About two years older than my own daughter. The problem is, Quixwood insists Neville was with him at the time of Angeles’s rape. And we are here now to try to save Alban Hythe from being hanged for a crime he did not commit, not convict Neville Forsbrook for one that he did, unfortunately.”

“They both involve rape,” Symington thought aloud, his eyes unfocused, staring at the far wall. “Certainly that’s the part of the Quixwood case that makes the least sense.”

“Is it even imaginable that Neville Forsbrook raped Catherine Quixwood too?” Charlotte asked in little more than a whisper.

Symington stared at her. “But why in God’s name would her husband protect him from another charge of rape, then? Wouldn’t that be the perfect answer? Neville could be convicted, without the shame and humiliation of a trial making the wretched details of Catherine’s death public? It’s what I would want, if it were my wife.” He looked at Charlotte. “Are you sure he attacked Angeles? I mean, really sure that you are not assuming because it makes sense of other things we don’t understand? And to be honest, because you don’t like him, and you believe he’s guilty?”

Charlotte hesitated a moment. “Do I know it? No. I can’t prove it. But we know he raped Alice Townley …”

Symington looked confused. “Who is Alice Townley?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Another young girl. Her father refused to bring charges against Neville, but Thomas went to see her, and she told him it was Neville Forsbrook who raped her. Her account was very similar to that which Angeles Castelbranco gave her mother, but with a lot of details filled in. And before you ask, no, the girls didn’t know each other.”

Symington clenched his teeth and breathed in and out slowly several times. “Then I think we may believe them,” he said at last. “Let us take it that Neville Forsbrook raped Angeles, and this Alice Townley. Which means Quixwood lied to protect him. Why?”

“Because he does not wish Neville Forsbrook to be charged with rape,” Vespasia answered.

“But why not, if he is guilty?” Charlotte said quickly.

“Because he wanted someone else convicted of it,” Symington answered. His expression changed slowly. “Of course! What if Catherine was, in fact, murdered because she had discovered financial information that Quixwood could not afford to have made public.” He stood up, his face eager. “Both Catherine and Hythe had to be silenced. Raping her was a convenient way to accomplish it. Everyone would presume she had committed suicide, and Hythe would be accused of the crime and hanged, going to the gallows in silence to protect his wife. God Almighty! It’s diabolical.”

Charlotte sat back, her gut twisting. “Can there be proof, then, that Hythe found any financial information for Catherine regarding investment in the British South Africa Company that would implicate Quixwood?” she asked.

“No,” Symington answered miserably. “Most of his access to such records was probably illegal anyway, and even if we could prove it, there is nothing to say he obtained it for her. She seems to have kept no record of the information.”

“That seems so peculiar,” Vespasia interjected. “Why go through all the trouble to get the information if she wasn’t going to document and use it somehow?” She turned to Symington. “And suppose what she found out was that Quixwood was ruining Pelham Forsbrook. Why would she care? Why would it matter enough to have one of them silence her in this brutal way?”

“Do we know that Quixwood was definitely trying to ruin Forsbrook for certain?” Symington asked.

“No. We need to know if Quixwood advised Forsbrook to invest, and then failed to warn him of the possible failure and consequent cost of the Jameson Raid,” Vespasia answered. “And we have no time for that.”

Symington turned to Charlotte. “Is there any way Commander Pitt could obtain, if not information on the major investors, then at least word-of-mouth reports? It would do in a pinch. Quixwood won’t know that I’m guessing.”

Charlotte stood up. “I’ll telephone Mr. Stoker again,” she replied. “It is worth trying, at least.”

She was back five minutes later. “I spoke to Mr. Stoker; he is going to look into it. I have no idea whether it will help or not. He will come here this evening with whatever he can find.”

“So suppose Forsbrook and Quixwood both invested in Africa, only Quixwood withdrew his money in time, but did not warn Forsbrook to do the same.” Vespasia picked up their conversation.

“He might’ve warned him, and Forsbrook might not have listened,” Symington said.

Charlotte nodded her head in agreement. “Either way, that leads us to the Jameson Raid at the very end of last year, which has just now come to trial, and because Jameson is likely to be found guilty, the British South Africa Company will have to pay a fortune in damages to the Boers in the Transvaal. Some investors are going to be very badly damaged.”

“Which, according to our suppositions, was of great concern to Catherine Quixwood,” Vespasia remarked.

Symington sat up straighter. “But why? We have all these theories, but no real reason for Catherine to act as she did.”

Charlotte was struggling to make sense of it. “Could she have been a friend of Eleanor Forsbrook’s? Or of Pelham Forsbrook’s?”

“Has anyone investigated to find out?” Symington asked.

“Victor might know something,” Vespasia said. “At the very least, he has learned enough about Catherine to have an informed opinion.”

Symington studied the table for a few moments, then looked up again. “Anyway, Quixwood could claim that he advised Forsbrook to sell, and Forsbrook didn’t take the advice. No one could prove otherwise. Quixwood might even have a letter to that effect. I would, if I were doing such a thing. I would say that I begged Forsbrook not to invest, and he was greedy and ignored me. That’s quite believable. London is full of people who think Jameson is a hero.”

“And without proof for at least one of these theories, or at least witnesses, we are merely slandering a man who already has the total sympathy and support of the Court, not to mention the jury.” Vespasia’s shoulders slumped slightly.

They were interrupted by Jemima and Daniel, just home from school. Both were greeted, and then politely but firmly dismissed to their own rooms. Charlotte rose from the table and went into the scullery to consult with Minnie Maude as to what they might serve for dinner, with at least three prospective guests. Vespasia and Symington returned to the parlor to wait for Pitt and Narraway, their discussion having come to a standstill.

A full hour later Narraway arrived, and within a few minutes Pitt came in also, in answer to Stoker’s summons. Stoker himself was a step behind. They all looked weary and defeated, though each tried in his own way not to show it.

Pitt looked at Symington after no more than a glance at Charlotte, a meeting of the eyes, and then away again for an instant to Vespasia, as an acknowledgment.

“It went badly,” he concluded.

Symington made a slight gesture with his hands. “We’ve still got tomorrow,” he replied. “I have no way of stretching it any further than that, because although we have lots of ideas—we might even have the answer—we have no proof. We haven’t even a witness to call that we can tie up in contradiction, or to raise doubts.”

“Did you find out anything?” Charlotte asked Pitt, trying not to invest her voice with too much hope.

“I spoke to the surgeon who examined Mrs. Forsbrook’s body after her accident,” he replied. “He said there were old bruises, even a fractured rib that had healed, but it doesn’t prove anything.”

“It seems it could be true that Pelham Forsbrook beat her,” Charlotte said quickly.

“Or not,” he replied ruefully. “It could have been an earlier accident: riding, or even falling downstairs.”

“Maybe.” She would not give up. “We have been wondering … what if Quixwood deliberately advised Forsbrook to invest in the British South Africa Company, specifically the Jameson Raid, knowing it would fail, thus causing his ruin?” she suggested.

“Why?” Pitt asked reasonably.

“We don’t know,” she answered, frustrated. “Perhaps because of Eleanor, if he was her lover? Catherine seems to have been very involved. The whole crime centers on her after all. If Hythe is telling the truth, then he was looking for proof of that for her—”

“Again,” Pitt interrupted, “why? Why would she care if Forsbrook was ruined?”

Symington blinked and frowned. “Maybe that was the affair? Pelham Forsbrook and Catherine, not Hythe at all.”

Everyone turned to stare at him.

“Then who raped her?” Narraway asked. “It is difficult to believe Neville Forsbrook did it, in that case, isn’t it?”

“Pelham Forsbrook maybe?” Charlotte replied, seizing the idea. “If he did beat Eleanor, he’s a violent man. And she was supposedly running away from him when she was killed.” She looked to Pitt.

“Yes,” he agreed quickly. He turned to Narraway. “Was Pelham still at the Spanish Embassy when Catherine was raped?”

Narraway thought for a moment. “I saw Neville leave quite a while before ten. I think Pelham went around the same time. It would just have been possible. He would have known Quixwood was still there, and likely to remain at least another hour or more.”

“How do we suggest that?” Symington asked, returning to the practical. “I’ve tried everything, but I can’t persuade Hythe to admit that he was doing financial investigation for Catherine, even though it might offer the only defense he has.”

Vespasia spoke for the first time in several minutes. “Realistically, Mr. Symington, what chance has that defense of succeeding, even in raising a doubt?”

He sighed. “Very little,” he confessed.

“Then if Hythe’s greatest concern is to keep someone safe, so he can provide care for his wife, dare he take the chance of trying what we are suggesting?”

“I wouldn’t. Not if I loved my wife enough,” Symington said.

Now Pitt was frowning. “Are we saying that Quixwood would look after Maris Hythe to keep Alban silent about his financial deceit, and in the process save Pelham Forsbrook, the man he hates enough to ruin, and who raped his wife? You can’t convince me of that.”

“And there is another question still to be answered,” Vespasia continued. “Why did Quixwood lie to defend Neville Forsbrook in the case of Angeles Castelbranco? What was his purpose in that? We are still presuming he lied, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Pitt said instantly. “Neville raped Alice Townley, and very possibly several other girls: one we know of, others we may not.”

“Have we two rapists, father and son?” Narraway asked, frowning. “That might explain where Neville learned his behavior, from his father’s violence and disregard for women, and why his father protected him when he beat the prostitute, and for all we know raped her too.”

“We need to find something to prove that Hythe was getting financial information for Catherine, something concrete,” Symington answered. “If we have proof, I know I can force him into admitting that was what he was doing for her, whether he wants to or not. Such evidence will throw doubt on the theory that they were having an affair, and will also help confirm whether Quixwood needed Hythe and Catherine dead.”

There were several moments of frantic and miserable silence while each one of them struggled for a way to find any proof at all. Finally, it was Narraway who spoke, taking another tack and looking at Pitt.

“The Jameson Raid could provoke war with the Boers in Africa, which would be a very serious thing for Britain,” he said, measuring his words. “Even if we win, it will cost lives, and at this distance be highly expensive. It could reasonably be within the remit of Special Branch, because the Boers will fight hard, and any country at war seeks to disturb the domestic life of its enemy. You can make an excuse to look into the cost of the Jameson Raid, and who was affected by it. You don’t have to give reasons.”

Pitt stared at him, understanding beginning to take a hazy shape in his mind.

“You have to start somewhere,” Narraway went on. “Begin with exactly what losses or gains Forsbrook and Quixwood made. You don’t need to prove it, only justify what Hythe was looking for to give to Catherine, and show a cause for enmity between Forsbrook and Quixwood.” He turned to Symington, who was now sitting upright, his eyes wide.

“Will that serve?” Narraway asked, although the answer was now obvious.

“Yes,” Symington said firmly. “Yes, it will! It could be just enough.”

“Good.” Narraway nodded, then turned back to Pitt. “You’ll need a little help. It might take us most of the night. If we get whatever we find to you in court by noon, will that be soon enough?” he asked Symington.

“Don’t worry,” Symington assured them. “I’ll create enough of a display to keep it going until then. Thank you.” He stood up. “Thank you very much. I’ll go home and plan.”

“Wouldn’t you like supper first?” Charlotte invited him. “You need to eat in order to fight your best.”

He grinned at her, a wide, charming expression full of warmth, and sat down again. “How wise you are,” he accepted. “Of course I would.”


THE TRIAL OF ALBAN Hythe resumed in the morning. Vespasia was again in attendance, this time aching with the double tensions of hope and dread. She watched Symington and was impressed with his air of confidence. Had she not known his anxiety from the previous evening, she would assume he had the perfect defense in his hands as he called Alban Hythe to the witness stand and listened to him take the oath.

Then, after a glance at Bower, he walked with grace into the center of the floor and looked up at Hythe’s ashen face.

“You are an expert in banking and investment affairs, are you not, Mr. Hythe?” he began gravely. “Indeed, I hear you have remarkable skills for one so young. Modesty notwithstanding, is that not a fair assessment of your ability?”

“I have some skill, yes,” Hythe replied. He looked puzzled.

Bower rose to his feet. “My lord, the prosecution will agree that Mr. Hythe has high intelligence, an excellent education, and is outstandingly good at his profession. There is no need for Mr. Symington to call evidence to that effect.”

Symington’s expression tightened so slightly, maybe no one other than Vespasia noticed.

Symington inclined his head toward Bower. “Thank you. I had not intended to call anyone, but you save me the anxiety of wondering if perhaps I should have.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed Bower’s face. “I fail to see the purpose of your observation.”

“Patience, sir, patience.” Symington smiled. “You have had several days to make your points. I am sure you have no quarrel with allowing me one day?” Before Bower could answer, Symington turned again to Hythe. “Are you acquainted with Mr. Rawdon Quixwood, sir?”

“Yes, slightly,” Hythe answered. His voice was husky, as though his throat was dry.

“Socially or professionally?” Symington asked.

“Mostly professionally.”

“You advised him on investments?” Symington raised his eyebrows as if he were interested.

Hythe tried to smile and failed. “No. That would be superfluous. Mr. Quixwood has great financial expertise himself. I doubt I could add anything to his knowledge.”

“He is excellent also?” Symington asked.

Bower started to rise again.

Symington turned sharply, his face showing a flicker of temper. “Sir,” he said irritably. “I afforded you the courtesy of letting you speak without unnecessary interruptions. Unless you are at your wits’ end to keep your case together, please don’t keep wasting everyone’s time with pointless objections. His Lordship is perfectly capable of stopping me, should I wander all over the place without reaching a point. You do not have to keep leaping up and down like a jack-in-the-box.”

There was a titter of laughter around the gallery and one of the jurors indulged in a fit of coughing, handkerchief up to obscure his face.

“Proceed, Mr. Symington,” the judge directed.

“Thank you, my lord.” Symington turned again to Alban Hythe, who stood rigid, his hands on the witness box rail as if he needed its support. “So you did not advise Mr. Quixwood as to his investments—say, for example, in the British South Africa Company?”

Bower sighed and put his head in his hands.

“No, sir,” Hythe replied, his body suddenly more tense, his voice sharper.

“Would you have advised him to invest, for example, before the news came of the raid led by Dr. Leander Starr Jameson, into the Transvaal?”

The judge leaned forward. “Is this relevant to the crime for which Mr. Hythe is on trial, Mr. Symington?”

“Yes, my lord, it is,” Symington assured him.

“Then please get to the point!” the judge said testily.

“Did you advise Sir Pelham Forsbrook to invest?” Symington asked, looking up at Hythe.

Hythe was, if anything, even paler. “No, sir, I did not. I did not advise anyone to invest in the British South Africa Company, either within a year before the Jameson Raid or since.”

“Is Sir Pelham Forsbrook one of your clients?” Symington asked.

“No, sir.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Of course I am!”

Before Bower could stand up Symington raised his hand as if to silence him. “Let us leave that subject for a while,” he said to Hythe. “Was Mrs. Catherine Quixwood a client of yours?”

“I have no knowledge that she had money to invest,” Hythe said, trying to look as if the question surprised him.

Bower turned one way then the other, appealing for sympathy and some respite.

“Mr. Symington,” the judge said sharply, “I understand Mr. Bower’s impatience. You do appear to be wasting the Court’s time. The charge is rape, sir, not bad advice on investment.”

“Yes, my lord,” Symington said meekly. “Mr. Hythe, were you socially acquainted with Mrs. Catherine Quixwood?”

“Yes, sir,” Hythe said almost inaudibly.

“How did you meet?”

Vespasia watched with unnecessary anxiety as Symington drew out the growing friendship of Hythe and Catherine Quixwood. It seemed to be moving so slowly she dreaded that any moment Bower would object again and the judge would sustain him, and demand that Symington move on. She knew he was delaying until the luncheon adjournment in the desperate hope that Pitt and Narraway would come with something he could use. But the chances seemed more and more remote as the morning wore on. There was no sympathy for Hythe in the gallery, and nothing but loathing in the faces of the jurors.

Symington must have been as aware of it as Vespasia. Still, he plowed on. She could see no despair in his face, but his body was stiff, his left hand clenched by his side.

“Mr. Hythe,” he continued, “all these encounters with Mrs. Quixwood, which you admit to, took place in public. What about in private? Did you meet her in a park, for instance, or in the countryside? Or at a hotel?”

“No!” Hythe said hotly. “Of course I didn’t!”

“No wish to?” Symington asked, his eyes wide.

Hythe drew in his breath, stared desperately around at the walls above the heads of the gallery. The question seemed to trap him.

“Mr. Hythe?” the judge prompted. “Please answer your counsel’s question.”

Hythe stared at him. “What?”

“Did you not wish to meet Mrs. Quixwood in a more private place?” the judge repeated.

“No … I did not,” Hythe whispered.

The judge looked surprised, and disbelieving.

“Was that in case your wife should find out?” Symington asked Hythe.

Again Hythe was at a loss to answer.

Vespasia watched and felt a desperate pity for him. She believed that he had liked Catherine, but no more than that. It was Maris he loved, and he was trying now to protect her future. Symington was forcing him into a corner where he had either to admit that he had been seeking financial information for Catherine, or that it had been a love affair after all. He could not afford either answer.

Vespasia found that she was sitting with her hands clenched, nails digging into her palms. Her shoulders were stiff, even her neck was rigid, as if waiting for a physical blow to fall. Where was Narraway? Where was Pitt?

“Mr. Hythe?” Symington spoke just before the judge did.

“Yes …” Hythe said. His face was pinched with pain.

“Was your wife, then, unaware of your frequent meetings with Mrs. Quixwood?” Symington continued.

“No … yes …” Hythe was trembling. He could barely speak coherently.

“Which is it?” Symington was ruthless. “She knew, or she did not know?”

Hythe straightened. “She knew of some,” he said between his teeth. He regarded Symington with loathing.

“You were afraid she would suspect an affair?” Symington went on.

Hythe had committed himself to a path. “Yes.”

“And be jealous?” Symington added.

Hythe refused to answer.

“Is she a jealous woman?” Symington said clearly. “Has she had cause to be in the past?”

“No!” Now Hythe was angry. The color burned up his face and his eyes blazed. “I have never—” He stopped abruptly.

“Never deceived her?” Symington said incredulously. “Or were you going to say you have never allowed her to know of your affairs before?”

“I have had no affairs!” Hythe said furiously.

“Catherine was the first?” Symington asked.

Bower looked confused, unhappy because he did not understand what Symington was trying to do. Finally he rose to his feet.

“My lord, if my learned friend is attempting to cause a mistrial, or to give grounds for appeal because of his inadequate defense, I ask that—”

Symington swung round on him, glancing briefly at the clock, then launched into a denial.

“Not at all!” he said witheringly. “I am trying to show the Court that there is someone with more motive to kill Catherine Quixwood, out of jealousy, than any cause Alban Hythe might have had to kill a woman with whom he was, as my learned friend for the prosecution has demonstrated, having a romantic affair! Albeit, one in which the two parties never met in private.”

“That’s preposterous!” Bower said, the color scarlet up his cheeks. “Mrs. Hythe may well have been jealous, and it seems she had more than just cause, but Mr. Symington surely cannot be suggesting she raped Mrs. Quixwood and beat her almost to death? That is farcical, and an insult to the intelligence, not to say the humanity, of this Court.”

Symington steadied himself with an effort. “My lord, may I ask for an early adjournment in order to consult with my client?”

“I think you had better do so, Mr. Symington, and get your defense into some sort of order,” the judge agreed. “I will not have the trial made into a mockery for the lack of skill or sincerity on your part. Do you understand me? If your client decides to plead guilty it will make little difference to the outcome, but it may be a more graceful and dignified way to shorten his ordeal. The court is adjourned until two o’clock.”

It was half-past eleven.

Vespasia waited an agonizing half hour, watching the minute hand creep arthritically around the face of the clock in the hall. At five past midday she saw Pitt’s tousled head an inch or two above the crowd, and with no thought for dignity at all, she pushed her way toward him.

“Thomas!” she said breathlessly as she reached him and clasped his arm to prevent herself from being buffeted by those eager to pass. “Thomas, what have you found? The situation is desperate.”

He put his arm around her to protect her from the jostling of several large men forcing their way through, a thing he would never do in normal circumstances.

“I have papers,” he replied. “If the judge asks to see them they may stand up to scrutiny, or they may not. But they will at least give Symington something to use to persuade Hythe he knows the truth … if that is the truth, and we are right as to what he and Catherine were doing.”

“Thank God!” she said, not blasphemously but with the utmost gratitude. “Where is Victor?”

“I don’t know,” Pitt admitted. “He may arrive with more later. I thought you might not last much longer.”

“No longer,” she said. “This is our last stand. We had better find Mr. Symington.”


THE TRIAL RESUMED AT exactly two o’clock. Symington rose to continue the examination of his client. He moved with a new vitality as he walked across the open space, papers in his hand, and looked up at Hythe.

“Circumstances have placed you in a most unfortunate position, Mr. Hythe,” he began smoothly. “You have an expertise that was sorely needed by a charming woman, with a conscience regarding financial honesty. I can call witnesses to testify to all that I am about to say, but let us begin by allowing you to testify to it first, and then if my learned friend, Mr. Bower, disagrees, we can proceed from there.”

He looked up at Hythe with a sunny smile. “Catherine Quixwood knew of your financial reputation and sought you out, is that correct?”

Hythe hesitated.

“Do not oblige me to repeat the questions, Mr. Hythe,” Symington said gently. “You know the answer, and so do I.”

Hythe gulped. “Yes.”

“Thank you. She sought you out and cultivated your acquaintance. She was a few years older than you, a beautiful woman of a slightly higher social rank, and she was troubled by a matter in which she very urgently wished for advice?” He held up the papers in his hand, still smiling. “Do not make me pull your teeth one by one, Mr. Hythe.”

“Yes,” Hythe admitted again, his eyes on the papers as Symington lowered them. Everyone in the court could see that they were covered on one side with writing.

Symington looked at the judge. “My lord, I shall put these papers into evidence, and give them to Mr. Bower, if it is necessary. But as they are financial papers of some very private nature, I would prefer not to do that, as long as my client cooperates, and at last we can get to the truth.”

Bower stood up.

The judge held out his hand. “Mr. Symington, I am not going to allow you to dazzle the court with any of your parlor tricks. Show me what it is you have.”

Symington passed them to him without a murmur.

The judge read them, his face darkening. He passed them back and Symington took them again.

“Where did you get these?” the judge demanded grimly. “And if you do not tell me the truth, Mr. Symington, you are likely to find your legal career at an end. Do you understand me, sir?”

“Yes, my lord. I have obtained them from Her Majesty’s Special Branch, in the interests of justice.”

The judge rolled his eyes, but held out one hand to require Bower to take his seat again.

“Very well. Do you intend to call Commander Pitt of Special Branch to testify?”

“Not unless absolutely necessary, my lord.”

“Then get on with it. But I warn you, one toe over the line and I will stop you.”

“Yes, my lord. Thank you.” Symington turned again to Hythe.

From the front row of the gallery Vespasia could see that Symington’s hands were shaking. Hythe looked gray-faced. The jurors stared at Symington as if mesmerized. There was absolute silence in the gallery, not a movement, not a breath.

Symington began again.

“Did Catherine Quixwood tell you why she wished this information, Mr. Hythe?”

Hythe looked as if he was about to faint.

Bower had a slight sneer on his face.

“It is not a pleasant thing to hang, Mr. Hythe!” Symington said with a hard edge to his voice. “Not pleasant for those who love you either. I ask you again, why did Catherine Quixwood wish for this information? If you don’t answer, I can do it for you, and I will.”

This time Bower did rise. “My lord, Mr. Symington is bullying his own witness, possibly asking him to condemn himself with words out of his own mouth.”

The judge looked at Symington, his contempt clear.

Symington turned to Hythe.

Vespasia knew this was his last chance.

Hythe drew in a deep breath. “She believed that her husband had advised someone very badly on investments in Africa,” he said with a catch in his voice. “She wanted to prove either that it was true, or that it was not. And if … if it was true, she thought he might repay some of the terrible loss.”

“Voluntarily, or that he could be compelled to?” Symington asked.

Hythe gulped again. “That the damage to his reputation as a financial adviser would oblige him to … to keep the matter private,” he said hoarsely.

Symington nodded. “And that was the reason she sought you out, and saw you increasingly frequently, and with a degree of privacy, at places your conversations would not be overheard, and where her husband would not know of it?”

“That is what she said,” Hythe agreed.

“And have you any evidence that this is what she asked you to research for her?” Symington pressed.

“She was very knowledgeable in the matter,” Hythe answered. “You have the papers in your hand. You know exactly what she wanted, and that it all makes sense. If you look at the dates you will see it is cumulative. After understanding one piece she then asked for more, based upon that knowledge. She was … she was most intelligent.”

“Was she aware of the plans for the Jameson Raid before it took place?” Symington asked with interest.

There was a rustle of movement in the gallery. Several jurors looked startled, one leaned forward, his face tense.

“She was aware that something of that nature would happen, yes.”

“But not that it would fail?” Symington continued. “Or did she know that too?”

“She believed it would,” Hythe answered.

Symington looked surprised. “Really? Very perceptive indeed. Do you know why she believed that?”

Hythe hesitated again, glancing down.

“Mr. Hythe!” Symington said sharply. “What did she know?”

Hythe jerked up his head. “She observed the behavior of other people,” he said so quietly even the judge was obliged to lean forward to hear him.

“What other people?” Symington asked. “Did she have access to plans?”

“No,” Hythe said instantly. “She was aware of who was investing, and of who was not.” He looked exasperated. “The raid cost a fortune, Mr. Symington. People pumped money into it: for men, guns, munitions, other equipment. She watched and listened.” His voice caught suddenly. “She was a very intelligent woman and she cared deeply about the situation.”

“Indeed,” Symington said with sudden emotions thickening his voice. “Altogether a remarkable woman, and her violation and death is a tragedy that must not go unpunished.” He hesitated a moment before going on.

One of the jurors had tears on his face. Another pulled out a large white handkerchief and mopped himself as if he was too hot.

Even Bower sat still.

Symington cleared his throat and went on. “So Catherine Quixwood had gathered a good deal of financial information regarding the Jameson Raid, and about various people who had made or lost money that had been invested in guns, munitions, and other speculations in Africa?” he asked Hythe.

“Yes,” Hythe said simply.

“Could this have been damaging to anyone, financially or in reputation, had she made it public?” Symington was careful to avoid naming anybody.

Hythe stared at him. “Yes, of course it would.”

“Very damaging?” Symington pressed.

“Yes.”

“Financial reputations depend upon trust, discretion, word of mouth, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Is it then possible, Mr. Hythe—indeed, probable—that there is someone named in these papers,” Symington held them up, “who would be ruined if she were to have made them public … had she lived?”

“Yes.” Hythe’s voice was barely able to be heard, even in the silent courtroom.

At last Bower rose to his feet. “My lord, this is all supposition. If it were truly the case, why on earth would the accused not have said so in the first place?”

The judge looked at Symington.

Symington smiled. He turned back to Hythe. “Mr. Hythe, you have a young and lovely wife to whom you are devoted, do you not? If you are found guilty and hanged, she will be alone and defenseless, disgraced, and possibly penniless. Are you afraid for her? Are you specifically afraid that if you name the man Catherine Quixwood could have ruined, and whom her evidence could still ruin, that he will take out his vengeance on your wife?”

There was a gasp of horror around the gallery. Several of the jurors stiffened and looked appalled. Even the judge’s face was grim.

Hythe stood frozen.

Symington was not yet finished. “Mr. Hythe, is that why I have been obliged to force this information from you, with the help of Special Branch, and financial papers that should have been confidential? Are you willing to be found guilty of a crime you did not commit, against a woman for whom you had the greatest admiration, because if you do not then your own beloved wife will be the next victim?”

It was a rhetorical question. He did not need or expect an answer.

He turned to the judge.

“My lord, I have no way of forcing Mr. Hythe to reply, nor in any honorable way would I wish to. I hope were I in his situation, I would have the courage and the depth of loyalty and honor to die, even such a hideous death as judicial hanging, to save someone I loved.” His face was devoid of all his confidence and easy charm; there was nothing in it but awe, as if he had seen something overwhelmingly beautiful, and it had robbed him of pretense. “I have no more questions for him.”

Vespasia, watching him, hoped with an intensity that surprised her that all he’d said was true. And then with pain almost physical, she longed to love with that depth again herself. She dreaded sinking into a graceful and passionless old age. It would be far better to die all at once than inch by inch, knowing the heart of you was gone.

She forced the thought from her mind. This moment belonged to Alban Hythe. It was his life they must save. Where was Victor? Why had he not found something, or at least come here?

Someone in the gallery sobbed.

It was now Bower’s turn. He walked forward into the center of the open floor space. For a moment he appeared confused. For the first time in the entire trial, the public tide was against him. If he criticized Hythe he would seem boorish, a man close to brutality.

“Mr. Hythe,” he began slowly, “my learned friend has suggested, but not proved, that you were seeking information for Mrs. Quixwood so that she could expose certain financial advice that was … shall we say, dishonest. You previously had been, for whatever reason, desperately reluctant to cooperate with him.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Did you come by this information honestly, Mr. Hythe? Mr. Symington has said that his copies were provided by Special Branch. How, then, were you able to obtain them?”

Hythe looked wretched. “I don’t know for certain what papers Mr. Symington has, sir,” he replied, his voice hoarse. “I had bank papers from several different sources, which put together produced the conclusions you mention.”

“I see. And you are suggesting that one of the men implicated in these dealings raped Mrs. Quixwood? If he feared her information so much, why on earth did he rape her? And did he leave her alive to testify against him? That appears unbelievably stupid, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose, but I have no idea who raped her,” Hythe said.

Symington stood up. “My lord, Mr. Bower is sabotaging his own case. Surely that is precisely what he is accusing Mr. Hythe of doing: raping Mrs. Quixwood, for no reason at all, and then leaving her alive to testify against him?”

The ghost of a smile lit the judge’s face for an instant, then vanished again. “Mr. Bower, Mr. Symington seems to have made a distinct point. If no one else would do such a thing, then why do you wish us to suppose that Mr. Hythe would?”

“Because he was having an affair with Mrs. Quixwood, my lord,” Bower said between his teeth. “And she refused him. It was not a natural thing to do, but men in the throes of passion and rejection do not always behave naturally. The suggestion that she was raped to silence her evidence would be presuming a totally cold and rational crime.”

“Mr. Symington?” the judge inquired. “What do you say to that?”

Symington hid his chagrin well, but Vespasia saw it, and knew that at least one or two of the jurors would also.

“Mr. Hythe was not having an affair with Mrs. Quixwood, my lord,” Symington said. “They met always in public places and no witness whatever has been called to testify to any behavior that would not be perfectly in keeping with simple friendship. If there were such witnesses, I’m sure Mr. Bower would have produced them, with pleasure.”

At that moment there was a slight stir in the gallery. Vespasia half turned in her seat to see Victor Narraway walk down the center aisle and stop at Symington’s table. He handed him a folded piece of paper, then moved back again to find a seat wherever anyone would make room for him.

Bower ignored the interruption and looked back again at Hythe.

“Mr. Hythe, do you seriously expect the Court, the jury of sensible men of business and professions themselves, to believe that some man, like themselves, unfortunately invested money in an African venture that went wrong—possibly about which he was badly advised—and that this man knew that an outwardly respectable, pretty young married woman had unearthed evidence that would be embarrassing to him? Then instead of stealing the evidence, or seeking to keep it confidential in some normal way, he went to her home, raped and beat her, but left her living? And all this was in order to hide his embarrassment at an unfortunate business venture? One in which, I might add, he is hardly alone? Sir, you strain credulity to the point of madness!”

Vespasia felt the wave of despair wash over her until she was drowning in it. Only minutes ago they had been winning—now, suddenly, it could be over.

Bower made an elaborate gesture of invitation to Symington, who was already on his feet.

Symington had no papers in his hands this time. He walked over to the stand and looked up at Hythe.

“That does sound rather absurd, doesn’t it, Mr. Hythe?” he said, his charming smile back again. “Some stranger choosing such a course would have been an idiot. How could it possibly have succeeded? Why rape? That is an act of hate, of contempt, of overwhelming rage against women, but hardly one designed to rescue a financial reputation in trouble.”

He looked at the jury. “But, gentlemen, that is what my learned friend suggested to you, not what I suggest. Imagine instead, if you will, an old hatred, centered on two men and one beautiful and willful woman, the wife of one of these men, and the mistress of the other. It is a story of high passion and hatred, the oldest jealousy in the world. It is woven out of the very fabric of human nature. Is this believable?”

“My lord!” Bower protested eagerly.

The judge held up his hand to silence Bower. “Mr. Symington, I presume you have some evidence for this? We are not off on a fairy story, are we?”

“No, my lord. I will call Lord Narraway to the stand to testify, if necessary. I am hoping to save the Court’s time by asking Mr. Hythe himself. I am sure if we can reach a conclusion this afternoon, the Court would be better served.”

“Get on with it, then,” the judge directed. “Is Lord Narraway in court, should we require him? I presume we are speaking of Victor Narraway, who used to be head of Special Branch, until recently? I do not know him by sight.”

“Yes, my lord, we are. And he is present in court. It was he who just passed me the information I now wish to offer.”

“Proceed.”

Symington thanked him and looked again at Hythe.

“To continue our story, Mr. Hythe. This beautiful woman was violently beaten by her jealous husband, justifiably jealous. She attempted to run away with her lover, but met with a tragic accident instead, and was killed. The lover never forgave the husband for beating her, and to his mind, causing her death. He planned a long and bitter revenge.”

He glanced at the jury, then back at Hythe. There was not a sound in the room.

“But he was unaware that his own wife had learned of the affair,” he continued. “And that she also learned of his revenge. She was an intelligent woman, observant, and she knew his nature. She was afraid of his rage succeeding, and all the destruction it would cause. She sought to prevent it.”

Someone in the gallery coughed and the sound was like an explosion.

“But he realized what she was doing and needed to stop her,” he went on. “Revelation of how he used his professional knowledge and power would ruin his reputation, and his career, even if it was too late to stop the plan from succeeding.”

Hythe was ashen, seemed beyond the ability to speak.

But then, Symington gave him little chance.

“It so happens that the husband of the woman who died was a violent man, as we know. But what far fewer people were aware of is that this man’s son is even more violent, that he is already guilty of several rapes, all with a consistent pattern of brutality. Are you following me, Mr. Hythe? No matter, I am almost at the end. One husband who needs to protect his revenge from exposure by his wife, pays his enemy’s son to rape this same wife, violently and terribly. He himself leaves her favorite wine laced with a deadly dose of laudanum, certain that in her extremity she will drink it.”

No one stirred.

Symington continued.

“He also manages to conveniently place a love letter of his own from his wife, to make it seem that the man who provided her with evidence of his revenge will be blamed for her rape. Thus in one terrible night he has destroyed the wife who would have exposed his revenge, and the man who provided her with the information. And he has done one more thing to protect himself. He has befriended the wife of the man he has framed, and promised to look after her when the unfortunate man is hanged. No doubt he has also said that he will see her destroyed if this man does not take the blame, silently and bravely, without speaking a word of the truth.

“Do I have your attention now, Mr. Hythe?”

Hythe was hanging on to the railing of the witness stand—but even so, his knees crumpled and he all but collapsed.

Symington turned to the jury. “Gentlemen, was ever greater evil planned and all but succeeded in fulfilling its dreadful purpose? But you know now what is going on. You can prevent it. You can find justice for Catherine Quixwood. You can save the life of the young man who tried to help her prevent ruin and exploitation. You can save the wife he loves so much he will die to protect her. Leave it to others to find and punish the rapist. Already action is taking place to bring that about.”

He turned a little with a gesture to include them all.

“The manipulators of money and investment will be punished. The wife who took a lover and was beaten for it is dead. Her husband has lost his fortune. We are almost at the end, gentlemen. Life and death, love and hate, greed and innocence are all in your hands. I beg you, act with the same mercy and forbearance we shall all need when we stand before the bar of judgment ourselves.”

Symington bowed to the jury and returned to his seat.

It was Bower’s turn to address the jury. He spoke little of fact, mostly of the brutality of the crime, repeating the worst details, his face twisted with rage and pity. He dismissed Symington’s theories as a magic trick, a wealth of nothing, designed to mislead them. There was no substance, he insisted, only a desperate and self-seeking lawyer’s castles in the air.

When the jury retired Vespasia was joined almost immediately by Narraway.

“Victor! What did you find?” she asked urgently.

“Catherine went to Bryanston Mews,” he answered. “She knew that Quixwood was Eleanor Forsbrook’s lover. A lot of what Symington said was guesswork, but it’s actually the only thing that makes sense.”

“Then it was Neville Forsbrook who raped Catherine?” she asked, still puzzled.

“I think it was Neville. Just as it was he who raped both Angeles Castelbranco and Alice Townley, and possibly others.”

“And the laudanum?” she persisted.

“Quixwood surely put it there, knowing she would drink it. If she didn’t he could always give it to her when he got home. It wouldn’t have been as safe for him, but it could still have worked.”

“What are we going to do about it?” she asked.

He smiled. “I hope we are going to get a verdict in Alban Hythe’s favor. Then we will consider proving Quixwood lied to protect Neville Forsbrook from being prosecuted for Angeles’s rape. I still want to see that young man pay for all he has done.” His voice caught.

The jury returned after two long hours, every minute of which dragged by at a leaden pace.

The courtroom was packed. There were even people standing in the aisle and at the back.

The proceedings were enacted at the majestic pace of the law. No one stirred. No one coughed.

The foreman of the jury answered in a calm, level voice.

“We find the prisoner, Alban Hythe, guilty as charged, my lord.”

In the dock Hythe bent forward, utterly beaten.

Maris Hythe looked as if she was about to faint.

Vespasia was stunned. She had truly hoped they had managed to cobble together enough information to create the required doubt, and the tide of despair that washed over her momentarily robbed her of thought. It was seconds, even a full minute before she could think of what to do next.

She took a long, slow breath and turned to Narraway. “This is not right,” she said quietly. “We have three weeks until he goes to the gallows. We must do something more.”