Midnight at Marble Arch

chapter



20



PITT REFUSED TO ACCEPT defeat. It was intolerable. Alban Hythe had neither raped nor killed Catherine Quixwood, and yet he had sat in court and watched the judge put on a black cap and sentence him to death. As always, three Sundays were allowed before the hanging, a period of grace—hardly much time in which to mount an appeal, even if they could find new evidence.

They needed more time. The only way to get that would be to have the Home Secretary grant a reprieve, and there were no grounds for it. Pitt had spent long hours at his office, wanting to be alone, at least away from those closest to him. Their pain distracted his mind, and he needed to be absolutely undivided in his concentration. He had no emotional strength to spare for comfort.

He paced back and forth across his office floor, shoulders hunched, muscles knotted. He went over it in his mind again and again, but there was nothing on which to appeal. Symington, crushed and miserable, had already said as much.

He was convinced that the answer they had found, and in part concocted out of fragments of evidence, was the truth. The unimaginative, pedestrian-minded jury had not believed them. Why not? What had they missed, done wrongly? Had it all rested on Bower’s stirring of rage and fear in them so passionate they could not think? Did they simply not believe that Catherine could have been as intelligent or brave as they had shown her to be? Did they need so intensely to punish someone that they could not wait for the right man?

Surely Symington had stirred their pity and their anger with Hythe’s willingness to sacrifice his own life to save Maris? But perhaps they were more taken in by Quixwood’s feigned grief.

He pulled himself up abruptly. The reason didn’t matter now. He needed to get Hythe a reprieve from the Home Secretary, a stay of execution long enough to find grounds for an appeal. They must not allow it to be over. Proof of Hythe’s innocence after he was dead was of no use at all—and also once the execution had taken place it would be twice as hard to convince anyone that the Court had made an irretrievable mistake, judicially murdered a totally innocent man.

What argument did he have to take to the Home Secretary? It was there in the shadows at the back of his mind, knowledge crowding the darkness. That was the power of his position.

He snatched his hat off the rack at the door, jammed it on his head, and left his office.

On the street he hailed a hansom and gave the driver the Home Secretary’s private address. He hated doing this, but there was no other way to save Alban Hythe’s life.

He sat in the cab rattling over the cobbles, oblivious of the traffic.

Much interesting and highly confidential information came his way. As head of Special Branch there were potentially dangerous secrets that he knew about many people in power. He had to guard their vulnerability to blackmail, or any other kind of inappropriate pressures. The Home Secretary was a decent man, if a little pompous at times. Pitt did not personally like him. Their backgrounds, experience and cultural values were different. There was no natural sympathy between them, as there had been between Pitt and many of the men he had worked for in the past. They had been well bred, in many cases ex-military or navy, like Narraway, but not politicians, not used to keeping the favor of others by always seeking the art of the possible coupled with the confidence of the majority.

As a young man the Home Secretary had studied at Oxford and been an outstanding scholar, a man well liked by his friends. One friend in particular had been charming, ambitious but a trifle equivocal in some of his moral choices. He was not averse to cheating when he needed to pass an exam that was beyond his ability.

He had begged the Home Secretary to cover for him, necessitating a lie. In loyalty to his friend the Home Secretary had done so. He had learned afterward, painfully, that he had been used, made a complete fool of. He had paid for it bitterly in regret and had never done such a thing again.

The friend had fared well, progressing financially. That exam success had laid the foundation of his career. He had climbed higher in his chosen field, still using people at every step. The Home Secretary had never betrayed him, nor had he ever spoken with him again, except as was necessary. As far as Pitt was aware, very few other people had ever known of the incident, and most of those were long dead.

Unwillingly but without question, the Home Secretary could be persuaded to grant a stay of execution to Alban Hythe. Pitt could make his alternative far too painful for him to refuse. He had the upper hand.

But it was a terrible abuse of power. If he did this, would he no longer be capable of knowing where to draw the line? A little pressure, a little force, a little twisting of the fear. How was this so different from rape, in essence?

No, he acknowledged, there had to be another way.

He leaned forward and rapped on the partition to attract the driver’s attention. “Changed my mind,” he said. He gave the man Townley’s address instead.

“Yes, sir,” the driver agreed wearily, adding something else less courteous under his breath.

Pitt leaned back in the seat, Sweat was running over his skin, and yet he felt cold enough to shiver. Was it so easy to misuse power, and to let it misuse you?


TOWNLEY’S FOOTMAN PERMITTED HIM in only because he insisted.

“I’m sorry,” Pitt said to the man. “Time is short and I am fighting for a man’s life, otherwise I would not disturb you at this hour of the evening. I need to speak to Mr. Townley and very possibly the rest of his family. Please inform him so.”

Townley came out of the sitting room to where Pitt was waiting in the hall. The man’s face was grim and anger lay as close to the surface as good manners and a level of fear would allow it. He did not bother with a greeting.

Pitt was uncomfortable, wretchedly aware of how close he had come to exercising the power he possessed in a way he would ever after regret.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Townley,” Pitt said quietly. “I need your help—”

“I cannot give it to you, sir,” Townley interrupted him. “I have a good idea of what it is you wish of me. My answer is the same as before. I don’t know what can have made you imagine it would be different.”

“The conviction of Alban Hythe of a crime he did not commit,” Pitt said simply. “In three weeks they will hang him, then any evidence that proves his innocence will be of little use to him, or to his young widow. I shall pursue it, eventually I will prove our terrible mistake, and in so doing shake everyone’s faith in our system of justice, and I daresay ruin a few men’s careers in the process. Then I may also catch the man who is actually responsible, but not before he will have raped other young women and, unless they are very fortunate, ruined their lives as well—perhaps even taken them. I am sure you understand why I would very much prefer to correct it while I still can, rather than try to mitigate the disaster afterward.”

“I cannot help you,” Townley repeated. “Neville Forsbrook violated my daughter and there is nothing I can do about it, except protect her from public ruin. Now will you please leave my house, and allow my family to have what little peace we may.”

Pitt clenched his fists by his sides, trying to control his voice.

“Will you come and watch the hanging?” he asked levelly, even though he was trembling. “Will you try to console the man’s wife afterward? She is not so very much older than your daughter. And speaking of your daughter, how will you comfort her in the years to come, when she wakens in the night knowing that it was possible she could—”

“Get out of my house before I strike you, sir!” Townsley said between his teeth. “I don’t care a jot who you are, or what office you hold.”

The sitting-room door opened and Mrs. Townley came out, her face stiff, eyes wide.

Townley swung around. “Mary! Go back to the withdrawing room. Commander Pitt is leaving.”

Mrs. Townley looked past her husband, her eyes meeting Pitt’s.

“I don’t think he is, Frederick,” she said quietly. “I think he will remain here until we act, because we are standing in the path of justice, and I do not choose to do that.”

“Mary …” Townley began. “For heaven’s sake, think of Alice!”

“I am,” she said with gathering confidence. “I think she would rather speak to Mr. Pitt and gain some kind of justice than believe that her experience has so damaged her that she would see a man die wrongly rather than tell him the truth.”

“You have no right to make that decision for her, Mary,” Townley said quietly, struggling to be as gentle as possible.

“Neither have you, my dear,” she pointed out. She turned to Pitt. “If you will be good enough to wait, sir, I shall ask my daughter whether she will hear you out or not.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he said, the sudden release of tension rippling through him like an easing warmth.

Five minutes later Pitt was in the withdrawing room facing Alice Townley, who was pale, clearly very apprehensive, but waiting with her hands folded in her lap, knuckles white.

“I am sorry to ask you again,” Pitt began, sitting opposite her. “But events have not gone at all as I would have liked. Mr. Alban Hythe has been convicted of raping and beating Mrs. Quixwood and causing her to take her own life.” He did not shrink from using the appropriate words. “I believe he is not guilty, and I have only three weeks in which to prove it—”

“Mama told me,” Alice interrupted. “Do you think Mr. Forsbrook did it? He wasn’t anything like so—violent with me. He did not … beat me. Although … although I did feel pretty dreadful.” She moved her right hand off her lap, lifted it, then let it fall again. “It was revolting.” She blushed scarlet. “It wasn’t anything like love.”

“No, he did not act out of love,” Pitt said gently. “Can you tell me exactly what he did?”

She looked at the floor.

“Perhaps you would prefer to tell your mother, and she could tell me?” he suggested.

She nodded, not raising her eyes.

Pitt stood up and left the room, Townley, still angry, on his heels.

They waited in silence in the morning room, chilly, fire unlit at this time of the year. After just over a quarter of an hour Mary Townley came in.

Pitt rose to his feet as a matter of courtesy.

“I think it would be a good idea if you were to go and sit with her,” Mrs. Townley said to her husband. “I’m sure she would find your presence comforting. She doesn’t want to feel that you disapprove of her decision, as if she has defied you. She is doing what she believes is right, and brave, Frederick.”

“Of course … of course.” He stood up and left without even glancing at Pitt.

Mary Townley sat down, inviting Pitt to do the same. She was very pale and clearly found the matter embarrassing. Hesitantly, in a voice so carefully controlled as to be almost expressionless, she told him exactly what had happened, in Alice’s words, including that Forsbrook had bitten her painfully hard on the left breast.

That was it, the connection with Catherine Quixwood, and with Pamela O’Keefe, perhaps with Angeles Castelbranco too, although they would never know that now, unless Isaura knew and would testify to it. It might also prove to the Church that Angeles was a victim, not a sinner. Pitt would not rest until he had done that.

“Thank you, Mrs. Townley. Please tell Alice that her courage may have saved a man’s life. Did you see the bite mark yourself?”

“Yes.” She touched her own left breast lightly.

“If it should be necessary, would you swear to that? I ask because Mrs. Quixwood was bitten in exactly the same place, and so was another girl, one who was killed. I think perhaps he killed her accidentally, when he lost his temper, and was more violent with her than he meant to be. She might have fought with him, as Mrs. Quixwood did. That seems to enrage him beyond control.”

“Yes. I would swear to it. Are you going to see that he is put in prison?” Mrs. Townley asked with fear in her voice.

“At the least,” he replied. “At the very least.” He was making a rash promise and he knew it, but in this quiet, modest home it seemed the only possible answer.

He thanked her again and went out into the silent street. Now it was time to go to the Home Secretary, and ask, respectfully, for a reprieve.


NARRAWAY SAT AT THE dining room table at Pitt’s house the following day. Charlotte and Pitt were there, and Vespasia, and also Stoker, who was looking slightly uncomfortable. The Home Secretary had granted a temporary stay of execution, but that was all it was. Symington was working on an appeal. He had refused to accept any payment from Narraway, although Narraway had offered it again. He had said that victory itself would be enough reward.

Now the five of them sat around the table over a plain but excellent luncheon, for which Minnie Maude had been duly praised.

“We can’t let it go,” Charlotte insisted as the dessert was being served and the last of the main dishes removed. “They may arrest him in a month or two, but what if he gets wind of it and leaves the country again.” She looked at Narraway. “Are you sure Quixwood himself killed Catherine?” Her face was troubled, bitterly aware of the unfinished nature of the case.

“I am,” Pitt interjected gravely.

Charlotte looked at Pitt. “So it was all started by Eleanor Forsbrook having an affair with Rawdon Quixwood? Do we know that was true? I mean know it, not based on a deduction but a fact? Is there really anything to anchor it to reality?”

She turned to Narraway. “Is Rawdon Quixwood as terrible as Symington said? Did he deliberately create this whole appalling tragedy?”

“Yes,” Narraway said with some embarrassment. “I’ve never made such a serious complete misjudgment of anyone in my life as I have of Quixwood.”

Charlotte smiled at him. “We might respect you, but we wouldn’t like you very much if you had withheld your compassion until he had proved himself innocent or guilty. You can’t go through life always guarding against the most awful thing you can think of. You’d be miserable, and worse than that, you’d push away every possible good thing there is.”

Narraway looked down at his plate. “It was not a slight error. I was rather seriously wrong.”

“It was a magnificent one,” Charlotte agreed, glancing at Vespasia, and seeing her smile. “I hate halfheartedness,” she added.

Narraway smiled in spite of himself.

It was Pitt who brought them back to the business at hand.

“The affair between Eleanor and Quixwood is fact. We have witnesses to that now. And the surgeon who examined her body after the accident said some of the bruises predated her death, so Pelham did beat her. And I’ve heard from Rafael Castelbranco that Elmo Crask also added to the story about Neville Forsbrook and the prostitute he beat. Biting seems to be a weakness of Neville’s. That story is also provable, and is even uglier than we first assumed. Neville Forsbrook is a very violent young man with an uncontrollable, and evidently increasing, disposition to rape women. Who knows what has caused him to be that way. I’m sure having a father like Pelham didn’t help him much.”

“What are we going to do?” Vespasia asked, looking from one to the other of them.

“I’ve been thinking,” Pitt said to no one in particular. “We know of Eleanor’s affair and can prove it beyond reasonable doubt. We know that Quixwood advised Forsbrook to invest in the British South Africa Company, with almost certain knowledge of the Jameson Raid, and that it would fail, and that reparations would be enormous. It was worth the risk because for him the worst that could happen would only be that the raid succeeded and Forsbrook made money. Even then, he could always try something else in the future.”

“Did he know of Neville Forsbrook’s situation with the prostitute?” Narraway asked.

Stoker came to attention. “Yes, sir. He was friendly with Sir Pelham Forsbrook at that time, and he helped get Neville out of the country. Still can’t find out exactly where the boy went, but he started out in Lisbon, then seems to have gone on by sea.”

Narraway was surprised. “Lisbon? Not Paris?”

“Apparently not. Paris might have been the first place anyone would have looked for him. It was a pretty nasty business,” Stoker replied. “And Quixwood had connections in Lisbon.”

Narraway nodded slightly. “Interesting. So unquestionably Quixwood knew of Neville Forsbrook’s nature. Isn’t there a way we can hang him?” he asked, looking up at Pitt.

“Only if we can prove he poisoned his wife intentionally,” Pitt replied. “In truth, I’d rather hang Forsbrook for raping her.”

“Why?” Stoker demanded. “Quixwood murdered her.”

“Because Forsbrook is as much a monster,” Pitt answered. “I want him not just for Catherine, but for Angeles and Alice and Pamela.”

“You can’t get him for Angeles,” Charlotte said miserably. “Quixwood swears he was with him, so unless we can prove he’s lying … they’re both protecting themselves by protecting each other!”

“That’s it!” Pitt sat upright with a jolt.

“What’s it?” Narraway was weary.

“That’s the way to catch them!” Pitt said urgently, turning slightly to face him. “It’s dangerous, very, but it might work.” He went on without being prompted, leaning forward a little, his voice anxious. “Quixwood doesn’t really need Neville anymore. But what if we could persuade Neville of that, tell him Quixwood is preparing to give him up now that Hythe’s conviction isn’t certain anymore and we are still desperately looking for the true attacker, in order to prove Hythe’s innocence!”

Narraway was staring at him. “And what? Neville would go after Quixwood to silence him?”

“Wouldn’t you?” Pitt said. “Persuade Neville that Quixwood now needs to protect himself, and he can only do it by giving Neville up.”

“Dangerous,” Narraway warned, but the light was back in his face and there was a keen edge to his voice. “Very dangerous.” He did not look at either Charlotte or Vespasia, or even at Stoker. “How would we do it? If you tell him yourself he’ll instantly suspect a trap.”

Pitt’s mind was leaping forward. “Crask,” he answered. “Elmo Crask. Neville would believe him; he is impartial, and doesn’t have anything to gain by lying. Can you think of a better way—or any other way at all, for that matter?”

“No, I can’t,” Narraway admitted. “But we must plan this very carefully indeed. We can’t afford to have Neville succeed in killing Quixwood.”

“Or the other way around,” Pitt said with a twist of his mouth. “If Quixwood kills Neville he can legally, and morally, claim self-defense, and still walk away, and there’d be nothing we could do to touch him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence. Another cab rattled along the street.

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

“Yes, sir. May I help you?”

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

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

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

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

“Alone?” Narraway demanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pitt could feel hysteria welling up inside him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about Forsbrook?”

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

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

Narraway drew in breath to argue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know exactly who murdered her.” Vespasia spoke for the first time. “You raped her and Angeles Castelbranco as well. Quixwood lied to protect you, probably the price for attacking Catherine for him.”

Quixwood raised his revolver. His dark face was twisted with passion. It seemed hate and pain were all but tearing him apart.

At that moment, Narraway crashed through the French doors and charged Forsbrook just as the gun went off. Vespasia fell sideways onto her hands and knees. Neville Forsbrook pitched after her, his chest blossoming scarlet blood.

Quixwood reacted instantly. With his other hand out, he dived toward Vespasia and yanked her to her feet, wrenching her shoulder and tearing her gown. He still had the gun in the other hand. His eyes were wild. He backed toward the door, swiveling his glance from Pitt to Narraway and back again, pulling Vespasia with him.

Forsbrook lay motionless on the floor, the blood spreading wider and wider around him. There was no movement of his chest, no breathing. Pitt scrambled over to the young man, checking for any sign of life.

The door was half-open where Pitt had pushed it. Quixwood groped for it with one hand, still holding the gun in the other, his arm around Vespasia.

Narraway seized his moment. He snatched up a letter opener from the desk and charged at Quixwood. He did not go for the man’s gun arm, or for his heart, or even his throat.

Quixwood hurled Vespasia from him and raised the gun, but he was too slow. The letter opener pierced him through the eye, into his brain, and he buckled and collapsed to the floor, Narraway falling on top of him, still holding the letter opener. The gun roared uselessly, the bullet crashing into the ceiling, passing an inch to the side of Narraway’s head.

Vespasia climbed to her knees and stared at Narraway. Her face was ashen, her hair half-undone. Her eyes were wide with terror and her whole body shuddered.

“Victor, you idiot!” she said, sobbing to get her breath. “You could have been killed!”

Narraway sat up very slowly, leaving the letter opener where it was, embedded in Quixwood’s head. He swiveled around and looked at the tears on Vespasia’s face.

“It was worth it,” he said with a slow, beautiful smile. “Are you all right, my dear?”

Pitt rose to his feet, too full of exquisite relief even to look for words. He watched Vespasia move over to Narraway and very gently put her arms around him.

“I am very well indeed,” she told him.