Midnight at Marble Arch

chapter



5



“MAMA, I CAN’T POSSIBLY wear that!” Jemima said indignantly. “I shall look terrible. People will think I am ill. They’ll be offering me chairs to sit on, in case I fall over.” Her face was flushed with temper and frustration. She appeared the picture of health, as if it would take a runaway carriage to knock her off balance, not a fainting fit.

Pitt looked up from the newspaper he was reading. They were all in the parlor, the summer evening air drifting in from the open French windows. Daniel was absorbed in a Boy’s Own Paper and Charlotte had been looking at the London Illustrated News.

Pitt regarded the dress Jemima was holding up. “You wanted that last year,” he pointed out. “It suited you excellently.”

“Papa, that was last year!” she said with exasperation at his lack of understanding.

“You haven’t changed all that much.” He looked her up and down quite carefully. “An inch taller, perhaps,” he conceded.

“Two inches taller,” she corrected him. “At the very least. And anyway, I’m completely different.” It distressed her that he had not noticed.

“You don’t look completely different to me,” he answered.

“Yes, she does,” Daniel argued. “She’s a girl. She’s getting all …” Suddenly he realized what he was saying and was lost for the appropriate words.

Jemima blushed. “You’re trying to make me look like a child,” she accused her father. “Genevieve’s father does the same thing. He doesn’t want her ever to become a woman.”

“You’re fourteen,” Pitt said flatly. “You are a child.”

“I’m not! That’s a terrible thing to say!” Unaccountably Jemima was on the edge of tears.

Daniel bent his head back to his Boy’s Own Paper, lifting it a little higher to hide his face.

Pitt looked at Charlotte. He had no idea how he had offended, or what to do about it. It was totally unreasonable.

Charlotte had grown up with two sisters and there was no mystery in it for her.

“You are not having a purple dress, and that’s all there is to it,” she told her daughter. “If you feel that that one is too young for you, then wear the blue one.”

“Blue’s ordinary,” Jemima responded. “Everyone has blue. It’s dull. It’s safe!” That was the worst condemnation she could think of.

“You don’t need anything special,” Pitt told her gently. “You’re very pretty whatever you wear.”

“You just say that because you’re my father!” Her voice choked as if she could not control her tears any longer. “You have to like the way I look.”

“I don’t!” He was surprised and a little defensive himself. “If you wore something I didn’t like, I would say so.”

“You’d have my hair in braids down my back as if I were ten!” she said furiously. She turned to Charlotte. “Mama, everyone wears blue, it’s boring. And pink looks like you’re a child!”

“Yellow?” Daniel suggested helpfully.

“Then I shall look as if I have jaundice!” she responded. “Why can’t I wear purple?”

Daniel was not to be put off. “Green?”

“Then I’ll look sickly! Just be quiet!”

“Aunt Emily wears green,” he pointed out.

“She’s got fair hair, stupid!” she shouted at him.

“Jemima!” Charlotte said sharply. “That was quite uncalled for. He was being perfectly sensible, and pale green would look very nice—”

“I don’t want to be ‘nice’!” Jemima said furiously. “I want to be interesting, different, grown up.” The tears spilled from her eyes onto her cheeks. “I want to look lovely. Why can’t you understand?” Without waiting for an answer she swung round and stormed out. They heard her feet banging on the treads up the stairs and then a door on the landing slam.

“What did I do?” Daniel asked incredulously.

“Nothing,” Charlotte assured him.

“Then why is she like that?”

“Because she’s fourteen,” Charlotte replied. “She wants to look nice at the supper party she’s going to.”

“She always looks nice.” Pitt was reasonable, and confused. “She’s very pretty. In fact she looks more like you every day.”

Charlotte smiled ruefully. “I’m not sure she’d appreciate your saying so, my dear.”

“She did the other day,” he argued.

“That was then, this is now,” she answered. There was no use trying to explain it to him. He had grown up without sisters. Girls of Jemima’s age were as incomprehensible to him as mermaids or unicorns.

Daniel shrugged and turned the next page of his Boy’s Own, to the story of a pirate adventure off the coast of India. “Why couldn’t she have been a boy?” he said resignedly. “That would have been better for all of us.”

“It would have been easier,” Charlotte corrected him. “Not better.”

Pitt and Daniel exchanged glances, but both were wise enough not to take issue with her.


AN HOUR LATER CHARLOTTE went upstairs to Jemima’s room and knocked on the door. When there was no answer she rapped sharply, then went in anyway. Jemima was sitting on the bed, her hair loose and tangled, her cheeks tearstained. She glared defiantly at her mother.

“I suppose you’ve come to tell me off,” she said belligerently. “That I have to wear blue, and be glad of it. And that if I smile I’ll look charming anyway … and about as interesting as a jug of milk!”

Charlotte did not ask whose interest Jemima was working to awaken; she already knew. His name was Robert Durbridge and he was eighteen. He was far too old for Jemima at the moment, but otherwise was a pleasant-seeming young man, the son of the local rector and bent on every kind of rebellion against the path in the Church that his parents had planned for him.

“Wear a green sash around your waist and you will be quite different from other girls,” she suggested helpfully.

“What?” Jemima’s eyes flew wide open. “Mama, you can’t wear blue and green together! Nobody does that!”

Charlotte smiled at her. “Then you will be the first. I thought you wanted to be different. Have you changed your mind?”

“Blue and green?”

“Why not? Blue sky and green trees. You see it all the time.”

“I don’t want to look like a field,” Jemima said in disgust.

“A willow tree against the sky,” Charlotte corrected her. “Stop being so obstructive. There is nothing less attractive than bad temper, I promise you. Now wash your face and pull yourself together. It is not your father’s fault, or your brother’s, that you are full of emotion and indecision. It’s part of growing up and we all experience it. You are behaving as if you are the center of the world, and you aren’t.”

“You don’t understand!” Jemima wailed, her face crumpling.

“Of course not,” Charlotte agreed with a smile. “I was never fourteen, I went straight from being twelve to being twenty. So did both of my sisters.”

“Twenty!” Jemima was horrified. “You mean I’m going to feel like this for another six years?”

“Please heaven, I hope not!” Charlotte said with feeling.

In spite of herself, Jemima smiled, and then started to giggle. “Can I really wear a green sash on my dress?”

“Of course. So you had better walk with your head up, and smile to everyone, because they will all be looking at you, including young Robert Durbridge.”

“Do you think so?” Jemima blushed. “But then maybe I should wear …”

“Jemima!” Charlotte interrupted.

“Yes, Mama.”

“The subject is closed.”


CHARLOTTE AND PITT ATTENDED yet another reception that duty obliged them to, but Charlotte admitted to herself that there were elements of it she thoroughly enjoyed, not the least being that she was nobody’s guest. She was here because Pitt was invited.

In the swirl of greetings, polite conversations, and the swapping of suitably trivial inquiries and answers, they began to move among the throng of people. Charlotte noticed Vespasia, strikingly elegant as usual. Pitt looked for those with whom he needed to speak.

Charlotte met various women she had encountered before, but found her attention wandering. They were discussing family matters: who was engaged to marry whom; love affairs and misfortunes she was thankful did not concern her. She realized that all too soon she would have to consider Jemima finding a suitable husband, but she had three or four years’ grace yet before that needed to be a preoccupation. When she was young and single she had loathed being presented to various people in the hope that some young man might please her, and she him. Now she felt an embarrassing wave of sympathy for her own mother. She knew perfectly well that she had been extraordinarily difficult, and in the end decided to marry a policeman and virtually disappear from Society.

By that time her mother had been relieved to accept any settled life for her middle daughter and had put up barely any resistance.

She was still smiling at the memory when she saw Angeles Castelbranco with some other young women. They all appeared to be laughing with two young men, both of whom were quite openly admiring Angeles. Charlotte could not blame them or find it surprising. She was a beautiful young woman, and at the moment her face was flushed and her eyes brilliant.

Then Neville Forsbrook approached the group, smiling.

Seeing him, Angeles’s face fell and she backed away sharply. It was an awkward movement, completely without grace.

One of the other young men laughed.

Angeles did not even look at him. Her eyes were fixed on Forsbrook. No one else in the room seemed to notice.

Forsbrook said something to Angeles and gave a slight bow. He was still smiling.

Angeles blushed hotly. She started to speak, but seemed unable to find the words she needed. She ended by apparently saying something angry in Portuguese, and the other young women moved away uncomfortably.

The young men looked at each other and laughed again, but weakly; it seemed more out of confusion than amusement.

Forsbrook took another step toward Angeles, this time with one hand forward as if he would touch her arm.

She snatched it away, and in stepping backward lost her footing a little. Forsbrook lunged forward and grasped her, preventing her from falling. She gasped, and then cried out.

Forsbrook held her more firmly. It could have been because he feared she might fall.

Angeles tried to wrench her arm away from Forsbrook but he held on to her. She swung her other arm and slapped him across the face as hard as she could. One of the young men let out a cry of surprise.

Forsbrook let go of her with a very slight push and she staggered backward, tripping on her skirt and collapsing into a couple of girls, who were giggling and oblivious of everyone else. The three of them clung together to avoid ending up on the floor, angry and embarrassed.

“For God’s sake, what’s the matter with you?” Forsbrook shouted at Angeles, as she struggled to find her balance. His voice was sufficiently loud that at least a dozen people heard him and swung around to stare.

Angeles’s face was scarlet. She looked desperate, turning from left to right to find some way of escape.

Charlotte had been moving forward to intervene. At the same moment she saw Vespasia several yards away, her face filled with deep anxiety. She also was trying to make her way toward the open space where Angeles and Forsbrook now stood facing each other.

“Stop it!” Forsbrook was still raising his voice and he took another step closer to her, again reaching for her arm.

She staggered backward again, her face twisted as if in terror.

“Stop it!” he repeated. “You’re making yourself look ridiculous!” He lunged forward, reaching out as if to take her hand, just as a waiter with a tray of glasses passed within a yard of her.

She gasped and pulled away, and this time crashed straight into the waiter, sending the glasses flying in all directions, splintering on the floor. The poor man tripped in his effort to regain his feet and only made it worse. He ended up splayed across the floor, arms and legs wide, champagne and slivers of glass everywhere.

“Get a hold of yourself!” Forsbrook demanded furiously of Angeles. “You’re hysterical! Are you drunk?”

Angeles picked up a dish of cakes from the table nearest her and hurled it at him. It struck him in the chest, covering his dinner suit with jam and cream.

He swore, in language he surely could not have intended anyone to hear in a public place, darting his arm out and grasping her shoulder firmly, as if to shake her. She screamed again and lashed out, kicking with all her strength, even turning her head and biting him on the hand. At that, he cried out and slapped her, and when she let go there was blood dripping scarlet from the flesh between his finger and thumb.

Now most of the room was staring, confused and alarmed. Everyone seemed paralyzed by the scene and unsure what to do.

Vespasia was helping the waiter to his feet, so Charlotte practically ran the remaining distance to Angeles, calling her name.

Angeles, however, seemed aware only of Forsbrook. She was swearing at him in Portuguese, her face still twisted in fear. So Charlotte turned to Forsbrook, at least to try to stop him from moving any closer to Angeles. But he was too angry to see anyone else.

“You stupid girl!” he said, waving his hand around as if the pain were unbearable. “You bite like a mad dog!” He continued moving toward her every time she backed away.

“Neville!” Charlotte caught his arm but all she managed to hold on to was the cloth of his coat. He tore it out of her hand, unintentionally bumping her, so she was forced to steady herself. She remained on her feet only with difficulty.

Angeles turned and ran, plunging through the knots of people, banging into tables and upsetting dishes. Twice she reached for plates of cakes or sweetmeats and threw them at Forsbrook. One sailed past him and struck one of the other young men, who was also shouting at her. A second one caught Forsbrook on the side of the face and left a gash along his cheekbone. At this, Forsbrook clearly lost the last remnants of his temper, letting out a bellow.

Angeles, terrified, ran straight toward the great window that overlooked the paved terrace two stories below.

Forsbrook was close behind her, his face contorted with emotion.

Angeles screamed, her words unintelligible, her body twisting one way then the other until, arms flailing, she crashed into the high, multi-paned window. It shattered, sending glass everywhere. One moment she was in front of it, all white silk and dark hair, the next there was only a jagged hole and wood splinters on the floor.

For a terrible second everyone was silent. Then there was a scream, a high, thin sound of utter despair. Isaura Castelbranco had appeared from nowhere with her husband, who was now staggering toward the remains of the window.

Forsbrook too was appalled. However, far from remaining still, he turned to those beside him, spinning round, as if to find someone to say it had not been his fault.

In the next room someone was shouting. Footsteps sounded, running.

Other people started to speak, to move aimlessly toward the window or away from it. There were shouts from outside on the terrace. Several women were gasping, and a few were weeping openly. The hostess went toward Isaura, and then stopped. Her face was deathly pale.

Castelbranco turned slowly from the window and faced the room. His grief was palpable in the air, washing outward to touch everyone.

Isaura took a step, then another, floundering as if she were wading through deep water. She called something to him in Portuguese.

Castelbranco replied abruptly, his voice hoarse. It was filled with anguish.

Charlotte remained rooted to the spot. The two were clearly racked with pain beyond bearing, and there was nothing any one of the horrified onlookers could do to help.

It was Vespasia who finally took action. She walked over to Isaura and took her arm.

“Come with me,” she said firmly. “There is nothing for you to do here.”

Isaura fought against her for only a moment; then, as if acknowledging some overwhelming defeat, she allowed herself to be led away.

No one went to Castelbranco. He stood stock-still, the cool wind blowing in through the remnants of the window ruffling his hair, chilling him until he shook with it. The sound of men’s voices drifted up from the terrace below, very quiet, edged with shock. It must be the host deciding what to do, whom to call, giving directions to the servants.

Charlotte was undecided. Would it be intrusive, even socially inappropriate, for her to go over to Castelbranco? It seemed inhuman simply to stand here staring at him, but even worse to look away.

Where on earth was Pitt? Surely word of what had happened would have reached everyone in the house? The noise of the window smashing, the cries …

Then she looked at the tall clock against the wall and realized it had been only minutes. In another room with the doors closed, away from the back of the house and the window, no one would have heard anything.

She should find Pitt immediately. She turned away from the crowd now huddled into little groups trying to gain comfort from one another, and walked toward the main doors. She was just outside on the gallery at the top of the stairs when she saw Pitt coming up the steps two at a time. He looked pale, his eyes shadowed with horror. He crossed the few yards between them and stood in front of her. One look at her face was enough to make any questions unnecessary.

“How did it happen?” he asked quietly, so as not to be overheard.

“Ugly teasing,” she answered. “A mixture of humor, at first, at least as far as the other boys were concerned. But then Neville was cruel. Even when it got out of hand, he didn’t stop.”

Her voice felt choked and thick in her throat. She was losing control. “It all happened so quickly.” She took a deep breath. “I should have done something!” She was to blame. She had stood there watching. She was furious with herself for her stupidity.

He put his hand on her arm, holding on to her surprisingly hard. “Charlotte, stop it. You couldn’t know she was going to go through the window. That was what happened, right?”

“Yes, but I didn’t even try,” she gasped. “And I knew something was wrong.”

“And did you know what to do about it? In fact, do you know now?”

“No! But something …”

He slipped his arm around her and she relaxed a little against him. A wave of gratitude engulfed her that he was there, that in all the years his strength had never failed her.

“Thomas …” She did not know if she was going to sound foolish, or even if it mattered now that Angeles was dead.

“What?” he asked. “I can’t just leave. I have to—”

“I know,” she interrupted. “That wasn’t what I was going to say.” She pulled away so she could meet his eyes. He waited, frowning a little. Even as she said it she was uncertain. “She wasn’t just angry, Thomas, she was terrified. We saw her over a week ago, Vespasia and I. She was frightened then too.”

He frowned. “Are you certain? Frightened of what?”

“Yes, I am sure. Vespasia thinks—we both thought—that Angeles had been assaulted.”

“Assaulted? Do you mean raped?” He was trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice but it was there in his eyes.

“Yes, I do.” She pictured in her mind Angeles’s face in the marquee when the young man had spoken to her. It was not distaste that had made her back away in such an extreme manner, it had been fear, a reaction to something else. “Yes, I do,” she repeated.

“I’m sorry,” he said very quietly. “I wish it were not so. But does it matter now? Would it not be better for everyone, especially her parents, if we did not raise that question?”

“If somebody did that to her, it’s appalling!” she protested. “It’s one of the worst crimes you can commit against a woman. It’s the reason she was so terrified.”

“Do you know that for certain?”

“No, of course I don’t! But what does anyone know about a crime for certain, before you investigate?” Even as she said it she knew her words were hollow. It was a nightmare dancing at the edge of her mind. She did not know the shape or even the reality of it. “I …” she started, and then stopped again.

“I know.” He touched her cheek. “You feel as if there ought to have been something you could’ve done. We all feel that after a tragedy.”

“Can we at least do anything to help now?” Charlotte asked.

“I doubt it, but I’ll try. Perhaps you should find Aunt Vespasia. I won’t be any longer than I have to. No doubt the police will come quickly.”

“I suppose so. Should I say anything, if they ask me?”

“Tell them exactly what you saw. And be careful—only what you saw, not what you think it meant.” It was a warning, softly spoken but grave.

“I know!” She calmed herself deliberately. “I know.”

All around her people were huddled together, many in silence. The police had arrived and were speaking to them, making notes of what everyone said. Footmen moved among them almost silently, offering whatever refreshment might help, including quite a few stiff shots of brandy.

As Charlotte had expected, the police spoke with her. She was very deliberate in her answers, adding nothing to the facts.

“Is that all you saw?” a gaunt-faced older policeman asked her doubtfully. “You seem much more …” he searched for the word, “… composed than the other ladies I’ve spoken to. Do you know something more about what happened?”

She met his eyes. “No.” Was that a lie? “My husband is head of Special Branch,” she explained. “Perhaps I am just a little more careful of what I say. I want to tell you what I saw, not what I felt or might have imagined.”

“Special Branch?” His eyes opened wider. “Is this—?”

“We came socially,” she answered him. “The entire incident happened without any warning. One moment it was nothing, and then within seconds it became ugly.”

He frowned. “Ugly? What do you mean, Mrs. Pitt? Were there threats? An assault of some kind? Or something that Miss Castelbranco might have interpreted as an assault?” He looked puzzled now.

“No, just hectoring, though it seemed mean-spirited. Miss Castelbranco was clearly upset, and Mr. Forsbrook didn’t let it go. Everyone else could see that it was no longer funny, but he seemed to …” She stopped, aware that finishing her train of thought was more than she wished to say.

“Yes?” he prompted her.

“I don’t know. He just wouldn’t leave her alone.”

“Were you acquainted with Miss Castelbranco, Mrs. Pitt?”

“Only slightly. If you are asking if she confided anything to me, she did not. I can tell you only what I saw.”


SHE MET VESPASIA LATER, just before they were permitted to leave. Vespasia was as immaculate as always, but she looked tired and pale, and she was clearly distressed.

“What are you going to say?” Charlotte asked her when they had a few moments alone in a small anteroom off the main hallway.

“I have been turning over all possibilities in my mind,” Vespasia answered slowly. “But we do not know the reason for what happened; we can only guess. I think the bare truth, without interpretation, is all either of us can afford to say.”

Charlotte stared at her. “That is what Pitt said. But we know she was terrified. If we say nothing then aren’t we lying, by omission?”

“Terrified of what, or of whom?” Vespasia said very quietly.

“Of … of Neville Forsbrook,” Charlotte replied.

“Or of something she believed about Neville Forsbrook,” Vespasia went on. “That may or may not have been true.”

Charlotte felt helpless. If they voiced their own fears about what had happened to Angeles, speculation would run wild. Neville Forsbrook was alive to defend himself, and so were his friends. He could say that Angeles was hysterical, that she had misunderstood a remark; perhaps her English was not so fluent as to grasp a joke or a colloquialism. Or even that she had had rather too much champagne. Any of those explanations could even be true, though Charlotte did not believe any of them.

“So there is nothing we can do?” she asked aloud.

Vespasia’s eyes were full of pain. “Nothing that I know of,” she replied. “If it were your child, what would you want strangers to do, apart from grieve with you, and make no speculation or gossip?”

“Nothing,” Charlotte agreed.

She rode home silently with Pitt. When they alighted and went inside, Charlotte went directly up the stairs. As gently as she could, she opened Jemima’s bedroom door and stared at her daughter, sleeping in the faint light that came through the imperfectly drawn curtains. Her face was completely untroubled. Her hair, so like Charlotte’s own, was spread across the pillow, unraveled out of its braids. She could have been a child still, not on the verge of womanhood at all.

Charlotte found herself smiling, even as tears ran down her cheeks.