Midnight at Marble Arch

chapter



6



VESPASIA WAS DEEPLY TROUBLED by the terrible death of Angeles Castelbranco. She went over and over it in her mind, waking in the night and turning up the light in her elegant bedroom. She felt the urge to see her familiar belongings, to become rooted again in her own life with the beauty and the pleasures she was accustomed to. But with that came also the deep, almost suppressed loneliness that underlay it all.

At least she was physically safe from everything except illness and age. As the events at Dorchester Terrace a short while ago had reminded her so painfully, no one was free from those. Death need not be gentle, even in one’s own home. The only thing one could do was have courage, and keep faith in an ultimate goodness beyond the limited sight of the flesh.

Of course faith was of little use now to Isaura Castelbranco; and Angeles, poor child, was beyond the reach of any of them.

But whoever had brought about her death, even indirectly—and Vespasia was certain that someone had—he need not be beyond the reach of justice, and maybe even more important, of being prevented from ever doing such a thing again.

Vespasia had heard of the death of Catherine Quixwood, and the speculation as to the nature of her attack. She knew that Victor Narraway had involved himself in the case and wondered if he really had any perception of the horror behind such a terrible act. In thinking this, she realized she had been avoiding approaching him about the matter because it would hurt her if he could not—or would not—grasp the true breadth of suffering such pain.

That made the decision for her. If she feared talking to Victor, then she must face that fear. She sent him a note in the morning arranging to meet him for luncheon in one of her favorite restaurants.

She found him already waiting for her when she arrived. There were some tables in the open air, placed well apart under the dappled shade of trees. They were set with white linen, and the ever-moving light caught the edges of cut-crystal glasses. The air smelled of earth and flowers, and the murmur of the river nearby made private conversation easy.

He greeted her with evident pleasure. For the first few minutes they laughed and considered the menu and made choices, as if nothing ugly or sordid ever thrust itself into the beauty of their world.

When they were served and the waiter had excused himself, Vespasia finally approached the subject that had caused her to arrange the meeting.

“How is the case going regarding the death of Catherine Quixwood?” She tried to make it sound as if her interest were casual concern.

He did not answer immediately but studied her face, searching for the depth behind her words.

She felt foolish. She should have known that even with her years of experience in Society at saying one thing and meaning another, she could not delude him. He was not so very much younger than she, and he had been in Special Branch much of his life.

“I have a reason for asking,” she said, then realized she was offering an explanation that had not been asked for. She smiled. “Am I transparent?”

His answering smile was quick. “Yes, my dear, today you are. But have we ever spoken idly to each other, looking for something to say?”

She felt a faint warmth creep up her cheeks, but it was from pleasure, not discomfort. “Perhaps I had better be frank and start at the beginning. It just seemed a little clumsy to bring it up at the luncheon table.”

With his back to the light, his eyes were so dark as to be black. Now they widened slightly in surprise. “Disturbing, perhaps, forthright always, but never clumsy. Is it my involvement you fear may be inappropriate? Or is it something to do with Catherine Quixwood herself? Did you know her?”

“No. So far as I am aware, I never met her,” she said with a strange touch of regret. “And it had not occurred to me that you would behave other than as always. It is the subject of …” She found herself reluctant to use the word, and yet to circle around it was somehow an insult to the victims. “The subject of rape,” she said distinctly. They were not close enough to anyone else to be overheard. “I am afraid that there may have been another incident, ending equally tragically, and I am uncertain what to do for the best.”

The concern in his face became profound. “Tell me,” he said simply.

Quietly and without elaboration she recounted what had happened at the party during which Angeles Castelbranco had met her death. She was startled and even a little embarrassed that her throat ached with the effort to keep her tears in check. She had not intended him to be aware of the depth of her feelings.

“There was nothing you could have done,” he said gently when she had finished.

The pity in his eyes, almost tenderness, caught her with a raw edge, awakening other, more complex emotions.

“But I didn’t try to do anything,” she said sharply.

“What could you have done?” he asked. “From what you say it was all over in a few terrible moments.”

She took a deep breath and stared down at the tablecloth, the silver and crystal still winking in the light as a breath of wind stirred the leaves above them. “I knew there was something wrong over a week ago,” she answered. “I should have done something then.”

“You knew, or you suspected?” he said.

“That’s splitting hairs, Victor. It doesn’t help.”

“What is it you want me to say?” he asked reasonably.

She felt a completely uncharacteristic flare of temper. She wanted to lash out at him for being patronizing and completely missing the point, but she knew that was unfair. She sipped her wine for a moment before answering.

“I suspect Angeles might have been assaulted, possibly raped, and that is why she reacted to young Forsbrook so violently. She was terrified, of that I am quite certain. What I do not know is what to do about it now.”

“Is Pitt aware of this?” he inquired.

“I imagine so; most certainly Charlotte is. But it is not a police matter, let alone one for Special Branch. I very much doubt the Castelbrancos will report it to anyone. They are foreigners here, in many senses alone in a strange country.”

“Vespasia—” he began.

“I know,” she said quickly. “It is not my right to interfere, and if I do so I will assuredly make it worse. But regardless of what the law may think, it is a monstrous wrong. I didn’t think so at first, but I realize now that if there is something I can do, then I must do it. I am not involved with the police, or law, or government. There are avenues I can explore that they cannot. And I have no other demands on my time.”

“It could be dangerous,” he began urgently, his face creased with anxiety. “Pelham Forsbrook is a very powerful man, and you have no proof that Angeles’s death was anything other than a simple tragedy. You—”

She fixed him with a withering look.

He stopped speaking and smiled, but did not lower his gaze.

She realized with surprise that the look that froze almost anyone else was having no effect upon him, but she did not avert her gaze either.

“What is it you wish of me?” he asked. “Other than my discretion, which you have.”

“I want to know what the law does about rape, when they are tragically certain of it. For example, what the police are doing to find out who raped Catherine Quixwood,” she replied. It was a guess—she had only suspected as much from the bits of gossip she had heard—but the shadow that fell over his face immediately confirmed it.

“How did you …” he began, his face troubled.

“I thought it was a possibility, given the circumstances,” she said gently.

Narraway sighed. “It seems that whoever attacked her was someone she knew—she let him in without fear,” he said simply. “The rape was violent and brutal, but in itself it didn’t kill her. It seems, according to the doctor, that she managed to drag herself to the cabinet and pour herself a glass of Madeira, which she heavily laced with the laudanum. I thought the hall cabinet was an odd place to have laudanum, but apparently that’s where it was. Perhaps she liked it with the wine because the wine masked the taste. I don’t know.”

Vespasia was stunned. The ugliness of the act and its aftermath crowded in on her and she felt crushed by its inevitability. So Catherine herself would be blamed for her circumstances; drinking the laudanum would be interpreted as an act of shame, an admission of some kind of guilt, and the fact that she had opened the door to her attacker would be read as an invitation to intimacy, not her innocent trust in the man.

Narraway was watching her. She saw the pain and confusion in his eyes and wondered how much he understood of what people would say, and what the additional burden would be for Quixwood: all the searing confusion and anger, his own life violated also.

“I see,” she said in little more than a whisper.

“I don’t,” he answered. “Not really. I can’t shake it from my mind. To realize that another human being has experienced such horror stays with me, as if a part of myself has been touched unforgettably.”

She looked at him with surprise and then felt unexpected warmth for this sensitivity in him she had never perceived before. She wanted to reach out and touch his hand, but it was too intimate a gesture and she did not do it.

“Tell me about her,” she asked instead. “Have you learned anything that might be of use in discovering who her assailant was?”

The waiter came and removed their dishes, replacing them with the next course.

At the table closest to them a couple was talking, heads bent close together. He laughed and moved his hand across the white cloth to touch hers. It was a possessive gesture. She pulled away from him, her face coloring.

Vespasia looked away. She could remember being so young, so uncertain. But it felt very long ago.

Narraway began slowly, feeling his way. “Knox seems to be a competent man and I think he understands the crime better than many. He moves very carefully. To begin with I wished he had been quicker. Now I’m starting to appreciate how very complicated the situation is.”

“And Quixwood?” she said gently. “He must be torn apart.”

“Yes. And I fear that if we find who did it, it will be even harder for him when it comes to trial. It will be as if it is all happening again, but this time in public. Strangers will be discussing the intimacy and the dreadfulness of it, pulling apart the details and speculating as to what happened. Even if it is done with compassion, it hardly makes things any easier.”

“No, it won’t,” she agreed. “Perhaps that is why the people who do such things are not afraid. They know most of us will do nothing about it. We would rather suffer in silence and even lie to protect them, before living the horror all over again in front of everyone else. Except Catherine is dead, and can do nothing for herself now.” She saw him flinch.

“You are right.” He shook his head fractionally. “I have looked at least to a deeper side of her life. She seems to have been intelligent, sensitive, full of imagination and interested in every kind of beauty, discovery or invention that one can explore. And lonely. She had nothing to do that mattered—” He stopped abruptly, a shadow of self-knowledge in his face. Then he went on quickly. “There’s a young man called Alban Hythe whom Mrs. Quixwood seems to have met much more frequently than would be accidental.”

“An affair?” she asked.

“I don’t know. It seems a strong possibility.”

“How very sad.” For several moments Vespasia said nothing, picturing in her mind the arrival of a lover, the expected excitement, the emotion, the vulnerability, and then the sudden shock of violence. Had there even been a quarrel? What could possibly have happened that made emotions change from love to uncontrollable fury in such a way?

Narraway waited, watching her. She could not read his expression.

“Do you think it was this man?” she asked him.

“Reason says it is likely,” he replied. “Instinct says not. But that may be only what I want to think. I also want to think she didn’t mean to take her own life, that she just … misjudged the dose. But the police surgeon said it was many times the appropriate amount.”

“She might have meant to, Victor,” Vespasia said gently. “I have no idea how I would feel were such a thing to happen to me. I don’t think it is something I have power to imagine. People can do desperate things when they are frightened.

“It isn’t so very difficult to understand,” she continued, quickly, urgently, leaning forward over the elegant table. “If somehow rape is the victim’s own fault—she said or did something, wore indiscreet clothes, behaved in a certain way—then if we do not do whatever it is they did, it will never happen to us. It’s not compassionate, it’s not realistic, but it is understandable.”

Anger burned in Narraway’s eyes. “I don’t disagree with you. But that sounds monstrous to me, callous and brutal. It is almost like consenting that rape is okay, by omission of defense. I find it is contemptible, the final betrayal.”

“Admitting it can happen to a decent and completely innocent woman is to accept it could happen to anyone,” she pointed out. “That is the unbearable truth. It tears away the last defense. And, of course, some even hate the woman, the victim, for creating what seems like an uncontrollable passion in someone. They don’t understand that it is a crime of hatred, or of power, not of passion.” She had a sudden afterthought. “Or perhaps they do, and it is wakening that animal inside the man which they hate her for. Because they want to pretend such an animal does not exist anymore.”

“Are we so fragile?” he said unhappily.

“Some of us, yes.” She thought for a moment. “And, of course, they might also be afraid for the men who love them—the rage in them, the need for revenge, even if only to prove themselves in control,” she added. “It might lead them not to comfort the victim, hold her in their arms and assure her that she is still the same, still loved, but instead to go out and beat, or even kill, the man who has taken from her so much. And in their blindness of pain they might not even choose the right man.”

“I begin to see why Angeles Castelbranco did not denounce Forsbrook, if you are right and she was raped,” he said very quietly. “And why Catherine Quixwood, in the despair of that moment, chose to take her own life rather than go through the ordeal of what would inevitably follow.”

“What are the chances of a successful prosecution anyway?” Vespasia searched his face now, looking for an answer. “Even if Knox finds the right man, will the verdict be worth the price it will cost?”

“I don’t know,” Narraway admitted. “But what happens to the law itself if we don’t try?”

“What does Quixwood want?” she asked instead of answering.

Narraway spoke slowly. “At the moment he wants to know the truth, but he may well find that he would rather not, if it turns out that Catherine was having an affair with Alban Hythe, or some other man. I don’t know. I think he wants to do whatever is possible to clear Catherine’s name and show she was innocent. Perhaps all he really wants is to be doing something rather than nothing. To feel he is fighting the reality and not simply submitting to it. I can understand that … I think.”

“You are being very honest,” she observed.

“Are we not past pretending?” he asked. “I can return to it, if you wish, but I would rather not. I have lived with secrets for as long as I can remember. Some were worth keeping, probably most were not. Being too careful has become a habit.”

“Not a bad one,” she responded, smiling again. “Most of us tell others far too much, and then are embarrassed by it, always trying to remember exactly how much we said and then replaying it over and over to convince ourselves it was less indiscreet, less revealing than it seemed.”

“I cannot imagine you being indiscreet,” he remarked.

“Don’t be polite,” she said a little tartly. “You don’t know me as well as you might think. Certainly, at times, I have been at the very least duplicitous.”

“I’m greatly relieved,” he said fervently. “A few imperfections and the occasional vulnerability are very attractive in a woman. It allows a man to imagine he is, now and again, just a fraction superior. In your case, of course, he is not, but it is a necessary illusion, if we are to be comfortable.”

“I should like you to be comfortable,” she said, hiding a smile and turning to the waiter, who was inquiring as to their choice for the final course. She was not certain if she saw a faint color in Narraway’s cheeks or not.


THANKS TO THEIR CONVERSATION, Vespasia had made up her mind what she would do regarding Angeles Castelbranco. To begin with she must acquire as much information as possible. If Angeles had indeed been raped, then it must have been very recently. It should not be difficult to find out which functions she had attended in the last month. There were a considerable number of them, but they involved largely the same people. Diplomatic circles were fairly small, and occasions suitable for a girl of sixteen were limited.

A little invention, a great deal of tact, and half a dozen inquiries of friends produced a list of such parties over the previous four or five weeks.

It required all of the following day, and more evasion than was comfortable, before Vespasia had a rough draft of the guest lists. It would have been simpler to ask Isaura Castelbranco which parties Angeles had attended. However, for that she would have had to give a reason, and there was none that would not cause pain, or for which she could in any way account as her concern. She could not even imagine how the woman felt. Vespasia’s own family had caused her many emotions over the years. To love was to be vulnerable, especially regarding children. One feared for their safety, their happiness, their good health. One felt guilty for their unhappiness or their failures. One was bothered by their dependence, and terrified by their courage. One forgot one’s own mistakes, risks, high and absurd dreams and wanted only to protect them from hurt.

Then they grew up, married, and too often became almost strangers. They could not imagine that you were also afraid, fallible, could still dream and fall in love.

Perhaps that was just as well.

So she wrote and rewrote guest lists, and asked questions in roundabout ways. Two days after lunching with Victor Narraway, she had found what she believed was the event at which Angeles had been raped. Obtaining details was more difficult. She pondered for some time whom she could ask to give her an account of the evening, who was willing and observant enough. More than that, what reason could she offer for making such a request?

And who would be discreet enough afterward to keep their own counsel and not mention it to anyone at all? How could she even suggest to whoever it was that the matter must remain confidential? To most people, the very secrecy of it would be a spur to gossip. Each retelling would grow and mutate in the exercise.

She studied more closely the list of those who had been present at that event. There seemed to have been a considerable number of young people. It was in observing how many that the answer came to her.

It was far easier making such inquiries face-to-face than on a telephone. Accordingly she arranged to have luncheon with Lady Tattersall; the following day they sat pleasantly chatting over a dessert apple flan, and far more cream than was good for either of them. Vespasia introduced the name of a fictitious sociable friend.

“She heard the party was a great success, and knew she would have to make hers equally delightful,” Vespasia said, broaching the subject at last. “She does not know anyone who was there whom she might approach, so I promised her I would ask you.”

“Of course,” Lady Tattersall said agreeably. “What would she like to know?”

Vespasia smiled. “I think a simple account of how it went would be excellent, perhaps with a little detail, particularly as to how the younger guests responded to the evening. That would serve very well, and be most kind of you.”

Lady Tattersall was delighted to recount everything she could remember. Vespasia had been careful enough to make her fictitious friend live quite out of the way, in Northumberland, so the absence of word of such a party ever taking place would not be noticed. She learned a great deal: a vivid firsthand account of a large but outwardly successful event. The only person less than happy had been Angeles Castelbranco, but her distress had been put down to her youth, and her foreign blood.

Vespasia left, certain in her own mind that Neville Forsbrook had raped Angeles at Mrs. Westerly’s party, exactly as she and Charlotte had feared. Now the question was what to do with that knowledge, besides informing Thomas Pitt.


IN THE LATE MORNING of the day after her luncheon with Lady Tattersall, Vespasia was taken very much by surprise when her maid announced that Mr. Rawdon Quixwood had called and asked if he might take a few moments of her time. He had a matter of some importance he wished to discuss with her.

She gave the maid permission to ask him in. A moment later he was standing in her quiet sitting room with its view onto the garden. It was in full summer bloom, hot colors of roses and, in the background, the cool blue spires of delphinium.

Quixwood was a stark contrast to the gaudy profusion beyond the windows. He was smartly dressed, but in black, relieved only by the white of his shirt. His thick hair was combed and his shave immaculate, yet his face was that of a man haunted by grief. His skin was pale and the lines around his mouth furrowed deep.

Vespasia struggled to think of anything to say that would not be banal.

“Good morning, Mr. Quixwood,” she began. “May I offer you tea, or—if you would prefer it—something more?”

“That is kind of you, Lady Vespasia, but I shall return to my club for luncheon. I am presently living there. I … I cannot yet face returning to my home.”

“I can imagine not,” she agreed quickly. “I would not find it hard to understand if you never did. I am sure there are other properties that would be equally agreeable, and convenient for you.”

He smiled very slightly. “You are quite right. Forgive me for intruding on you without warning. If the matter were not of some urgency and moral importance, I would not do so.”

She indicated the chair opposite her and, as he sat down, she resumed her own seat. “What can I do for you, Mr. Quixwood?” she invited.

He looked down, smiling very slightly in a wry expression of amusement and pain.

“I have heard from a friend of mine that you have been making certain inquiries about Pelham Forsbrook’s son, Neville, after the tragic night where young Angeles Castelbranco met her death.” He winced. “It is … it is a painful reminder of my own wife’s death.” His voice was husky and he clearly found mastery of his emotions almost impossible.

Vespasia tried to think of something to ease his awkwardness, but she had no idea what he meant to say, so nothing appropriate came to mind.

He looked up at her. “I don’t know how to say this graciously.” He bit his lip. “I know that young Neville behaved in a manner that can be described only as crass when he teased the poor girl. If he were my son, I hope I would have raised him to be more sensitive, more aware of the feelings of others, no matter how much wine he might have taken. His behavior was disgusting. There can be no argument on that. I imagine he will regret his cruelty for the rest of his life.”

His eyes searched her face. “But I know that he did not assault her, seriously or even trivially, at Mrs. Westerley’s party. I was there myself, when young Angeles appeared looking a trifle disheveled, and her face tearstained. I assumed at the time that she had had some youthful quarrel, perhaps even an unexpected rejection. I’m afraid I thought no more of it than that, and possibly I was horribly wrong.” Now his face was filled with distress. “Since I … since …” He faltered to a stop.

Vespasia was overwhelmed with pity for him. He must feel doubly guilty, for not being able to protect his wife, and now for having failed to see Angeles’s terrible distress, masked by her own need to hide it, and his assumption that youthful tears came and went easily.

She leaned forward a fraction. “Mr. Quixwood,” she said very gently, “no sane person would have assumed otherwise in the circumstances. Of course girls her age both laugh and cry over things they barely remember the day after. There was nothing you could, or should, have done.” She hesitated, and then continued, “It is natural when there has been a tragedy that we relive the time before, wondering how we could have averted it. In most cases there was nothing at all to be done, but we torture ourselves anyway. We want to have helped. Above all we want to do over the past with greater wisdom, more kindness; but as the pain settles, we know we cannot. Only the future can be changed.” She wanted to comfort him regarding Catherine as well, but there was no comfort to give.

His smile was now rueful. “I am beginning to realize that, Lady Vespasia, but slowly, and I am some distance from acceptance. What I came to say, which matters, and why I took the liberty of disturbing you, was that whatever happened to Angeles Castelbranco, I know it was not Neville Forsbrook who caused it. I was with him when she left the company and went to look at the paintings in the gallery. It was not Neville she went with, although I admit I don’t know who it was.”

Vespasia drew in her breath to ask him if he was certain, then realized it would be pointless and a trifle insulting. Of course he was certain. He had come out of his grief and his cocoon of protection to say so.

“Thank you, Mr. Quixwood,” she said gravely. “It would be monstrous to blame the wrong person, even for a day. Whispers are not easily silenced. You have told me this before I had the chance to speak to anyone, and perhaps have saved me from a profound error. I am grateful to you.”

He rose to his feet, moving with stiffness, as if he hurt inwardly.

“Thank you for seeing me, Lady Vespasia. Thank you for your wisdom. In time it will be of comfort.” He bowed, just a gesture of the head, and went to the door.

She sat for several minutes afterward without moving, thinking, in the silent, sunlit room, how desperately fragile the illusion of safety could be.