Midnight at Marble Arch

chapter



8



NARRAWAY WENT TO LISSON Grove reluctantly. It had been his office, his domain, for so many years that going back as a visitor heightened his sense of being superfluous. He did not belong anymore. He looked much the same as he always had, not even noticeably any grayer, certainly not heavier or stiffer. His mind felt just as sharp—in fact, in some ways more so. It was emotionally that he felt different. Surely gentleness, an awareness of others, a greater humanity, was part of wisdom?

He had time in which to do anything he wanted, to travel anywhere, if he wished. It wasn’t possible that he had forgotten how to enjoy himself. He could go to the beautiful cities of Europe he had only visited in haste before. He could admire the architecture, steep himself in the history of the cultures, the music, the great art created through the centuries. He could stop and talk to people purely for the pleasure of it. He could ignore or forget anything that bored him. There were no boundaries, no responsibilities.

Was that what troubled him? He needed boundaries? What for—an excuse? Responsibilities, or he felt unimportant? Did that mean there was little to him except the job? He had started in the army at eighteen, straight from Eton, where he had excelled academically. The military had been his father’s idea, much against his own intention.

He had arrived in India almost coincidentally with the beginning of the Mutiny, and seen firsthand the horrors of war. It had been brutal and desperate—innocent men, women, and children slaughtered as well as soldiers. It was there that he had first become aware of the unnecessary human errors—“stupidity” would not be too strong a word in some cases—that caused such tragedy. It had sparked his appreciation for military intelligence and, even above that, the understanding of people and events, of political will, the perception of social movement that had eventually matched him with his true gifts, Special Branch. He had given the rest of his life to it.

Was it the loss of purpose that hurt now, or the loss of power? Who was he without those things? It was the question he had avoided asking himself, but now that it was in his mind in so many words, he could not sidestep it anymore. He had never been a coward before. He could not be one now. There was still something left to play for.

He had brought Pitt into Special Branch, originally as a favor to Cornwallis when Pitt got himself thrown out of the Metropolitan Police because he knew too much about a particular area of corruption. Now Pitt was head of Special Branch and Narraway was retired to kick his heels in the House of Lords, very much against his will. After the miserable Irish business he had had no chance of remaining in office.

He walked up the steps and in the door self-consciously, aware of the surprise and then discomfort of the men who used to snap to attention and call him “sir.” Now they were uncertain how to greet him. He could see in their faces the indecision as to what to say. He should have the grace to relieve them of that.

“Good morning,” he said, giving a very slight smile, which was not familiarity, just good manners. “Would you please inform Commander Pitt that I am here, and would like to speak with him regarding a matter in which my advice has been requested. He is already aware of it.”

“Yes, sir … my lord,” the man replied, relief filling his face that Narraway seemingly knew his place. “If … if you’ll take a seat, sir, I’ll deliver that message.”

“Thank you.” Narraway moved back from the desk and obeyed, feeling ridiculous, slightly humbled in what had been his own territory, asking favors of men he used to command. Would Pitt feel obliged to see him, however inconvenient it was? Might he even feel a slight pity for him, a man with no purpose? He was too tense to sit down. Perhaps he should not have come to the office, but rather, met Pitt at some other location.

He was not old; he was still more than capable of doing the job. He had been dismissed because of a scandal deliberately and artificially created in one of the most dangerous plots of the decade, perhaps of the century. But he had made enemies. The very nature of Special Branch made it impossible for Narraway to justify himself without also telling the truth as to what had happened. And that he could never do. He acknowledged with a bitter irony that the very act of talking to the public would have made him unfit for the position.

And Pitt was a worthy successor. He would grow into the job. He had both the intelligence and the courage. With luck he would last long enough to gain the experience. The only quality in doubt was the steel in his soul to make the decisions where there was no morally clear answer, where other men’s lives were at stake and there was no time to weigh or measure possibilities. That required a particular type of strength, not only to act, but afterward to live with the consequences. Narraway could not count the number of times he had lain awake half the night, second-guessing himself, regretting. There was no other loneliness quite like it.

The man returned. Narraway remained where he stood, waiting for the response.

“If you’ll come with me, my lord, Commander Pitt has a little free time and would be happy to see you,” the man said.

Narraway thanked him, wondering whether the “little free time” was Pitt’s wording or the messenger’s. It was very faintly patronizing and did not sound like Pitt.

“Morning.” Pitt rose to his feet as if Narraway were still the superior. “The Quixwood case?” he asked as Narraway closed the door.

“Yes,” Narraway replied, accepting the seat offered him. He felt a touch of surprise at Pitt’s serious tone, and the fact that he had brought up the subject so quickly. “You’re not interested in the Quixwood case, are you? I mean officially?”

“Not quite. As far as I know, thus far it’s an ordinary tragedy, no political implications. But I’m just beginning to realize what a complicated, misunderstood, and horrible crime rape is. I was actually thinking of Angeles Castelbranco, before you came.”

Narraway blinked. “The Portuguese ambassador’s daughter who died in that appalling accident?”

“I think it was probably an accident, to some degree,” Pitt answered. “At least on her part. On his, I don’t know.”

“His?” Narraway raised his eyebrows. “What are we talking about?”

Pitt’s face creased with distaste. “It was a public taunting—baiting, if you like—that led to her fall, largely orchestrated by Neville Forsbrook. I don’t think she had any intention of going out the window, as is now being suggested.”

Narraway frowned. “What are you saying, that she was raped too? By Forsbrook?”

“I think so. But I have no way of proving it. But this isn’t why you came. What can I do to help you with Catherine Quixwood?”

There was a horrible irony in Pitt’s sudden switch from Angeles to Catherine. Narraway tried to marshal his thoughts.

“Knox is a good man,” he began. “But he doesn’t seem to have gotten anywhere beyond the fact—which now seems inescapable—that she let the rapist in herself.” He watched Pitt’s face closely, trying to see if his thoughts were critical, or open. He saw no change in Pitt’s eyes at all. “I can see that he hates it, that he believes she had a lover,” he went on.

“What do you think?” Pitt asked.

Narraway hesitated. “I’ve done a lot of digging into her actions over the last six months or so.” He measured his words carefully. When he had been in Pitt’s job he had not allowed emotions to touch his judgment. Well, not often. Now he was thinking of Catherine Quixwood as a woman: charming, interested in all kinds of things, creative, probably with a quick sense of humor, someone he would have liked. Was it because the whole tragedy had nothing to do with danger to the country, no issues of treason or violence to the state, that he allowed himself to really visualize the people involved? People with dreams, vulnerabilities like his own? He could not have afforded to before.

“Was her marriage reasonably happy?” Pitt asked.

“Happy?” Narraway thought about it and was puzzled. “What makes a person happy, Pitt? Are you happy?”

Pitt did not hesitate. “Yes.”

For an instant Narraway was overtaken by a sense of loss, of something inexpressible that he had missed. Then he banished it. “No, I don’t think it was,” he answered. “She was making as much happiness for herself as she could, but through aesthetic or intellectual appreciation.”

“Has Knox given up looking for suspects?” Pitt asked.

“There’s a young man named Alban Hythe who seems likely,” Narraway replied. “He is smart, likes the same arts and explorations that she did, and attended many of the same functions. He admits to being acquainted with her, although since they were seen together a number of times he could hardly deny it.”

Pitt frowned. “Then what troubles you? Her reputation, if she was known to have a lover? Or are you concerned for Quixwood’s embarrassment? There’s nothing you can do about that.” His face was filled with regret. He gave a very slight shrug. “I’m finding it hard to face that fact myself.”

Narraway heard Pitt’s dilemma and for the moment ignored it.

“My problem is, I’m not certain I believe it was Alban Hythe,” he argued. “I met him and he seemed a decent chap. The rape was violent. Whoever did it hated her. It doesn’t seem like the crime of a lover unexpectedly denied—not a sane one.”

Pitt shook his head. “If rapists didn’t appear perfectly natural we’d find them a lot easier to catch.”

“I can believe it of an arrogant young pup like Neville Forsbrook a lot more easily,” Narraway retaliated, startled by his own anger.

Pitt looked at him in silence for several moments before replying. “If Hythe is innocent, then someone else is guilty,” he said at last. “Whether he was her lover or not, whoever it was raped her violently and killed her. That can never be excused.”

Narraway took a deep breath. “That’s another part of the problem,” he admitted. “The medical evidence suggests it’s possible he didn’t kill her directly. She actually died of an overdose of laudanum—it very easily could have been suicide. It will be difficult to convince a jury otherwise. It’s easy to believe, given the violence of the rape, that she was traumatized to the extent that she wanted to end her life.”

Pitt continued to stare at him, his gray eyes steady and full of pain. “We know far too little about it, this rape or any other,” he said levelly. “Perhaps we know too little about ourselves as well. But if Alban Hythe isn’t the man, and the circumstantial evidence is piling up against him, then you need to prove he’s innocent, or he may eventually be imprisoned, or worse, for something he didn’t do. Not to mention the fact that whoever did do it will escape entirely, and probably do it again. And there may be something to be salvaged of Catherine’s reputation, at the very least.” His mouth turned down in a bitter twist. “People are now suggesting that Angeles Castelbranco was with child, and that was why she killed herself.”

“Like you said, it’s doubtful she wanted to go out that window,” Narraway said with some heat. “Judging by what you know, I don’t believe she thought of anything except getting away from Forsbrook and his taunts.”

“I agree,” Pitt said. “But if I say so, then Pelham Forsbrook will defend his son.” The misery and the anger were cut deep in his face. “How does anyone prove Neville is truly to blame for anything beyond cruel words and insensitive behavior?”

Narraway clenched his fists, hardly aware of it until his nails dug into the flesh of his palms. “I refuse to be so bloody helpless!”

“Good.” Pitt smiled bleakly. “When you discover how to accomplish that, please share it with me.”

Narraway rose to his feet. “Can’t you at least prove Angeles wasn’t with child? There would have been signs, surely?”

“That isn’t the point,” Pitt answered wearily. “If she thought she was, or could have been, then her reputation is equally ruined.”

Narraway no longer had the energy for this. He felt a coldness close around him, in spite of the warmth of the day and the sunlight streaming through the window. The brightness seemed curiously far away. He should recall what he had come for and ask Pitt, before the opportunity slipped away.

“I haven’t dealt with rape before,” he said. “What kind of proof do the police look for if the victim is dead and can’t say anything herself?”

Pitt thought for several moments. “I’m not sure that they would try to prove rape,” he said at last. “If she was badly beaten that might be enough to convict the guilty party. That is a crime, and the jury would read more into it, under the circumstances. The sentence could be just as heavy; obviously she could not have done that to herself. If you can prove the accused was there, and no one else could have been, it should be sufficient.”

“I see. Then that is the approach I shall take.” Narraway rose to his feet. “Thank you.”

Pitt relaxed a fraction. “It was good to see you,” he replied.


NARRAWAY WAS STILL TURNING the matter over in his mind early that evening. He sat with the windows open onto the deepening colors as the sun lowered toward the horizon. He was startled when his manservant knocked discreetly and stood in the doorway to say that Mrs. Hythe was in the entryway and wished to speak with him.

“Shall I bring tea, my lord?” he added with elaborate innocence. “Or a glass of sherry, perhaps? I don’t know the lady sufficiently well to guess.”

“But you know her sufficiently well to assume that I will see her?” Narraway said a trifle waspishly. He was tired, more by frustration than action, and would have been happy to forget the whole issue of the Quixwood case for a few hours.

“No, sir,” the manservant replied, his eyes momentarily downcast. “But I know you, my lord, well enough to be certain you would not refuse someone in considerable distress, and who is counting on you to be of help.”

Narraway stared at him and did not see even a flicker of irony in the man’s face. “You should have been a diplomat,” he said drily. “You are far better at it than most of those I know.”

“Thank you, my lord.” A light glinted for a moment in the man’s eyes. “Shall I bring tea or sherry?”

“Sherry,” Narraway answered. “I would like it, whether she would or not.”

“Yes, my lord.” He withdrew silently and a moment later Maris Hythe came in. Her face was as charming as before, with the same blunt gentleness, but she could not hide the fact that she was both tired and frightened. Instantly Narraway regretted his self-absorption.

He rose to his feet and invited her to sit down in the chair facing the window and the deepening sunset.

“I apologize for coming uninvited, my lord,” she said a little awkwardly. “Normally I would have had better manners, but I am frightened, and I don’t know of anyone else who might help.”

Narraway sat down opposite her, leaning forward a little as if he too were tense. “I assume the situation has worsened with regard to Mr. Knox’s investigation? I haven’t spoken to him for a day or two. What has happened?”

Her answer was forestalled by the return of the manservant with a silver tray bearing sherry and two long-stemmed crystal glasses.

Maris hesitated.

The manservant poured a little of the rich dark golden liquid into one of the glasses and placed it on the table beside her. He poured a second and gave it to Narraway.

After he had gone Narraway picked his up, so she might do the same, and waited attentively for her to speak.

“Nothing Mr. Knox finds could prove my husband’s guilt, because he is not guilty,” she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “But every new fact does make it look worse for him.”

“He has never denied that he and Mrs. Quixwood were friends,” Narraway pointed out. “What new information has been added to that?”

She kept her composure with difficulty, taking a sip of sherry, probably more to hide her eyes for a moment than because she wished for its taste.

He waited.

“Small gifts he gave her,” Maris replied very quietly. “I didn’t know about them. I think he felt sorry for her. She … she was very lonely. Mr. Quixwood has been both honest and contrite about it, as if he blames himself for putting so much effort into his work that he did not accompany her to the places she wished to go.”

“It is natural to feel guilty when it is too late to go back and make a better task of it,” he said with a twinge of guilt for his own sins of omission.

She smiled very slightly. “I think he is a kind man who did not see how she really felt. And perhaps she did not tell him. One doesn’t. It sounds so like complaining, and when you have comfort, position, no need to worry … and respect as well, from a man who is honorable, to ask for more is … greedy, don’t you think?” She looked at him as if she genuinely wished for an answer.

“I have no idea,” he admitted. He tried to think of the women he knew. Charlotte would certainly want more. She would sacrifice financial security or social position for love, she had already proved that. Perhaps within the definition of “love” she would include a sharing of purpose, and a commonality of interest. Above all she might require to be needed, not an ornament but a part of the fabric of life.

Her sister Emily loved her husband and had considerable wealth and social standing, and yet she envied Charlotte her purpose, her excitement, the danger and variety. Narraway had seen it in her eyes, heard it in the sharp edge of her voice in a rare unguarded moment.

And what of Vespasia? That was a question perhaps he preferred not to consider. Because of her title and extraordinary beauty she had lived in the public eye all her adult life, but she was still acutely private with her emotions. He had never thought of her as vulnerable, capable of such frailties as doubt or loneliness.

“My lord …” Maris interrupted a little anxiously.

He returned his attention to her, slightly embarrassed to have been discourteous. “I’m sorry. I was considering what you had said about Catherine Quixwood.” That was true, in a way. “It is perceptive of you to have seen the possibility of her loneliness.”

A look that he could not read flickered across her face. The only thing he recognized in it for certain was fear.

He leaned forward a little more to assure her that she had his attention, in spite of his earlier lapse. “What is it you would like me to do, Mrs. Hythe?”

“Mr. Knox is still working on the case,” she replied. “I really don’t think he will give up until his superiors tell him he must. He seems to me to be a good man, gentle, in spite of the terrible things he has to deal with every day.” The ghost of a smile was in her eyes for an instant. “He speaks of his family once in a while, when he is in my house. He admired a teapot I have, and said his wife would like it. It seems she collects teapots. I wondered why. Surely two or three are sufficient? But he said she likes to arrange flowers in them, so I tried it myself—daisies. It worked extraordinarily well. Now every time I look at the thing it makes me think of him, and then of Catherine.”

Narraway did not know how to respond to that. How had Pitt dealt with the reality of people, the details of their lives that stayed in the mind? He thought of Catherine lying on the floor, and the ornaments in the room. Had she chosen them, put them there because they pleased her, or reminded her of someone she cared for?

“You have not told me what it is you wish of me, Mrs. Hythe,” he said, bringing the conversation back to the practical.

“Every detail he finds makes it clearer that Catherine was fond of my husband,” she answered. “And that they liked and trusted each other, and met … often.” She swallowed with a tightening of her throat that looked painful. “He believes that she let her attacker in herself, and that could only be because she knew him—”

“Yes,” he cut in. “There was no break-in.”

She lowered her eyes. “I know that too. But I also know that my husband is a good man—not perfect, of course, but decent and kind. He felt sorry for her and he liked her, no more than that.” She looked up at Narraway earnestly. “If they were having an affair, perhaps I would have hated her for it and—if I were crazy enough—wished her harm. But I could not have raped her. And my husband didn’t either.”

She gave a little shiver. “On the other hand, her husband could have, but that doesn’t work either, does it, as he was at a party while she was being attacked. Don’t mistake me; I care very much that you catch whoever did this. I think any woman would. It was a terrible way to die.” She took a deep breath and continued. “But in spite of his kindness to her, the small gifts he gave her, the times they met at one exhibition or another, my husband was not her lover. And, as I’ve said, even if he had been, he could not have committed such an atrocious crime against her.”

Narraway was brutal, to get it over with: “And if he found her fascinating, flattering to his vanity, a beautiful older woman with sophistication and intelligence, and she suddenly rebuffed him?” he asked. “How would he react to that? Are you certain that it would not be with anger?”

Color burned up her face, but she did not look away from his gaze. “You don’t know Alban, or you wouldn’t ask that. I’m aware you think I am being idealistic and naïve. I’m not. He has his faults, as do I, but losing his temper is not one of them. Sometimes I wish he would. For some time, I am ashamed to say, I thought him something of a coward because he was so gentle.” She winced. “Now I risk seeing him hanged for a crime he could never even imagine committing. I think perhaps he even helped her with something that troubled her, although I don’t know what. He never mentioned it to me. Don’t let him be destroyed for that.”

Narraway stared at her, trying to assess if she truly believed what she said, or if, even more than to convince him, she was trying to convince herself.

“Are you positive you have no idea what it was?” he urged. This was a new thought and perhaps worth pursuing.

She looked down at her hands for a moment, weighing her answer before she spoke.

“Alban is a banker. I know he is young yet, but he knows a great deal about business, especially investment. I … well, I think it may have something to do with that, investments, in Africa, the Boers, and Leander Jameson. I know Alban read a lot about the raid, and the difference it might make to people if Dr. Jameson is found guilty. He listened to Mr. Churchill, and his talk of the possibility of war.”

Narraway drew in his breath to interrupt her. Surely she was being fanciful, desperate to say or do anything to defend her husband, and was tossing out any idea she could think of, even if it was ridiculous? But then, maybe it wasn’t ridiculous. Quixwood was a man involved in major finances. He might have made an investment that his wife feared was risky, even potentially ruinous. Was it conceivable that she had sought advice behind his back, from an independent source?

And she might have feared Quixwood would see that as a betrayal, a complete failure of loyalty to him, a lack of belief in his judgment.

It sounded desperately unlikely that a woman such as Catherine—beautiful, dependent, without any knowledge of international affairs, let alone of finances—would have undertaken to learn such things, and from a young man like Alban Hythe, no less, not her learned husband.

Narraway wanted Alban to be innocent, as did Maris Hythe, albeit for different reasons. Were they not both reaching too far, grasping for impossible answers and refusing to see what was right in front of them?

She looked at him, breathing in as if to say something else. Then she changed her mind and some of the light faded from her eyes.

Knowing he would regret the words even as he said them, Narraway spoke. “I’ll do all I can to follow this lead, Mrs. Hythe. I shall see Knox straightaway.”

She blinked hard and smiled. “Thank you, Lord Narraway. You are very kind.”


HE DID NOT FEEL kind as he waited for Knox in the police station the following day; in fact, he felt particularly foolish. When Knox finally came in, hot and tired, his boots covered in dust, his face tightened when he saw Narraway.

“I don’t know anything more, my lord.” There were smudges of weariness under his eyes, and when he took his hat off his hair stuck up in spikes. “I can tell you half a dozen places where she met with this Alban Hythe, but I can’t tell you for certain whether it was by accident or arranged.” He put his hat on the hat rack. “They turned up at an awful lot of the same events. Hard to see it as always accidental like. They were things she was interested in, but far as I can tell, he hadn’t been, until he met her.” He sat down heavily in the chair opposite Narraway.

“Do you really think they were having an affair passionate enough to cause him to rape her and beat her like that if suddenly she ended it?” Narraway asked, allowing his doubt to reflect in his expression.

“No,” Knox said frankly. “But somebody raped her. It looks like it’s Alban Hythe, and there’s nothing to show it wasn’t him, except my own feeling that he’s a decent young man. But haven’t you ever been wrong about a gut feeling?”

“Yes,” Narraway admitted. “Sometimes seriously. I suppose you’ve looked into his background? And, also, how on earth did he have time to wander around art galleries and National Geographic luncheons and exhibitions of crafts from God knows where? I certainly don’t!”

“Nor I,” Knox said ruefully. “But I’m not a venture banker with fancy clients to please. And apparently he’s very good at his job indeed.”

Narraway was startled. “Is that what he says he was doing? Taking clients out?”

Knox gave a bitter smile. “Yes. He quite willingly offered me the names of some of the clients concerned, and I contacted them. Of course they didn’t discuss their business, but they affirmed that they had dealings with him, and that they were quite often made in social surroundings—usually over a damn good lunch or dinner. It seems that introductions are made in such places. He mentioned an exhibition of French art, in particular, where certain British investors met with French wine growers, all very casually. Pleasantries were exchanged, and then agreements about very large sums of money were made.”

“That would hardly involve Catherine Quixwood,” Narraway pointed out. “It could be an explanation for one or two meetings, not more.”

“Three or four maybe,” Knox corrected. “Quixwood himself is one of the investors.”

Narraway was puzzled. He could not see how this explained what appeared to be a very personal friendship with Catherine. Unless, of course, Maris Hythe’s extraordinary idea had some truth in it?

He pursued it with Knox because he very much wanted an answer that exonerated Catherine from any type of wrongdoing, and Alban Hythe as well. He acknowledged to himself that he also was angry enough, wounded enough, that he wanted someone to be provably in the wrong. He needed someone to be punished for the pain and the humiliation she had suffered.

“What does Quixwood say of him?” he asked aloud.

“Nice young man, and good at his job—in fact, gifted at it,” Knox replied unhappily. “He seemed very distressed at the thought that Hythe could be guilty.” He sighed. “It would be a very personal kind of betrayal, both for Quixwood, and for Mrs. Hythe. But then rape is, when the people know each other. I sometimes wonder which is worse, to be attacked so intimately by a complete stranger, or by someone you had trusted.”

“But you still don’t think Hythe is guilty?” Narraway pressed again.

Knox looked up again, meeting Narraway’s eyes. “Have you ever been really surprised by who was a traitor, or an anarchist, Lord Narraway? Did you have that kind of sense for judging people, regardless of evidence, or what anyone else said?”

Narraway thought for a moment. “Occasionally,” he replied. “Certainly not most of the time. But rape is …”

“Bestial?” Knox said for him. There was a bleak humor in his eyes that could have meant anything.

Narraway was going to answer, then as he looked at Knox longer he saw the intelligence in the man, the perception and experience of things Narraway had passed by without seeing, never considering them.

“Depends on who you believe, doesn’t it, sir?” Knox answered his own question. “I daresay if I were to ask a few ladies you’d loved and left, if they bore some kind of resentment they would tell a tale you wouldn’t recognize as the truth—my lord.” He sat motionless, as if half waiting for Narraway to be angry at his impertinence. But there was no shame in his face.

Narraway did not answer immediately. Memories raced through his mind: women who had attracted him intensely and on occasions women he had used because they were attracted to him. Certainly he was not proud of it and he would have found it difficult to explain to someone else had any one of them accused him of rape. Nothing like that had ever been suggested—although in Ireland he had earned the undying hatred of one man by seducing his wife. Recollection of that burned with hot shame up his face, even now. It had been years ago, and the man and woman in question were both dead. Still, it did not lessen what he had done.

Were it recent, and someone had charged him, how could he account for it with any honor? What words would he find to tell a courtroom why he had acted as he did, all the little details, the lies, the carefully fabricated deceptions, why he had felt it was the only thing to do … at that time? The thought of Vespasia’s ever hearing about it scalded him. Would it be the end forever of their friendship, her trust, her respect? No wonder people lied!

And of course there had been other women over his long life. Some he had loved, briefly, knowing it would end. He had never seduced an unmarried woman, or made a promise he had not kept. He would like to think he had never intentionally lied unless it was for a greater good.

What a piece of spurious self-excusing! Would anyone else see it like that? Even the simplest act could be viewed in so many ways. The mind could create a dozen different interpretations of a word, a gesture, a meeting, a gift. People believed what they wanted to, saw what they expected to see.

“Could you defend yourself, if you had to, my lord?” Knox said softly. “I’ve had times when I couldn’t have.”

No one had accused Narraway of anything, and yet he felt the fear as closely as if it had touched his skin. Of course he had incidents in his life he would prefer other people knew nothing about. He cared surprisingly much what his friends thought of him—Charlotte, Pitt, other people he had known and worked with; above all, Vespasia.

He faced Knox again. “There was no misunderstanding in what happened to Catherine Quixwood,” he said grimly. “Whether it was a lover or not, whether she lied to him, betrayed him, seduced him, or whatever else, he beat and raped her and now she is dead, not of natural causes. He did that to her. He is responsible.”

“I know,” Knox said, the pain back again in his eyes, all the lightness gone. “If I can, believe me, I will see that he pays.”

Narraway said nothing, but felt his face relax into a kind of smile. It was not pleasure so much as an ease in Knox’s company, a respect for this man he had not felt for anyone else except Thomas Pitt.


IN KEEPING WITH HIS promise to Maris Hythe, Narraway sought out Rawdon Quixwood, who was still spending much of the time at his club. He waited impatiently for him in the lounge, well into the late afternoon. Most of the time he tried to concentrate on the newspapers and their comments on the forthcoming trial of Leander Starr Jameson for the armed raid he had led in Africa, patriotically inspired but disastrously misguided.

Occasionally Narraway was too restless to remain seated, so he paced up and down the largely deserted room. Then an elderly man, almost hidden by the wings of the huge armchair he was sitting in, coughed repeatedly and glared at him over the top of his spectacles. Narraway realized that he was being inconsiderate and returned to his seat.

He picked up the newspaper again and found his place in the varied accounts and letters to the editor.

He was still reading when the steward informed him that Mr. Quixwood had returned, and inquired if he would like tea, or perhaps whisky.

“Ask Mr. Quixwood if he will join me,” Narraway answered. “And then serve whatever he chooses.”

The steward inclined his head in acknowledgment and withdrew.

Fifteen minutes later Narraway was sitting opposite Quixwood in the quietest part of the lounge. He studied the man for several moments while they both sipped their whiskies in silence. Narraway would rather have had tea, but he was not here for his pleasure.

Quixwood looked exhausted. His skin was pale except for the dark circles under his eyes, but the hand holding his glass was perfectly steady. Narraway admired his self-discipline. He must be feeling both the ordinary grief of losing a wife suddenly and violently, and the loneliness, but he had the additional torture of imagining her last moments, and then there was the speculation in the press, which was no doubt read by almost everyone he met. It was not only a question of who had raped her, but whether the man had been her lover. It was written about in daily newspapers for everyone in the street to think about, talk about, even make jokes over.

Until it was solved, there would be no end to it.

“Do you know something new?” Quixwood asked. His voice was so low that Narraway had to concentrate to hear him.

“I imagine Knox has told you that he suspects Alban Hythe?” Narraway answered. “Or at least that the evidence suggests that he and Mrs. Quixwood knew each other unusually well.”

Quixwood shook his head fractionally. “Yes, but I find it very difficult to believe.” He smiled faintly, and with obvious effort. “But then, I imagine a man always finds it difficult to believe that his wife was having an affair.”

A day ago Narraway would have agreed with him. After his experience with Knox he responded differently. “It is very disturbing to realize how easily we go through life assuming,” he said, watching Quixwood’s face. “People change slowly, so infinitesimally that day by day we don’t see it. Like glaciers—so many feet in a year, or maybe it’s inches.”

Quixwood looked down at his glass and the light reflecting in its amber depths. “I thought I knew her. I’m slowly facing the fact that perhaps I didn’t.” He glanced up abruptly. “You know the worst thing? I’m not even as certain as I was that I really want to know exactly what happened. I … I don’t want all my illusions shattered. I trusted my wife and believed she loved me, and even at our most cool or difficult moments, she would never have betrayed me.”

A smile flickered across his lips for a moment and vanished. “I thought Hythe was someone I could trust, and now that I know his wife a little better, I know that she also trusted him. She still cannot accept even the possibility that he could be guilty of this. I suppose it is part of my own grief that I want to comfort her.”

Quixwood sipped his whisky again. “Am I a coward to want not to know?”

Narraway considered it for a moment before replying, wanting to be honest.

“I think you may be unwise,” he said at last. “I can imagine how you would prefer to leave your wife’s last days, and especially her last moments, unknown. In your best times you will not think of it at all. In your worst you will visualize it brutally.”

Quixwood was watching him, waiting for him to finish.

“But it isn’t only you,” Narraway continued. “Maris Hythe may find she cannot live with the uncertainty. If Hythe is innocent, he surely deserves to have that proved. How could he live with it otherwise, hinted at but unproven, for the rest of his days?”

“And if he’s guilty?” Quixwood asked.

“Then he deserves punishment,” Narraway said without hesitation. “And even more than justice toward him, what about the rest of society?”

Quixwood blinked.

“Do you want to live in a country where such appalling crimes go unpunished?” Narraway asked. “Where we are sufficiently indifferent to the horror of it that we prefer not to inquire too closely in case the answer is one we don’t like? What about other men’s wives, or daughters? What about the next woman raped?”

Quixwood closed his eyes. His hands clenched around his glass so tightly that had it not been heavy cut crystal, it would have broken. Narraway did not press him to answer.

They spoke of other things, briefly, and after a little while Narraway left, wishing there were more he could do and knowing there was not.