by Anne Perry
“Yes, sir.”
LATE IN THE AFTERNOON Pitt went again to the Portuguese Embassy. He must see Castelbranco and tell him the latest news, as he had promised he would.
When he reached the embassy, Rafael received him immediately in the quiet study. Pitt had considered what he was going to say, and knew perfectly well what it might cost him, but he had no doubt as to what it would cost him if he did not.
“You have news,” Castelbranco said softly. “I can see it in your face. What has happened?” There was anxiety in his voice and his eyes looked Pitt up and down.
His gentle tone stiffened Pitt’s resolve. He had gained a profound regard for the Portuguese ambassador over the last weeks, even a kind of affection. In many people grief shows more vividly their weaknesses; it shakes the fault lines in their character. In Castelbranco, though, it had marked more profoundly his strengths. There was a fortitude in him that was rare.
“It is good of you to come,” the ambassador said quietly. “May I offer you some refreshment? I have whisky, if you wish it, but in view of the pleasantness of the weather, you might prefer something lighter? I have been drinking a concoction my wife enjoys, a mixture of fruit juices.” He stood still, waiting for Pitt’s answer.
“That sounds excellent,” Pitt agreed honestly. “We’ll keep the whisky for the autumn.”
Castelbranco took a glass from the cupboard and filled it from a jug on the sideboard, then they both sat down. Under different circumstances, Pitt reflected sadly, they would have truly enjoyed each other’s company.
On the way to the embassy, he had been trying to reach a decision. Now in this calm room he no longer wavered. It was disobedience to the spirit of the Home Secretary’s orders, but to obey would be a betrayal of this man Pitt had come to think of as almost a friend.
Castelbranco was waiting for Pitt to speak. The silence would stretch comfortably only so long.
“They are almost certainly going to find Alban Hythe guilty in the next few days,” Pitt said at last. “I’m not certain it is the correct verdict, but there is little to refute it. However, the man who was head of Special Branch before me, and for whom I have an immense regard, believes Hythe is innocent.”
Castelbranco’s face creased with an even deeper sense of tragedy.
“More injustice,” he said softly. “The whole matter of violence toward our women stirs a hysteria in us we don’t seem to manage very well. Terror and unreason rage through it all. Can you do anything to help?”
“I doubt it,” Pitt admitted. “But I know Lord Narraway won’t give up. As you will recall the charge is that they were lovers who quarreled, not that he attacked her at random.”
Castelbranco smiled bleakly. “I am aware of your point, Mr. Pitt. I do not imagine that this young man assaulted my daughter. She told her mother it was Neville Forsbrook. I do not doubt her.” There was a question in his eyes. It was not a challenge, but his gaze was direct and unwavering. “I don’t know why this man Quixwood would say that it could not be. Perhaps in his own grief his memory is disturbed. His loss is terrible, and the whole of London knows that his wife betrayed him.”
“It is an awful situation,” Pitt agreed. “But not what I came to discuss. I have made it my business to learn much more about Neville Forsbrook, and that is the reason I came this evening in particular. The Home Secretary has commanded me to cease my investigations in the matter. If I don’t he has threatened to remove me from my command—in fact, I imagine from the Service altogether.”
“Then you cannot continue!” Castelbranco said in alarm, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes wide. “You have done all you can to find justice for my daughter, and been a good friend to me. What ill return I would offer you to ask more!”
“I can at least tell you what I know,” Pitt answered. “I have, in fact, discovered quite a lot about Forsbrook.” He repeated what Stoker had told him regarding the incident with the prostitute and the resulting violence from the pimp, as well as Neville Forsbrook’s prolonged absence from England. He also mentioned the rumors of Pelham Forsbrook’s violent nature, and that his wife, Neville’s mother, had supposedly fled—whether to an imaginary lover or a real one, no one knew—and had been tragically killed in a carriage accident.
“It explains much,” Castelbranco said quietly, staring into his empty glass. “But it does not excuse it. Neville is dangerous. Do you not think he will continue to hurt others?”
“Yes, I do,” Pitt answered. “I would very much like him to be stopped, but so far I have no idea how I can do that.” He fished in his pockets and brought out a folded piece of paper. On it was a name and address. He held it out to Castelbranco. “This is a man I knew on and off when I was in the regular police. It would be necessary to pay him, but he is not greedy and he is extremely discreet. He can make inquiries for you, if you wish.”
Castelbranco took the paper and read it. “Elmo Crask? Is that how you pronounce it?”
“Yes. He is unimpressive to look at. He appears harmless, untidy, as if easily fooled, but he cultivates that intentionally. He is very clever indeed and has a memory like an elephant. But consider before you approach him.” Even as he said it Pitt still wondered if he was doing the right thing. It was what he himself would want, but that did not make it wise. He had not told Charlotte what he intended because he thought she might well disapprove.
Castelbranco was waiting, watching him.
“No matter how careful he is, it is possible that one way or another Pelham Forsbrook will come to hear of it. There may be no proof that you are behind the inquiry, but it would be the obvious conclusion.”
“What can he do that is worse than what his son has done?” Castelbranco asked with a quiver in his voice.
“He can certainly strike where it hurts,” Pitt said miserably. “He can start more rumors about your daughter, ask even crueller questions. Please don’t take it for granted that he wouldn’t. If he believes he is protecting his son’s reputation, he will be as determined as you are, and far less scrupulous.”
“Such behavior would surely prove his son’s guilt,” Castelbranco pointed out. “But I hear what you say, and I shall weigh it before I approach this …” he looked again at the piece of paper, “… Elmo Crask. I know it is not only a matter of the past—there is the future to consider as well, all the other young women Neville could destroy, the other families who will be wounded forever by loss.”
Pitt stood up and held out his hand. “I’m sorry to offer so little.”
“It is much.” Castelbranco stood as well, his voice suddenly husky. “You have already gone far beyond the bounds of your office. I hope you do not suffer for it.” He firmly held on to Pitt’s hand for several seconds before releasing it.
Pitt left, and went out into the warm summer night hoping desperately that he had made the right decision, that he had acted with wisdom, not merely out of emotion.
HE TOOK A HANSOM cab and rode through the heavy traffic barely noticing it, his mind in turmoil. He wanted to be at home, surrounded by the comforts he was familiar with, and put other people’s grief out of his mind, at least for a few hours.
But he knew home would not afford him that. He would look at all he had, the things that were precious to him beyond measure, the center of all value and happiness in his life, his wife and children, and he would not be able to forget. By the time he reached the quiet of Keppel Street, and his own house, he had no answers, only a greater clarity as to the questions.
Charlotte was happy to see him, as always. If she had concerns, she was wise enough to keep them until after supper when he would undoubtedly be more willing to listen—or, at the very least, not hungry.
Jemima was excited and full of energy, her eyes shining, her face flushed. He half listened as she told him in hectic detail about something to do with a musical performance. He had learned to feign an appearance of understanding, nodding at the right times. She did not expect him to understand. Charlotte under
stood, and that was sufficient.
Daniel rolled his eyes now and again, then when it was his turn to receive the attention he asked numerous questions about the geography of the Empire, and answered them himself. His knowledge was impressive and Pitt told him so, to his son’s immense pleasure.
Later, Pitt was standing in front of the French windows, which were wide open, the perfume of damp soil drifting into the room, when Charlotte approached him. The last of the light was on the tops of the neighbors’ trees. Starlings circled in the air. Apart from a very slight breeze moving the leaves, and a dog barking on and off in the distance, there was hardly any sound.
“What is it?” she asked quietly, coming to stand beside him.
“What is what?” His mind had been wandering and he could not remember the last thing he had said to her.
“Thomas! I know you are worrying about something. I imagine it is to do with Angeles Castelbranco.” There was a degree of exasperation in her voice, but it was gentle.
“Questions, to which I don’t know the answers,” he replied.
She linked her arm through his and stood close enough so he could feel the warmth of her body. “About Angeles?” she asked. “You are not sure it was Neville Forsbrook, are you? It was. I saw him taunting her. He knew exactly what he was doing, and why it would hurt her.”
“In spite of the fact that Rawdon Quixwood swears Neville was somewhere else and couldn’t have been involved?” He smiled very slightly, disengaging his arm from hers and then putting it around her and holding her even closer.
“Is that the question you’re asking yourself?” she said. “Why on earth Rawdon Quixwood would lie to protect Neville Forsbrook?”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Assuming he is lying.”
Charlotte weighed it in silence for several moments before she spoke.
“People lie for several reasons,” she said thoughtfully. “To protect themselves, or someone they love; or, of course, someone they are being pressured to protect. Or they lie to achieve something, or to avoid something. Do people lie to protect an ideal? Or because the truth is something they can’t afford to believe, for some reason? Something they just don’t want to believe? Refuse to?” She watched him, waiting for the answer. “Or are afraid to?” she added.
“Or maybe because of blackmail?” he answered. “Or debt? And if that’s the case, then the question arises, what could Rawdon Quixwood possibly owe either Neville or his father?”
“Maybe they knew something about Catherine that he wants to keep secret?” she suggested. “After all, the poor woman can’t protect herself now.”
“But she was already dead when Quixwood stepped forward to swear Forsbrook was innocent regarding Angeles,” he said grimly.
“Then it would have to be something that mattered very much. Considering how Catherine died, Rawdon Quixwood would be the very last man in London to protect a rapist.”
“And yet I think he’s lying,” Pitt responded. “I just can’t work out what the truth could be. Nothing I imagine makes any sense.”
“Let’s go through the scenarios one by one, then,” she suggested. “What might Forsbrook have, either father or son, that Quixwood would want? Not money, I don’t think. Vespasia said Quixwood got out of an African investment before the Jameson Raid, and she is all but certain that Forsbrook didn’t. She said he looked like a ghost at the Jameson trial.”
“All right,” Pitt agreed. “Not money. To protect someone? That’s obvious—to protect Neville, but why? Pelham Forsbrook certainly had nothing to do with Angeles’s rape. And she and the other young girl, Alice Townley, specifically said they were raped by Neville. Neither of them mentioned his father.”
“You’re right,” she said, biting her lip. “It’s difficult. Fear? Who is afraid of what? Or … Quixwood and the Forsbrooks are not related, are they?”
“No,” he said, turning it over in his mind. “Not by blood, or any business alliance that we can see.”
“Then something else,” Charlotte suggested. “If we start off assuming that Angeles and Alice Townley are telling the truth, then Quixwood is lying.”
“Indeed,” Pitt said, putting his other arm around her and tightening his hold. “But how do we find out why?”
She laid her head on his shoulder. “If it isn’t the men, try the women,” she suggested. “Neville Forsbrook’s mother must have had some influence on him.”
“She’s dead,” he reminded her, but as he said it the beginning of an idea stirred in his mind. “But I’ll try that tomorrow.”
CHAPTER
18
NARRAWAY HAD HARDLY STARTED his breakfast when his manservant interrupted him to say that Commander Pitt had called to see him, and the matter was urgent.
Narraway glanced at the clock, which read just before half-past seven.
“It must be,” he replied a trifle waspishly, perhaps because he was touched with a moment of fear. Only an emergency could bring Pitt at this time of the morning. “Ask him if he would like breakfast, and show him in,” he instructed.
A moment later Pitt came into the dining room dressed formally, and rather more neatly than usual. He looked excited more than alarmed.
Narraway waved at the opposite chair and Pitt sat down.
“Well?” Narraway asked.
“Let’s assume that Angeles Castelbranco and Alice Townley were telling the truth,” Pitt began without preamble. “We are left with the conclusion, then, that Rawdon Quixwood must be lying about being with Neville Forsbrook at the time of Angeles’s rape.” He leaned forward a little. “Which raises the question as to why he would do such a thing. One would presume he would be the last man in England to defend a rapist.”
“So why should we presume it?” Narraway asked. With anyone else he would have been sarcastic, but he knew Pitt better than to assume he spoke without an answer in mind. “What have we missed?”
Pitt gave a very slight, rueful gesture. “I’m not certain. Some connection between Forsbrook, either father or son, and Quixwood. Or if not that, then possibly between the women.”
“What women? There’s no connection between Angeles and Quixwood. And no connection between Catherine and Angeles, or Catherine and either of the Forsbrooks,” Narraway pointed out. “And as far as the men are concerned, Vespasia says there appears to be a connection between Pelham Forsbrook and Quixwood, but it’s tenuous. They both considered investing in the British South Africa Company. Forsbrook did. Quixwood changed his mind in time and lost nothing. Quixwood does a lot of financial advising, so possibly he told Forsbrook to leave it alone.”
“But what if he didn’t give him the advice?” Pitt suggested.
Narraway sipped his tea. “Why wouldn’t he?”
“We need to find that out,” Pitt answered. “It might make sense of why Catherine Quixwood was so intent on learning about investment, and the British South Africa Company. Perhaps she discovered Quixwood was misleading people in that manner—or perhaps only Forsbrook—and she needed more knowledge from Hythe in order to be certain?”
Narraway thought about it for a moment or two. The manservant came in bringing Pitt a full breakfast, including fresh tea.
“It could make sense,” Narraway finally answered when the manservant had gone. Pitt was eating hungrily. “Except then we are left with a complete stranger raping Catherine, rather than Hythe, which doesn’t fit.”
“That’s true,” Pitt admitted. “But we don’t have any other solution that makes sense either.”
“Unless it is exactly what it appears to be.” Narraway did not like the answer, but he could not deny it. “Catherine was desperately lonely and she gave in to temptation to have an affair with a charming and intelligent man, who shared her interests.”
“But why did Hythe start the affair?” Pitt pressed. “He had nothing of value to gain, and everything to lose.”
“She was lovely and smart,” Narraway said simply. “Perhaps his wife had become boring compared
with her?”
“Then why did he rape and beat her?” Pitt said. “Forcing a woman is a crude and vicious thing to do, but to beat her half to death is the act of a man driven by demons within himself, a man completely out of control. Is there anything else in Hythe’s life to draw a picture of him like that?”
“No,” Narraway said thoughtfully. “Nothing at all. But do we always see it? If we do, why does sudden, terrible violence ever happen?”
Pitt smiled reluctantly and swallowed his mouthful of bacon and eggs. “You can’t arrest a man for what you think he could be capable of. And we know a lot more about Hythe because of all this than we do about most people. We also know a lot about Neville Forsbrook. Compare the two of them. Who seems more likely to commit such crimes?”
“But like I said before, there’s no connection between Catherine and either of the Forsbrooks. I would go so far as to say Neville had likely never even met Catherine Quixwood,” Narraway argued.
“No. But if he called on her, would she have let him in? Would she have any reason to fear him?”
“No,” Narraway conceded. “But would she have let the servants retire and sit up alone waiting for him? Unless you are suggesting she was having an affair with Neville? There’s absolutely no evidence at all of that! He’s a generation younger than she is. What on earth could they have in common?”
“I don’t think she was having an affair with him,” Pitt replied, pouring himself more tea. “Or anyone else, for that matter.”
Narraway raised his eyebrows. “What, then? He simply called by because he wanted to rape someone, and he chose her?”
“Of course not,” Pitt answered impatiently. “There’s something important that we don’t know. There must be a connection between the Quixwoods and the Forsbrooks. And somehow these other girls—Angeles, Alice—have gotten caught up in it.”
Narraway felt the panic well up inside him. They were losing the case, and the trial of Hythe might not last beyond today—tomorrow, if they were lucky. He had spoken with Symington. The barrister was going to face the final battle with no more than charm and imagination, which was too little against all the supposed facts.
