by Anne Perry
There was another murmur of approval around the gallery and a few of the jurors smiled.
Vespasia felt the bitterness of the irony, that Quixwood was thanking Narraway now, when Narraway was off trying to do everything in his power to help free Hythe.
“He spent a great deal of time at my home,” Quixwood went on thoughtfully. “He read through Catherine’s diaries, something I would find too painful to do, but which I was glad that he did.” He looked at the jury. “The items are all in evidence, so he has not had to testify. I believe Catherine’s maid authenticated them.”
“Thank you, Mr. Quixwood,” Bower said with a gracious gesture, an inclination of his head in respect.
Symington sat fidgeting, and Vespasia felt a wave of pity for him. It was clear he knew that Bower was asking such questions only to keep Quixwood on the stand and draw the jury’s sympathy even more. There was no real evidence to give. But if Symington challenged him on it and won, then the trial would be virtually at an end. So he must drag it out as long as he could, to give Pitt and Narraway a chance to find the new evidence they were searching for. Bower had all the cards to play and Symington was desperate.
Bower was smiling now. It was a gentle, friendly smile, one of compassion. “Mr. Quixwood, was your wife a beautiful woman?”
Quixwood blinked hard several times before replying. “Yes, she was, in every way. Her face was uniquely lovely, full of life and wit and grace. She could be terribly funny, when she wanted to, and without unkindness. She loved beauty of every kind, and knowledge. She was interested in everything. You may think I say that now because I loved her, but ask anyone who knew her and they will say the same.”
“Have you ever had instances before where another man craved her attention more than was appropriate?” Bower asked.
“Yes, but Catherine was well able to decline without ill feeling,” Quixwood answered. “I suppose every truly lovely woman has to learn that art.”
“So you had no cause to fear for her?”
“Of course not! For God’s sake …” His voice broke. “She was in her own home with the doors locked and … and a full complement of servants!” Quixwood said in a sudden burst of anguish. “What should I fear? I was out at a reception my business required I attend. What sane man would imagine such a … a …” He struggled to regain his control, but failed. He bowed his head and quickly wiped at his cheeks.
For a moment Vespasia thought Pitt and Narraway had to be wrong, at least in the assumption that Quixwood could have had anything to do with the crime. Perhaps it was Pelham Forsbrook, in revenge for Quixwood having been Eleanor’s lover—if that was true. Yes, surely that made more sense? She would say so to Symington, when she had the chance.
“I have no further questions for this witness, my lord,” Bower said. He looked at Symington with slightly raised eyebrows.
Symington rose to his feet, then seemed to hesitate. He looked at Quixwood, then at the jury. No one moved.
“Mr. Symington?” the judge asked courteously.
Symington smiled, a charming, almost luminous smile that Vespasia knew he could not possibly mean. The only chance he had was to win some sympathy from the jury, create some shred of doubt in their minds.
“Thank you, my lord,” Symington said gracefully. He looked up at Quixwood. “I hate this. Heaven only knows how you have suffered already, Mr. Quixwood, and I cannot imagine what you have lost in this whole terrible tragedy. I do not believe that the accused was the man who did this thing, but I do not believe that putting you through any further agony will assist me in proving that. I offer you my sincerest regrets over the fearful death of a woman who seems by every account to have been beautiful in all respects.”
He sat down again, to the amazement of the gallery, the jury, and the judge. Even Bower looked momentarily wrong-footed.
Vespasia felt her heart sink. Pitt and Narraway could not possibly have found anything yet. Why on earth did Symington not think of something to give them time? Was the man a fool? Or did he know he was beaten, and could see no point in stretching out the pain?
Bower stood up again, victory flushing his cheeks, making his eyes bright.
“The prosecution rests, my lord.”
Symington was pale as he stood again and asked the judge for an adjournment so he might speak privately with his client before beginning the defense.
Perhaps hoping that they could have a speedy end, the judge granted an adjournment until the following morning.
Vespasia stood up slowly, a little stiff, and waited a few minutes while the crowd pushed and jostled its way out. She did not want to linger, but she could not think of anywhere else to go. She had reached the main doors to the street and was hesitating there when she heard her name called. She turned to find Symington at her elbow.
“Lady Vespasia, may I speak with you, perhaps in half an hour or so? It is extremely pressing, or I wouldn’t trouble you.”
“Pressing is a magnificent piece of understatement, Mr. Symington,” she replied. “If there is anything at all that I can do, I am entirely at your disposal.”
“I’m afraid I must ask you to wait because now is the only chance I have to see Hythe again before tomorrow morning, although I have very little idea what I can say to him that will help, except a final plea to tell me the truth. I have nothing with which to defend him.”
“Of course I will wait.” She gave the only answer possible. “If you can show me where I may do so without being asked to leave?”
“I have the use of a room. Thank you.”
She followed where he directed her; as soon as he left her alone in the small room, she rose to begin to pace the floor. Her mind went over and over the facts she knew, seeking for any escape whatever.
The minutes ticked by. She heard voices and footsteps outside, but no one disturbed her.
They were going to lose tomorrow. It seemed inevitable. And Narraway was so convinced that Hythe was not guilty. Perhaps he was capable of deeper emotion than she had considered, but he would never be a sentimental man, following wishes where his reason denied. The violence against Catherine Quixwood had appalled him. He had never known her in life, yet in her terrible death she had touched something in him deeper than anger or pity at a crime.
Assuming both Catherine and Hythe were innocent of any romantic or physical liaison and it was, as Pitt and Narraway had conjectured, a matter of his finding information for her regarding investment in the fiasco of the Jameson Raid, then why did Hythe not say so now? If he were the man he claimed to be, what could possibly be worse than the fate of conviction and hanging for a shocking crime you didn’t even commit?
Lady Vespasia wondered what love or honor would make her willing to silently face such a hideous death.
Surely he was doing it for someone. And if so, it had to be Maris, whom he loved, and who had been loyal to him throughout. To save her from what, though? Destitution? But if he was prepared to remain silent about the truth to protect her, that could only mean that the truth would ruin someone else.
That in turn must be Quixwood. Or perhaps Pelham Forsbrook?
Would Hythe trust either of them, though? Not without something that committed them to keeping their word about caring for Maris. What could that be?
Vespasia was still pondering it all when Symington returned. The courage and grace he had shown in the courtroom had vanished. He looked totally beaten.
She did not ask if he had succeeded in getting information from Hythe; the answer was apparent.
“I don’t know what else to do,” he said, dropping into a chair and indicating with a weary gesture that she should sit opposite him.
She remained standing, unable to relax, but he appeared too exhausted to stand again.
“Mr. Symington, a reason for Mr. Hythe’s refusal to defend himself has occurred to me,” she said gravely. “He believes he cannot be saved, which in the circumstances is a reasonable assumption. However, if he is as noble a man as his
wife believes, then he will not fight a hopeless battle for his own life or honor when to give in silently might preserve some measure of comfort and protection for her.”
Symington looked up, frowning. “Narraway suggested much the same thing. We realized if he is hanged, as he well might be, then her life will be wretched, and unless she has family, she will probably also be destitute.”
“So what if Quixwood has promised to look after her, even given Hythe some written commitment that cannot be broken?” she suggested. “On condition, of course, that Hythe does not reveal the financial information that he obtained for Catherine?”
“It’s certainly possible. But how the devil do we prove all this?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But for the sake of a man’s life, we must spend all the time we have left trying. I intend to go to Thomas Pitt’s home and wait for his return. He and Lord Narraway will solve this, if it can be done.”
“I shall come with you,” he insisted. “We have no time to waste in relaying messages to each other. Come.”
CHAPTER
19
CHARLOTTE WAS COMPLETELY UNPREPARED when Vespasia arrived, with Peter Symington immediately behind her. Vespasia looked magnificent, dressed in an exquisitely cut costume of dark blue-gray with flawless white silk at the neck and pearls on her ears. If the intent had been somberness appropriate for a trial, she had just missed it.
“I apologize, my dear,” Vespasia said as a stammering Minnie Maude held the parlor door open for her. “But the situation is desperate. May I introduce Mr. Symington. As you know, he has undertaken the defense of Alban Hythe, for what I fear will be scant reward, and we are on the brink of defeat. We are beaten on every side and unless we can think of something tonight, tomorrow will deal us the coup de grâce. Although there will be little of grace about it. I do not like Mr. Bower, who represents the prosecution. There is a self-righteousness in the man, and a lack of imagination.” The vitality and determination in her face seemed to reject the possibility of both tragedy and defeat. Symington was clearly weary and bruised from battle, but the warmth of his smile robbed Charlotte of complaint.
“How do you do, Mrs. Pitt?” Symington said quietly. “I am aware that we are intruding, and I apologize.”
“You are most welcome,” Charlotte said sincerely. “Have you come straight from court? It’s early, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he replied. “The judge allowed me time. I’m sure he assumes it’s so that I can prepare myself for a strategic surrender. But we are not quite at the last ditch. Lady Vespasia hopes that Commander Pitt and Lord Narraway might yet be of assistance.”
Charlotte’s mind raced. She had no idea where either Pitt or Narraway might be. What should she do if they did not return until late? It was only just after three in the afternoon.
“Have you eaten?” she said practically. No one’s mind was at its best when lacking nourishment.
“Yes, we have had luncheon, thank you,” Vespasia said, still standing. “But perhaps Minnie Maude would be kind enough to make us tea. I remember in the past most profound conversations across the kitchen table. Might that be possible again?”
Charlotte did not bother to consult Symington. His easy smile as he stood suggested he would agree.
“Of course,” she said quickly. “Minnie Maude will make us tea, and we’ll have some cake as well. Neither hunger nor discomfort must mar our thoughts. I shall use the telephone to see if Mr. Stoker can help us get a message to Thomas. I also imagine Lord Narraway’s manservant might be able to find him, if it is possible.”
“Excellent.” Vespasia nodded. She and Symington followed Charlotte to the kitchen, followed by a startled and uncomfortable Minnie Maude.
Around the kitchen table, with plenty of tea and some very good homemade cake, they brought Charlotte up to date with the day’s happenings in the courtroom.
“What we lack is any kind of proof,” Vespasia said unhappily.
Symington ate the last of his cake. “I would settle for a witness or two and a good deal of suggestions,” he said. “You can scare people into admitting all kinds of things, if you get the balance exactly right. I would like to prove Hythe innocent, but at this point I’d be grateful for reasonable doubt.”
Vespasia thought for several moments. “Let us consider what we know for certain,” she said. “In the order of their happening, as far as is possible.” She looked at Charlotte. “What does Thomas know?”
“That about four years ago Eleanor Forsbrook ran away from home,” Charlotte said. “We don’t know whether it was with a lover or not, nor do we know who that lover was, if there was one, may have been. Possibly she was beaten beforehand, but we have no evidence yet.”
“No evidence yet? Then how do you know this?” Symington asked her.
“My husband found out from a man who works nearby in Bryanston Mews,” she answered. “Thomas said he was intending to find the doctor who examined Eleanor’s body after the accident, to see if any of the injuries inflicted were old.
“We also know that Neville Forsbrook beat a prostitute very badly, five or six years ago, when he was about sixteen,” Charlotte continued. “And the woman’s pimp beat Neville equally badly, in return. Apparently he scarred him with a knife.” She pulled a slight face at the thought.
“And your husband knows this for certain?” Symington asked. “Or he believes it?”
“He believes,” Charlotte answered reluctantly. “And he also believes that Neville raped Angeles Castelbranco, and so do I,” she went on.
Symington looked puzzled. “Is this a Special Branch case, Mrs. Pitt?” His voice implied that he doubted it.
“There is no case,” she told him. “It’s just a tragedy we saw, one we care about very much.”
“I heard about Angeles,” Symington said thoughtfully, and there was a sudden sharp pain in his face. “I gather she was quite young.”
“Yes.” Charlotte kept her composure with difficulty. “About two years older than my own daughter. The problem is, Quixwood insists Neville was with him at the time of Angeles’s rape. And we are here now to try to save Alban Hythe from being hanged for a crime he did not commit, not convict Neville Forsbrook for one that he did, unfortunately.”
“They both involve rape,” Symington thought aloud, his eyes unfocused, staring at the far wall. “Certainly that’s the part of the Quixwood case that makes the least sense.”
“Is it even imaginable that Neville Forsbrook raped Catherine Quixwood too?” Charlotte asked in little more than a whisper.
Symington stared at her. “But why in God’s name would her husband protect him from another charge of rape, then? Wouldn’t that be the perfect answer? Neville could be convicted, without the shame and humiliation of a trial making the wretched details of Catherine’s death public? It’s what I would want, if it were my wife.” He looked at Charlotte. “Are you sure he attacked Angeles? I mean, really sure that you are not assuming because it makes sense of other things we don’t understand? And to be honest, because you don’t like him, and you believe he’s guilty?”
Charlotte hesitated a moment. “Do I know it? No. I can’t prove it. But we know he raped Alice Townley …”
Symington looked confused. “Who is Alice Townley?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Another young girl. Her father refused to bring charges against Neville, but Thomas went to see her, and she told him it was Neville Forsbrook who raped her. Her account was very similar to that which Angeles Castelbranco gave her mother, but with a lot of details filled in. And before you ask, no, the girls didn’t know each other.”
Symington clenched his teeth and breathed in and out slowly several times. “Then I think we may believe them,” he said at last. “Let us take it that Neville Forsbrook raped Angeles, and this Alice Townley. Which means Quixwood lied to protect him. Why?”
“Because he does not wish Neville Forsbrook to be charged with rape,” Vespasia answered.
&
nbsp; “But why not, if he is guilty?” Charlotte said quickly.
“Because he wanted someone else convicted of it,” Symington answered. His expression changed slowly. “Of course! What if Catherine was, in fact, murdered because she had discovered financial information that Quixwood could not afford to have made public.” He stood up, his face eager. “Both Catherine and Hythe had to be silenced. Raping her was a convenient way to accomplish it. Everyone would presume she had committed suicide, and Hythe would be accused of the crime and hanged, going to the gallows in silence to protect his wife. God Almighty! It’s diabolical.”
Charlotte sat back, her gut twisting. “Can there be proof, then, that Hythe found any financial information for Catherine regarding investment in the British South Africa Company that would implicate Quixwood?” she asked.
“No,” Symington answered miserably. “Most of his access to such records was probably illegal anyway, and even if we could prove it, there is nothing to say he obtained it for her. She seems to have kept no record of the information.”
“That seems so peculiar,” Vespasia interjected. “Why go through all the trouble to get the information if she wasn’t going to document and use it somehow?” She turned to Symington. “And suppose what she found out was that Quixwood was ruining Pelham Forsbrook. Why would she care? Why would it matter enough to have one of them silence her in this brutal way?”
“Do we know that Quixwood was definitely trying to ruin Forsbrook for certain?” Symington asked.
“No. We need to know if Quixwood advised Forsbrook to invest, and then failed to warn him of the possible failure and consequent cost of the Jameson Raid,” Vespasia answered. “And we have no time for that.”
Symington turned to Charlotte. “Is there any way Commander Pitt could obtain, if not information on the major investors, then at least word-of-mouth reports? It would do in a pinch. Quixwood won’t know that I’m guessing.”
Charlotte stood up. “I’ll telephone Mr. Stoker again,” she replied. “It is worth trying, at least.”
