by Anne Perry
She was back five minutes later. “I spoke to Mr. Stoker; he is going to look into it. I have no idea whether it will help or not. He will come here this evening with whatever he can find.”
“So suppose Forsbrook and Quixwood both invested in Africa, only Quixwood withdrew his money in time, but did not warn Forsbrook to do the same.” Vespasia picked up their conversation.
“He might’ve warned him, and Forsbrook might not have listened,” Symington said.
Charlotte nodded her head in agreement. “Either way, that leads us to the Jameson Raid at the very end of last year, which has just now come to trial, and because Jameson is likely to be found guilty, the British South Africa Company will have to pay a fortune in damages to the Boers in the Transvaal. Some investors are going to be very badly damaged.”
“Which, according to our suppositions, was of great concern to Catherine Quixwood,” Vespasia remarked.
Symington sat up straighter. “But why? We have all these theories, but no real reason for Catherine to act as she did.”
Charlotte was struggling to make sense of it. “Could she have been a friend of Eleanor Forsbrook’s? Or of Pelham Forsbrook’s?”
“Has anyone investigated to find out?” Symington asked.
“Victor might know something,” Vespasia said. “At the very least, he has learned enough about Catherine to have an informed opinion.”
Symington studied the table for a few moments, then looked up again. “Anyway, Quixwood could claim that he advised Forsbrook to sell, and Forsbrook didn’t take the advice. No one could prove otherwise. Quixwood might even have a letter to that effect. I would, if I were doing such a thing. I would say that I begged Forsbrook not to invest, and he was greedy and ignored me. That’s quite believable. London is full of people who think Jameson is a hero.”
“And without proof for at least one of these theories, or at least witnesses, we are merely slandering a man who already has the total sympathy and support of the Court, not to mention the jury.” Vespasia’s shoulders slumped slightly.
They were interrupted by Jemima and Daniel, just home from school. Both were greeted, and then politely but firmly dismissed to their own rooms. Charlotte rose from the table and went into the scullery to consult with Minnie Maude as to what they might serve for dinner, with at least three prospective guests. Vespasia and Symington returned to the parlor to wait for Pitt and Narraway, their discussion having come to a standstill.
A full hour later Narraway arrived, and within a few minutes Pitt came in also, in answer to Stoker’s summons. Stoker himself was a step behind. They all looked weary and defeated, though each tried in his own way not to show it.
Pitt looked at Symington after no more than a glance at Charlotte, a meeting of the eyes, and then away again for an instant to Vespasia, as an acknowledgment.
“It went badly,” he concluded.
Symington made a slight gesture with his hands. “We’ve still got tomorrow,” he replied. “I have no way of stretching it any further than that, because although we have lots of ideas—we might even have the answer—we have no proof. We haven’t even a witness to call that we can tie up in contradiction, or to raise doubts.”
“Did you find out anything?” Charlotte asked Pitt, trying not to invest her voice with too much hope.
“I spoke to the surgeon who examined Mrs. Forsbrook’s body after her accident,” he replied. “He said there were old bruises, even a fractured rib that had healed, but it doesn’t prove anything.”
“It seems it could be true that Pelham Forsbrook beat her,” Charlotte said quickly.
“Or not,” he replied ruefully. “It could have been an earlier accident: riding, or even falling downstairs.”
“Maybe.” She would not give up. “We have been wondering … what if Quixwood deliberately advised Forsbrook to invest in the British South Africa Company, specifically the Jameson Raid, knowing it would fail, thus causing his ruin?” she suggested.
“Why?” Pitt asked reasonably.
“We don’t know,” she answered, frustrated. “Perhaps because of Eleanor, if he was her lover? Catherine seems to have been very involved. The whole crime centers on her after all. If Hythe is telling the truth, then he was looking for proof of that for her—”
“Again,” Pitt interrupted, “why? Why would she care if Forsbrook was ruined?”
Symington blinked and frowned. “Maybe that was the affair? Pelham Forsbrook and Catherine, not Hythe at all.”
Everyone turned to stare at him.
“Then who raped her?” Narraway asked. “It is difficult to believe Neville Forsbrook did it, in that case, isn’t it?”
“Pelham Forsbrook maybe?” Charlotte replied, seizing the idea. “If he did beat Eleanor, he’s a violent man. And she was supposedly running away from him when she was killed.” She looked to Pitt.
“Yes,” he agreed quickly. He turned to Narraway. “Was Pelham still at the Spanish Embassy when Catherine was raped?”
Narraway thought for a moment. “I saw Neville leave quite a while before ten. I think Pelham went around the same time. It would just have been possible. He would have known Quixwood was still there, and likely to remain at least another hour or more.”
“How do we suggest that?” Symington asked, returning to the practical. “I’ve tried everything, but I can’t persuade Hythe to admit that he was doing financial investigation for Catherine, even though it might offer the only defense he has.”
Vespasia spoke for the first time in several minutes. “Realistically, Mr. Symington, what chance has that defense of succeeding, even in raising a doubt?”
He sighed. “Very little,” he confessed.
“Then if Hythe’s greatest concern is to keep someone safe, so he can provide care for his wife, dare he take the chance of trying what we are suggesting?”
“I wouldn’t. Not if I loved my wife enough,” Symington said.
Now Pitt was frowning. “Are we saying that Quixwood would look after Maris Hythe to keep Alban silent about his financial deceit, and in the process save Pelham Forsbrook, the man he hates enough to ruin, and who raped his wife? You can’t convince me of that.”
“And there is another question still to be answered,” Vespasia continued. “Why did Quixwood lie to defend Neville Forsbrook in the case of Angeles Castelbranco? What was his purpose in that? We are still presuming he lied, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” Pitt said instantly. “Neville raped Alice Townley, and very possibly several other girls: one we know of, others we may not.”
“Have we two rapists, father and son?” Narraway asked, frowning. “That might explain where Neville learned his behavior, from his father’s violence and disregard for women, and why his father protected him when he beat the prostitute, and for all we know raped her too.”
“We need to find something to prove that Hythe was getting financial information for Catherine, something concrete,” Symington answered. “If we have proof, I know I can force him into admitting that was what he was doing for her, whether he wants to or not. Such evidence will throw doubt on the theory that they were having an affair, and will also help confirm whether Quixwood needed Hythe and Catherine dead.”
There were several moments of frantic and miserable silence while each one of them struggled for a way to find any proof at all. Finally, it was Narraway who spoke, taking another tack and looking at Pitt.
“The Jameson Raid could provoke war with the Boers in Africa, which would be a very serious thing for Britain,” he said, measuring his words. “Even if we win, it will cost lives, and at this distance be highly expensive. It could reasonably be within the remit of Special Branch, because the Boers will fight hard, and any country at war seeks to disturb the domestic life of its enemy. You can make an excuse to look into the cost of the Jameson Raid, and who was affected by it. You don’t have to give reasons.”
Pitt stared at him, understanding beginning to take a hazy shape in his mind.
“You hav
e to start somewhere,” Narraway went on. “Begin with exactly what losses or gains Forsbrook and Quixwood made. You don’t need to prove it, only justify what Hythe was looking for to give to Catherine, and show a cause for enmity between Forsbrook and Quixwood.” He turned to Symington, who was now sitting upright, his eyes wide.
“Will that serve?” Narraway asked, although the answer was now obvious.
“Yes,” Symington said firmly. “Yes, it will! It could be just enough.”
“Good.” Narraway nodded, then turned back to Pitt. “You’ll need a little help. It might take us most of the night. If we get whatever we find to you in court by noon, will that be soon enough?” he asked Symington.
“Don’t worry,” Symington assured them. “I’ll create enough of a display to keep it going until then. Thank you.” He stood up. “Thank you very much. I’ll go home and plan.”
“Wouldn’t you like supper first?” Charlotte invited him. “You need to eat in order to fight your best.”
He grinned at her, a wide, charming expression full of warmth, and sat down again. “How wise you are,” he accepted. “Of course I would.”
THE TRIAL OF ALBAN Hythe resumed in the morning. Vespasia was again in attendance, this time aching with the double tensions of hope and dread. She watched Symington and was impressed with his air of confidence. Had she not known his anxiety from the previous evening, she would assume he had the perfect defense in his hands as he called Alban Hythe to the witness stand and listened to him take the oath.
Then, after a glance at Bower, he walked with grace into the center of the floor and looked up at Hythe’s ashen face.
“You are an expert in banking and investment affairs, are you not, Mr. Hythe?” he began gravely. “Indeed, I hear you have remarkable skills for one so young. Modesty notwithstanding, is that not a fair assessment of your ability?”
“I have some skill, yes,” Hythe replied. He looked puzzled.
Bower rose to his feet. “My lord, the prosecution will agree that Mr. Hythe has high intelligence, an excellent education, and is outstandingly good at his profession. There is no need for Mr. Symington to call evidence to that effect.”
Symington’s expression tightened so slightly, maybe no one other than Vespasia noticed.
Symington inclined his head toward Bower. “Thank you. I had not intended to call anyone, but you save me the anxiety of wondering if perhaps I should have.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed Bower’s face. “I fail to see the purpose of your observation.”
“Patience, sir, patience.” Symington smiled. “You have had several days to make your points. I am sure you have no quarrel with allowing me one day?” Before Bower could answer, Symington turned again to Hythe. “Are you acquainted with Mr. Rawdon Quixwood, sir?”
“Yes, slightly,” Hythe answered. His voice was husky, as though his throat was dry.
“Socially or professionally?” Symington asked.
“Mostly professionally.”
“You advised him on investments?” Symington raised his eyebrows as if he were interested.
Hythe tried to smile and failed. “No. That would be superfluous. Mr. Quixwood has great financial expertise himself. I doubt I could add anything to his knowledge.”
“He is excellent also?” Symington asked.
Bower started to rise again.
Symington turned sharply, his face showing a flicker of temper. “Sir,” he said irritably. “I afforded you the courtesy of letting you speak without unnecessary interruptions. Unless you are at your wits’ end to keep your case together, please don’t keep wasting everyone’s time with pointless objections. His Lordship is perfectly capable of stopping me, should I wander all over the place without reaching a point. You do not have to keep leaping up and down like a jack-in-the-box.”
There was a titter of laughter around the gallery and one of the jurors indulged in a fit of coughing, handkerchief up to obscure his face.
“Proceed, Mr. Symington,” the judge directed.
“Thank you, my lord.” Symington turned again to Alban Hythe, who stood rigid, his hands on the witness box rail as if he needed its support. “So you did not advise Mr. Quixwood as to his investments—say, for example, in the British South Africa Company?”
Bower sighed and put his head in his hands.
“No, sir,” Hythe replied, his body suddenly more tense, his voice sharper.
“Would you have advised him to invest, for example, before the news came of the raid led by Dr. Leander Starr Jameson, into the Transvaal?”
The judge leaned forward. “Is this relevant to the crime for which Mr. Hythe is on trial, Mr. Symington?”
“Yes, my lord, it is,” Symington assured him.
“Then please get to the point!” the judge said testily.
“Did you advise Sir Pelham Forsbrook to invest?” Symington asked, looking up at Hythe.
Hythe was, if anything, even paler. “No, sir, I did not. I did not advise anyone to invest in the British South Africa Company, either within a year before the Jameson Raid or since.”
“Is Sir Pelham Forsbrook one of your clients?” Symington asked.
“No, sir.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Of course I am!”
Before Bower could stand up Symington raised his hand as if to silence him. “Let us leave that subject for a while,” he said to Hythe. “Was Mrs. Catherine Quixwood a client of yours?”
“I have no knowledge that she had money to invest,” Hythe said, trying to look as if the question surprised him.
Bower turned one way then the other, appealing for sympathy and some respite.
“Mr. Symington,” the judge said sharply, “I understand Mr. Bower’s impatience. You do appear to be wasting the Court’s time. The charge is rape, sir, not bad advice on investment.”
“Yes, my lord,” Symington said meekly. “Mr. Hythe, were you socially acquainted with Mrs. Catherine Quixwood?”
“Yes, sir,” Hythe said almost inaudibly.
“How did you meet?”
Vespasia watched with unnecessary anxiety as Symington drew out the growing friendship of Hythe and Catherine Quixwood. It seemed to be moving so slowly she dreaded that any moment Bower would object again and the judge would sustain him, and demand that Symington move on. She knew he was delaying until the luncheon adjournment in the desperate hope that Pitt and Narraway would come with something he could use. But the chances seemed more and more remote as the morning wore on. There was no sympathy for Hythe in the gallery, and nothing but loathing in the faces of the jurors.
Symington must have been as aware of it as Vespasia. Still, he plowed on. She could see no despair in his face, but his body was stiff, his left hand clenched by his side.
“Mr. Hythe,” he continued, “all these encounters with Mrs. Quixwood, which you admit to, took place in public. What about in private? Did you meet her in a park, for instance, or in the countryside? Or at a hotel?”
“No!” Hythe said hotly. “Of course I didn’t!”
“No wish to?” Symington asked, his eyes wide.
Hythe drew in his breath, stared desperately around at the walls above the heads of the gallery. The question seemed to trap him.
“Mr. Hythe?” the judge prompted. “Please answer your counsel’s question.”
Hythe stared at him. “What?”
“Did you not wish to meet Mrs. Quixwood in a more private place?” the judge repeated.
“No … I did not,” Hythe whispered.
The judge looked surprised, and disbelieving.
“Was that in case your wife should find out?” Symington asked Hythe.
Again Hythe was at a loss to answer.
Vespasia watched and felt a desperate pity for him. She believed that he had liked Catherine, but no more than that. It was Maris he loved, and he was trying now to protect her future. Symington was forcing him into a corner where he had either to admit that he had been see
king financial information for Catherine, or that it had been a love affair after all. He could not afford either answer.
Vespasia found that she was sitting with her hands clenched, nails digging into her palms. Her shoulders were stiff, even her neck was rigid, as if waiting for a physical blow to fall. Where was Narraway? Where was Pitt?
“Mr. Hythe?” Symington spoke just before the judge did.
“Yes …” Hythe said. His face was pinched with pain.
“Was your wife, then, unaware of your frequent meetings with Mrs. Quixwood?” Symington continued.
“No … yes …” Hythe was trembling. He could barely speak coherently.
“Which is it?” Symington was ruthless. “She knew, or she did not know?”
Hythe straightened. “She knew of some,” he said between his teeth. He regarded Symington with loathing.
“You were afraid she would suspect an affair?” Symington went on.
Hythe had committed himself to a path. “Yes.”
“And be jealous?” Symington added.
Hythe refused to answer.
“Is she a jealous woman?” Symington said clearly. “Has she had cause to be in the past?”
“No!” Now Hythe was angry. The color burned up his face and his eyes blazed. “I have never—” He stopped abruptly.
“Never deceived her?” Symington said incredulously. “Or were you going to say you have never allowed her to know of your affairs before?”
“I have had no affairs!” Hythe said furiously.
“Catherine was the first?” Symington asked.
Bower looked confused, unhappy because he did not understand what Symington was trying to do. Finally he rose to his feet.
“My lord, if my learned friend is attempting to cause a mistrial, or to give grounds for appeal because of his inadequate defense, I ask that—”
Symington swung round on him, glancing briefly at the clock, then launched into a denial.
“Not at all!” he said witheringly. “I am trying to show the Court that there is someone with more motive to kill Catherine Quixwood, out of jealousy, than any cause Alban Hythe might have had to kill a woman with whom he was, as my learned friend for the prosecution has demonstrated, having a romantic affair! Albeit, one in which the two parties never met in private.”
