Midnight at Marble Arch tp-28

by Anne Perry

  Forsbrook took another step toward Angeles, this time with one hand forward as if he would touch her arm.

  She snatched it away, and in stepping backward lost her footing a little. Forsbrook lunged forward and grasped her, preventing her from falling. She gasped, and then cried out.

  Forsbrook held her more firmly. It could have been because he feared she might fall.

  Angeles tried to wrench her arm away from Forsbrook but he held on to her. She swung her other arm and slapped him across the face as hard as she could. One of the young men let out a cry of surprise.

  Forsbrook let go of her with a very slight push and she staggered backward, tripping on her skirt and collapsing into a couple of girls, who were giggling and oblivious of everyone else. The three of them clung together to avoid ending up on the floor, angry and embarrassed.

  “For God’s sake, what’s the matter with you?” Forsbrook shouted at Angeles, as she struggled to find her balance. His voice was sufficiently loud that at least a dozen people heard him and swung around to stare.

  Angeles’s face was scarlet. She looked desperate, turning from left to right to find some way of escape.

  Charlotte had been moving forward to intervene. At the same moment she saw Vespasia several yards away, her face filled with deep anxiety. She also was trying to make her way toward the open space where Angeles and Forsbrook now stood facing each other.

  “Stop it!” Forsbrook was still raising his voice and he took another step closer to her, again reaching for her arm.

  She staggered backward again, her face twisted as if in terror.

  “Stop it!” he repeated. “You’re making yourself look ridiculous!” He lunged forward, reaching out as if to take her hand, just as a waiter with a tray of glasses passed within a yard of her.

  She gasped and pulled away, and this time crashed straight into the waiter, sending the glasses flying in all directions, splintering on the floor. The poor man tripped in his effort to regain his feet and only made it worse. He ended up splayed across the floor, arms and legs wide, champagne and slivers of glass everywhere.

  “Get a hold of yourself!” Forsbrook demanded furiously of Angeles. “You’re hysterical! Are you drunk?”

  Angeles picked up a dish of cakes from the table nearest her and hurled it at him. It struck him in the chest, covering his dinner suit with jam and cream.

  He swore, in language he surely could not have intended anyone to hear in a public place, darting his arm out and grasping her shoulder firmly, as if to shake her. She screamed again and lashed out, kicking with all her strength, even turning her head and biting him on the hand. At that, he cried out and slapped her, and when she let go there was blood dripping scarlet from the flesh between his finger and thumb.

  Now most of the room was staring, confused and alarmed. Everyone seemed paralyzed by the scene and unsure what to do.

  Vespasia was helping the waiter to his feet, so Charlotte practically ran the remaining distance to Angeles, calling her name.

  Angeles, however, seemed aware only of Forsbrook. She was swearing at him in Portuguese, her face still twisted in fear. So Charlotte turned to Forsbrook, at least to try to stop him from moving any closer to Angeles. But he was too angry to see anyone else.

  “You stupid girl!” he said, waving his hand around as if the pain were unbearable. “You bite like a mad dog!” He continued moving toward her every time she backed away.

  “Neville!” Charlotte caught his arm but all she managed to hold on to was the cloth of his coat. He tore it out of her hand, unintentionally bumping her, so she was forced to steady herself. She remained on her feet only with difficulty.

  Angeles turned and ran, plunging through the knots of people, banging into tables and upsetting dishes. Twice she reached for plates of cakes or sweetmeats and threw them at Forsbrook. One sailed past him and struck one of the other young men, who was also shouting at her. A second one caught Forsbrook on the side of the face and left a gash along his cheekbone. At this, Forsbrook clearly lost the last remnants of his temper, letting out a bellow.

  Angeles, terrified, ran straight toward the great window that overlooked the paved terrace two stories below.

  Forsbrook was close behind her, his face contorted with emotion.

  Angeles screamed, her words unintelligible, her body twisting one way then the other until, arms flailing, she crashed into the high, multi-paned window. It shattered, sending glass everywhere. One moment she was in front of it, all white silk and dark hair, the next there was only a jagged hole and wood splinters on the floor.

  For a terrible second everyone was silent. Then there was a scream, a high, thin sound of utter despair. Isaura Castelbranco had appeared from nowhere with her husband, who was now staggering toward the remains of the window.

  Forsbrook too was appalled. However, far from remaining still, he turned to those beside him, spinning round, as if to find someone to say it had not been his fault.

  In the next room someone was shouting. Footsteps sounded, running.

  Other people started to speak, to move aimlessly toward the window or away from it. There were shouts from outside on the terrace. Several women were gasping, and a few were weeping openly. The hostess went toward Isaura, and then stopped. Her face was deathly pale.

  Castelbranco turned slowly from the window and faced the room. His grief was palpable in the air, washing outward to touch everyone.

  Isaura took a step, then another, floundering as if she were wading through deep water. She called something to him in Portuguese.

  Castelbranco replied abruptly, his voice hoarse. It was filled with anguish.

  Charlotte remained rooted to the spot. The two were clearly racked with pain beyond bearing, and there was nothing any one of the horrified onlookers could do to help.

  It was Vespasia who finally took action. She walked over to Isaura and took her arm.

  “Come with me,” she said firmly. “There is nothing for you to do here.”

  Isaura fought against her for only a moment; then, as if acknowledging some overwhelming defeat, she allowed herself to be led away.

  No one went to Castelbranco. He stood stock-still, the cool wind blowing in through the remnants of the window ruffling his hair, chilling him until he shook with it. The sound of men’s voices drifted up from the terrace below, very quiet, edged with shock. It must be the host deciding what to do, whom to call, giving directions to the servants.

  Charlotte was undecided. Would it be intrusive, even socially inappropriate, for her to go over to Castelbranco? It seemed inhuman simply to stand here staring at him, but even worse to look away.

  Where on earth was Pitt? Surely word of what had happened would have reached everyone in the house? The noise of the window smashing, the cries …

  Then she looked at the tall clock against the wall and realized it had been only minutes. In another room with the doors closed, away from the back of the house and the window, no one would have heard anything.

  She should find Pitt immediately. She turned away from the crowd now huddled into little groups trying to gain comfort from one another, and walked toward the main doors. She was just outside on the gallery at the top of the stairs when she saw Pitt coming up the steps two at a time. He looked pale, his eyes shadowed with horror. He crossed the few yards between them and stood in front of her. One look at her face was enough to make any questions unnecessary.

  “How did it happen?” he asked quietly, so as not to be overheard.

  “Ugly teasing,” she answered. “A mixture of humor, at first, at least as far as the other boys were concerned. But then Neville was cruel. Even when it got out of hand, he didn’t stop.”

  Her voice felt choked and thick in her throat. She was losing control. “It all happened so quickly.” She took a deep breath. “I should have done something!” She was to blame. She had stood there watching. She was furious with herself for her stupidity.

  He put his hand on her arm,
holding on to her surprisingly hard. “Charlotte, stop it. You couldn’t know she was going to go through the window. That was what happened, right?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t even try,” she gasped. “And I knew something was wrong.”

  “And did you know what to do about it? In fact, do you know now?”

  “No! But something …”

  He slipped his arm around her and she relaxed a little against him. A wave of gratitude engulfed her that he was there, that in all the years his strength had never failed her.

  “Thomas …” She did not know if she was going to sound foolish, or even if it mattered now that Angeles was dead.

  “What?” he asked. “I can’t just leave. I have to-”

  “I know,” she interrupted. “That wasn’t what I was going to say.” She pulled away so she could meet his eyes. He waited, frowning a little. Even as she said it she was uncertain. “She wasn’t just angry, Thomas, she was terrified. We saw her over a week ago, Vespasia and I. She was frightened then too.”

  He frowned. “Are you certain? Frightened of what?”

  “Yes, I am sure. Vespasia thinks-we both thought-that Angeles had been assaulted.”

  “Assaulted? Do you mean raped?” He was trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice but it was there in his eyes.

  “Yes, I do.” She pictured in her mind Angeles’s face in the marquee when the young man had spoken to her. It was not distaste that had made her back away in such an extreme manner, it had been fear, a reaction to something else. “Yes, I do,” she repeated.

  “I’m sorry,” he said very quietly. “I wish it were not so. But does it matter now? Would it not be better for everyone, especially her parents, if we did not raise that question?”

  “If somebody did that to her, it’s appalling!” she protested. “It’s one of the worst crimes you can commit against a woman. It’s the reason she was so terrified.”

  “Do you know that for certain?”

  “No, of course I don’t! But what does anyone know about a crime for certain, before you investigate?” Even as she said it she knew her words were hollow. It was a nightmare dancing at the edge of her mind. She did not know the shape or even the reality of it. “I …” she started, and then stopped again.

  “I know.” He touched her cheek. “You feel as if there ought to have been something you could’ve done. We all feel that after a tragedy.”

  “Can we at least do anything to help now?” Charlotte asked.

  “I doubt it, but I’ll try. Perhaps you should find Aunt Vespasia. I won’t be any longer than I have to. No doubt the police will come quickly.”

  “I suppose so. Should I say anything, if they ask me?”

  “Tell them exactly what you saw. And be careful-only what you saw, not what you think it meant.” It was a warning, softly spoken but grave.

  “I know!” She calmed herself deliberately. “I know.”

  All around her people were huddled together, many in silence. The police had arrived and were speaking to them, making notes of what everyone said. Footmen moved among them almost silently, offering whatever refreshment might help, including quite a few stiff shots of brandy.

  As Charlotte had expected, the police spoke with her. She was very deliberate in her answers, adding nothing to the facts.

  “Is that all you saw?” a gaunt-faced older policeman asked her doubtfully. “You seem much more …” he searched for the word, “… composed than the other ladies I’ve spoken to. Do you know something more about what happened?”

  She met his eyes. “No.” Was that a lie? “My husband is head of Special Branch,” she explained. “Perhaps I am just a little more careful of what I say. I want to tell you what I saw, not what I felt or might have imagined.”

  “Special Branch?” His eyes opened wider. “Is this-?”

  “We came socially,” she answered him. “The entire incident happened without any warning. One moment it was nothing, and then within seconds it became ugly.”

  He frowned. “Ugly? What do you mean, Mrs. Pitt? Were there threats? An assault of some kind? Or something that Miss Castelbranco might have interpreted as an assault?” He looked puzzled now.

  “No, just hectoring, though it seemed mean-spirited. Miss Castelbranco was clearly upset, and Mr. Forsbrook didn’t let it go. Everyone else could see that it was no longer funny, but he seemed to …” She stopped, aware that finishing her train of thought was more than she wished to say.

  “Yes?” he prompted her.

  “I don’t know. He just wouldn’t leave her alone.”

  “Were you acquainted with Miss Castelbranco, Mrs. Pitt?”

  “Only slightly. If you are asking if she confided anything to me, she did not. I can tell you only what I saw.”

  She met Vespasia later, just before they were permitted to leave. Vespasia was as immaculate as always, but she looked tired and pale, and she was clearly distressed.

  “What are you going to say?” Charlotte asked her when they had a few moments alone in a small anteroom off the main hallway.

  “I have been turning over all possibilities in my mind,” Vespasia answered slowly. “But we do not know the reason for what happened; we can only guess. I think the bare truth, without interpretation, is all either of us can afford to say.”

  Charlotte stared at her. “That is what Pitt said. But we know she was terrified. If we say nothing then aren’t we lying, by omission?”

  “Terrified of what, or of whom?” Vespasia said very quietly.

  “Of … of Neville Forsbrook,” Charlotte replied.

  “Or of something she believed about Neville Forsbrook,” Vespasia went on. “That may or may not have been true.”

  Charlotte felt helpless. If they voiced their own fears about what had happened to Angeles, speculation would run wild. Neville Forsbrook was alive to defend himself, and so were his friends. He could say that Angeles was hysterical, that she had misunderstood a remark; perhaps her English was not so fluent as to grasp a joke or a colloquialism. Or even that she had had rather too much champagne. Any of those explanations could even be true, though Charlotte did not believe any of them.

  “So there is nothing we can do?” she asked aloud.

  Vespasia’s eyes were full of pain. “Nothing that I know of,” she replied. “If it were your child, what would you want strangers to do, apart from grieve with you, and make no speculation or gossip?”

  “Nothing,” Charlotte agreed.

  She rode home silently with Pitt. When they alighted and went inside, Charlotte went directly up the stairs. As gently as she could, she opened Jemima’s bedroom door and stared at her daughter, sleeping in the faint light that came through the imperfectly drawn curtains. Her face was completely untroubled. Her hair, so like Charlotte’s own, was spread across the pillow, unraveled out of its braids. She could have been a child still, not on the verge of womanhood at all.

  Charlotte found herself smiling, even as tears ran down her cheeks.

  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 bey
ond 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?”