by Anne Perry
Narraway had never considered the subject before, but it made perfect sense. He could see it true, above all, of Vespasia. He could not imagine her dressing to impress anyone else.
But that did not answer the question of whether Catherine had been in love with Alban Hythe or not. Or, for that matter, anyone else.
Was there any point in asking Flaxley? He looked at her rather bony face, still smudged with grief and now anxiety. Her skin was scrubbed clean, her eyelids a little puffed. Her hair was pinned up neatly, but without softness, without care. He suddenly felt profoundly sorry for her. A year ago he would have brushed by the idea of being no longer needed as merely a part of life that had to be accepted. But now it was a pain he felt in his own flesh and understood.
“Miss Flaxley,” he said, leaning forward slightly and meeting her eyes with more urgency, “it was clearly important to Mrs. Quixwood that she meet with Mr. Hythe. She seems to have made arrangements to do so increasingly as often as every week or even twice a week, in the month before her death. Other plans were set aside to fit with his convenience, and as far as I can find out, she mentioned these meetings to no one else. In fact she barely referred to the acquaintance at all. It was not exactly secret, but it was certainly discreet.”
Flaxley did not reply, but her gaze never left his.
“It was important to her that they meet,” he went on. “She dressed carefully, but not so as to draw undue attention to herself, not as if she were meeting a lover with whom she dared to be seen.” He stopped as he saw the flare of anger in Flaxley’s eyes.
“Please describe her manner before she went out on these occasions, and when she returned,” he pressed. “I know I am asking you to speak of things that normally you would regard as a trust that you could not ever betray, but someone abused her terribly, Miss Flaxley. Someone beat her and caused her death as surely as if they had put their hands around her throat and choked the life out of her.” He saw the tears spill over and run down her cheeks and he ignored them. “If that was Alban Hythe, then I want to see him hang for it. And if it was not, then I want to save him. Don’t you?”
She nodded so minutely it was hardly a movement at all.
“How was she, Miss Flaxley? Excited? Frightened? Anxious? Sad? Tell me. It is too late to protect her now. And if it is loyalty to Mr. Quixwood you are considering, either for his sake, or for your own-and I am aware that you will need his goodwill in securing another position-I will tell him nothing that you say unless I have to, and even then I will attribute it to another source.”
She was surprised, confused, sad to the point of rocking herself back and forth very slightly, as if the movement offered some relief.
“She was anxious,” she said in little more than a whisper. “But not as if she were going to meet a lover, more as if she was going to hear something that was good news, or … or bad news. She liked Mr. Hythe, but more than that I think she trusted him.”
She looked down, avoiding Narraway’s eyes. “I have known her, in the past, when she was a little in love with a gentleman-though, of course, she never did anything … wrong. She wasn’t excited like that over Mr. Hythe. But she would never miss an appointment, no matter what else had to be rescheduled. And it seemed to grow more important to her as time went by. I swear, my lord, I don’t know why. I’d tell you if I knew, whatever it was. I’d tie a rope myself to hang whoever did that to her.”
Narraway believed her. He said so, thanked her and took his leave. There was nothing more to be gained. He made a note in his mind to speak to Vespasia and see if a position could be found for Flaxley among her friends. Then he smiled as he walked out of the front door, down the steps, and turned toward the square. He was becoming soft. What was the fate of one maid in a city of millions? A year ago he had held the fates of whole nations in his hands!
How the mighty have fallen! Or was it just a realignment of his focus? Perhaps one a trifle overdue.
When he spoke to Quixwood a couple of days later, again in the library of the club, they seemed to have achieved nothing new. Quixwood was tired. It was easy to imagine he had found sleep elusive. He looked thinner than before and the lines in his face deeper. There was a certain hectic light in his eyes.
Narraway felt a gnawing pity for him, and a guilt that he had no real progress to report.
“She saw him often?” Quixwood said, his voice curiously flat, as if he was deliberately trying to keep it unemotional.
“Yes, at least once a week, or more, in the last month of her life,” Narraway agreed. “But judging from her diary, and what Flaxley says of her dress and her manner, it was not a love affair.”
Quixwood gave a tiny, painful laugh. “Dear Flaxley. Loyal to the end, even when it has become absurd. She’s a good servant. It’s a shame I have no possible position for her now. If Catherine was not meeting Hythe for an affair, what could it have been? He is a handsome man, at least ten years younger than she was, maybe more.”
He smiled, blinking hard. “Catherine was beautiful, you know? And perhaps she was bored. After all, I could not spend all day with her. But I loved her.” He stared at some point in the distance, perhaps at a vision or a memory only he could see. “I assumed she knew it. Maybe I should have told her so more … more believably.”
“She seemed to have many interests,” Narraway said after a few moments of silence that dragged heavily. The footsteps of servants could be heard on the wooden floor in the passageway outside.
Quixwood looked up. “You mean other than going to museums and galleries?”
“She seemed to find Africa as fascinating as many others do, especially with the present unrest.”
“Unrest?” Quixwood said quickly.
“The Jameson Raid in particular,” Narraway elaborated.
“Oh.” A brief smile crossed Quixwood’s face and vanished again. “Yes, of course. That trial should start soon. The man can’t have had the wits he was born with.” He sighed. “Although I admit that in the beginning I can see how many would have thought it was a grand adventure, with money to be made.” He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, his voice thick with unshed tears. “I … I went home the other day. I can’t stay away forever.”
Narraway waited.
Quixwood kept his eyes lowered. “I collected some of my clothes, a few personal things. I thought I might be ready to move back again, but I … I can’t. Not yet.” He looked up at Narraway. “I was looking at Catherine’s jewelry. I thought I should put it in the bank. I don’t really know why. I don’t know what to do with it, except keep it safe. I suppose there will be something to do with it … one day. I …” Again he stopped and took a long, jerky breath. “I found this.” He held out a small, delicate brooch, not expensive but very pretty-three tiny flowers in various stages of opening, like buttercups. It could have been gold, possibly pinchbeck. “It’s new,” he said softly. “I didn’t give it to her. I asked Flaxley where it came from. She didn’t know, but she could tell me when she last saw it. It was after Catherine had met with Hythe at an exhibition of some sort.”
Narraway looked more carefully at the piece, without touching it. “I see,” he said with sharp regret. “Is there any proof that Hythe gave it to her?”
Quixwood shook his head. “No. Only Flaxley’s word that that was the day she first had it.”
“And Flaxley would know?” Narraway pressed.
“Oh, yes. She is very good at her job, and completely honest.” Quixwood smiled. “She hated admitting it, but she would not lie … to me or to anyone. Of course it proves nothing, I know that. But I have no idea what would!” He looked very steadily at Narraway. “Perhaps it will help?”
Narraway took the brooch. “I’ll see if I can find out anything about it. It’s very attractive-individual. If I can trace it, it would at least be indicative.”
Quixwood stared at the floor. “Whatever happens, I’m grateful to you for your time and your patience, and … and for your great compassion.”<
br />
Narraway said nothing. He was embarrassed because he felt he had done so little.
He took the brooch to a jeweler he had consulted with in the past when wanting to know the origin or value of a piece.
“What can you tell me about it?” Narraway asked, offering the old man the delicate little golden flowers.
The jeweler took it in his gnarled fingers, turned it over, and squinted at the back, then looked at the front again.
“Well?” Narraway prompted him.
“Old piece, perhaps fifty or sixty years. Pretty, but not worth a great deal. Perhaps two or three pounds. Individual, though, and women tend to like that. Come to it, I like that.” He looked at Narraway curiously. “Stolen? Who’d bother? Couldn’t sell it. Come from a crime?” He shook his head. “Shame. Somebody took care and I’d say a lot of pleasure in making that. Innocent little flowers. Tainted with blood and treason now?”
Narraway evaded the question. “Where would you buy or sell something like this?”
The old man pursed his lips. “Sell it to a pawnshop, not get more than a few shillings for it at most. Buy it there again for a bit more.”
“And if I wanted to be discreet?” Narraway pressed.
“Barrow in Petticoat Lane. You don’t need me to tell you that.”
“Gold or pinchbeck?”
“Pinchbeck, Mr. Narraway. You don’t need me for that neither. Pretty thing, nice workmanship. Sentimental, not worth money.” He handed it back. “You got as much chance of tracing it as you have of winning the Derby.”
“Somebody has to win,” Narraway pointed out.
“You’ve got to ride in it first,” the old man said with a dry laugh. “You thought I meant putting money on it? Any fool can do that.”
Narraway thanked him and went outside into the sun, the little brooch in his pocket again.
Reluctantly he visited Maris Hythe in her home that evening to show her the brooch and ask if she had ever seen it before. He loathed doing it, but he would be derelict not to find out.
She took it and turned it over in her hand. She looked puzzled.
“Have you seen anything like it before?” he asked.
“No.” She looked up at him. “Whose is it? Why do you bring it to me?” There was fear in her eyes.
“It was Catherine Quixwood’s,” he replied. “Her husband says he didn’t give it to her.”
“And you think Alban did?” It was a challenge. “He would hardly have told me.”
“Is it the sort of thing he would like?”
She looked down, avoiding his eyes. “Yes. It’s individual. It’s old. I expect it has history. Several people might have owned it, worn it.” She held it delicately, as if she too would have been pleased with it as a gift. “She might have bought it for herself,” she said at last, passing it back to him.
He took it. Had he achieved anything more than to raise doubts in her mind, more questions as to her husband’s involvement with the woman who had owned it? He felt slightly soiled by the act.
“I suppose it will make no difference if my husband tells you that he has not seen it before?”
“It means nothing one way or the other without proof,” Narraway replied. “Mr. Quixwood mentioned it to me as something among her jewelry he had not seen before.”
“Or not noticed,” she corrected wryly. “Men frequently do not notice an entire garment that is new, let alone one small item. Ask any woman, she will tell you the same.”
“But a man knows which jewels he has bought for his wife,” he pointed out. “That’s rather different.” There was also the matter of Miss Flaxley’s not seeing the brooch before.
Maris looked up at him, meeting his eyes, her face very pale. “I have told you what I know, Lord Narraway, which is only that my husband was doing Mrs. Quixwood a favor in a matter that was of great importance to her.” Her voice wavered a little, but her eyes did not.
He admired her, but he was aware with deep sorrow and a chill inside that she might one day have to face an ugly truth. Still, let her keep hope as long as possible. He was not yet certain beyond doubt that she was mistaken. If a woman loved him as Maris Hythe loved her husband, Narraway would wish her to keep faith in him, whatever the evidence appeared to be, no matter what a jury might decide. That only irrefutable proof, or his own confession, would be enough to break it.
They were discussing other avenues to explore when Knox came unexpectedly through the door behind the maid.
“What can I do for you?” Maris asked, startled, her voice trembling and slightly defensive. “My husband is in his study. He still has work to complete. Do you require to see him at this hour?” There was reproof in her voice, as if Knox were uncivil.
He looked tired and deeply unhappy. There was a light summer rain outside and his coat was wet. He seemed bedraggled, like a bird whose plumage was molting.
“I’m afraid I do, Mrs. Hythe. I’m glad Lord Narraway is here to be with you.”
She looked startled, but said nothing, still sitting on the sofa as if afraid her legs would not support her.
Although it seemed incredible, Narraway suddenly realized what Knox was here for. He stood up.
“Why?” he demanded. “Aren’t you being precipitate?”
Knox looked at him sadly, biting his lip. “No, my lord. I regret not. Unfortunately in our search of Mr. Hythe’s possessions we found what can only be described as a love letter from Mrs. Quixwood.”
“When?” Narraway demanded, his mind racing to think of some innocent explanation for such a thing. “When did you search Mr. Hythe’s belongings? Just now?”
“No, my lord, earlier today, with Mrs. Hythe’s permission.”
“But you didn’t arrest him then?” There was challenge in Narraway’s voice, one based on emotion rather than reason.
“No, my lord. Mr. Hythe denied knowing about it. I wanted to give him every opportunity, even on the assumption that the letter was not genuinely in Mrs. Quixwood’s hand. I have, however, verified that it is unquestionably hers, and the contents of the letter could not be interpreted as anything but words between lovers. I’m sorry.”
Maris rose to her feet at last, swaying a little, her chin high.
“That …” Narraway swallowed hard. “That does not prove that he raped her … or killed her!” He sounded ridiculous, and he knew it, and yet he seemed unable to help himself.
“If it were innocent, my lord, Mr. Hythe would explain it, not deny it,” Knox said with a shake of his head, barely a movement at all. “Don’t make it harder than it needs to be, sir.”
Narraway had no answer. His throat was tight, his mouth dry. He looked across at Maris’s ashen face and turned his attention to her, going across to stand beside her, even put his arm around her as she struggled to keep her balance, giddy with horror and grief.
They heard footsteps on the stairs, and then the opening and closing of the front door.
Without speaking, his shoulders bowed, Knox left, disappearing into the night and the rain.
CHAPTER 11
Stoker came into Pitt’s office and closed the door behind him.
“Sir, something’s happened I think you should know about.” His expression was bleak, his eyes sharp and troubled.
“What is it?” Pitt asked immediately.
Stoker took a deep breath. “There’s been another very nasty rape of a young woman, sir, and I’m afraid she is dead. Seventeen, her father says. Respectable, good family. Walking out regular with a young man in the Grenadiers.”
Pitt felt horror ripple through him, then an overwhelming pity for the father, but also a sense of relief he was ashamed of. This was not Special Branch business. He could leave the pain and the bitter discoveries to someone else.
“I’m very sorry to hear that,” he said quietly. “But it’s for the police to handle, Stoker, it’s nothing to do with us.”
“I’m not sure about that, sir,” Stoker said, shaking his head. “Very violent, it
was. Quite a lot of blood, and her neck was broken with the force of the blow.” Stoker stood rigid, almost to attention, like a soldier.
“It’s still not ours,” Pitt said hoarsely. “It’s for the regular police. Unless … you’re not going to tell me she’s a foreign diplomat’s daughter, are you?”
Stoker raised his chin a little.
“No, sir, her father is an importer and exporter of some sort. But her young man’s a friend of Neville Forsbrook and his crowd, even met Miss Castelbranco once or twice, so her father says.” He waited, staring at Pitt.
“You think Neville might be to blame?” Pitt framed the words slowly.
“Don’t know, sir.” Stoker attempted to smooth his face of anger and frustration, but failed. “I doubt the newspapers will make that connection. Nobody else knows for sure that Miss Castelbranco was raped, and she was certainly alive until she fell through that window. And, by the way, they’ve arrested someone for raping Mrs. Quixwood, but it’s a close thing as to whether he was in custody at the time of this most recent attack.”
Pitt was startled. “Have they? Who was it?”
“Alban Hythe,” Stoker said flatly, his voice expressionless. “Young man. A banker, so they say. Married. Not what you’d expect. Seems they were lovers-at least that’s what I hear from a friend I have in the police.”
Pitt said nothing. He wondered what Narraway would think of Hythe’s arrest. He had not wanted to think Catherine Quixwood was in any way to blame, even remotely.
“What’s her name?” he asked, meeting Stoker’s eyes again. “The new victim, I mean.”
“Pamela O’Keefe, sir. It’ll make a big splash in the newspapers, I should imagine. When it does, the Portuguese ambassador’s going to be very upset. I would be.” He stood still in front of the desk, his bony hands moving restlessly.