Midnight at Marble Arch tp-28

by Anne Perry

  Symington turned to the jury. “Gentlemen, was ever greater evil planned and all but succeeded in fulfilling its dreadful purpose? But you know now what is going on. You can prevent it. You can find justice for Catherine Quixwood. You can save the life of the young man who tried to help her prevent ruin and exploitation. You can save the wife he loves so much he will die to protect her. Leave it to others to find and punish the rapist. Already action is taking place to bring that about.”

  He turned a little with a gesture to include them all.

  “The manipulators of money and investment will be punished. The wife who took a lover and was beaten for it is dead. Her husband has lost his fortune. We are almost at the end, gentlemen. Life and death, love and hate, greed and innocence are all in your hands. I beg you, act with the same mercy and forbearance we shall all need when we stand before the bar of judgment ourselves.”

  Symington bowed to the jury and returned to his seat.

  It was Bower’s turn to address the jury. He spoke little of fact, mostly of the brutality of the crime, repeating the worst details, his face twisted with rage and pity. He dismissed Symington’s theories as a magic trick, a wealth of nothing, designed to mislead them. There was no substance, he insisted, only a desperate and self-seeking lawyer’s castles in the air.

  When the jury retired Vespasia was joined almost immediately by Narraway.

  “Victor! What did you find?” she asked urgently.

  “Catherine went to Bryanston Mews,” he answered. “She knew that Quixwood was Eleanor Forsbrook’s lover. A lot of what Symington said was guesswork, but it’s actually the only thing that makes sense.”

  “Then it was Neville Forsbrook who raped Catherine?” she asked, still puzzled.

  “I think it was Neville. Just as it was he who raped both Angeles Castelbranco and Alice Townley, and possibly others.”

  “And the laudanum?” she persisted.

  “Quixwood surely put it there, knowing she would drink it. If she didn’t he could always give it to her when he got home. It wouldn’t have been as safe for him, but it could still have worked.”

  “What are we going to do about it?” she asked.

  He smiled. “I hope we are going to get a verdict in Alban Hythe’s favor. Then we will consider proving Quixwood lied to protect Neville Forsbrook from being prosecuted for Angeles’s rape. I still want to see that young man pay for all he has done.” His voice caught.

  The jury returned after two long hours, every minute of which dragged by at a leaden pace.

  The courtroom was packed. There were even people standing in the aisle and at the back.

  The proceedings were enacted at the majestic pace of the law. No one stirred. No one coughed.

  The foreman of the jury answered in a calm, level voice.

  “We find the prisoner, Alban Hythe, guilty as charged, my lord.”

  In the dock Hythe bent forward, utterly beaten.

  Maris Hythe looked as if she was about to faint.

  Vespasia was stunned. She had truly hoped they had managed to cobble together enough information to create the required doubt, and the tide of despair that washed over her momentarily robbed her of thought. It was seconds, even a full minute before she could think of what to do next.

  She took a long, slow breath and turned to Narraway. “This is not right,” she said quietly. “We have three weeks until he goes to the gallows. We must do something more.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Pitt refused to accept defeat. It was intolerable. Alban Hythe had neither raped nor killed Catherine Quixwood, and yet he had sat in court and watched the judge put on a black cap and sentence him to death. As always, three Sundays were allowed before the hanging, a period of grace-hardly much time in which to mount an appeal, even if they could find new evidence.

  They needed more time. The only way to get that would be to have the Home Secretary grant a reprieve, and there were no grounds for it. Pitt had spent long hours at his office, wanting to be alone, at least away from those closest to him. Their pain distracted his mind, and he needed to be absolutely undivided in his concentration. He had no emotional strength to spare for comfort.

  He paced back and forth across his office floor, shoulders hunched, muscles knotted. He went over it in his mind again and again, but there was nothing on which to appeal. Symington, crushed and miserable, had already said as much.

  He was convinced that the answer they had found, and in part concocted out of fragments of evidence, was the truth. The unimaginative, pedestrian-minded jury had not believed them. Why not? What had they missed, done wrongly? Had it all rested on Bower’s stirring of rage and fear in them so passionate they could not think? Did they simply not believe that Catherine could have been as intelligent or brave as they had shown her to be? Did they need so intensely to punish someone that they could not wait for the right man?

  Surely Symington had stirred their pity and their anger with Hythe’s willingness to sacrifice his own life to save Maris? But perhaps they were more taken in by Quixwood’s feigned grief.

  He pulled himself up abruptly. The reason didn’t matter now. He needed to get Hythe a reprieve from the Home Secretary, a stay of execution long enough to find grounds for an appeal. They must not allow it to be over. Proof of Hythe’s innocence after he was dead was of no use at all-and also once the execution had taken place it would be twice as hard to convince anyone that the Court had made an irretrievable mistake, judicially murdered a totally innocent man.

  What argument did he have to take to the Home Secretary? It was there in the shadows at the back of his mind, knowledge crowding the darkness. That was the power of his position.

  He snatched his hat off the rack at the door, jammed it on his head, and left his office.

  On the street he hailed a hansom and gave the driver the Home Secretary’s private address. He hated doing this, but there was no other way to save Alban Hythe’s life.

  He sat in the cab rattling over the cobbles, oblivious of the traffic.

  Much interesting and highly confidential information came his way. As head of Special Branch there were potentially dangerous secrets that he knew about many people in power. He had to guard their vulnerability to blackmail, or any other kind of inappropriate pressures. The Home Secretary was a decent man, if a little pompous at times. Pitt did not personally like him. Their backgrounds, experience and cultural values were different. There was no natural sympathy between them, as there had been between Pitt and many of the men he had worked for in the past. They had been well bred, in many cases ex-military or navy, like Narraway, but not politicians, not used to keeping the favor of others by always seeking the art of the possible coupled with the confidence of the majority.

  As a young man the Home Secretary had studied at Oxford and been an outstanding scholar, a man well liked by his friends. One friend in particular had been charming, ambitious but a trifle equivocal in some of his moral choices. He was not averse to cheating when he needed to pass an exam that was beyond his ability.

  He had begged the Home Secretary to cover for him, necessitating a lie. In loyalty to his friend the Home Secretary had done so. He had learned afterward, painfully, that he had been used, made a complete fool of. He had paid for it bitterly in regret and had never done such a thing again.

  The friend had fared well, progressing financially. That exam success had laid the foundation of his career. He had climbed higher in his chosen field, still using people at every step. The Home Secretary had never betrayed him, nor had he ever spoken with him again, except as was necessary. As far as Pitt was aware, very few other people had ever known of the incident, and most of those were long dead.

  Unwillingly but without question, the Home Secretary could be persuaded to grant a stay of execution to Alban Hythe. Pitt could make his alternative far too painful for him to refuse. He had the upper hand.

  But it was a terrible abuse of power. If he did this, would he no longer be capable of kno
wing where to draw the line? A little pressure, a little force, a little twisting of the fear. How was this so different from rape, in essence?

  No, he acknowledged, there had to be another way.

  He leaned forward and rapped on the partition to attract the driver’s attention. “Changed my mind,” he said. He gave the man Townley’s address instead.

  “Yes, sir,” the driver agreed wearily, adding something else less courteous under his breath.

  Pitt leaned back in the seat, Sweat was running over his skin, and yet he felt cold enough to shiver. Was it so easy to misuse power, and to let it misuse you?

  Townley’s footman permitted him in only because he insisted.

  “I’m sorry,” Pitt said to the man. “Time is short and I am fighting for a man’s life, otherwise I would not disturb you at this hour of the evening. I need to speak to Mr. Townley and very possibly the rest of his family. Please inform him so.”

  Townley came out of the sitting room to where Pitt was waiting in the hall. The man’s face was grim and anger lay as close to the surface as good manners and a level of fear would allow it. He did not bother with a greeting.

  Pitt was uncomfortable, wretchedly aware of how close he had come to exercising the power he possessed in a way he would ever after regret.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Townley,” Pitt said quietly. “I need your help-”

  “I cannot give it to you, sir,” Townley interrupted him. “I have a good idea of what it is you wish of me. My answer is the same as before. I don’t know what can have made you imagine it would be different.”

  “The conviction of Alban Hythe of a crime he did not commit,” Pitt said simply. “In three weeks they will hang him, then any evidence that proves his innocence will be of little use to him, or to his young widow. I shall pursue it, eventually I will prove our terrible mistake, and in so doing shake everyone’s faith in our system of justice, and I daresay ruin a few men’s careers in the process. Then I may also catch the man who is actually responsible, but not before he will have raped other young women and, unless they are very fortunate, ruined their lives as well-perhaps even taken them. I am sure you understand why I would very much prefer to correct it while I still can, rather than try to mitigate the disaster afterward.”

  “I cannot help you,” Townley repeated. “Neville Forsbrook violated my daughter and there is nothing I can do about it, except protect her from public ruin. Now will you please leave my house, and allow my family to have what little peace we may.”

  Pitt clenched his fists by his sides, trying to control his voice.

  “Will you come and watch the hanging?” he asked levelly, even though he was trembling. “Will you try to console the man’s wife afterward? She is not so very much older than your daughter. And speaking of your daughter, how will you comfort her in the years to come, when she wakens in the night knowing that it was possible she could-”

  “Get out of my house before I strike you, sir!” Townsley said between his teeth. “I don’t care a jot who you are, or what office you hold.”

  The sitting-room door opened and Mrs. Townley came out, her face stiff, eyes wide.

  Townley swung around. “Mary! Go back to the withdrawing room. Commander Pitt is leaving.”

  Mrs. Townley looked past her husband, her eyes meeting Pitt’s.

  “I don’t think he is, Frederick,” she said quietly. “I think he will remain here until we act, because we are standing in the path of justice, and I do not choose to do that.”

  “Mary …” Townley began. “For heaven’s sake, think of Alice!”

  “I am,” she said with gathering confidence. “I think she would rather speak to Mr. Pitt and gain some kind of justice than believe that her experience has so damaged her that she would see a man die wrongly rather than tell him the truth.”

  “You have no right to make that decision for her, Mary,” Townley said quietly, struggling to be as gentle as possible.

  “Neither have you, my dear,” she pointed out. She turned to Pitt. “If you will be good enough to wait, sir, I shall ask my daughter whether she will hear you out or not.”

  “Thank you, ma’am,” he said, the sudden release of tension rippling through him like an easing warmth.

  Five minutes later Pitt was in the withdrawing room facing Alice Townley, who was pale, clearly very apprehensive, but waiting with her hands folded in her lap, knuckles white.

  “I am sorry to ask you again,” Pitt began, sitting opposite her. “But events have not gone at all as I would have liked. Mr. Alban Hythe has been convicted of raping and beating Mrs. Quixwood and causing her to take her own life.” He did not shrink from using the appropriate words. “I believe he is not guilty, and I have only three weeks in which to prove it-”

  “Mama told me,” Alice interrupted. “Do you think Mr. Forsbrook did it? He wasn’t anything like so-violent with me. He did not … beat me. Although … although I did feel pretty dreadful.” She moved her right hand off her lap, lifted it, then let it fall again. “It was revolting.” She blushed scarlet. “It wasn’t anything like love.”

  “No, he did not act out of love,” Pitt said gently. “Can you tell me exactly what he did?”

  She looked at the floor.

  “Perhaps you would prefer to tell your mother, and she could tell me?” he suggested.

  She nodded, not raising her eyes.

  Pitt stood up and left the room, Townley, still angry, on his heels.

  They waited in silence in the morning room, chilly, fire unlit at this time of the year. After just over a quarter of an hour Mary Townley came in.

  Pitt rose to his feet as a matter of courtesy.

  “I think it would be a good idea if you were to go and sit with her,” Mrs. Townley said to her husband. “I’m sure she would find your presence comforting. She doesn’t want to feel that you disapprove of her decision, as if she has defied you. She is doing what she believes is right, and brave, Frederick.”

  “Of course … of course.” He stood up and left without even glancing at Pitt.

  Mary Townley sat down, inviting Pitt to do the same. She was very pale and clearly found the matter embarrassing. Hesitantly, in a voice so carefully controlled as to be almost expressionless, she told him exactly what had happened, in Alice’s words, including that Forsbrook had bitten her painfully hard on the left breast.

  That was it, the connection with Catherine Quixwood, and with Pamela O’Keefe, perhaps with Angeles Castelbranco too, although they would never know that now, unless Isaura knew and would testify to it. It might also prove to the Church that Angeles was a victim, not a sinner. Pitt would not rest until he had done that.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Townley. Please tell Alice that her courage may have saved a man’s life. Did you see the bite mark yourself?”

  “Yes.” She touched her own left breast lightly.

  “If it should be necessary, would you swear to that? I ask because Mrs. Quixwood was bitten in exactly the same place, and so was another girl, one who was killed. I think perhaps he killed her accidentally, when he lost his temper, and was more violent with her than he meant to be. She might have fought with him, as Mrs. Quixwood did. That seems to enrage him beyond control.”

  “Yes. I would swear to it. Are you going to see that he is put in prison?” Mrs. Townley asked with fear in her voice.

  “At the least,” he replied. “At the very least.” He was making a rash promise and he knew it, but in this quiet, modest home it seemed the only possible answer.

  He thanked her again and went out into the silent street. Now it was time to go to the Home Secretary, and ask, respectfully, for a reprieve.

  Narraway sat at the dining room table at Pitt’s house the following day. Charlotte and Pitt were there, and Vespasia, and also Stoker, who was looking slightly uncomfortable. The Home Secretary had granted a temporary stay of execution, but that was all it was. Symington was working on an appeal. He had refused to accept any payment
from Narraway, although Narraway had offered it again. He had said that victory itself would be enough reward.

  Now the five of them sat around the table over a plain but excellent luncheon, for which Minnie Maude had been duly praised.

  “We can’t let it go,” Charlotte insisted as the dessert was being served and the last of the main dishes removed. “They may arrest him in a month or two, but what if he gets wind of it and leaves the country again.” She looked at Narraway. “Are you sure Quixwood himself killed Catherine?” Her face was troubled, bitterly aware of the unfinished nature of the case.

  “I am,” Pitt interjected gravely.

  Charlotte looked at Pitt. “So it was all started by Eleanor Forsbrook having an affair with Rawdon Quixwood? Do we know that was true? I mean know it, not based on a deduction but a fact? Is there really anything to anchor it to reality?”

  She turned to Narraway. “Is Rawdon Quixwood as terrible as Symington said? Did he deliberately create this whole appalling tragedy?”

  “Yes,” Narraway said with some embarrassment. “I’ve never made such a serious complete misjudgment of anyone in my life as I have of Quixwood.”

  Charlotte smiled at him. “We might respect you, but we wouldn’t like you very much if you had withheld your compassion until he had proved himself innocent or guilty. You can’t go through life always guarding against the most awful thing you can think of. You’d be miserable, and worse than that, you’d push away every possible good thing there is.”

  Narraway looked down at his plate. “It was not a slight error. I was rather seriously wrong.”

  “It was a magnificent one,” Charlotte agreed, glancing at Vespasia, and seeing her smile. “I hate halfheartedness,” she added.

  Narraway smiled in spite of himself.

  It was Pitt who brought them back to the business at hand.

  “The affair between Eleanor and Quixwood is fact. We have witnesses to that now. And the surgeon who examined her body after the accident said some of the bruises predated her death, so Pelham did beat her. And I’ve heard from Rafael Castelbranco that Elmo Crask also added to the story about Neville Forsbrook and the prostitute he beat. Biting seems to be a weakness of Neville’s. That story is also provable, and is even uglier than we first assumed. Neville Forsbrook is a very violent young man with an uncontrollable, and evidently increasing, disposition to rape women. Who knows what has caused him to be that way. I’m sure having a father like Pelham didn’t help him much.”