by Anne Perry
Quixwood shook his head fractionally. “Yes, but I find it very difficult to believe.” He smiled faintly, and with obvious effort. “But then, I imagine a man always finds it difficult to believe that his wife was having an affair.”
A day ago Narraway would have agreed with him. After his experience with Knox he responded differently. “It is very disturbing to realize how easily we go through life assuming,” he said, watching Quixwood’s face. “People change slowly, so infinitesimally that day by day we don’t see it. Like glaciers—so many feet in a year, or maybe it’s inches.”
Quixwood looked down at his glass and the light reflecting in its amber depths. “I thought I knew her. I’m slowly facing the fact that perhaps I didn’t.” He glanced up abruptly. “You know the worst thing? I’m not even as certain as I was that I really want to know exactly what happened. I … I don’t want all my illusions shattered. I trusted my wife and believed she loved me, and even at our most cool or difficult moments, she would never have betrayed me.”
A smile flickered across his lips for a moment and vanished. “I thought Hythe was someone I could trust, and now that I know his wife a little better, I know that she also trusted him. She still cannot accept even the possibility that he could be guilty of this. I suppose it is part of my own grief that I want to comfort her.”
Quixwood sipped his whisky again. “Am I a coward to want not to know?”
Narraway considered it for a moment before replying, wanting to be honest.
“I think you may be unwise,” he said at last. “I can imagine how you would prefer to leave your wife’s last days, and especially her last moments, unknown. In your best times you will not think of it at all. In your worst you will visualize it brutally.”
Quixwood was watching him, waiting for him to finish.
“But it isn’t only you,” Narraway continued. “Maris Hythe may find she cannot live with the uncertainty. If Hythe is innocent, he surely deserves to have that proved. How could he live with it otherwise, hinted at but unproven, for the rest of his days?”
“And if he’s guilty?” Quixwood asked.
“Then he deserves punishment,” Narraway said without hesitation. “And even more than justice toward him, what about the rest of society?”
Quixwood blinked.
“Do you want to live in a country where such appalling crimes go unpunished?” Narraway asked. “Where we are sufficiently indifferent to the horror of it that we prefer not to inquire too closely in case the answer is one we don’t like? What about other men’s wives, or daughters? What about the next woman raped?”
Quixwood closed his eyes. His hands clenched around his glass so tightly that had it not been heavy cut crystal, it would have broken. Narraway did not press him to answer.
They spoke of other things, briefly, and after a little while Narraway left, wishing there were more he could do and knowing there was not.
CHAPTER
9
IT WAS EARLY EVENING but the sun was still high. Charlotte was at the stove, her back to the kitchen table, but she could hear Pitt’s fingers drumming irritably on the wood. She could have asked him to stop, but she knew it was pointless. He was not even aware of doing it. His sense of helplessness was eating away at him. The death of Angeles Castelbranco was unexplained; in his mind it was still a bleeding wound.
She knew that it was not just a matter of solving a crime. It was not even the taking of some small step to absolve England’s reputation as a gentle and civilized country where women, children, the vulnerable were treated with respect; they must show that brutality was punished swiftly, and that no one pleaded for justice in vain.
Beyond that, it was the deep, visceral nature of the crime that ate at him, the knowledge that those he loved could as easily have been the victims, could yet be, and he had found nothing he could do to prevent it.
She never doubted that he loved his family fiercely. Sometimes he was too strict, true, expected too much of the children; other times she thought he was too lax, but either way, whatever the disappointments, the love was as certain as the ground beneath her feet or the warmth of the sun.
All over the country there were other men the same, in every town and village—people who loved, who worried, who protected their loved ones the best they could, who lay awake at night thinking about the unthinkable, praying that they would never have to face it.
But Pitt had had to face it, to see it in Rafael Castelbranco and be unable to do anything, unable even to try, because there was nothing to grasp, no evidence. Witnesses abounded, and yet they had seen nothing that did not lose substance, like mist, when it was examined.
Isaura Castelbranco had said her daughter’s violator was Neville Forsbrook. Charlotte herself had seen him taunt Angeles and felt her terror as if it were palpable in the room. But then you had Rawdon Quixwood, stricken and bereaved by the rape of his wife, who had sworn to Vespasia that he had been at the event where the rape of Angeles must have taken place, and he knew young Forsbrook could not be guilty. It was not a reference to his character but to his whereabouts.
Who was lying? Who was mistaken? Who was so prejudiced as to be unable to see or tell the truth?
To Pitt it was more than that. He felt uniquely responsible because he had been present when Angeles had died; he was a guardian of the law, supposed to protect people, or at the very least to find justice for those who were wronged. Charlotte knew that fact was in his mind far more than the angry words, the long silences, the overprotectiveness that was infuriating Jemima or the lectures begun and broken off that confused Daniel.
She wanted to say something to help, at least to let Pitt know that she understood and did not expect him, or any man, to slay all the dragons or keep safe all the dark corners of life, whether they were far away or in the familiar rooms of one’s own house.
Pitt was still drumming his fingers on the tabletop.
Charlotte lifted the lid of the pan with potatoes and pushed a skewer into one, then another, to see if it was time to put on the cabbage. She hated it overcooked. The potatoes could do with a few more minutes. The table was already set and the cold meat carved. There were three separate dishes of chutney out: apple and onion, orange and onion, spiced apricot. She was rather pleased with herself for that.
“Only three places,” Pitt said suddenly. “Who’s not here?”
“Jemima,” she replied. “She’s spending the evening with a friend.”
Pitt’s voice sharpened. “Who is it? Do you know the family? What is she like, this friend? How old is she?”
Charlotte put the lid down on the potato pan and turned around to face him. She saw again how tired he was. His hair was as untidy as usual, even though it had been cut recently. The light caught on the gray at his temples. His skin was pale and there were fine lines around his eyes she had not noticed before, although they must have come slowly.
“A very pleasant girl named Julia,” she replied as lightly as she could, as if she had not seen the tension in him. “She is rather studious and she likes Jemima because Jemima makes her laugh and forget to be self-conscious. I know her mother—not well, but enough to be certain Jemima is quite safe there. And before you ask, yes, Julia is fourteen as well, and she has no older brothers.”
Pitt lowered his head wearily. “Am I being ridiculous?” he asked.
Charlotte sat down on the chair opposite him. “Yes, my dear, completely. But I might think less of you if you weren’t.” She reached out her hand and put it lightly over his on the table, stopping his fingers in their nervous movement. “How could we look at people living our worst nightmare and feel nothing? If that happened, I would think Special Branch had changed you from the man I love to an efficient person I could only respect.”
He was quite still for several moments, and she had no idea what he was thinking. She wanted to ask, but knew it would be intrusive.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said suddenly, avoiding her eyes. “I look
ed at Isaura Castelbranco a couple of days ago. She has courage, and immense dignity; in a way, more composure than her husband. But she’s broken inside. Whoever did this has destroyed far more than just one person. The pain he’s inflicted is beyond measure, and it will go on all their lives. Even if we catch the rapist, it seems a poor sort of justice, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “Maybe, at times. But don’t we all need there to be justice, however cold the comfort of it is? What safety is there for anyone if people can do what this man did and then walk away free? If there’s no price, why shouldn’t he do it again, whenever he wishes to and has the chance? And surely if there’s no public justice, won’t there be people who’ll look for it privately? What are the chances they’ll take it from the wrong person? Or the right person, but who was guilty only of being intimate with the wrong person, not of rape?”
Pitt pushed his hair back hard as he straightened and leaned again against the hard frame of the chair. “Isaura knows it is Neville, and she’s right, prosecution would only make it worse.”
Charlotte was stunned. “But you told me Vespasia had said it couldn’t be him! Quixwood was there! You must make absolutely certain that the ambassador doesn’t take—”
“Isaura didn’t tell him anything,” he cut across her. “She won’t. She knows as well as you do that the temptation to take revenge would one day be more than he could resist. She didn’t even confirm to him that Angeles was raped, although I imagine he suspects.”
She frowned, tense now.
“You are sure?”
“Yes.” There was no uncertainty, no equivocation in his voice. “By the way, I questioned the maid.” He winced as he spoke. “Angeles was bleeding and badly bruised. Whoever it was, he must have used considerable force.”
Charlotte thought about it for several moments, her mind racing. The pain inside her was not only for Isaura Castelbranco, but for every other woman who lived with fear or grief, or who would do so in the future; everyone else who felt humiliated and helpless.
“But she did say it was Forsbrook?” she said aloud.
“Apparently that is what Angeles told her mother. But if Quixwood is telling the truth, she must have been mistaken. Perhaps someone even pretended to be Forsbrook. That’s not impossible. I’ve asked a few questions …” He smiled bleakly. “Don’t look like that. I was discreet. I asked people about functions over the last month or two, who attended and any incidents concerning the Portuguese. This damned Jameson Raid is an excellent cover for all kinds of inquiries.”
Charlotte had forgotten about the Jameson trial. It was on everybody’s lips, and yet it had held no meaning for her, because of the other things she had heard being discussed. There was pity for Isaura Castelbranco, certainly; however, in too many instances it was tempered by cruel remarks about foreigners and their different standards, as if the girl were to blame for her own death. Since the gossip had begun about the Church’s decision that she could not be buried with Catholic rites, the conclusion was that she must have committed suicide. The kindest speculation was that she was in love with someone who did not return her feelings. The cruelest that she was with child, that her fiancé had very understandably called off the betrothal, and in despair she had killed herself and her unborn baby.
Charlotte had seethed with anger, but all she could do was accuse the speaker of malice. And that would gain nothing, except enemies she knew she could ill afford, for Pitt’s sake as well as her own. If she was helpless, how much more so was Isaura Castelbranco?
“Did you learn anything?” she asked Pitt.
“Not that could be proof,” he replied.
“What else did Mr. Quixwood say about the party?”
“Only that Forsbrook was charming, flattered Angeles in the way most young women enjoy, but that she seemed to be upset by it. He implied that either she thought herself too good for Neville or her English was not sufficiently fluent for her to have understood him properly. The prevailing opinion was that she was too young, and too unsophisticated to be in Society yet, even when her mother was present at the same function, as she usually was. They suggested that perhaps Portuguese girls were more sheltered and less prepared to conduct themselves with appropriate grace.” He stopped, looking at Charlotte with a frown.
“That doesn’t mean anything. Everyone is saying whatever makes them feel most comfortable. It’s disgusting! How desperately alone she was … and her family is now.” She wanted to encourage him, but what was there to say? “There must be something you can do,” she tried. “Even indirectly, perhaps?”
Pitt raised his head.
“I haven’t given up.” His voice had an edge to it he failed to hide.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I’m asking for miracles, aren’t I?”
“Yes. And your potatoes are boiling over.”
She leaped to her feet. “Oh blitheration! I forgot them. Now it’s too late to put the cabbage on.” She pulled the pan off the stove and lifted the lid cautiously. She jabbed the skewer into one. They were very definitely cooked, a little too much so. She would have to mash them.
Pitt was smiling. “We’ll just have more pickle,” he said with amusement. She was always teasing him that he used too much.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING PITT sat in his office studying the papers, mostly looking for information he could use professionally. Often Stoker selected articles for Pitt, to save him time.
“Lot about the upcoming Jameson trial,” Stoker observed drily, putting more papers on Pitt’s desk.
“Anything I need to know right now?” Pitt asked, hoping he could avoid reading them.
“Not much.” Stoker’s face creased in distaste. “Still haven’t solved the murder of Rawdon Quixwood’s wife. Sometimes I think I’d understand it if somebody murdered a few of these journalists, or the damn people who write letters expressing their arrogant opinions.”
Pitt looked at Stoker curiously. It was an unusual expression of emotion for him. More often he showed only disinterest, or occasionally a dry humor, especially at political contortions to evade the truth, or blame for anything.
Rather than ask him, Pitt turned over the pages of the first newspaper until he came to the letters to the editor. He saw with anger what Stoker meant. A good deal of space was devoted to the subject of rape.
One writer expressed the heated opinion that morality in general, and sexual morality in particular, was in serious decline. Women of a certain type behaved in a way that excited the baser appetites in men, leading to the destruction of both and to the general degradation of humanity. But the author conceded that rapists, if caught and the matter proved beyond any doubt, should be hanged, for the good of all. No names were mentioned, but Pitt noted that the writer lived in a neighborhood not two streets away from Catherine Quixwood.
“Why the devil does the editor print this sort of thing?” he demanded angrily. “It’s vicious, ignorant, and will only stir up ill feeling.”
“And produce more letters in answer,” Stoker replied. “Dozens of them, of all opinions. And loads of people will buy the paper, to see if their answer has been printed, or just for the fun of watching a scrap. Same thing as the idle who gather to watch a street fight, and then demand we clean up the mess afterward, all the time shaking their heads and saying how terrible it is. But heaven help you if you get between them and the view.”
Pitt looked up at Stoker with surprise. There had been more heat in his voice than Pitt had heard in a while. It flickered through his mind to wonder if Stoker had known and cared for someone who had been violated: a sister, even a lover at some time. He knew little of Stoker’s personal life—or that of most people in Special Branch, for that matter. And he wasn’t likely to learn more about them through this subject, as it was the sort of thing a man did not talk about even to those he knew best, let alone relative strangers.
“Of course.” Pitt looked down at the newspaper again. “It was a stupid questi
on. People attack what they’re afraid of. Like poking a hornets’ nest with a stick. Makes you feel brave, as if you’re doing something. Don’t care who the damn things sting afterward. Poor Quixwood must feel like hell.”
“Yes, sir,” Stoker agreed. “But I’ve met Knox before; I know he is a good man. If anyone can find the truth, it’s him.”
Pitt looked up at him again. “I notice you didn’t say ‘catch who did it.’ Do you think it wasn’t murder, then? Suicide, because she allowed herself to be raped?” He heard the anger in his own voice and could not control it.
Stoker looked slightly embarrassed. “Whoever it was, sir, she let him in herself, with no servants around. That doesn’t make attacking her right, but it does make it a lot more complicated.”
“Sometimes, Stoker, I look back to my time in Bow Street, when murders seemed simpler. Greed, revenge, fear of blackmail I can understand. I quite often felt a degree of pity for even the worst people, but I knew that I still had no acceptable choice but to arrest them. If the jury decided they were innocent, then I could live with that and it was a comfort to know they might catch my mistakes, if that’s what they were. But who catches ours?”
Stoker chewed his lip. “Sometimes we do,” he said with a raised eyebrow. “Otherwise, probably no one. You’d like me to say different?” He was polite, just, but there was a challenge in his voice, one he would not have dared use with Narraway.
“No, not if you can’t do it believably,” Pitt retorted. “At least we’re not in the diplomatic service, or the Foreign Office. Thank God Leander Starr Jameson and his damn raid aren’t on our desks.”
“No, sir. And neither is poor Angeles Castelbranco.”
“Yes she is,” Pitt replied grimly. “Someone raped her here in London, and brought about her death.”
“Not a diplomatic incident, sir,” Stoker said firmly.
“Are you sure?” Pitt stared at him, holding his gaze.