Midnight at Marble Arch

by Anne Perry

  “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.

  Normally Pitt would have resented the pressure, even the suggestion of insolence; however, he knew it sprang from Stoker’s own sense of helplessness in the face of what he felt was an outrage. He expected Pitt, as head of Special Branch, to do something about it.

  “Be careful, Stoker,” Pitt warned. “The Home Secretary personally sent me a note warning me that there’s nothing we can do about Angeles Castelbranco.”

  Then suddenly Pitt’s anger overwhelmed him, the obscene injustice of it. His temper snapped—not with Stoker, but Stoker got the brunt of it simply because he was there.

  “Damn it, man! I was in the building when the poor girl went through the window. Forsbrook says she was hysterical, and so she was. The only question is, what made her so. Was she terrified of him, and for good reason? Was she blaming him for something that someone else did to her? Or was it all in her own fevered imagination?”

  Stoker’s eyes blazed but he knew to keep silent.

  “Do you think I wouldn’t arrest the bastard if I could?” Pitt shouted. “No charge would stick to him and we’d end up looking ridiculous. Far more to the point, the poor girl is—” He stopped, appalled. “God! I was going to say decently buried—but she isn’t. She’s just shoved into some hole in the ground, because the sanctimonious bloody Church has decided she might have taken her own life!”

  He very seldom swore, and he heard the echo of his own voice with disgust. He was shaking with fury. Every instinct in him was to attack, to punish Forsbrook until there was nothing left of him. And all he could do was stand by and watch.

  And now Stoker too was expecting something of him he could not give. He wondered for a brief instant if Narraway would have done better.

  Stoker did not flinch. “So are we going to let it go … sir?” he asked. His voice was so tight in his throat it was a pitch higher than normal.

  “When was Alban Hythe arrested?” Pitt asked coldly.

  “Last night, sir, or more accurately, late yesterday evening,” Stoker replied. “Shortly after Pamela O’Keefe was raped and killed, if that’s what you’re asking. Too close to call.”

  “Of course that’s what I’m asking!” Pitt snapped. “So could he be guilty of killing Pamela O’Keefe, regardless of the crimes against Mrs. Quixwood or Angeles Castelbranco?”

  “It doesn’t seem likely, sir,” Stoker said grimly. He took a breath. “I’d say we’ve got two violent men raping respectable women. Maybe three. Unless you’re thinking Angeles Castelbranco wasn’t actually raped.”

  “No, I’m not thinking that!” Pitt all but snarled. He knew he was being unfair, but the sense of outrage and futility suffocated him. “Coincidences happen, but I don’t believe in them until there’s nothing else left.” He stared at Stoker’s blank face. “Find out if there’s any further connection between Forsbrook and this poor girl. Maybe he is the leader of a whole bunch of cowards that go after women.”

  “A gang of them?” Stoker said with disgust, his hands curled into fists. “Isn’t that some special sort of crime?” There was a lift of hope in his voice.

  “If he or any of them killed the O’Keefe girl, we can hang them just as high for that as for Angeles’s death,” Pitt replied. “Go and find out. But, Stoker …”

  The younger man halted at the door and turned. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “Be careful,” he warned again. “I would very much rather the Foreign Secretary had no occasion to think of us at the moment, let alone know anything. I’ve been told to leave it alone. It was an order. I need to be damn careful not to be seen disobeying. Your inquiries are for the purpose of making certain Mr. Forsbrook is not mistakenly blamed for any of this. Do you understand?”

  Stoker snapped to attention, his eyes brilliant as sunlight on ice. “Absolutely, sir. We must protect our national honor. An upstanding young gentleman like Mr. Forsbrook musn’t be slandered by some foreign ambassador, no matter how upset the poor man might be about his daughter’s most unfortunate death in our capital city.” He took a breath and went on. “And we must make certain there is no connection in anyone’s mind between that and this other poor girl’s rape and murder, sir. Mrs. Quixwood is quite another matter … no connection whatever. Regrettably London appears to be full of rapists, and I suppose young ladies are not careful enough who they keep company with—”

  “Stoker!” Pitt barked.

  “Yes, sir?” Stoker opened his eyes wide.

  “You’ve made your point.”

  Stoker lowered his voice. “Yes, sir.” There was something close to a smile on his lips. “I’ll report to you as soon as I have anything, sir.” And without waiting to be dismissed, he turned on his heel and went out.

  Pitt picked up the telephone to call Narraway.

  TWO HOURS LATER PITT and Narraway walked along the Embankment with the magnificent Palace of Westminster towering above them in the sun. On the telephone Pitt had very briefly told Narraway of the new rape case, keeping the details until they met. Narraway in turn had given him nothing beyond the bare fact of Alban Hythe’s arrest. His own ambivalent emotions about it were clear in his voice.

  On the river to their left a pleasure boat passed with people crowding the decks, laughing and pointing, straw hats waving, bright with ribbons. Somewhere out of sight a barrel organ was playing a popular song. The sound of laughter drifted on the breeze.

  “Stoker told me this morning,” Pitt said quietly. “Apparently it happened yesterday evening. They can’t be sure as to the exact time. Quite early, though.”

  “Alban Hythe was arrested by nine,” Narraway replied. “I know that beyond doubt.”

  Pitt looked across at Narraway’s face, trying to read his emotions. As always, it was difficult. But he was getting to know Narraway far better now than he had when the man had been his superior. In the short time Pitt had been in charge of Special Branch he had carried the burden that Narraway had borne for ye
ars, and with that came a different kind of understanding between them.

  In Narraway’s features he saw uncertainty and unhappiness. In a way, they had changed positions: Narraway was tasting the personal shock and pain, the dismay in the face of crime; Pitt was feeling the terrible loneliness and weight of responsibility he could not pass on to anyone else, could not even share.

  “You don’t think he’s guilty of raping Catherine Quixwood, do you?” Pitt observed.

  Narraway looked at him sharply. His eyes were nearly black in the sunlight, the pale streaks at his temples silver.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted, expression half-concealed. “I’m not used to this … this sort of crime. It’s nothing like anarchy or treason. I don’t know how the devil you dealt with it, with the people and their … lives.”

  “One at a time,” Pitt replied drily. “It’s not worse than being the one who decides who gets charged, who doesn’t, who’s let go quietly, and who gets killed. It’s just different. In the police you find the facts, then pass it all over to someone else to make the judgment.”

  “Touché,” Narraway said quietly, glancing at Pitt and then away again. “And no, I don’t think I believe Alban Hythe raped Catherine Quixwood. But that may well be because I don’t want to. I liked him. And I like his wife. I don’t want to watch while all her hopes and dreams are laid bare and broken for the public to watch.”

  “Liking people has very little to do with it,” Pitt pointed out. “Even sympathizing with them sometimes. More than once I’ve thought I could have done the same thing—had I been in the same situation.”

  Narraway stared at him, incredulity in his eyes. As Pitt did not flinch, slowly the disbelief became the beginning of an understanding. “You mean kill someone?”

  “Well, I certainly don’t mean rape them!” Pitt retorted a little waspishly. “But yes, I’ve felt like killing those who beat and terrify women, children, the weak, the old; those who blackmail and extort and yet manage to ensure the law doesn’t touch them.”

  “And rapists?” Narraway asked.

  “Yes, them also.”

  “Pitt …” Narraway started.

  Pitt smiled with a twisted humor. “Perhaps only if it happened to my wife, or daughter. But I can understand someone who would feel that way, who would want to take justice into his own hands.”

  Narraway bit his lip. “So can I, and I have no wife or daughter. Do we need to watch Quixwood, once he knows that it’s Hythe? Or if Hythe gets off?”

  “If he gets off, yes, very possibly,” Pitt admitted.

  “And the Portuguese ambassador?” Narraway added quietly.

  Pitt shivered. “I am watching. Castelbranco taking matters into his own hands is one of several things I am concerned about.”

  Narraway looked at him closely. “And the others?”

  “That whoever is doing this will not stop,” Pitt replied.

  “All the same man? It can’t be, unless Hythe is innocent.” Narraway said it with something that could have been hope.

  “Or we have two, or even three, men of such violent and brutal disposition loose in London right now,” Pitt finished the thought.

  Narraway had no answer to that.

  PITT HAD NOT SEEN Rafael Castelbranco for nearly a week. There had been no news to report that would ease any of the man’s distress. However, Pitt felt compelled to inform him of the arrest of Alban Hythe, and that as far as he was aware, Catherine Quixwood’s death had nothing to do with Angeles’s attack.

  He made the appointment formally and presented himself at the Portuguese Embassy at four o’clock, as requested.

  He was received in a large study with elegant furniture, a wooden floor with beautifully woven rugs and on the walls portraits of past kings and queens of Portugal.

  Castelbranco came forward to greet him. He was at least outwardly composed, but was still wearing black relieved only by a white shirt, with no jewelry, not even a pocket watch. His face was calm but his eyes looked hollow, and his skin brittle and drained of color. He did not even pretend to smile, nor did he offer refreshment.

  “Good afternoon, Commander Pitt,” he said in little more than a whisper, as if his throat was painful. “Have you come to tell me again that you can do nothing to prosecute the man who drove my daughter to her death?” There was no bitterness in his voice, no accusation, just pain.

  Pitt hesitated. He had been prepared to be less blunt and this took him by surprise, but to be evasive now would be insulting.

  “I suppose, for the present time, that is the truth,” he replied. “But the reason I came today is to tell you that a man has been arrested for the rape, and thus causing the suicide, of another woman. It is not public news yet, but it will be by tomorrow morning.”

  Castelbranco was startled. His body stiffened. His dark eyes met Pitt’s with bewilderment. “Another woman? And you can arrest him for raping her?”

  Pitt was embarrassed and he knew it showed in his face. “He appears to have had a relationship with her that can be proved,” he explained, feeling as if he was making excuses. “They were seen together. There are letters, gifts between them.”

  Castelbranco said nothing, his eyes unmoving, his mouth closed tightly.

  “She let him into her house, after dark,” Pitt went on. “When her husband was at a function in the course of his business, and she had dismissed the servants. The man raped her and beat her extremely badly. She was very seriously injured indeed, but it was actually an overdose of laudanum that directly caused her death.”

  Castelbranco was stunned. He stepped back and sank into one of the chairs. He breathed in and out heavily, his fingers gripping the leather of the arms. For several moments he did not speak. When he did, it was with difficulty.

  “Are you saying that this same … creature … raped my daughter, Mr. Pitt?”

  Pitt felt again as if he was making excuses, totally ineffectually.

  “No, Ambassador, I’m not. Nor am I suggesting that your daughter had any relationship with the man who did. I’m telling you of this only because the case bears a superficial resemblance, and I don’t want you to hear of it without some warning. Also, the man is only accused. He has not stood trial yet, and he has denied his guilt completely. Indeed, it is possible he is innocent.”

  “You said there was a relationship between this man and the woman he raped? Letters, gifts, meetings?” Castelbranco accused.

  “Yes, it seems so. And he cannot account for his time on the evening the poor woman was attacked.”

  “She let him in? What kind of a woman was she?” Castelbranco glared at him, bewildered and hurt, desperately seeking escape from the thoughts that crowded in on him.

  “According to what I have heard, a beautiful woman in her early forties, trapped in a lonely and sterile marriage,” Pitt replied.

  “And so she took a lover who was depraved?” Castelbranco closed his eyes as if by not seeing Pitt he could deny the reality of what he had said. “Her poor husband. He must be insane with grief. I hear my daughter spoken of as if she was a loose woman, without virtue, but at least I know it was not true.” The tears seeped between his eyelids and it took him some moments to master himself. “What must he feel, poor man?”

  “I can’t imagine,” Pitt confessed. “I’ve tried to. I think about my own wife and daughter. And son,” he added.

  Castelbranco stared at him. “Your son?” Clearly he saw no sense in the remark.

  “I look at my son.” Pitt did not avert his eyes. “He’s nearly twelve. What will I do to make certain he never misuses any woman, no matter who she is, or how she uses him?”

  “Do you imagine this man’s father is thinking such a thing?” Castelbranco asked bitterly. “What guilt could be greater than that?” He gave a slight shrug, painfully, as if his shoulders ached. “Or perhaps he refuses to believe it? It takes great courage to accept the very worst you can imagine.”

  “It would be better to have the courage
to accept the possibility beforehand, and do what you can to prevent it, I suppose,” Pitt answered him. “But it is too late for that now.”

  Castelbranco did not answer, just inclined his head in acknowledgment.

  Pitt weighed his words carefully. He still had not delivered the message that was his reason for coming. He must do so.

  “If this man proves to be guilty of raping Mrs. Quixwood—and that is by no means certain yet—but if he is, I would not blame Rawdon Quixwood if he were to find the opportunity to kill the man himself,” he admitted. “But much as I daresay Inspector Knox, the policeman concerned, would regret it, he would still have to arrest him and charge him with murder. He would then be tried, and if found guilty … perhaps not hanged, but he’d certainly spend many years in prison. It would magnify the tragedy immeasurably for his family. He has no children, but no doubt there are those who love him. Parents, maybe a brother or sister.”

  “And if the law excuses this man who raped Mrs. Quixwood or you cannot find sufficient proof of his guilt?” Castelbranco asked. His voice was hoarse, barely audible, his eyes fixed on Pitt’s. “What if he murders him then? Or what if this man was found dead, how hard would Knox, or any of you, search to discover and prove who killed him?”

  “You are hoping I’ll say we would make only a token effort, and be delighted to fail,” Pitt said with considerable compassion. “I would be tempted to, believe me. I daresay Knox would also. But then, this man has a young wife who not only loves him but believes in his innocence. Perhaps he has a father, or brothers who would look diligently for whoever killed him? How long does it go on?”

  Castelbranco lowered his head, his eyes closed. “I understand your message, Mr. Pitt. I shall not murder my daughter’s rapist, even if I believe I have found him. Who would then look after my wife? She needs, and deserves, more of me than that. She too has lost her only child.”

  “I’m sorry” was all Pitt could think of to say.

  Castelbranco did not respond.