Midnight at Marble Arch

by Anne Perry

  “That’s preposterous!” Bower said, the color scarlet up his cheeks. “Mrs. Hythe may well have been jealous, and it seems she had more than just cause, but Mr. Symington surely cannot be suggesting she raped Mrs. Quixwood and beat her almost to death? That is farcical, and an insult to the intelligence, not to say the humanity, of this Court.”

  Symington steadied himself with an effort. “My lord, may I ask for an early adjournment in order to consult with my client?”

  “I think you had better do so, Mr. Symington, and get your defense into some sort of order,” the judge agreed. “I will not have the trial made into a mockery for the lack of skill or sincerity on your part. Do you understand me? If your client decides to plead guilty it will make little difference to the outcome, but it may be a more graceful and dignified way to shorten his ordeal. The court is adjourned until two o’clock.”

  It was half-past eleven.

  Vespasia waited an agonizing half hour, watching the minute hand creep arthritically around the face of the clock in the hall. At five past midday she saw Pitt’s tousled head an inch or two above the crowd, and with no thought for dignity at all, she pushed her way toward him.

  “Thomas!” she said breathlessly as she reached him and clasped his arm to prevent herself from being buffeted by those eager to pass. “Thomas, what have you found? The situation is desperate.”

  He put his arm around her to protect her from the jostling of several large men forcing their way through, a thing he would never do in normal circumstances.

  “I have papers,” he replied. “If the judge asks to see them they may stand up to scrutiny, or they may not. But they will at least give Symington something to use to persuade Hythe he knows the truth … if that is the truth, and we are right as to what he and Catherine were doing.”

  “Thank God!” she said, not blasphemously but with the utmost gratitude. “Where is Victor?”

  “I don’t know,” Pitt admitted. “He may arrive with more later. I thought you might not last much longer.”

  “No longer,” she said. “This is our last stand. We had better find Mr. Symington.”

  THE TRIAL RESUMED AT exactly two o’clock. Symington rose to continue the examination of his client. He moved with a new vitality as he walked across the open space, papers in his hand, and looked up at Hythe.

  “Circumstances have placed you in a most unfortunate position, Mr. Hythe,” he began smoothly. “You have an expertise that was sorely needed by a charming woman, with a conscience regarding financial honesty. I can call witnesses to testify to all that I am about to say, but let us begin by allowing you to testify to it first, and then if my learned friend, Mr. Bower, disagrees, we can proceed from there.”

  He looked up at Hythe with a sunny smile. “Catherine Quixwood knew of your financial reputation and sought you out, is that correct?”

  Hythe hesitated.

  “Do not oblige me to repeat the questions, Mr. Hythe,” Symington said gently. “You know the answer, and so do I.”

  Hythe gulped. “Yes.”

  “Thank you. She sought you out and cultivated your acquaintance. She was a few years older than you, a beautiful woman of a slightly higher social rank, and she was troubled by a matter in which she very urgently wished for advice?” He held up the papers in his hand, still smiling. “Do not make me pull your teeth one by one, Mr. Hythe.”

  “Yes,” Hythe admitted again, his eyes on the papers as Symington lowered them. Everyone in the court could see that they were covered on one side with writing.

  Symington looked at the judge. “My lord, I shall put these papers into evidence, and give them to Mr. Bower, if it is necessary. But as they are financial papers of some very private nature, I would prefer not to do that, as long as my client cooperates, and at last we can get to the truth.”

  Bower stood up.

  The judge held out his hand. “Mr. Symington, I am not going to allow you to dazzle the court with any of your parlor tricks. Show me what it is you have.”

  Symington passed them to him without a murmur.

  The judge read them, his face darkening. He passed them back and Symington took them again.

  “Where did you get these?” the judge demanded grimly. “And if you do not tell me the truth, Mr. Symington, you are likely to find your legal career at an end. Do you understand me, sir?”

  “Yes, my lord. I have obtained them from Her Majesty’s Special Branch, in the interests of justice.”

  The judge rolled his eyes, but held out one hand to require Bower to take his seat again.

  “Very well. Do you intend to call Commander Pitt of Special Branch to testify?”

  “Not unless absolutely necessary, my lord.”

  “Then get on with it. But I warn you, one toe over the line and I will stop you.”

  “Yes, my lord. Thank you.” Symington turned again to Hythe.

  From the front row of the gallery Vespasia could see that Symington’s hands were shaking. Hythe looked gray-faced. The jurors stared at Symington as if mesmerized. There was absolute silence in the gallery, not a movement, not a breath.

  Symington began again.

  “Did Catherine Quixwood tell you why she wished this information, Mr. Hythe?”

  Hythe looked as if he was about to faint.

  Bower had a slight sneer on his face.

  “It is not a pleasant thing to hang, Mr. Hythe!” Symington said with a hard edge to his voice. “Not pleasant for those who love you either. I ask you again, why did Catherine Quixwood wish for this information? If you don’t answer, I can do it for you, and I will.”

  This time Bower did rise. “My lord, Mr. Symington is bullying his own witness, possibly asking him to condemn himself with words out of his own mouth.”

  The judge looked at Symington, his contempt clear.

  Symington turned to Hythe.

  Vespasia knew this was his last chance.

  Hythe drew in a deep breath. “She believed that her husband had advised someone very badly on investments in Africa,” he said with a catch in his voice. “She wanted to prove either that it was true, or that it was not. And if … if it was true, she thought he might repay some of the terrible loss.”

  “Voluntarily, or that he could be compelled to?” Symington asked.

  Hythe gulped again. “That the damage to his reputation as a financial adviser would oblige him to … to keep the matter private,” he said hoarsely.

  Symington nodded. “And that was the reason she sought you out, and saw you increasingly frequently, and with a degree of privacy, at places your conversations would not be overheard, and where her husband would not know of it?”

  “That is what she said,” Hythe agreed.

  “And have you any evidence that this is what she asked you to research for her?” Symington pressed.

  “She was very knowledgeable in the matter,” Hythe answered. “You have the papers in your hand. You know exactly what she wanted, and that it all makes sense. If you look at the dates you will see it is cumulative. After understanding one piece she then asked for more, based upon that knowledge. She was … she was most intelligent.”

  “Was she aware of the plans for the Jameson Raid before it took place?” Symington asked with interest.

  There was a rustle of movement in the gallery. Several jurors looked startled, one leaned forward, his face tense.

  “She was aware that something of that nature would happen, yes.”

  “But not that it would fail?” Symington continued. “Or did she know that too?”

  “She believed it would,” Hythe answered.

  Symington looked surprised. “Really? Very perceptive indeed. Do you know why she believed that?”

  Hythe hesitated again, glancing down.

  “Mr. Hythe!” Symington said sharply. “What did she know?”

  Hythe jerked up his head. “She observed the behavior of other people,” he said so quietly even the judge was obliged to lean forward to hear him.


  “What other people?” Symington asked. “Did she have access to plans?”

  “No,” Hythe said instantly. “She was aware of who was investing, and of who was not.” He looked exasperated. “The raid cost a fortune, Mr. Symington. People pumped money into it: for men, guns, munitions, other equipment. She watched and listened.” His voice caught suddenly. “She was a very intelligent woman and she cared deeply about the situation.”

  “Indeed,” Symington said with sudden emotions thickening his voice. “Altogether a remarkable woman, and her violation and death is a tragedy that must not go unpunished.” He hesitated a moment before going on.

  One of the jurors had tears on his face. Another pulled out a large white handkerchief and mopped himself as if he was too hot.

  Even Bower sat still.

  Symington cleared his throat and went on. “So Catherine Quixwood had gathered a good deal of financial information regarding the Jameson Raid, and about various people who had made or lost money that had been invested in guns, munitions, and other speculations in Africa?” he asked Hythe.

  “Yes,” Hythe said simply.

  “Could this have been damaging to anyone, financially or in reputation, had she made it public?” Symington was careful to avoid naming anybody.

  Hythe stared at him. “Yes, of course it would.”

  “Very damaging?” Symington pressed.

  “Yes.”

  “Financial reputations depend upon trust, discretion, word of mouth, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it then possible, Mr. Hythe—indeed, probable—that there is someone named in these papers,” Symington held them up, “who would be ruined if she were to have made them public … had she lived?”

  “Yes.” Hythe’s voice was barely able to be heard, even in the silent courtroom.

  At last Bower rose to his feet. “My lord, this is all supposition. If it were truly the case, why on earth would the accused not have said so in the first place?”

  The judge looked at Symington.

  Symington smiled. He turned back to Hythe. “Mr. Hythe, you have a young and lovely wife to whom you are devoted, do you not? If you are found guilty and hanged, she will be alone and defenseless, disgraced, and possibly penniless. Are you afraid for her? Are you specifically afraid that if you name the man Catherine Quixwood could have ruined, and whom her evidence could still ruin, that he will take out his vengeance on your wife?”

  There was a gasp of horror around the gallery. Several of the jurors stiffened and looked appalled. Even the judge’s face was grim.

  Hythe stood frozen.

  Symington was not yet finished. “Mr. Hythe, is that why I have been obliged to force this information from you, with the help of Special Branch, and financial papers that should have been confidential? Are you willing to be found guilty of a crime you did not commit, against a woman for whom you had the greatest admiration, because if you do not then your own beloved wife will be the next victim?”

  It was a rhetorical question. He did not need or expect an answer.

  He turned to the judge.

  “My lord, I have no way of forcing Mr. Hythe to reply, nor in any honorable way would I wish to. I hope were I in his situation, I would have the courage and the depth of loyalty and honor to die, even such a hideous death as judicial hanging, to save someone I loved.” His face was devoid of all his confidence and easy charm; there was nothing in it but awe, as if he had seen something overwhelmingly beautiful, and it had robbed him of pretense. “I have no more questions for him.”

  Vespasia, watching him, hoped with an intensity that surprised her that all he’d said was true. And then with pain almost physical, she longed to love with that depth again herself. She dreaded sinking into a graceful and passionless old age. It would be far better to die all at once than inch by inch, knowing the heart of you was gone.

  She forced the thought from her mind. This moment belonged to Alban Hythe. It was his life they must save. Where was Victor? Why had he not found something, or at least come here?

  Someone in the gallery sobbed.

  It was now Bower’s turn. He walked forward into the center of the open floor space. For a moment he appeared confused. For the first time in the entire trial, the public tide was against him. If he criticized Hythe he would seem boorish, a man close to brutality.

  “Mr. Hythe,” he began slowly, “my learned friend has suggested, but not proved, that you were seeking information for Mrs. Quixwood so that she could expose certain financial advice that was … shall we say, dishonest. You previously had been, for whatever reason, desperately reluctant to cooperate with him.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Did you come by this information honestly, Mr. Hythe? Mr. Symington has said that his copies were provided by Special Branch. How, then, were you able to obtain them?”

  Hythe looked wretched. “I don’t know for certain what papers Mr. Symington has, sir,” he replied, his voice hoarse. “I had bank papers from several different sources, which put together produced the conclusions you mention.”

  “I see. And you are suggesting that one of the men implicated in these dealings raped Mrs. Quixwood? If he feared her information so much, why on earth did he rape her? And did he leave her alive to testify against him? That appears unbelievably stupid, doesn’t it?”

  “I suppose, but I have no idea who raped her,” Hythe said.

  Symington stood up. “My lord, Mr. Bower is sabotaging his own case. Surely that is precisely what he is accusing Mr. Hythe of doing: raping Mrs. Quixwood, for no reason at all, and then leaving her alive to testify against him?”

  The ghost of a smile lit the judge’s face for an instant, then vanished again. “Mr. Bower, Mr. Symington seems to have made a distinct point. If no one else would do such a thing, then why do you wish us to suppose that Mr. Hythe would?”

  “Because he was having an affair with Mrs. Quixwood, my lord,” Bower said between his teeth. “And she refused him. It was not a natural thing to do, but men in the throes of passion and rejection do not always behave naturally. The suggestion that she was raped to silence her evidence would be presuming a totally cold and rational crime.”

  “Mr. Symington?” the judge inquired. “What do you say to that?”

  Symington hid his chagrin well, but Vespasia saw it, and knew that at least one or two of the jurors would also.

  “Mr. Hythe was not having an affair with Mrs. Quixwood, my lord,” Symington said. “They met always in public places and no witness whatever has been called to testify to any behavior that would not be perfectly in keeping with simple friendship. If there were such witnesses, I’m sure Mr. Bower would have produced them, with pleasure.”

  At that moment there was a slight stir in the gallery. Vespasia half turned in her seat to see Victor Narraway walk down the center aisle and stop at Symington’s table. He handed him a folded piece of paper, then moved back again to find a seat wherever anyone would make room for him.

  Bower ignored the interruption and looked back again at Hythe.

  “Mr. Hythe, do you seriously expect the Court, the jury of sensible men of business and professions themselves, to believe that some man, like themselves, unfortunately invested money in an African venture that went wrong—possibly about which he was badly advised—and that this man knew that an outwardly respectable, pretty young married woman had unearthed evidence that would be embarrassing to him? Then instead of stealing the evidence, or seeking to keep it confidential in some normal way, he went to her home, raped and beat her, but left her living? And all this was in order to hide his embarrassment at an unfortunate business venture? One in which, I might add, he is hardly alone? Sir, you strain credulity to the point of madness!”

  Vespasia felt the wave of despair wash over her until she was drowning in it. Only minutes ago they had been winning—now, suddenly, it could be over.

  Bower made an elaborate gesture of invitation to Symington, who was already on his
feet.

  Symington had no papers in his hands this time. He walked over to the stand and looked up at Hythe.

  “That does sound rather absurd, doesn’t it, Mr. Hythe?” he said, his charming smile back again. “Some stranger choosing such a course would have been an idiot. How could it possibly have succeeded? Why rape? That is an act of hate, of contempt, of overwhelming rage against women, but hardly one designed to rescue a financial reputation in trouble.”

  He looked at the jury. “But, gentlemen, that is what my learned friend suggested to you, not what I suggest. Imagine instead, if you will, an old hatred, centered on two men and one beautiful and willful woman, the wife of one of these men, and the mistress of the other. It is a story of high passion and hatred, the oldest jealousy in the world. It is woven out of the very fabric of human nature. Is this believable?”

  “My lord!” Bower protested eagerly.

  The judge held up his hand to silence Bower. “Mr. Symington, I presume you have some evidence for this? We are not off on a fairy story, are we?”

  “No, my lord. I will call Lord Narraway to the stand to testify, if necessary. I am hoping to save the Court’s time by asking Mr. Hythe himself. I am sure if we can reach a conclusion this afternoon, the Court would be better served.”

  “Get on with it, then,” the judge directed. “Is Lord Narraway in court, should we require him? I presume we are speaking of Victor Narraway, who used to be head of Special Branch, until recently? I do not know him by sight.”

  “Yes, my lord, we are. And he is present in court. It was he who just passed me the information I now wish to offer.”

  “Proceed.”

  Symington thanked him and looked again at Hythe.

  “To continue our story, Mr. Hythe. This beautiful woman was violently beaten by her jealous husband, justifiably jealous. She attempted to run away with her lover, but met with a tragic accident instead, and was killed. The lover never forgave the husband for beating her, and to his mind, causing her death. He planned a long and bitter revenge.”