Midnight at Marble Arch (15 page)

Narraway waited, watching her. She could not read his expression.

“Do you think it was this man?” she asked him.

“Reason says it is likely,” he replied. “Instinct says not. But that may be only what I want to think. I also want to think she didn’t mean to take her own life, that she just … misjudged the dose. But the police surgeon said it was many times the appropriate amount.”

“She might have meant to, Victor,” Vespasia said gently. “I have no idea how I would feel were such a thing to happen to me. I don’t think it is something I have power to imagine. People can do desperate things when they are frightened.

“It isn’t so very difficult to understand,” she continued, quickly, urgently, leaning forward over the elegant table. “If somehow rape is the victim’s own fault—she said or did something, wore indiscreet clothes, behaved in a certain way—then if we do not do whatever it is they did, it will never happen to us. It’s not compassionate, it’s not realistic, but it is understandable.”

Anger burned in Narraway’s eyes. “I don’t disagree with you. But that sounds monstrous to me, callous and brutal. It is almost like consenting that rape is okay, by omission of defense. I find it is contemptible, the final betrayal.”

“Admitting it can happen to a decent and completely innocent woman is to accept it could happen to anyone,” she pointed out. “That is the unbearable truth. It tears away the last defense. And, of course,
some even hate the woman, the victim, for creating what seems like an uncontrollable passion in someone. They don’t understand that it is a crime of hatred, or of power, not of passion.” She had a sudden afterthought. “Or perhaps they do, and it is wakening that animal inside the man which they hate her for. Because they want to pretend such an animal does not exist anymore.”

“Are we so fragile?” he said unhappily.

“Some of us, yes.” She thought for a moment. “And, of course, they might also be afraid for the men who love them—the rage in them, the need for revenge, even if only to prove themselves in control,” she added. “It might lead them not to comfort the victim, hold her in their arms and assure her that she is still the same, still loved, but instead to go out and beat, or even kill, the man who has taken from her so much. And in their blindness of pain they might not even choose the right man.”

“I begin to see why Angeles Castelbranco did not denounce Forsbrook, if you are right and she was raped,” he said very quietly. “And why Catherine Quixwood, in the despair of that moment, chose to take her own life rather than go through the ordeal of what would inevitably follow.”

“What are the chances of a successful prosecution anyway?” Vespasia searched his face now, looking for an answer. “Even if Knox finds the right man, will the verdict be worth the price it will cost?”

“I don’t know,” Narraway admitted. “But what happens to the law itself if we don’t try?”

“What does Quixwood want?” she asked instead of answering.

Narraway spoke slowly. “At the moment he wants to know the truth, but he may well find that he would rather not, if it turns out that Catherine was having an affair with Alban Hythe, or some other man. I don’t know. I think he wants to do whatever is possible to clear Catherine’s name and show she was innocent. Perhaps all he really wants is to be doing something rather than nothing. To feel he is fighting the reality and not simply submitting to it. I can understand that … I think.”

“You are being very honest,” she observed.

“Are we not past pretending?” he asked. “I can return to it, if you wish, but I would rather not. I have lived with secrets for as long as I can remember. Some were worth keeping, probably most were not. Being too careful has become a habit.”

“Not a bad one,” she responded, smiling again. “Most of us tell others far too much, and then are embarrassed by it, always trying to remember exactly how much we said and then replaying it over and over to convince ourselves it was less indiscreet, less revealing than it seemed.”

“I cannot imagine you being indiscreet,” he remarked.

“Don’t be polite,” she said a little tartly. “You don’t know me as well as you might think. Certainly, at times, I have been at the very least duplicitous.”

“I’m greatly relieved,” he said fervently. “A few imperfections and the occasional vulnerability are very attractive in a woman. It allows a man to imagine he is, now and again, just a fraction superior. In your case, of course, he is not, but it is a necessary illusion, if we are to be comfortable.”

“I should like you to be comfortable,” she said, hiding a smile and turning to the waiter, who was inquiring as to their choice for the final course. She was not certain if she saw a faint color in Narraway’s cheeks or not.

T
HANKS TO THEIR CONVERSATION
, Vespasia had made up her mind what she would do regarding Angeles Castelbranco. To begin with she must acquire as much information as possible. If Angeles had indeed been raped, then it must have been very recently. It should not be difficult to find out which functions she had attended in the last month. There were a considerable number of them, but they involved largely the same people. Diplomatic circles were fairly small, and occasions suitable for a girl of sixteen were limited.

A little invention, a great deal of tact, and half a dozen inquiries of friends produced a list of such parties over the previous four or five weeks.

It required all of the following day, and more evasion than was comfortable, before Vespasia had a rough draft of the guest lists. It would have been simpler to ask Isaura Castelbranco which parties Angeles had attended. However, for that she would have had to give a reason, and there was none that would not cause pain, or for which she could in any way account as her concern. She could not even imagine how the woman felt. Vespasia’s own family had caused her many emotions over the years. To love was to be vulnerable, especially regarding children. One feared for their safety, their happiness, their good health. One felt guilty for their unhappiness or their failures. One was bothered by their dependence, and terrified by their courage. One forgot one’s own mistakes, risks, high and absurd dreams and wanted only to protect them from hurt.

Then they grew up, married, and too often became almost strangers. They could not imagine that you were also afraid, fallible, could still dream and fall in love.

Perhaps that was just as well.

So she wrote and rewrote guest lists, and asked questions in roundabout ways. Two days after lunching with Victor Narraway, she had found what she believed was the event at which Angeles had been raped. Obtaining details was more difficult. She pondered for some time whom she could ask to give her an account of the evening, who was willing and observant enough. More than that, what reason could she offer for making such a request?

And who would be discreet enough afterward to keep their own counsel and not mention it to anyone at all? How could she even suggest to whoever it was that the matter must remain confidential? To most people, the very secrecy of it would be a spur to gossip. Each retelling would grow and mutate in the exercise.

She studied more closely the list of those who had been present at that event. There seemed to have been a considerable number of young people. It was in observing how many that the answer came to her.

It was far easier making such inquiries face-to-face than on a telephone. Accordingly she arranged to have luncheon with Lady Tattersall; the following day they sat pleasantly chatting over a dessert apple
flan, and far more cream than was good for either of them. Vespasia introduced the name of a fictitious sociable friend.

“She heard the party was a great success, and knew she would have to make hers equally delightful,” Vespasia said, broaching the subject at last. “She does not know anyone who was there whom she might approach, so I promised her I would ask you.”

“Of course,” Lady Tattersall said agreeably. “What would she like to know?”

Vespasia smiled. “I think a simple account of how it went would be excellent, perhaps with a little detail, particularly as to how the younger guests responded to the evening. That would serve very well, and be most kind of you.”

Lady Tattersall was delighted to recount everything she could remember. Vespasia had been careful enough to make her fictitious friend live quite out of the way, in Northumberland, so the absence of word of such a party ever taking place would not be noticed. She learned a great deal: a vivid firsthand account of a large but outwardly successful event. The only person less than happy had been Angeles Castelbranco, but her distress had been put down to her youth, and her foreign blood.

Vespasia left, certain in her own mind that Neville Forsbrook had raped Angeles at Mrs. Westerly’s party, exactly as she and Charlotte had feared. Now the question was what to do with that knowledge, besides informing Thomas Pitt.

I
N THE LATE MORNING
of the day after her luncheon with Lady Tattersall, Vespasia was taken very much by surprise when her maid announced that Mr. Rawdon Quixwood had called and asked if he might take a few moments of her time. He had a matter of some importance he wished to discuss with her.

She gave the maid permission to ask him in. A moment later he was standing in her quiet sitting room with its view onto the garden. It was in full summer bloom, hot colors of roses and, in the background, the cool blue spires of delphinium.

Quixwood was a stark contrast to the gaudy profusion beyond the windows. He was smartly dressed, but in black, relieved only by the white of his shirt. His thick hair was combed and his shave immaculate, yet his face was that of a man haunted by grief. His skin was pale and the lines around his mouth furrowed deep.

Vespasia struggled to think of anything to say that would not be banal.

“Good morning, Mr. Quixwood,” she began. “May I offer you tea, or—if you would prefer it—something more?”

“That is kind of you, Lady Vespasia, but I shall return to my club for luncheon. I am presently living there. I … I cannot yet face returning to my home.”

“I can imagine not,” she agreed quickly. “I would not find it hard to understand if you never did. I am sure there are other properties that would be equally agreeable, and convenient for you.”

He smiled very slightly. “You are quite right. Forgive me for intruding on you without warning. If the matter were not of some urgency and moral importance, I would not do so.”

She indicated the chair opposite her and, as he sat down, she resumed her own seat. “What can I do for you, Mr. Quixwood?” she invited.

He looked down, smiling very slightly in a wry expression of amusement and pain.

“I have heard from a friend of mine that you have been making certain inquiries about Pelham Forsbrook’s son, Neville, after the tragic night where young Angeles Castelbranco met her death.” He winced. “It is … it is a painful reminder of my own wife’s death.” His voice was husky and he clearly found mastery of his emotions almost impossible.

Vespasia tried to think of something to ease his awkwardness, but she had no idea what he meant to say, so nothing appropriate came to mind.

He looked up at her. “I don’t know how to say this graciously.” He bit his lip. “I know that young Neville behaved in a manner that can be described only as crass when he teased the poor girl. If he were my
son, I hope I would have raised him to be more sensitive, more aware of the feelings of others, no matter how much wine he might have taken. His behavior was disgusting. There can be no argument on that. I imagine he will regret his cruelty for the rest of his life.”

His eyes searched her face. “But I know that he did not assault her, seriously or even trivially, at Mrs. Westerley’s party. I was there myself, when young Angeles appeared looking a trifle disheveled, and her face tearstained. I assumed at the time that she had had some youthful quarrel, perhaps even an unexpected rejection. I’m afraid I thought no more of it than that, and possibly I was horribly wrong.” Now his face was filled with distress. “Since I … since …” He faltered to a stop.

Vespasia was overwhelmed with pity for him. He must feel doubly guilty, for not being able to protect his wife, and now for having failed to see Angeles’s terrible distress, masked by her own need to hide it, and his assumption that youthful tears came and went easily.

She leaned forward a fraction. “Mr. Quixwood,” she said very gently, “no sane person would have assumed otherwise in the circumstances. Of course girls her age both laugh and cry over things they barely remember the day after. There was nothing you could, or should, have done.” She hesitated, and then continued, “It is natural when there has been a tragedy that we relive the time before, wondering how we could have averted it. In most cases there was nothing at all to be done, but we torture ourselves anyway. We want to have helped. Above all we want to do over the past with greater wisdom, more kindness; but as the pain settles, we know we cannot. Only the future can be changed.” She wanted to comfort him regarding Catherine as well, but there was no comfort to give.

His smile was now rueful. “I am beginning to realize that, Lady Vespasia, but slowly, and I am some distance from acceptance. What I came to say, which matters, and why I took the liberty of disturbing you, was that whatever happened to Angeles Castelbranco, I know it was not Neville Forsbrook who caused it. I was with him when she left the company and went to look at the paintings in the gallery. It was not Neville she went with, although I admit I don’t know who it was.”

Vespasia drew in her breath to ask him if he was certain, then
realized it would be pointless and a trifle insulting. Of course he was certain. He had come out of his grief and his cocoon of protection to say so.

“Thank you, Mr. Quixwood,” she said gravely. “It would be monstrous to blame the wrong person, even for a day. Whispers are not easily silenced. You have told me this before I had the chance to speak to anyone, and perhaps have saved me from a profound error. I am grateful to you.”

He rose to his feet, moving with stiffness, as if he hurt inwardly.