Midnight at Marble Arch (20 page)

Narraway drew in his breath to interrupt her. Surely she was being fanciful, desperate to say or do anything to defend her husband, and was tossing out any idea she could think of, even if it was ridiculous? But then, maybe it wasn’t ridiculous. Quixwood was a man involved in major finances. He might have made an investment that his wife feared was risky, even potentially ruinous. Was it conceivable that she had sought advice behind his back, from an independent source?

And she might have feared Quixwood would see that as a betrayal, a complete failure of loyalty to him, a lack of belief in his judgment.

It sounded desperately unlikely that a woman such as Catherine—beautiful, dependent, without any knowledge of international affairs, let alone of finances—would have undertaken to learn such things, and from a young man like Alban Hythe, no less, not her learned husband.

Narraway wanted Alban to be innocent, as did Maris Hythe, albeit for different reasons. Were they not both reaching too far, grasping for impossible answers and refusing to see what was right in front of them?

She looked at him, breathing in as if to say something else. Then she changed her mind and some of the light faded from her eyes.

Knowing he would regret the words even as he said them, Narraway spoke. “I’ll do all I can to follow this lead, Mrs. Hythe. I shall see Knox straightaway.”

She blinked hard and smiled. “Thank you, Lord Narraway. You are very kind.”

H
E DID NOT FEEL
kind as he waited for Knox in the police station the following day; in fact, he felt particularly foolish. When Knox finally came in, hot and tired, his boots covered in dust, his face tightened when he saw Narraway.

“I don’t know anything more, my lord.” There were smudges of weariness under his eyes, and when he took his hat off his hair stuck up in spikes. “I can tell you half a dozen places where she met with this Alban Hythe, but I can’t tell you for certain whether it was by accident or arranged.” He put his hat on the hat rack. “They turned up at an awful lot of the same events. Hard to see it as always accidental like. They were things she was interested in, but far as I can tell, he hadn’t been, until he met her.” He sat down heavily in the chair opposite Narraway.

“Do you really think they were having an affair passionate enough to cause him to rape her and beat her like that if suddenly she ended it?” Narraway asked, allowing his doubt to reflect in his expression.

“No,” Knox said frankly. “But somebody raped her. It looks like it’s Alban Hythe, and there’s nothing to show it wasn’t him, except my own feeling that he’s a decent young man. But haven’t you ever been wrong about a gut feeling?”

“Yes,” Narraway admitted. “Sometimes seriously. I suppose you’ve looked into his background? And, also, how on earth did he have time to wander around art galleries and National Geographic luncheons and exhibitions of crafts from God knows where? I certainly don’t!”

“Nor I,” Knox said ruefully. “But I’m not a venture banker with fancy clients to please. And apparently he’s very good at his job indeed.”

Narraway was startled. “Is that what he says he was doing? Taking clients out?”

Knox gave a bitter smile. “Yes. He quite willingly offered me the names of some of the clients concerned, and I contacted them. Of
course they didn’t discuss their business, but they affirmed that they had dealings with him, and that they were quite often made in social surroundings—usually over a damn good lunch or dinner. It seems that introductions are made in such places. He mentioned an exhibition of French art, in particular, where certain British investors met with French wine growers, all very casually. Pleasantries were exchanged, and then agreements about very large sums of money were made.”

“That would hardly involve Catherine Quixwood,” Narraway pointed out. “It could be an explanation for one or two meetings, not more.”

“Three or four maybe,” Knox corrected. “Quixwood himself is one of the investors.”

Narraway was puzzled. He could not see how this explained what appeared to be a very personal friendship with Catherine. Unless, of course, Maris Hythe’s extraordinary idea had some truth in it?

He pursued it with Knox because he very much wanted an answer that exonerated Catherine from any type of wrongdoing, and Alban Hythe as well. He acknowledged to himself that he also was angry enough, wounded enough, that he wanted someone to be provably in the wrong. He needed someone to be punished for the pain and the humiliation she had suffered.

“What does Quixwood say of him?” he asked aloud.

“Nice young man, and good at his job—in fact, gifted at it,” Knox replied unhappily. “He seemed very distressed at the thought that Hythe could be guilty.” He sighed. “It would be a very personal kind of betrayal, both for Quixwood, and for Mrs. Hythe. But then rape is, when the people know each other. I sometimes wonder which is worse, to be attacked so intimately by a complete stranger, or by someone you had trusted.”

“But you still don’t think Hythe is guilty?” Narraway pressed again.

Knox looked up again, meeting Narraway’s eyes. “Have you ever been really surprised by who was a traitor, or an anarchist, Lord Narraway? Did you have that kind of sense for judging people, regardless of evidence, or what anyone else said?”

Narraway thought for a moment. “Occasionally,” he replied. “Certainly not most of the time. But rape is …”

“Bestial?” Knox said for him. There was a bleak humor in his eyes that could have meant anything.

Narraway was going to answer, then as he looked at Knox longer he saw the intelligence in the man, the perception and experience of things Narraway had passed by without seeing, never considering them.

“Depends on who you believe, doesn’t it, sir?” Knox answered his own question. “I daresay if I were to ask a few ladies you’d loved and left, if they bore some kind of resentment they would tell a tale you wouldn’t recognize as the truth—my lord.” He sat motionless, as if half waiting for Narraway to be angry at his impertinence. But there was no shame in his face.

Narraway did not answer immediately. Memories raced through his mind: women who had attracted him intensely and on occasions women he had used because they were attracted to him. Certainly he was not proud of it and he would have found it difficult to explain to someone else had any one of them accused him of rape. Nothing like that had ever been suggested—although in Ireland he had earned the undying hatred of one man by seducing his wife. Recollection of that burned with hot shame up his face, even now. It had been years ago, and the man and woman in question were both dead. Still, it did not lessen what he had done.

Were it recent, and someone had charged him, how could he account for it with any honor? What words would he find to tell a courtroom why he had acted as he did, all the little details, the lies, the carefully fabricated deceptions, why he had felt it was the only thing to do … at that time? The thought of Vespasia’s ever hearing about it scalded him. Would it be the end forever of their friendship, her trust, her respect? No wonder people lied!

And of course there had been other women over his long life. Some he had loved, briefly, knowing it would end. He had never seduced an unmarried woman, or made a promise he had not kept. He
would like to think he had never intentionally lied unless it was for a greater good.

What a piece of spurious self-excusing! Would anyone else see it like that? Even the simplest act could be viewed in so many ways. The mind could create a dozen different interpretations of a word, a gesture, a meeting, a gift. People believed what they wanted to, saw what they expected to see.

“Could you defend yourself, if you had to, my lord?” Knox said softly. “I’ve had times when I couldn’t have.”

No one had accused Narraway of anything, and yet he felt the fear as closely as if it had touched his skin. Of course he had incidents in his life he would prefer other people knew nothing about. He cared surprisingly much what his friends thought of him—Charlotte, Pitt, other people he had known and worked with; above all, Vespasia.

He faced Knox again. “There was no misunderstanding in what happened to Catherine Quixwood,” he said grimly. “Whether it was a lover or not, whether she lied to him, betrayed him, seduced him, or whatever else, he beat and raped her and now she is dead, not of natural causes. He did that to her. He is responsible.”

“I know,” Knox said, the pain back again in his eyes, all the lightness gone. “If I can, believe me, I will see that he pays.”

Narraway said nothing, but felt his face relax into a kind of smile. It was not pleasure so much as an ease in Knox’s company, a respect for this man he had not felt for anyone else except Thomas Pitt.

I
N KEEPING WITH HIS
promise to Maris Hythe, Narraway sought out Rawdon Quixwood, who was still spending much of the time at his club. He waited impatiently for him in the lounge, well into the late afternoon. Most of the time he tried to concentrate on the newspapers and their comments on the forthcoming trial of Leander Starr Jameson for the armed raid he had led in Africa, patriotically inspired but disastrously misguided.

Occasionally Narraway was too restless to remain seated, so he
paced up and down the largely deserted room. Then an elderly man, almost hidden by the wings of the huge armchair he was sitting in, coughed repeatedly and glared at him over the top of his spectacles. Narraway realized that he was being inconsiderate and returned to his seat.

He picked up the newspaper again and found his place in the varied accounts and letters to the editor.

He was still reading when the steward informed him that Mr. Quixwood had returned, and inquired if he would like tea, or perhaps whisky.

“Ask Mr. Quixwood if he will join me,” Narraway answered. “And then serve whatever he chooses.”

The steward inclined his head in acknowledgment and withdrew.

Fifteen minutes later Narraway was sitting opposite Quixwood in the quietest part of the lounge. He studied the man for several moments while they both sipped their whiskies in silence. Narraway would rather have had tea, but he was not here for his pleasure.

Quixwood looked exhausted. His skin was pale except for the dark circles under his eyes, but the hand holding his glass was perfectly steady. Narraway admired his self-discipline. He must be feeling both the ordinary grief of losing a wife suddenly and violently, and the loneliness, but he had the additional torture of imagining her last moments, and then there was the speculation in the press, which was no doubt read by almost everyone he met. It was not only a question of who had raped her, but whether the man had been her lover. It was written about in daily newspapers for everyone in the street to think about, talk about, even make jokes over.

Until it was solved, there would be no end to it.

“Do you know something new?” Quixwood asked. His voice was so low that Narraway had to concentrate to hear him.

“I imagine Knox has told you that he suspects Alban Hythe?” Narraway answered. “Or at least that the evidence suggests that he and Mrs. Quixwood knew each other unusually well.”

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.

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