Midnight at Marble Arch (24 page)

Narraway waited.

Quixwood kept his eyes lowered. “I collected some of my clothes, a few personal things. I thought I might be ready to move back again, but I … I can’t. Not yet.” He looked up at Narraway. “I was looking at Catherine’s jewelry. I thought I should put it in the bank. I don’t really know why. I don’t know what to do with it, except keep it safe. I suppose there will be something to do with it … one day. I …” Again he stopped and took a long, jerky breath. “I found this.” He held out a
small, delicate brooch, not expensive but very pretty—three tiny flowers in various stages of opening, like buttercups. It could have been gold, possibly pinchbeck. “It’s new,” he said softly. “I didn’t give it to her. I asked Flaxley where it came from. She didn’t know, but she could tell me when she last saw it. It was after Catherine had met with Hythe at an exhibition of some sort.”

Narraway looked more carefully at the piece, without touching it. “I see,” he said with sharp regret. “Is there any proof that Hythe gave it to her?”

Quixwood shook his head. “No. Only Flaxley’s word that that was the day she first had it.”

“And Flaxley would know?” Narraway pressed.

“Oh, yes. She is very good at her job, and completely honest.” Quixwood smiled. “She hated admitting it, but she would not lie … to me or to anyone. Of course it proves nothing, I know that. But I have no idea what would!” He looked very steadily at Narraway. “Perhaps it will help?”

Narraway took the brooch. “I’ll see if I can find out anything about it. It’s very attractive—individual. If I can trace it, it would at least be indicative.”

Quixwood stared at the floor. “Whatever happens, I’m grateful to you for your time and your patience, and … and for your great compassion.”

Narraway said nothing. He was embarrassed because he felt he had done so little.

H
E TOOK THE BROOCH
to a jeweler he had consulted with in the past when wanting to know the origin or value of a piece.

“What can you tell me about it?” Narraway asked, offering the old man the delicate little golden flowers.

The jeweler took it in his gnarled fingers, turned it over, and squinted at the back, then looked at the front again.

“Well?” Narraway prompted him.

“Old piece, perhaps fifty or sixty years. Pretty, but not worth a great deal. Perhaps two or three pounds. Individual, though, and women tend to like that. Come to it, I like that.” He looked at Narraway curiously. “Stolen? Who’d bother? Couldn’t sell it. Come from a crime?” He shook his head. “Shame. Somebody took care and I’d say a lot of pleasure in making that. Innocent little flowers. Tainted with blood and treason now?”

Narraway evaded the question. “Where would you buy or sell something like this?”

The old man pursed his lips. “Sell it to a pawnshop, not get more than a few shillings for it at most. Buy it there again for a bit more.”

“And if I wanted to be discreet?” Narraway pressed.

“Barrow in Petticoat Lane. You don’t need me to tell you that.”

“Gold or pinchbeck?”

“Pinchbeck, Mr. Narraway. You don’t need me for that neither. Pretty thing, nice workmanship. Sentimental, not worth money.” He handed it back. “You got as much chance of tracing it as you have of winning the Derby.”

“Somebody has to win,” Narraway pointed out.

“You’ve got to ride in it first,” the old man said with a dry laugh. “You thought I meant putting money on it? Any fool can do that.”

Narraway thanked him and went outside into the sun, the little brooch in his pocket again.

Reluctantly he visited Maris Hythe in her home that evening to show her the brooch and ask if she had ever seen it before. He loathed doing it, but he would be derelict not to find out.

She took it and turned it over in her hand. She looked puzzled.

“Have you seen anything like it before?” he asked.

“No.” She looked up at him. “Whose is it? Why do you bring it to me?” There was fear in her eyes.

“It was Catherine Quixwood’s,” he replied. “Her husband says he didn’t give it to her.”

“And you think Alban did?” It was a challenge. “He would hardly have told me.”

“Is it the sort of thing he would like?”

She looked down, avoiding his eyes. “Yes. It’s individual. It’s old. I expect it has history. Several people might have owned it, worn it.” She held it delicately, as if she too would have been pleased with it as a gift. “She might have bought it for herself,” she said at last, passing it back to him.

He took it. Had he achieved anything more than to raise doubts in her mind, more questions as to her husband’s involvement with the woman who had owned it? He felt slightly soiled by the act.

“I suppose it will make no difference if my husband tells you that he has not seen it before?”

“It means nothing one way or the other without proof,” Narraway replied. “Mr. Quixwood mentioned it to me as something among her jewelry he had not seen before.”

“Or not noticed,” she corrected wryly. “Men frequently do not notice an entire garment that is new, let alone one small item. Ask any woman, she will tell you the same.”

“But a man knows which jewels he has bought for his wife,” he pointed out. “That’s rather different.” There was also the matter of Miss Flaxley’s not seeing the brooch before.

Maris looked up at him, meeting his eyes, her face very pale. “I have told you what I know, Lord Narraway, which is only that my husband was doing Mrs. Quixwood a favor in a matter that was of great importance to her.” Her voice wavered a little, but her eyes did not.

He admired her, but he was aware with deep sorrow and a chill inside that she might one day have to face an ugly truth. Still, let her keep hope as long as possible. He was not yet certain beyond doubt that she was mistaken. If a woman loved him as Maris Hythe loved her husband, Narraway would wish her to keep faith in him, whatever the evidence appeared to be, no matter what a jury might decide. That only irrefutable proof, or his own confession, would be enough to break it.

They were discussing other avenues to explore when Knox came unexpectedly through the door behind the maid.

“What can I do for you?” Maris asked, startled, her voice trembling
and slightly defensive. “My husband is in his study. He still has work to complete. Do you require to see him at this hour?” There was reproof in her voice, as if Knox were uncivil.

He looked tired and deeply unhappy. There was a light summer rain outside and his coat was wet. He seemed bedraggled, like a bird whose plumage was molting.

“I’m afraid I do, Mrs. Hythe. I’m glad Lord Narraway is here to be with you.”

She looked startled, but said nothing, still sitting on the sofa as if afraid her legs would not support her.

Although it seemed incredible, Narraway suddenly realized what Knox was here for. He stood up.

“Why?” he demanded. “Aren’t you being precipitate?”

Knox looked at him sadly, biting his lip. “No, my lord. I regret not. Unfortunately in our search of Mr. Hythe’s possessions we found what can only be described as a love letter from Mrs. Quixwood.”

“When?” Narraway demanded, his mind racing to think of some innocent explanation for such a thing. “When did you search Mr. Hythe’s belongings? Just now?”

“No, my lord, earlier today, with Mrs. Hythe’s permission.”

“But you didn’t arrest him then?” There was challenge in Narraway’s voice, one based on emotion rather than reason.

“No, my lord. Mr. Hythe denied knowing about it. I wanted to give him every opportunity, even on the assumption that the letter was not genuinely in Mrs. Quixwood’s hand. I have, however, verified that it is unquestionably hers, and the contents of the letter could not be interpreted as anything but words between lovers. I’m sorry.”

Maris rose to her feet at last, swaying a little, her chin high.

“That …” Narraway swallowed hard. “That does not prove that he raped her … or killed her!” He sounded ridiculous, and he knew it, and yet he seemed unable to help himself.

“If it were innocent, my lord, Mr. Hythe would explain it, not deny it,” Knox said with a shake of his head, barely a movement at all. “Don’t make it harder than it needs to be, sir.”

Narraway had no answer. His throat was tight, his mouth dry. He
looked across at Maris’s ashen face and turned his attention to her, going across to stand beside her, even put his arm around her as she struggled to keep her balance, giddy with horror and grief.

They heard footsteps on the stairs, and then the opening and closing of the front door.

Without speaking, his shoulders bowed, Knox left, disappearing into the night and the rain.

11

S
TOKER CAME INTO
P
ITT
’
S
office and closed the door behind him.

“Sir, something’s happened I think you should know about.” His expression was bleak, his eyes sharp and troubled.

“What is it?” Pitt asked immediately.

Stoker took a deep breath. “There’s been another very nasty rape of a young woman, sir, and I’m afraid she is dead. Seventeen, her father says. Respectable, good family. Walking out regular with a young man in the Grenadiers.”

Pitt felt horror ripple through him, then an overwhelming pity for the father, but also a sense of relief he was ashamed of. This was not Special Branch business. He could leave the pain and the bitter discoveries to someone else.

“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.