Midnight at Marble Arch (28 page)

“Do you have a lawyer, a really first-class advocate?” Narraway asked.

Hythe looked as if he had been struck. “Not yet. I—I don’t know of anyone …” He trailed off, lost.

“I will find you someone,” Narraway promised rashly.

“I can’t pay … very much,” Hythe began.

“I will persuade him to represent you for free,” Narraway replied, intending if necessary to pay for the barrister himself. Already he had the man in mind, and he would speak to him this afternoon.

He remained only a little longer, going over details of facts again so they were clear in his mind. Then he excused himself and went straight from the prison to the chambers of Peter Symington in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, a short distance away. If any man would take on the case of defending Alban Hythe with a chance of winning, it was he.

Narraway insisted on seeing Symington immediately, using the suggestion of more influence than he possessed to override the clerk’s protests.

He found Symington standing in the middle of the well-carpeted floor, a leather-bound book in his hand. He had clearly been interrupted against his instructions. He was a handsome man in his early forties. Most remarkable about him were his thick, fair hair, curling beyond the barber’s control, and the dazzling charm of his smile.

“My lord?” he said quietly, reproof in his voice.

Narraway did not apologize. “A matter of urgency, it can’t wait,” he explained as the clerk closed the door behind him.

“You’ve been charged with something?” Symington said curiously.

Narraway was in no mood for levity. “Inspector Knox has charged a man with the rape of Catherine Quixwood, and therefore morally, in the minds of the jury, with her murder. I would like you to defend him. I believe he’s innocent.”

Symington blinked. “You’d like me to defend him? Does he mean something to you, to the government, to Special Branch? Or is it just because you think he’s innocent?” There was amusement in his voice, and curiosity. “I presume he told you he is?” He put the book down on his desk, closed, as if it no longer interested him. “Why me? Or am I the only one you think fool enough to take it?”

In spite of himself Narraway smiled. “Actually, the last,” he admitted. “But you are also the only one who would stick to it long enough to have a chance of winning. I really believe he’s innocent, and that there is something large and very ugly behind the whole case—maybe more than one thing. Certainly someone raped and beat the woman so badly she died as a result. She was a funny, brave, and beautiful woman. She deserves justice—but even more important, whoever did it needs to be taken off the streets and put where he can never hurt anyone else.”

Symington raised his eyebrows. “Like a grave?”

“That would do nicely,” Narraway agreed. “Will you take the case? I would like Hythe to believe it is without charge, because he doesn’t have the means to meet it. I’ll pay you myself, but he must never know.”

Symington’s utterly charming smile beamed again. “I’m not a fool, my lord. The case sounds like a challenge. I think I can clear my desk sufficiently to give it my very best attention. And I’ll weigh the matter of my bill, and send you what I feel appropriate. I give you my word that Hythe will believe I do it for the love of justice.”

“Thank you,” Narraway said sincerely. “Thank you very much.”

He hesitated, wondering if he were risking the frail thread of trust he had just established with Symington—and yet it was the only hint he had that there might be someone else besides Hythe to blame. But he also believed that at least in some sense Hythe was lying, or at the very best willfully concealing something.

Symington was waiting for him to speak.

“Hythe admitted meeting Catherine Quixwood as often as her diaries suggested, but he said she arranged it. He said she wanted him to give her financial advice.”

“And you believed that?” Symington said with a twisted smile. “Quixwood’s a financier himself, and an extremely good one.”

“I know,” Narraway admitted. “Hythe said she was afraid Quixwood was into something dubious, and over his head. She wanted to know more about it. If she was afraid for her future, if he had been reckless, then that would be believable.”

“Ah. But do you? Believe it?” Symington asked. “If he has any proof of it, why didn’t he tell Knox?”

“I don’t know,” Narraway admitted. “He’s lying about something. I just don’t know what.”

“But you’re sure he didn’t rape her?” Symington looked puzzled and not angry.

“Yes,” Narraway answered, unable to explain himself.

“Then I’ll take the case, try to win the trial,” Symington promised.

“Thank you,” Narraway said.

T
HAT EVENING
N
ARRAWAY WENT
out rather later than was customary to call on a woman alone, particularly one with whom he had only the slightest acquaintance. He stood in the small parlor of Alban Hythe’s house and told Maris what he had achieved.

Maris was so pale that her dark dress, more suitable for autumn than summer, drained the last trace of the vitality from her face. However, she kept her composure and stood straight-backed, head high, in front of him. What effort it must be costing her he could only guess.

“And this Mr. Symington will defend my husband, in spite of the evidence?” she asked. “Why? He can’t know that Alban is innocent. He’s never even met him. And we can’t pay the sort of money such a man as you describe would ask.” She struggled to keep control of her voice and very nearly failed.

“Then I did not describe him very well,” Narraway apologized. “Symington cares far more about the case than the money.”

She studied Narraway’s face for several moments, searching his eyes to judge whether he was lying to her, or at the least prevaricating. Finally she must have come to the conclusion that he was not. But her words were interrupted by a maid at the door telling her that Mr. Rawdon Quixwood had called and wished to speak with her.

Narraway was startled but, turning to look at the maid, saw that her face was completely expressionless. Clearly she was not surprised.

Maris looked pleased.

“Thank you. Please ask him to come in,” she instructed.

The maid withdrew obediently and Maris turned to Narraway.

“He has been so kind. Even with all his own grief, he has found time to call on me and assure me of his help.” She lowered her eyes. “I fear sometimes he believes Alban guilty, but his gentleness toward me has been without exception.” She gave a small, very rueful smile. “Perhaps he feels we are companions in misfortune, and I have not the heart to tell him it is not so, because it does seem that Catherine was more familiar with someone than she should have been. I would so much rather think that was not true, of course, but I have no argument that stands up to reason.”

She had not time to add any more before Rawdon Quixwood came in. The hollowness of his face had eased a little, perhaps because at last someone had been arrested for the crime, even though the loss must still feel just as bitter.

“Maris, my dear—” he began, stopping abruptly when he realized Narraway was also in the room. He checked himself quickly. “Lord Narraway! How agreeable to see you. I wonder if we are here on the same errand. I’m afraid I can offer little comfort. Perhaps you have better news?”

Narraway met Quixwood’s eyes and found he could read nothing of what the man was thinking. The idea occurred to him that the effort of hiding his own pain might be the only way Quixwood could turn his mind from his grief.

Still, Narraway found himself reluctant to trust him, or to risk wounding him still more deeply with the possibility that they had not actually caught his wife’s attacker.

“I am still searching,” he replied quietly. “Without much profit so far, for all the information I can find. I hear contradicting stories of Mrs. Quixwood.”

Quixwood gave a very slight shrug, a graceful gesture. “I daresay they are exercising the customary charity toward the dead who cannot defend themselves. I appreciate it. Women who are … assaulted … are often blamed almost as much as the men who assault them. The euphemisms and occasional silences are a kindness.”

“But not helpful,” Narraway pointed out. “We need the truth if we are to obtain justice, for any of the people concerned.”

Maris gestured for both men to be seated. As soon as they were, Quixwood spoke.

“Justice.” He seemed to be turning the word over in his mind. “I began wanting justice for Catherine as a starving man wants food. Now I am less certain that it is really what I wish. Silence might be more compassionate. After all, she can no longer speak for herself.”

Maris looked down at her hands folded in her lap, white-knuckled.

“Rawdon, you have been the essence of kindness to me,” she said gently. “In spite of the fact that it is my husband the police have arrested for the terrible wrong done to your wife. But Alban is not guilty, and he needs justice also. Apart from that, do you not wish the real monster to be caught, before he goes on and does something similar to another woman?”

Quixwood’s face reflected an inner conflict so profound, so intense, he could barely keep still. His hands in his lap were more tightly twisted than Maris’s. In that moment Narraway knew beyond any doubt that Quixwood was certain that Alban Hythe was guilty, and he was here to do what he could to help the man’s wife face that fact. It was a startling generosity. But … well, what did he know that Narraway and Maris did not?

Quixwood was still searching for words, his eyes on Maris’s face, troubled and almost tender. “I don’t think it is likely,” he said at last. “It is far better that you do not know the details, but I assure you, it was not a random maniac who did this deed. It was very personal. Please, think no more of it. You must concern yourself with your own well-being. If there is anything I can do to help, I will.” He gave a very slight smile, wry and self-deprecating. “It would be a favor to me. It would give me someone to think of other than myself.”

A warmth of gratitude filled her face, and also a very genuine admiration. Narraway was sure that Quixwood had seen it, and it must indeed have given him some small comfort.

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY
N
ARRAWAY
called early at the club where Quixwood was still living. He had to wait until the man rose and came into
the dining room for breakfast, then joined him without asking permission, because he had no intention of accepting a refusal.

Quixwood looked startled, but he made no objection. He regarded the older man with some curiosity.

Narraway smiled as he finished requesting poached kippers and brown toast from the steward. As soon as the servant left, he answered Quixwood’s unspoken question.

“I hear several different accounts of Catherine,” he said, watching Quixwood’s eyes. “I assume that you loved her, and also that you knew her better than anyone else. Nothing need come out in court that puts that in doubt, and still less in the newspapers, but I think it is time we discussed her without the glittering veil of compassion that usually shrouds the dead.”

Quixwood sighed, but there was no resistance in him. He leaned back a little and his dark eyes met Narraway’s. “Do you not think it was Alban Hythe who killed her?” he said anxiously. “It will bring terrible grief to poor Maris if it is, of course. She still believes in him.”

Narraway did not answer the question directly.

“If they were lovers, Catherine and Hythe, why on earth would he suddenly turn on her like that?” he said instead. It was a reasonable question.

“Does it matter now?” Quixwood wrinkled his brow.

“If we are going to convict the man and hang him, it has to make sense,” Narraway said bluntly.

Quixwood winced. “Yes, of course, you are right,” he conceded. He began to speak in a very low voice. His eyes were downcast, as if he was ashamed of being forced into making such admissions.

“Catherine was a very emotional woman, and she was beautiful. You never saw her alive, or you’d understand. She hated going to the sort of functions where you and I might meet. And to tell you the truth, I didn’t press her. It wasn’t only out of kindness to her, but also because she was so charming, so very alive, that she attracted attention she was not able to understand for what it was, or deal with.”

Narraway was puzzled, but he did not interrupt.

“She loved attention,” Quixwood continued, a warmth lighting his face, probably for the first time since the night of Catherine’s death. “She responded to it like a flower to the sun. But she also was easily bored. When someone did not live up to her expectations, or have the imaginative enthusiasm she did, she would drop their acquaintance. It could cause, at the very least, a degree of embarrassment.”

At last he looked up and met Narraway’s eyes. “I loved her, but I also learned not to take her sudden passions too seriously. She lived a good deal of her life in a world of her own creation: mercurial, entertaining, but quite unreal.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I fear young Alban Hythe would have had no idea how changeable she was, how … fickle.”

He made a slight gesture of dismissal. “She would mean no cruelty, but she had no concept of how deeply an idealistic, rather naïve young man might fall in love with her, and—when she rejected him—feel utterly betrayed.”

He blinked and looked away. “If they were lovers, or he thought she had implied they would be, and then without warning she felt he had not lived up to what she expected of him, he surely would have felt utterly cheated. He might have damaged irreparably his relationship with a wife who was devoted to him in favor of a woman who seemed incapable of loyalty to anyone—who had built a castle in the air out of his dreams and then destroyed it in front of him. Do you see?”

Narraway did. It was a persuasive image. And yet he did not quite believe it.

“But what about taking the laudanum to end her life?” Narraway asked, his voice sounding harsher than he had meant it to.

“Perhaps she realized what she had done,” Quixwood said with a small, helpless gesture of his hands, barely a movement at all. “She was passionate, but she was not strong. If she had been, she would have lived in the real world …” He left the rest and all its implications unsaid.