Midnight at Marble Arch (36 page)

As the witnesses testified one by one, Jameson seemed unconcerned, even uninterested.

“Does he not care?” Vespasia whispered to Hector Manning. “Is he expecting a dramatic rescue of some sort?”

“Looking at him, one would think so,” Hector murmured back to her.

“By whom?” she asked. “What am I not understanding? Mr. Chamberlain? Lord Salisbury?”

“I doubt it,” he said so quietly she had to strain to hear him. “Poor old Joe Chamberlain is in a hell of a mess himself with this, and it’ll get worse before it’s over. He’ll be lucky if Salisbury doesn’t ask for his resignation.”

As the evidence and arguments continued, she remembered what she’d heard earlier of the entire matter.

In November of the previous year, 1895, a piece of territory known as the Pitsani Strip, a part of Bechuanaland bordering on the Transvaal, had been ceded by the Colonial Office to the British South Africa Company. The reason given at the time had been for the safeguarding of a proposed railway to run through it. The Prime Minister of the Cape Colony, Cecil Rhodes, had been very keen indeed to bring the whole of South Africa into British dominion. To that end he was willing to encourage the disenfranchised outsiders of the Boer republics into the fold, and thus out of the dominion of the Boer Afrikaners.

This was the spark that lit the fiasco of what came to be known as the Jameson Raid. It was in effect a British South African Company private army of about five hundred men, armed to the teeth. Their purpose was to rouse the workers on the Pitsani Strip, and with them to march across the border into the Transvaal, and overthrow the
Boer government there, and then annex the territory, with its fortune in diamonds and gold.

They got within twenty miles of Johannesburg before the Boer forces captured them, forcing them to surrender.

Sir Hercules Robinson, the Governor-General of the Cape Colony, had been ordered by Chamberlain to repudiate the actions of Jameson. The Company’s charter was in jeopardy if he did not.

Jameson was shipped home to England for trial. There could be no other action taken if the Company was to survive. Even so, there would be massive reparations to pay to the Boers of the Transvaal. Fortunes would be lost.

Was Jameson a hero betrayed? Or an adventurer who had jeopardized British interests for his own foolhardy ends?

At the end of the day Vespasia was still uncertain. As she walked away from the courtroom with Hector Manning she felt an urgent need to ask him for much more information. She already knew that there was too little time left to wait for a verdict on Jameson. Alban Hythe was also on trial, and his jury might return far sooner. There was hardly any evidence for Peter Symington to use in a defense. She needed more knowledge of the financial side of the venture before she could form any judgment at all as to whether Catherine Quixwood had really asked Hythe for advice.

Vespasia was walking beside Hector Manning, holding his arm, when she glanced to her left and caught sight of Pelham Forsbrook. He looked very pale, and his long face was clenched in an expression of extreme tension. She was afraid he would see her and realize that she was staring at him, until the fixedness of his eyes and the way he moved through the crowd, bumping people without care, made her realize he was oblivious of anyone else.

“Pelham Forsbrook looks distressed,” she observed to Hector, as soon as they were on the steps and clear of being jostled. “Could he be financially involved in this, do you suppose?”

“Almost certainly, poor devil,” Manning replied. “He’s pretty thick with Cecil Rhodes, and everybody knows Rhodes was behind this bloody silly adventure. Pardon my—”

“For heaven’s sake, Hector, I’ve heard the word before,” Vespasia said impatiently. “Jameson was administrator general for Matabeleland, so of course he was tied up with Rhodes too. This idiotic escapade must have pulled troops out of Matabeleland and left it vulnerable.”

“Naturally,” he agreed, going down the steps, matching his pace to hers. “That is almost certainly why the Matabele revolted in March. Don’t know the casualties yet, but it’ll be into the hundreds.”

“I can’t imagine it will stop there,” she said quietly. “What a tragedy. But I need to know if many people will have taken serious financial loss. Do you know?”

“There can be no question about it at all,” he answered. “Only I don’t know who, or how much.”

“To judge from his face, Pelham Forsbrook will be one of them.”

They reached the bottom of the steps and turned left along the footpath, now clear of the crowd. “Do you think he believed the raid would succeed? If it had, would there have been a profit? I mean, one worth the risk?”

He smiled. “Not as it turns out, but could there have been? Yes, of course. If they’d taken the Transvaal, with its diamonds and gold? Unimaginable wealth.”

“Do you know Rawdon Quixwood?” There was no time to be wasted in approaching the subject obliquely. She must have something to tell Narraway before it was too late.

“Slightly,” Hector replied. “Poor devil’s rather out of things at the moment. What a nightmare.” His face was creased with pity. “Can’t even imagine it. I hear the wretched man who did it is being tried right now. I hope they hang him.” He said it with a sudden surge of feeling.

“Providing, of course, that he is guilty.” Vespasia could not help putting that in, even though it was irrelevant. It surprised her. She was usually able to hold back her emotions more effectively.

He was startled. “Do you doubt it?” he said, his eyes wide.

“I don’t know.” She kept on walking, but slowly. She did not want to discuss the subject. She did not want Hector Manning to know the
real purpose of her attendance at Jameson’s trial. “Probably they are perfectly right. Poor Quixwood—I don’t really know what would be the most painful.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Hector sounded confused. “Surely he must want the man convicted?”

“If he’s guilty, of course,” she agreed. “But if it was he, then it also seems as if he was having an affair with Catherine Quixwood. That can hardly be what anyone would want to have happen at all, let alone be made public news.”

“Yes, I see. Of course.” He too was walking very slowly now. “He loses, whatever the verdict. God help him.”

“Did he lose money in this miserable Jameson business as well, do you suppose?” she asked as artlessly as she could.

He stopped completely now, looking at her with a mixture of puzzlement and concern. “What makes you think so?” he asked, frowning.

“There is a suggestion that Catherine was very afraid that he had,” she answered truthfully, or at least without telling any direct untruth.

“Really? And you mean she was already looking for someone else, in case he did? What a—” He stopped himself in time before using language he would afterward be ashamed of.

“No, I don’t think so.” She tried not to sound too firm, or as if she might actually know anything. “It seemed to be rather more a concern that she might be able to give him advice to prevent it.”

“Bit too late for that!” he dismissed it out of hand. “Any good advice should have been before this trial and whatever judgment they reach!”

“But do you suppose Quixwood invested in Africa?” she pursued.

“Thought about it, then didn’t, I heard. Could be nonsense, but Quixwood is pretty astute.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, actually, I am,” he said reluctantly. “But that’s confidential. He took a better look at it, and could see the pitfalls.”

“But he didn’t tell Pelham Forsbrook,” she added.

“I think that’s clear from the look on Forsbrook’s face, no. But, of course, he could have told him, and Forsbrook might’ve just thought he knew better and ignored the advice. Well, he’ll pay for it now, poor devil.”

“Indeed,” Vespasia said quietly. She stopped as they reached her carriage. “Thank you so much, Hector. I have found it one of the most interesting afternoons I have spent in a long time. It is most kind of you, and a great pleasure to see you again.”

“Always,” he said graciously. He seemed about to add something more, then looked at her again, and knew it would be unwise. He smiled and bowed, then handed her up into her carriage.

T
HERE WAS NO TIME
to waste. Vespasia went to Victor Narraway’s flat, prepared to wait for him if it should prove necessary. His manservant showed her to the sitting room and brought her tea, which was all she wished. She had no more than half an hour to occupy herself before he arrived.

When he did, he was disconcerted to find that she had been obliged to wait for him, but there was no time to indulge such emotions.

“I have learned a great deal that may perhaps be relevant,” she said as soon as greetings were exchanged and the manservant had brought fresh hot water and a second cup so Narraway could join her.

“The Jameson trial? Did Quixwood invest unwisely? Or could Catherine reasonably have feared he did? How could we find proof?”

She smiled very slightly at his eagerness. He so badly wanted to believe Catherine innocent, and somehow show it to the court.

“Several people will have invested unwisely,” she replied, measuring her words. Perhaps she had not learned as much as she had assumed, or led him to hope. “The prospects looked good enough to tempt many people. Had the raid succeeded, Jameson would have been instrumental in causing an uprising that could have led to us annexing the Transvaal, with its incalculable wealth. The Uitlanders would
have given us the excuse. As it is, those who invested in the raid will not only have lost everything, but also cost the British South Africa Company and its investors a fortune in reparation to the Boers.”

“And that was what Catherine was afraid of?” he said, carefully controlling his excitement, but it flared up in his eyes. “Perhaps the figures in her diary were not telephone numbers, but really were money! Did Quixwood invest? Do you know?”

“Apparently he considered it, then withdrew in time,” she answered. “But Pelham Forsbrook did not. He has lost a great deal. Whether it will ruin him or not, I don’t know. He certainly looked very grim at the trial today.”

Narraway considered this for several moments before replying.

“But Quixwood withdrew?” he said at last. “I think we need to know a lot more about the relationship between those two men. Is it the mere acquaintance we assumed it to be? Even in his bereavement, Quixwood has gone out of his way to show that Forsbrook’s son could not have been guilty of raping Angeles Castelbranco. Under the circumstances, that is the act of an extraordinary friend.”

“Thomas does not believe it is true,” she pointed out. “Which leads one to wonder if he is mistaken, or deliberately lying. And if it is a lie, why would Quixwood do such a thing? Does he believe Neville Forsbrook innocent anyway, or has he some other reason?”

Narraway frowned. “I don’t see how that could be connected to the Jameson Raid, or the trial. There seems to be something very important that we have missed. And now we have little time indeed in which to find it.”

“How much longer do you think the trial of Alban Hythe will continue?” she asked quietly. The sitting room was calm, elegant, a little masculine for her taste, but very comfortable. The summer evening was still light. She could see the trees against the sky beyond the windows, clouds of starlings sweeping around in circles, all moving with some infinitely subtle communication, as though they had one mind.

There was no sound inside, not even the ticking of a clock.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Perhaps two more days, three at the very outside, but by then Symington could be stretching the judge’s patience, and the public’s credulity.”

She said nothing. There was no need to struggle for hopeful words. Neither their understanding nor their companionship required it.

17

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

“Morning, sir,” he said as he walked over and sat down on the other side of the desk. Pitt would not have presumed to sit without permission when this had been Narraway’s office, he thought wryly. Stoker was becoming comfortable. Possibly that was a good thing; on the other hand, it might be a mark of the changing times.

“What do you have on Neville Forsbrook?” Pitt asked him.

Stoker pursed his lips. “Not sure it’s a lot of use,” he said a little awkwardly. “He’s never crossed the law, or if he has then his father paid people off for him and they kept quiet. Couple of whispers …” He hesitated.

“What, exactly?” Pitt pressed. “If it’s nothing out of the usual I don’t care: bad gambling debts, or fights … unless someone was very badly hurt. Did he seriously damage anyone? Use a knife? Maim or disfigure anyone?”

“No. Most of his trouble was with prostitutes,” Stoker replied with evident distaste. “One or two brothels had to be paid off, and accepted the money only on the condition he didn’t return.”

“Go on,” Pitt said sharply.

“Well, I don’t know if it’s true,” Stoker said tentatively. “But there’s word going round, very quietly, that Neville beat a prostitute pretty badly, and her pimp returned the favor, but with a knife. Left a few marks Forsbrook’ll carry for the rest of his life. At least that’s how the story goes.”