The trial of Alban Hythe resumed in the morning. Vespasia was again in attendance, this time aching with the double tensions of hope and dread. She watched Symington and was impressed with his air of confidence. Had she not known his anxiety from the previous evening, she would assume he had the perfect defense in his hands as he called Alban Hythe to the witness stand and listened to him take the oath.
Then, after a glance at Bower, he walked with grace into the center of the floor and looked up at Hythe’s ashen face.
“You are an expert in banking and investment affairs, are you not, Mr. Hythe?” he began gravely. “Indeed, I hear you have remarkable skills for one so young. Modesty notwithstanding, is that not a fair assessment of your ability?”
“I have some skill, yes,” Hythe replied. He looked puzzled.
Bower rose to his feet. “My lord, the prosecution will agree that Mr. Hythe has high intelligence, an excellent education, and is outstandingly good at his profession. There is no need for Mr. Symington to call evidence to that effect.”
Symington’s expression tightened so slightly, maybe no one other than Vespasia noticed.
Symington inclined his head toward Bower. “Thank you. I had not intended to call anyone, but you save me the anxiety of wondering if perhaps I should have.”
A flicker of annoyance crossed Bower’s face. “I fail to see the purpose of your observation.”
“Patience, sir, patience.” Symington smiled. “You have had several days to make your points. I am sure you have no quarrel with allowing me one day?” Before Bower could answer, Symington turned again to Hythe. “Are you acquainted with Mr. Rawdon Quixwood, sir?”
“Yes, slightly,” Hythe answered. His voice was husky, as though his throat was dry.
“Socially or professionally?” Symington asked.
“Mostly professionally.”
“You advised him on investments?” Symington raised his eyebrows as if he were interested.
Hythe tried to smile and failed. “No. That would be superfluous. Mr. Quixwood has great financial expertise himself. I doubt I could add anything to his knowledge.”
“He is excellent also?” Symington asked.
Bower started to rise again.
Symington turned sharply, his face showing a flicker of temper. “Sir,” he said irritably. “I afforded you the courtesy of letting you speak without unnecessary interruptions. Unless you are at your wits’ end to keep your case together, please don’t keep wasting everyone’s time with pointless objections. His Lordship is perfectly capable of stopping me, should I wander all over the place without reaching a point. You do not have to keep leaping up and down like a jack-in-the-box.”
There was a titter of laughter around the gallery and one of the jurors indulged in a fit of coughing, handkerchief up to obscure his face.
“Proceed, Mr. Symington,” the judge directed.
“Thank you, my lord.” Symington turned again to Alban Hythe, who stood rigid, his hands on the witness box rail as if he needed its support. “So you did not advise Mr. Quixwood as to his investments-say, for example, in the British South Africa Company?”
Bower sighed and put his head in his hands.
“No, sir,” Hythe replied, his body suddenly more tense, his voice sharper.
“Would you have advised him to invest, for example, before the news came of the raid led by Dr. Leander Starr Jameson, into the Transvaal?”
The judge leaned forward. “Is this relevant to the crime for which Mr. Hythe is on trial, Mr. Symington?”
“Yes, my lord, it is,” Symington assured him.
“Then please get to the point!” the judge said testily.
“Did you advise Sir Pelham Forsbrook to invest?” Symington asked, looking up at Hythe.
Hythe was, if anything, even paler. “No, sir, I did not. I did not advise anyone to invest in the British South Africa Company, either within a year before the Jameson Raid or since.”
“Is Sir Pelham Forsbrook one of your clients?” Symington asked.
“No, sir.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Of course I am!”
Before Bower could stand up Symington raised his hand as if to silence him. “Let us leave that subject for a while,” he said to Hythe. “Was Mrs. Catherine Quixwood a client of yours?”
“I have no knowledge that she had money to invest,” Hythe said, trying to look as if the question surprised him.
Bower turned one way then the other, appealing for sympathy and some respite.
“Mr. Symington,” the judge said sharply, “I understand Mr. Bower’s impatience. You do appear to be wasting the Court’s time. The charge is rape, sir, not bad advice on investment.”
“Yes, my lord,” Symington said meekly. “Mr. Hythe, were you socially acquainted with Mrs. Catherine Quixwood?”
“Yes, sir,” Hythe said almost inaudibly.
“How did you meet?”
Vespasia watched with unnecessary anxiety as Symington drew out the growing friendship of Hythe and Catherine Quixwood. It seemed to be moving so slowly she dreaded that any moment Bower would object again and the judge would sustain him, and demand that Symington move on. She knew he was delaying until the luncheon adjournment in the desperate hope that Pitt and Narraway would come with something he could use. But the chances seemed more and more remote as the morning wore on. There was no sympathy for Hythe in the gallery, and nothing but loathing in the faces of the jurors.
Symington must have been as aware of it as Vespasia. Still, he plowed on. She could see no despair in his face, but his body was stiff, his left hand clenched by his side.
“Mr. Hythe,” he continued, “all these encounters with Mrs. Quixwood, which you admit to, took place in public. What about in private? Did you meet her in a park, for instance, or in the countryside? Or at a hotel?”
“No!” Hythe said hotly. “Of course I didn’t!”
“No wish to?” Symington asked, his eyes wide.
Hythe drew in his breath, stared desperately around at the walls above the heads of the gallery. The question seemed to trap him.
“Mr. Hythe?” the judge prompted. “Please answer your counsel’s question.”
Hythe stared at him. “What?”
“Did you not wish to meet Mrs. Quixwood in a more private place?” the judge repeated.
“No … I did not,” Hythe whispered.
The judge looked surprised, and disbelieving.
“Was that in case your wife should find out?” Symington asked Hythe.
Again Hythe was at a loss to answer.
Vespasia watched and felt a desperate pity for him. She believed that he had liked Catherine, but no more than that. It was Maris he loved, and he was trying now to protect her future. Symington was forcing him into a corner where he had either to admit that he had been seeking financial information for Catherine, or that it had been a love affair after all. He could not afford either answer.
Vespasia found that she was sitting with her hands clenched, nails digging into her palms. Her shoulders were stiff, even her neck was rigid, as if waiting for a physical blow to fall. Where was Narraway? Where was Pitt?
“Mr. Hythe?” Symington spoke just before the judge did.
“Yes …” Hythe said. His face was pinched with pain.
“Was your wife, then, unaware of your frequent meetings with Mrs. Quixwood?” Symington continued.
“No … yes …” Hythe was trembling. He could barely speak coherently.
“Which is it?” Symington was ruthless. “She knew, or she did not know?”
