coloring.
Vespasia looked away. She could remember being so young, so uncertain. But it felt very long ago.
Narraway began slowly, feeling his way. “Knox seems to be a competent man and I think he understands the crime better than many. He moves very carefully. To begin with I wished he had been quicker. Now I’m starting to appreciate how very complicated the situation is.”
“And Quixwood?” she said gently. “He must be torn apart.”
“Yes. And I fear that if we find who did it, it will be even harder for him when it comes to trial. It will be as if it is all happening again, but this time in public. Strangers will be discussing the intimacy and the dreadfulness of it, pulling apart the details and speculating as to what happened. Even if it is done with compassion, it hardly makes things any easier.”
“No, it won’t,” she agreed. “Perhaps that is why the people who do such things are not afraid. They know most of us will do nothing about it. We would rather suffer in silence and even lie to protect them, before living the horror all over again in front of everyone else. Except Catherine is dead, and can do nothing for herself now.” She saw him flinch.
“You are right.” He shook his head fractionally. “I have looked at least to a deeper side of her life. She seems to have been intelligent, sensitive, full of imagination and interested in every kind of beauty, discovery or invention that one can explore. And lonely. She had nothing to do that mattered-” He stopped abruptly, a shadow of self-knowledge in his face. Then he went on quickly. “There’s a young man called Alban Hythe whom Mrs. Quixwood seems to have met much more frequently than would be accidental.”
“An affair?” she asked.
“I don’t know. It seems a strong possibility.”
“How very sad.” For several moments Vespasia said nothing, picturing in her mind the arrival of a lover, the expected excitement, the emotion, the vulnerability, and then the sudden shock of violence. Had there even been a quarrel? What could possibly have happened that made emotions change from love to uncontrollable fury in such a way?
Narraway waited, watching her. She could not read his expression.
“Do you think it was this man?” she asked him.
“Reason says it is likely,” he replied. “Instinct says not. But that may be only what I want to think. I also want to think she didn’t mean to take her own life, that she just … misjudged the dose. But the police surgeon said it was many times the appropriate amount.”
“She might have meant to, Victor,” Vespasia said gently. “I have no idea how I would feel were such a thing to happen to me. I don’t think it is something I have power to imagine. People can do desperate things when they are frightened.
“It isn’t so very difficult to understand,” she continued, quickly, urgently, leaning forward over the elegant table. “If somehow rape is the victim’s own fault-she said or did something, wore indiscreet clothes, behaved in a certain way-then if we do not do whatever it is they did, it will never happen to us. It’s not compassionate, it’s not realistic, but it is understandable.”
Anger burned in Narraway’s eyes. “I don’t disagree with you. But that sounds monstrous to me, callous and brutal. It is almost like consenting that rape is okay, by omission of defense. I find it is contemptible, the final betrayal.”
“Admitting it can happen to a decent and completely innocent woman is to accept it could happen to anyone,” she pointed out. “That is the unbearable truth. It tears away the last defense. And, of course, some even hate the woman, the victim, for creating what seems like an uncontrollable passion in someone. They don’t understand that it is a crime of hatred, or of power, not of passion.” She had a sudden afterthought. “Or perhaps they do, and it is wakening that animal inside the man which they hate her for. Because they want to pretend such an animal does not exist anymore.”
“Are we so fragile?” he said unhappily.
“Some of us, yes.” She thought for a moment. “And, of course, they might also be afraid for the men who love them-the rage in them, the need for revenge, even if only to prove themselves in control,” she added. “It might lead them not to comfort the victim, hold her in their arms and assure her that she is still the same, still loved, but instead to go out and beat, or even kill, the man who has taken from her so much. And in their blindness of pain they might not even choose the right man.”
“I begin to see why Angeles Castelbranco did not denounce Forsbrook, if you are right and she was raped,” he said very quietly. “And why Catherine Quixwood, in the despair of that moment, chose to take her own life rather than go through the ordeal of what would inevitably follow.”
“What are the chances of a successful prosecution anyway?” Vespasia searched his face now, looking for an answer. “Even if Knox finds the right man, will the verdict be worth the price it will cost?”
“I don’t know,” Narraway admitted. “But what happens to the law itself if we don’t try?”
“What does Quixwood want?” she asked instead of answering.
Narraway spoke slowly. “At the moment he wants to know the truth, but he may well find that he would rather not, if it turns out that Catherine was having an affair with Alban Hythe, or some other man. I don’t know. I think he wants to do whatever is possible to clear Catherine’s name and show she was innocent. Perhaps all he really wants is to be doing something rather than nothing. To feel he is fighting the reality and not simply submitting to it. I can understand that … I think.”
“You are being very honest,” she observed.
“Are we not past pretending?” he asked. “I can return to it, if you wish, but I would rather not. I have lived with secrets for as long as I can remember. Some were worth keeping, probably most were not. Being too careful has become a habit.”
“Not a bad one,” she responded, smiling again. “Most of us tell others far too much, and then are embarrassed by it, always trying to remember exactly how much we said and then replaying it over and over to convince ourselves it was less indiscreet, less revealing than it seemed.”
“I cannot imagine you being indiscreet,” he remarked.
“Don’t be polite,” she said a little tartly. “You don’t know me as well as you might think. Certainly, at times, I have been at the very least duplicitous.”
“I’m greatly relieved,” he said fervently. “A few imperfections and the occasional vulnerability are very attractive in a woman. It allows a man to imagine he is, now and again, just a fraction superior. In your case, of course, he is not, but it is a necessary illusion, if we are to be comfortable.”
“I should like you to be comfortable,” she said, hiding a smile and turning to the waiter, who was inquiring as to their choice for the final course. She was not certain if she saw a faint color in Narraway’s cheeks or not.
Thanks to their conversation, Vespasia had made up her mind what she would do regarding Angeles Castelbranco. To begin with she must acquire as much information as possible. If Angeles had indeed been raped, then it must have been very recently. It should not be difficult to find out which functions she had attended in the last month. There were a considerable number of them, but they involved largely the same people. Diplomatic circles were fairly small, and occasions suitable for a girl of sixteen were limited.
A little invention, a great deal of tact, and half a dozen inquiries of friends produced a list of such parties over the previous four or five weeks.
It required all of the following day, and more evasion than was comfortable, before Vespasia had a rough draft of the guest lists. It would have been simpler to ask Isaura Castelbranco which parties Angeles had attended. However, for that she would have had to give a reason, and there was none that would not cause pain, or for which she could in any way account as her concern. She could not even imagine how the woman felt. Vespasia’s own family had caused her many emotions over the years. To love was to be vulnerable, especially regarding children. One feared for their safety, their happiness, their good health. One felt guilty for their unhappiness or their failures. One was bothered by their dependence, and terrified by their courage. One forgot one’s own mistakes, risks, high and absurd dreams and wanted only to protect them from hurt.
Then they grew up, married, and too often became almost strangers. They could not imagine that you were also afraid, fallible, could still dream and fall in love.
Perhaps that was just as well.
