question he had avoided asking himself, but now that it was in his mind in so many words, he could not sidestep it anymore. He had never been a coward before. He could not be one now. There was still something left to play for.
He had brought Pitt into Special Branch, originally as a favor to Cornwallis when Pitt got himself thrown out of the Metropolitan Police because he knew too much about a particular area of corruption. Now Pitt was head of Special Branch and Narraway was retired to kick his heels in the House of Lords, very much against his will. After the miserable Irish business he had had no chance of remaining in office.
He walked up the steps and in the door self-consciously, aware of the surprise and then discomfort of the men who used to snap to attention and call him “sir.” Now they were uncertain how to greet him. He could see in their faces the indecision as to what to say. He should have the grace to relieve them of that.
“Good morning,” he said, giving a very slight smile, which was not familiarity, just good manners. “Would you please inform Commander Pitt that I am here, and would like to speak with him regarding a matter in which my advice has been requested. He is already aware of it.”
“Yes, sir … my lord,” the man replied, relief filling his face that Narraway seemingly knew his place. “If … if you’ll take a seat, sir, I’ll deliver that message.”
“Thank you.” Narraway moved back from the desk and obeyed, feeling ridiculous, slightly humbled in what had been his own territory, asking favors of men he used to command. Would Pitt feel obliged to see him, however inconvenient it was? Might he even feel a slight pity for him, a man with no purpose? He was too tense to sit down. Perhaps he should not have come to the office, but rather, met Pitt at some other location.
He was not old; he was still more than capable of doing the job. He had been dismissed because of a scandal deliberately and artificially created in one of the most dangerous plots of the decade, perhaps of the century. But he had made enemies. The very nature of Special Branch made it impossible for Narraway to justify himself without also telling the truth as to what had happened. And that he could never do. He acknowledged with a bitter irony that the very act of talking to the public would have made him unfit for the position.
And Pitt was a worthy successor. He would grow into the job. He had both the intelligence and the courage. With luck he would last long enough to gain the experience. The only quality in doubt was the steel in his soul to make the decisions where there was no morally clear answer, where other men’s lives were at stake and there was no time to weigh or measure possibilities. That required a particular type of strength, not only to act, but afterward to live with the consequences. Narraway could not count the number of times he had lain awake half the night, second-guessing himself, regretting. There was no other loneliness quite like it.
The man returned. Narraway remained where he stood, waiting for the response.
“If you’ll come with me, my lord, Commander Pitt has a little free time and would be happy to see you,” the man said.
Narraway thanked him, wondering whether the “little free time” was Pitt’s wording or the messenger’s. It was very faintly patronizing and did not sound like Pitt.
“Morning.” Pitt rose to his feet as if Narraway were still the superior. “The Quixwood case?” he asked as Narraway closed the door.
“Yes,” Narraway replied, accepting the seat offered him. He felt a touch of surprise at Pitt’s serious tone, and the fact that he had brought up the subject so quickly. “You’re not interested in the Quixwood case, are you? I mean officially?”
“Not quite. As far as I know, thus far it’s an ordinary tragedy, no political implications. But I’m just beginning to realize what a complicated, misunderstood, and horrible crime rape is. I was actually thinking of Angeles Castelbranco, before you came.”
Narraway blinked. “The Portuguese ambassador’s daughter who died in that appalling accident?”
“I think it was probably an accident, to some degree,” Pitt answered. “At least on her part. On his, I don’t know.”
“His?” Narraway raised his eyebrows. “What are we talking about?”
Pitt’s face creased with distaste. “It was a public taunting-baiting, if you like-that led to her fall, largely orchestrated by Neville Forsbrook. I don’t think she had any intention of going out the window, as is now being suggested.”
Narraway frowned. “What are you saying, that she was raped too? By Forsbrook?”
“I think so. But I have no way of proving it. But this isn’t why you came. What can I do to help you with Catherine Quixwood?”
There was a horrible irony in Pitt’s sudden switch from Angeles to Catherine. Narraway tried to marshal his thoughts.
“Knox is a good man,” he began. “But he doesn’t seem to have gotten anywhere beyond the fact-which now seems inescapable-that she let the rapist in herself.” He watched Pitt’s face closely, trying to see if his thoughts were critical, or open. He saw no change in Pitt’s eyes at all. “I can see that he hates it, that he believes she had a lover,” he went on.
“What do you think?” Pitt asked.
Narraway hesitated. “I’ve done a lot of digging into her actions over the last six months or so.” He measured his words carefully. When he had been in Pitt’s job he had not allowed emotions to touch his judgment. Well, not often. Now he was thinking of Catherine Quixwood as a woman: charming, interested in all kinds of things, creative, probably with a quick sense of humor, someone he would have liked. Was it because the whole tragedy had nothing to do with danger to the country, no issues of treason or violence to the state, that he allowed himself to really visualize the people involved? People with dreams, vulnerabilities like his own? He could not have afforded to before.
“Was her marriage reasonably happy?” Pitt asked.
“Happy?” Narraway thought about it and was puzzled. “What makes a person happy, Pitt? Are you happy?”
Pitt did not hesitate. “Yes.”
For an instant Narraway was overtaken by a sense of loss, of something inexpressible that he had missed. Then he banished it. “No, I don’t think it was,” he answered. “She was making as much happiness for herself as she could, but through aesthetic or intellectual appreciation.”
“Has Knox given up looking for suspects?” Pitt asked.
“There’s a young man named Alban Hythe who seems likely,” Narraway replied. “He is smart, likes the same arts and explorations that she did, and attended many of the same functions. He admits to being acquainted with her, although since they were seen together a number of times he could hardly deny it.”
Pitt frowned. “Then what troubles you? Her reputation, if she was known to have a lover? Or are you concerned for Quixwood’s embarrassment? There’s nothing you can do about that.” His face was filled with regret. He gave a very slight shrug. “I’m finding it hard to face that fact myself.”
Narraway heard Pitt’s dilemma and for the moment ignored it.
“My problem is, I’m not certain I believe it was Alban Hythe,” he argued. “I met him and he seemed a decent chap. The rape was violent. Whoever did it hated her. It doesn’t seem like the crime of a lover unexpectedly denied-not a sane one.”
Pitt shook his head. “If rapists didn’t appear perfectly natural we’d find them a lot easier to catch.”
“I can believe it of an arrogant young pup like Neville Forsbrook a lot more easily,” Narraway retaliated, startled by his own anger.
Pitt looked at him in silence for several moments before replying. “If Hythe is innocent, then someone else is guilty,” he said at last. “Whether he was her lover or not, whoever it was raped her violently and killed her. That can never be excused.”
Narraway took a deep breath. “That’s another part of the problem,” he admitted. “The medical evidence suggests it’s possible he didn’t kill her directly. She actually died of an overdose of laudanum-it very easily could have been suicide. It will be difficult to convince a jury otherwise. It’s easy to believe, given the violence of the rape, that she was traumatized to the extent that she wanted to end her life.”
Pitt continued to stare at him, his gray eyes steady and full of pain. “We know far too little about it, this rape or any other,” he said levelly. “Perhaps we know too little about ourselves as well. But if Alban Hythe isn’t the man, and the circumstantial evidence is piling up against him, then you need to prove he’s innocent, or he may eventually be imprisoned, or worse, for something he didn’t do. Not to mention the fact that whoever did do it will
