crystal, it would have broken. Narraway did not press him to answer.
They spoke of other things, briefly, and after a little while Narraway left, wishing there were more he could do and knowing there was not.
CHAPTER 9
It was early evening but the sun was still high. Charlotte was at the stove, her back to the kitchen table, but she could hear Pitt’s fingers drumming irritably on the wood. She could have asked him to stop, but she knew it was pointless. He was not even aware of doing it. His sense of helplessness was eating away at him. The death of Angeles Castelbranco was unexplained; in his mind it was still a bleeding wound.
She knew that it was not just a matter of solving a crime. It was not even the taking of some small step to absolve England’s reputation as a gentle and civilized country where women, children, the vulnerable were treated with respect; they must show that brutality was punished swiftly, and that no one pleaded for justice in vain.
Beyond that, it was the deep, visceral nature of the crime that ate at him, the knowledge that those he loved could as easily have been the victims, could yet be, and he had found nothing he could do to prevent it.
She never doubted that he loved his family fiercely. Sometimes he was too strict, true, expected too much of the children; other times she thought he was too lax, but either way, whatever the disappointments, the love was as certain as the ground beneath her feet or the warmth of the sun.
All over the country there were other men the same, in every town and village-people who loved, who worried, who protected their loved ones the best they could, who lay awake at night thinking about the unthinkable, praying that they would never have to face it.
But Pitt had had to face it, to see it in Rafael Castelbranco and be unable to do anything, unable even to try, because there was nothing to grasp, no evidence. Witnesses abounded, and yet they had seen nothing that did not lose substance, like mist, when it was examined.
Isaura Castelbranco had said her daughter’s violator was Neville Forsbrook. Charlotte herself had seen him taunt Angeles and felt her terror as if it were palpable in the room. But then you had Rawdon Quixwood, stricken and bereaved by the rape of his wife, who had sworn to Vespasia that he had been at the event where the rape of Angeles must have taken place, and he knew young Forsbrook could not be guilty. It was not a reference to his character but to his whereabouts.
Who was lying? Who was mistaken? Who was so prejudiced as to be unable to see or tell the truth?
To Pitt it was more than that. He felt uniquely responsible because he had been present when Angeles had died; he was a guardian of the law, supposed to protect people, or at the very least to find justice for those who were wronged. Charlotte knew that fact was in his mind far more than the angry words, the long silences, the overprotectiveness that was infuriating Jemima or the lectures begun and broken off that confused Daniel.
She wanted to say something to help, at least to let Pitt know that she understood and did not expect him, or any man, to slay all the dragons or keep safe all the dark corners of life, whether they were far away or in the familiar rooms of one’s own house.
Pitt was still drumming his fingers on the tabletop.
Charlotte lifted the lid of the pan with potatoes and pushed a skewer into one, then another, to see if it was time to put on the cabbage. She hated it overcooked. The potatoes could do with a few more minutes. The table was already set and the cold meat carved. There were three separate dishes of chutney out: apple and onion, orange and onion, spiced apricot. She was rather pleased with herself for that.
“Only three places,” Pitt said suddenly. “Who’s not here?”
“Jemima,” she replied. “She’s spending the evening with a friend.”
Pitt’s voice sharpened. “Who is it? Do you know the family? What is she like, this friend? How old is she?”
Charlotte put the lid down on the potato pan and turned around to face him. She saw again how tired he was. His hair was as untidy as usual, even though it had been cut recently. The light caught on the gray at his temples. His skin was pale and there were fine lines around his eyes she had not noticed before, although they must have come slowly.
“A very pleasant girl named Julia,” she replied as lightly as she could, as if she had not seen the tension in him. “She is rather studious and she likes Jemima because Jemima makes her laugh and forget to be self- conscious. I know her mother-not well, but enough to be certain Jemima is quite safe there. And before you ask, yes, Julia is fourteen as well, and she has no older brothers.”
Pitt lowered his head wearily. “Am I being ridiculous?” he asked.
Charlotte sat down on the chair opposite him. “Yes, my dear, completely. But I might think less of you if you weren’t.” She reached out her hand and put it lightly over his on the table, stopping his fingers in their nervous movement. “How could we look at people living our worst nightmare and feel nothing? If that happened, I would think Special Branch had changed you from the man I love to an efficient person I could only respect.”
He was quite still for several moments, and she had no idea what he was thinking. She wanted to ask, but knew it would be intrusive.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said suddenly, avoiding her eyes. “I looked at Isaura Castelbranco a couple of days ago. She has courage, and immense dignity; in a way, more composure than her husband. But she’s broken inside. Whoever did this has destroyed far more than just one person. The pain he’s inflicted is beyond measure, and it will go on all their lives. Even if we catch the rapist, it seems a poor sort of justice, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “Maybe, at times. But don’t we all need there to be justice, however cold the comfort of it is? What safety is there for anyone if people can do what this man did and then walk away free? If there’s no price, why shouldn’t he do it again, whenever he wishes to and has the chance? And surely if there’s no public justice, won’t there be people who’ll look for it privately? What are the chances they’ll take it from the wrong person? Or the right person, but who was guilty only of being intimate with the wrong person, not of rape?”
Pitt pushed his hair back hard as he straightened and leaned again against the hard frame of the chair. “Isaura knows it is Neville, and she’s right, prosecution would only make it worse.”
Charlotte was stunned. “But you told me Vespasia had said it couldn’t be him! Quixwood was there! You must make absolutely certain that the ambassador doesn’t take-”
“Isaura didn’t tell him anything,” he cut across her. “She won’t. She knows as well as you do that the temptation to take revenge would one day be more than he could resist. She didn’t even confirm to him that Angeles was raped, although I imagine he suspects.”
She frowned, tense now.
“You are sure?”
“Yes.” There was no uncertainty, no equivocation in his voice. “By the way, I questioned the maid.” He winced as he spoke. “Angeles was bleeding and badly bruised. Whoever it was, he must have used considerable force.”
Charlotte thought about it for several moments, her mind racing. The pain inside her was not only for Isaura Castelbranco, but for every other woman who lived with fear or grief, or who would do so in the future; everyone else who felt humiliated and helpless.
“But she did say it was Forsbrook?” she said aloud.
“Apparently that is what Angeles told her mother. But if Quixwood is telling the truth, she must have been mistaken. Perhaps someone even pretended to be Forsbrook. That’s not impossible. I’ve asked a few questions …” He smiled bleakly. “Don’t look like that. I was discreet. I asked people about functions over the last month or two, who attended and any incidents concerning the Portuguese. This damned Jameson Raid is an excellent cover for all kinds of inquiries.”
Charlotte had forgotten about the Jameson trial. It was on everybody’s lips, and yet it had held no meaning for her, because of the other things she had heard being discussed. There was pity for Isaura Castelbranco, certainly; however, in too many instances it was tempered by cruel remarks about foreigners and their different standards, as if the girl were to blame for her own death. Since the gossip had begun about the Church’s decision that she could not be buried with Catholic rites, the conclusion was that she must have committed suicide. The
