I will give it some thought.”
“And the other part of it is that if the young man gets away with it completely, as seems the case, will he do it again?” Pitt asked. “Put simply, why shouldn’t he?”
“There you have the worst of it. Almost assuredly he will. From the little you’ve told me, it was hardly a crime of passion.” Delacourt clenched his teeth and shook his head very slightly. “A crime of hate, the desire to dominate and to shame. Have you ever been in the slightest tempted to take a woman for whom you had some regard, at any cost?”
The thought was repulsive. “Of course not!” Pitt said with more feeling than he had intended. “But I am not-” He had been going to say “a rapist,” but stopped, realizing the thought answered itself.
“A man subject to desire?” Delacourt asked with quite open amusement.
Pitt felt himself coloring with embarrassment, not that he had felt desire, almost overwhelmingly at times, but that he should have sounded so naïve.
“I’m sorry,” Delacourt apologized. “I led you into that, partly to show you how easy it is to twist someone’s words and feelings on the subject. Even a man as experienced as you are in police work and evidence in sensitive matters can be led to awkwardness. Imagine being on the witness stand, vulnerable, trying desperately to be both honest and to give evidence that will trap a dangerous man and still preserve some dignity and reputation for the woman concerned.”
“But you’re pretty certain he’ll do it again?” Pitt said.
“Yes,” Delacourt agreed. “Don’t most thieves do it again? Most arsonists? Most embezzlers, vandals, liars, anyone whose crime benefits them in some way in their appetite for money, power, revenge, or excitement?”
Pitt rose to his feet.
“There is one thing,” Delacourt added, looking up at Pitt. “All that I have said is true; I know it by bitter experience in the courtroom. But if this young man is as violent as you say, then it is possible he has shown it in other ways. Look for loss of temper when he is crossed, when he is beaten in some sport or other, or even loses badly at cards. If he is a risk-taker, look for gambling losses that are heavy or unexpected.”
Pitt was not certain he grasped the importance of things so trivial. “How will that help the Castelbrancos? Proving Forsbrook is ill-tempered is a far cry from rape.”
“Not so very far, if he is a bully who can’t take losing,” Delacourt replied. “But that isn’t my point. I’ve tried to convince you of the difficulty of proving rape at all, never mind the danger to the victim of trying. Sometimes one can settle for what is admittedly far less, pathetically so: a prosecution for assault can damage a man’s reputation; people don’t want to do business with him, invite him to the better social events, have him marry into the family. Several such convictions, or even prosecutions without a serious sentence, can mar his life.”
Pitt said nothing, thinking slowly.
Delacourt was watching his face. “A small victory,” he admitted, “when you want to beat the man to pulp, and then tear him apart for what he has done to a woman you care about. But it is better than nothing-and it can be a foundation on which to build if you ever do get him to court on a heavier charge.”
“Thank you, Mr. Delacourt,” Pitt said. “You have spared me more time than you can probably afford. And although only moderately encouraged, I am at least wiser. I understand why people take the law into their own hands. They have looked hard at those of us who are supposed to protect them, or at the very least avenge them, and see that we are powerless. I shall try to prevent the Portuguese ambassador from taking action … even though I still can’t say that I am entirely averse to it. In his place I would do so, and then leave immediately for Portugal and never return.”
Delacourt shrugged. “Frankly, Mr. Pitt, so would I.”
Pitt hesitated, wanting to say more, but not knowing what, precisely. “Thank you,” he said finally. “Good day.”
Outside in the street he walked slowly, oblivious of passersby, of the traffic, even of the open brougham with a beautifully dressed woman riding in it, parasol up to protect her face from the sun, colored silks fluttering in the slight breeze.
What Delacourt had said to him filled his mind. He believed that it was true, but he was unable to accept that there was no possible way to fight. There had to be. They must make it so, whatever that demanded of them. To be helpless was unendurable.
He came to the curb and waited a moment or two for a brewer’s dray to pass, then crossed the road.
Instead of thinking of Jemima, he was now thinking about Daniel. How many men feared for their sons? What would Pitt do if Daniel, grown to adulthood, should be wrongly accused of such a violent and repulsive crime?
The answer was immediate and shaming. His instinctive reaction would be to assume that the woman was lying, to protect herself from blame for some relationship she dared not acknowledge. His own assumption would be that Daniel could not be at fault, not seriously.
In six or seven years, Daniel would be a young man, with all the hungers and the curiosity that were there for every young man. His father was probably the last person with whom he would discuss such things. How would Pitt know what Daniel thought of women who perhaps teased him, provoked him, with little or no idea what tigers they were awakening?
He crossed Drury Lane into Long Acre, only peripherally mindful of the traffic.
How would he prevent Daniel from becoming a young man who treated women as something he had the right to use, to hurt, even to destroy? Where did such beliefs begin? How would he ever make certain his son could lose any competition with the same grace as when he won? That he would govern himself in temper, loss, even humiliation? The answer was obvious-he must learn at home. Would it be Pitt’s fault if Daniel grew up arrogant, brutal? Of course it would.
If Neville Forsbrook was guilty of raping Angeles Castelbranco and thereby causing her death, was it Pelham Forsbrook’s fault as well as Neville’s? Probably. Would that same father defend him now if he was accused? Almost certainly. Any man would, not only to save his child, and out of a refusal to believe he was guilty, but also to defend himself. Pelham Forsbrook would be socially ruined, and perhaps professionally damaged irreparably, if his son was convicted of such a crime.
The defense would be savage, a fight for survival. Was Pitt prepared to involve himself in that? Winning would not bring Angeles back, and the risks were great.
But if he did not try? What would that cost?
Without being aware of it he increased his pace along the footpath. How would he feel if it was his daughter, his wife who was violated in such an intimate and terrible way? What if it was not so immediate, so visceral? What if it was Charlotte’s sister Emily? He had known her as long as he had known Charlotte.
What if it was Vespasia? Age was no protection. No woman was too young, or too old. Vespasia had such courage, such dignity. Even to imagine her violation was a kind of blasphemy. It jerked him to a stop on the footpath with a pain that was almost physical. He must not allow Neville Forsbrook, or anyone else, to break his world in pieces like that. Whatever the cost, to stand by and do nothing, paralyzed with fear and hopelessness, was even worse. He must think how to attack. It was they who should feel frightened and cornered, not he, not the women he cared for, or any others.
He started along the pavement again, moving as if he had purpose.
CHAPTER 10
While studying Catherine Quixwood’s diaries more closely, Narraway found something he hadn’t taken notice of before. Notations like reminders: small marks, sometimes initials, quite often figures, as if for a time of day. Others were larger numbers, and he copied them down to see if they might be telephone numbers, even though there were no names of exchanges in front of them. Perhaps she knew the areas in which people lived sufficiently well that a reminder was not necessary.
He questioned the staff at Quixwood’s house about the numbers.
“No,” Flaxley said unhappily when he showed her the pages. “I don’t know what she meant by that.”
“Telephone numbers?” he asked.
