“I can’t imagine,” Pitt confessed. “I’ve tried to. I think about my own wife and daughter. And son,” he added.
Castelbranco stared at him. “Your son?” Clearly he saw no sense in the remark.
“I look at my son.” Pitt did not avert his eyes. “He’s nearly twelve. What will I do to make certain he never misuses any woman, no matter who she is, or how she uses him?”
“Do you imagine this man’s father is thinking such a thing?” Castelbranco asked bitterly. “What guilt could be greater than that?” He gave a slight shrug, painfully, as if his shoulders ached. “Or perhaps he refuses to believe it? It takes great courage to accept the very worst you can imagine.”
“It would be better to have the courage to accept the possibility beforehand, and do what you can to prevent it, I suppose,” Pitt answered him. “But it is too late for that now.”
Castelbranco did not answer, just inclined his head in acknowledgment.
Pitt weighed his words carefully. He still had not delivered the message that was his reason for coming. He must do so.
“If this man proves to be guilty of raping Mrs. Quixwood-and that is by no means certain yet-but if he is, I would not blame Rawdon Quixwood if he were to find the opportunity to kill the man himself,” he admitted. “But much as I daresay Inspector Knox, the policeman concerned, would regret it, he would still have to arrest him and charge him with murder. He would then be tried, and if found guilty … perhaps not hanged, but he’d certainly spend many years in prison. It would magnify the tragedy immeasurably for his family. He has no children, but no doubt there are those who love him. Parents, maybe a brother or sister.”
“And if the law excuses this man who raped Mrs. Quixwood or you cannot find sufficient proof of his guilt?” Castelbranco asked. His voice was hoarse, barely audible, his eyes fixed on Pitt’s. “What if he murders him then? Or what if this man was found dead, how hard would Knox, or any of you, search to discover and prove who killed him?”
“You are hoping I’ll say we would make only a token effort, and be delighted to fail,” Pitt said with considerable compassion. “I would be tempted to, believe me. I daresay Knox would also. But then, this man has a young wife who not only loves him but believes in his innocence. Perhaps he has a father, or brothers who would look diligently for whoever killed him? How long does it go on?”
Castelbranco lowered his head, his eyes closed. “I understand your message, Mr. Pitt. I shall not murder my daughter’s rapist, even if I believe I have found him. Who would then look after my wife? She needs, and deserves, more of me than that. She too has lost her only child.”
“I’m sorry” was all Pitt could think of to say.
Castelbranco did not respond.
Pitt arrived home a little early. He had received a brief report from Stoker. So far there was nothing to suggest that Alban Hythe had ever met, or even heard of, Angeles Castelbranco. He had not attended any of the same social events, or moved in the same circles. Added to which, any theaters, dinners, or balls he enjoyed, he had gone to with his wife. The galleries and museums where he had met Catherine Quixwood were not places to which Angeles Castelbranco had ever been.
Charlotte must have heard his footsteps because she greeted him in the hall, kissing him quickly and then pulling away.
“Is it true?” she said urgently. “Have they arrested a man for the rape and murder of Catherine Quixwood? Is he the same man who raped Angeles? They won’t have to charge him with both, will they? Or would it be better if they did, then at least people would know she was a victim. I heard that he and Catherine were lovers. Is that true? Then why would he rape Angeles?”
“Where would you like me to begin?” Pitt said with a half smile. The warmth of his own home, the smells of clean laundry, of lavender, of furniture wax on polished wood all closed around him, and he wanted to forget the violence and loss of other people’s lives. He needed to build a barrier around himself and, for a time, push all the questions and worry outside, beyond his awareness. But he looked at Charlotte’s troubled face, the anxiety in her eyes, and knew he could not.
“Don’t equivocate, Thomas!” she said. “Tell me!”
“I know what you would like me to say,” he replied, his lips stiff, his tongue fumbling with the words. “That yes, we have someone. That he’s locked away and we’ll prove him guilty. That one day everyone will know Angeles was an innocent victim and her good name will be restored.”
“You think I want a comfortable lie?” she said incredulously. “We’ve been married for fifteen years, Thomas, and that’s what you think? It makes me wonder how many times you have told me what you imagined I wanted to hear rather than the truth. Sometimes? Often? Always?”
“Why are you so invested in this?” he demanded furiously. “You think someone’s going to attack you? No one is.”
“No one is?” She looked at him with real anger and fear. “Who’s to say? Or are you implying these brutes attack only foreigners? Catherine Quixwood was as English as I am!” She drew in a deep breath and went on. “You said he was her lover! So it was someone she knew and trusted. That could happen to any of us, especially someone young, who doesn’t know the difference between real love and-”
“Charlotte!” He cut across her words sharply. “I didn’t actually say anything at all; I just asked which question you wanted answered first.”
She was hurt, all the more so because he was right. “I want all of them answered. Have you told the Castelbrancos?”
“Yes, I have. They would hear of it soon enough, but I wanted to take this as an opportunity to warn Rafael not to do anything foolish.”
She paled, the anger in her eyes instantly replaced by horror.
He put his arm around her and gently led her toward the parlor. When they were inside he closed the door.
“They have arrested a very respectable young married man named Alban Hythe,” he told her, his voice calmer now. “His wife is young and charming, and so far still believes in him totally.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened, all fury turned to pity. “Poor woman,” she whispered. “I imagine she loves him- loves what she thought he was. She won’t be able to bear thinking anything else … until she has to.” She shook her head, and all the tiny muscles in her face tightened as she imagined the other woman’s pain. “I didn’t think there would be anything worse than losing a child, but perhaps this would be. It has robbed her not only of the present and the future, but of all that she believed of the past.”
“We don’t know that he’s guilty,” Pitt said gently. He wanted to comfort her, but he would not dare say anything less than the truth.
“Narraway isn’t at all sure that Hythe is guilty,” he said, watching her face.
She was startled. “Victor isn’t?”
Pitt didn’t mind that Charlotte had used his given name, that there was a degree of familiarity between his wife and his friend. He was perfectly aware that Narraway had been in love with Charlotte during the Irish adventure, and for some time before that, and that Charlotte knew it. She was quite certain that the feelings would pass, if they hadn’t already. Pitt wasn’t sure he agreed, but he trusted Narraway entirely.
“No,” Pitt agreed. “And he has been doing some investigating of his own.”
“So this Hythe man, he was Catherine’s lover?” she asked.
“He says not. She was lonely, intelligent, starved for someone with whom to share ideas, discovery, beauty.”
“And her husband is …” she chose her words delicately, “… a bore?”
“Perhaps insensitive,” he amended. “Yes, from her point of view, very possibly a bore. Maybe he was too involved in his business affairs.”
“And she was lonely enough to take a lover?” she pressed.
“Enough to seek a friend,” he corrected. “At least that is what Narraway thinks. He says Mrs. Hythe is also warm and interesting, and quite individual.”
Charlotte smiled. “For him to have noticed, she must be! So do they have the wrong man?”
“I don’t know, but it seems quite possible.”
“And what about Neville Forsbrook?” she challenged. “There is no doubt he is the one Angeles Castelbranco
