possessed to override the clerk’s protests.
He found Symington standing in the middle of the well-carpeted floor, a leather-bound book in his hand. He had clearly been interrupted against his instructions. He was a handsome man in his early forties. Most remarkable about him were his thick, fair hair, curling beyond the barber’s control, and the dazzling charm of his smile.
“My lord?” he said quietly, reproof in his voice.
Narraway did not apologize. “A matter of urgency, it can’t wait,” he explained as the clerk closed the door behind him.
“You’ve been charged with something?” Symington said curiously.
Narraway was in no mood for levity. “Inspector Knox has charged a man with the rape of Catherine Quixwood, and therefore morally, in the minds of the jury, with her murder. I would like you to defend him. I believe he’s innocent.”
Symington blinked. “You’d like me to defend him? Does he mean something to you, to the government, to Special Branch? Or is it just because you think he’s innocent?” There was amusement in his voice, and curiosity. “I presume he told you he is?” He put the book down on his desk, closed, as if it no longer interested him. “Why me? Or am I the only one you think fool enough to take it?”
In spite of himself Narraway smiled. “Actually, the last,” he admitted. “But you are also the only one who would stick to it long enough to have a chance of winning. I really believe he’s innocent, and that there is something large and very ugly behind the whole case-maybe more than one thing. Certainly someone raped and beat the woman so badly she died as a result. She was a funny, brave, and beautiful woman. She deserves justice-but even more important, whoever did it needs to be taken off the streets and put where he can never hurt anyone else.”
Symington raised his eyebrows. “Like a grave?”
“That would do nicely,” Narraway agreed. “Will you take the case? I would like Hythe to believe it is without charge, because he doesn’t have the means to meet it. I’ll pay you myself, but he must never know.”
Symington’s utterly charming smile beamed again. “I’m not a fool, my lord. The case sounds like a challenge. I think I can clear my desk sufficiently to give it my very best attention. And I’ll weigh the matter of my bill, and send you what I feel appropriate. I give you my word that Hythe will believe I do it for the love of justice.”
“Thank you,” Narraway said sincerely. “Thank you very much.”
He hesitated, wondering if he were risking the frail thread of trust he had just established with Symington- and yet it was the only hint he had that there might be someone else besides Hythe to blame. But he also believed that at least in some sense Hythe was lying, or at the very best willfully concealing something.
Symington was waiting for him to speak.
“Hythe admitted meeting Catherine Quixwood as often as her diaries suggested, but he said she arranged it. He said she wanted him to give her financial advice.”
“And you believed that?” Symington said with a twisted smile. “Quixwood’s a financier himself, and an extremely good one.”
“I know,” Narraway admitted. “Hythe said she was afraid Quixwood was into something dubious, and over his head. She wanted to know more about it. If she was afraid for her future, if he had been reckless, then that would be believable.”
“Ah. But do you? Believe it?” Symington asked. “If he has any proof of it, why didn’t he tell Knox?”
“I don’t know,” Narraway admitted. “He’s lying about something. I just don’t know what.”
“But you’re sure he didn’t rape her?” Symington looked puzzled and not angry.
“Yes,” Narraway answered, unable to explain himself.
“Then I’ll take the case, try to win the trial,” Symington promised.
“Thank you,” Narraway said.
That evening Narraway went out rather later than was customary to call on a woman alone, particularly one with whom he had only the slightest acquaintance. He stood in the small parlor of Alban Hythe’s house and told Maris what he had achieved.
Maris was so pale that her dark dress, more suitable for autumn than summer, drained the last trace of the vitality from her face. However, she kept her composure and stood straight-backed, head high, in front of him. What effort it must be costing her he could only guess.
“And this Mr. Symington will defend my husband, in spite of the evidence?” she asked. “Why? He can’t know that Alban is innocent. He’s never even met him. And we can’t pay the sort of money such a man as you describe would ask.” She struggled to keep control of her voice and very nearly failed.
“Then I did not describe him very well,” Narraway apologized. “Symington cares far more about the case than the money.”
She studied Narraway’s face for several moments, searching his eyes to judge whether he was lying to her, or at the least prevaricating. Finally she must have come to the conclusion that he was not. But her words were interrupted by a maid at the door telling her that Mr. Rawdon Quixwood had called and wished to speak with her.
Narraway was startled but, turning to look at the maid, saw that her face was completely expressionless. Clearly she was not surprised.
Maris looked pleased.
“Thank you. Please ask him to come in,” she instructed.
The maid withdrew obediently and Maris turned to Narraway.
“He has been so kind. Even with all his own grief, he has found time to call on me and assure me of his help.” She lowered her eyes. “I fear sometimes he believes Alban guilty, but his gentleness toward me has been without exception.” She gave a small, very rueful smile. “Perhaps he feels we are companions in misfortune, and I have not the heart to tell him it is not so, because it does seem that Catherine was more familiar with someone than she should have been. I would so much rather think that was not true, of course, but I have no argument that stands up to reason.”
She had not time to add any more before Rawdon Quixwood came in. The hollowness of his face had eased a little, perhaps because at last someone had been arrested for the crime, even though the loss must still feel just as bitter.
“Maris, my dear-” he began, stopping abruptly when he realized Narraway was also in the room. He checked himself quickly. “Lord Narraway! How agreeable to see you. I wonder if we are here on the same errand. I’m afraid I can offer little comfort. Perhaps you have better news?”
Narraway met Quixwood’s eyes and found he could read nothing of what the man was thinking. The idea occurred to him that the effort of hiding his own pain might be the only way Quixwood could turn his mind from his grief.
Still, Narraway found himself reluctant to trust him, or to risk wounding him still more deeply with the possibility that they had not actually caught his wife’s attacker.
“I am still searching,” he replied quietly. “Without much profit so far, for all the information I can find. I hear contradicting stories of Mrs. Quixwood.”
Quixwood gave a very slight shrug, a graceful gesture. “I daresay they are exercising the customary charity toward the dead who cannot defend themselves. I appreciate it. Women who are … assaulted … are often blamed almost as much as the men who assault them. The euphemisms and occasional silences are a kindness.”
“But not helpful,” Narraway pointed out. “We need the truth if we are to obtain justice, for any of the people concerned.”
Maris gestured for both men to be seated. As soon as they were, Quixwood spoke.
“Justice.” He seemed to be turning the word over in his mind. “I began wanting justice for Catherine as a starving man wants food. Now I am less certain that it is really what I wish. Silence might be more compassionate. After all, she can no longer speak for herself.”
Maris looked down at her hands folded in her lap, white-knuckled.
“Rawdon, you have been the essence of kindness to me,” she said gently. “In spite of the fact that it is my husband the police have arrested for the terrible wrong done to your wife. But Alban is not guilty, and he needs justice also. Apart from that, do you not wish the real monster to be caught, before he goes on and does
