Pitt almost said it for him, to break the unbearable tension, and to save the man from having to say it himself. Then Knox moved a fraction, no more than shifting his weight from one foot to the other, but reminding Pitt of his presence. Pitt let out his breath without speaking.
“He … violated her,” Townley said hoarsely. “She had not the power to fight him off. He left her bleeding and bruised on the floor. She had hit her head, and was knocked senseless for a while. When she came to she climbed to her feet, and was staggering to the door when a different young man met her. He assumed that she had taken too much wine, and rather than tell him the truth, that she … had lost her virginity, she said it was true, she was inebriated, and she accounted for her bruises and the blood by saying she had fallen down some steps. That was the story she gave her hostess too, and no one pressed her further.” Townley’s chin lifted and he glared at Pitt, then at Knox. “And that is the story I shall tell if I am pressed. I will swear to it under oath.”
“Did she say who the young man was who assaulted her?” Pitt asked.
“It will do you no good,” Townley said bluntly.
“Possibly not, but I wish to know,” Pitt insisted. “It would be very much better if she tells me than if I have to investigate all the balls in London last night to find out who attended which. People will inevitably ask why I need to know.”
“You are a brutal man,” Townley said icily, but his eyes filled with tears.
Pitt was silent for a moment. Would it really help to know? Yes, it would. Not just for Rafael Castelbranco, but for all other young women. He needed to get Neville Forsbrook off the streets-if he could just be certain it was he.
“Please?” he said.
Wordlessly, Townley led them upstairs and across a wide landing, to a door with a porcelain floral handle. Townley knocked, and when his wife answered, he told her that this was unavoidable. At his insistence, she allowed Pitt inside, but not Knox.
The girl propped up in the bed was white-faced, except for the tearstains on her cheeks, and the pink on the rims of her eyes. Her long honey-brown hair was loose around her shoulders. Her features were soft, but in a year or two would also reflect a considerable strength.
Pitt’s step faltered as he walked across the carpet and stood near the bed, but not too close.
“My name is Thomas Pitt,” he said quietly. “I have a daughter who will be your age soon. She looks quite a lot like you. I hope she will be as lovely. I understand you like paintings?”
She nodded.
“Yesterday evening you were shown some particularly beautiful ones, is that correct?”
Again she nodded.
“Were they portraits or landscapes?”
“They were mostly portraits, and some animals, very out of proportion.” She almost smiled. “Horses whose legs looked so thin I don’t know how they could stand on them.”
Pitt shook his head. “I’ve seen some like that. I don’t like them very much. I like to see horses with movement in the lines rather than standing still. Who showed you these pictures?”
“He wasn’t going to steal them,” she said quickly. “At least I don’t think. He has lots of money anyway … or his father does. He could just buy them.”
“Maybe he was thinking of offering to buy them,” Pitt said kindly, then, just as soft, “Who was he?”
“Do … do I have to tell you?”
“No, not if you really don’t want to.” The minute the words were out, he regretted them. Narraway wouldn’t have been so weak.
“It was Neville Forsbrook,” she whispered.
He let his breath out in a sigh. “Thank you, Alice. I appreciate knowing. And thank you for letting me visit with you.”
“It’s all right.” She gave him a tiny, uncertain smile.
He thanked Mrs. Townley as well and walked onto the landing, Townley at his heels. The door closed behind them with a faint click.
Townley stood on the landing by the window, surrounded by vases of carefully arranged flowers. His face was ravaged with fear and grief.
“Thank you,” he echoed. “Now that is the end of it.”
Pitt nodded and followed Knox down the stairs.
Alice Townley’s face haunted Pitt as he walked away from the house. It was as if he had met a ghost of Angeles Castelbranco, and what troubled him like an open wound was the fact that in his own mind he was certain that there would be other girls in the future, perhaps not lucky enough to escape with their lives. Perhaps Pamela O’Keefe had been one of them? They would probably never know.
He could not blame Townley for wanting to protect his daughter. Had it been Jemima, Pitt doubted he would try to prosecute. In fact, if he were honest, he knew he would not. Whatever Forsbrook went on to do, one protected one’s own child first.
Alice Townley had been violated, but not seriously injured, certainly not beaten as Catherine had been. Pamela O’Keefe had been murdered, her neck broken. Why the difference? What injuries had Angeles Castelbranco sustained?
Were there two different men, then? One Neville Forsbrook, the other-Alban Hythe? Perhaps-perhaps not.
Had Pamela O’Keefe’s death been an accident? Had Forsbrook forced himself on her, and in the violence of her struggle snapped her neck? Was he terrified, then? Or exhilarated?
Was the difference in his perception of the woman, or in the way they reacted to him? Did he need their fear to excite him?
Pitt knew he must check on the degree of violence, the bruises of self-defense, and note all the differences and the similarities.
It was not difficult to find Brinsley; he was in the police morgue performing a post-mortem on another body, a man stabbed in a barroom fight. Pitt waited half an hour until he was finished. He came out of the autopsy room cold, his hands still wet. He carried a faint odor of carbolic with him.
“Commander Pitt, Special Branch,” Pitt introduced himself.
“What can I do for you, Commander?” Brinsley asked. “Tea? I’m tired and I’m cold and I’ve still a long evening ahead of me.”
“Thank you,” Pitt accepted. “I’m looking into several rapes, to see if I can compare them to one that concerns me particularly. I need to know if they’re related.”
Brinsley reached his office and put a kettle onto a small burner. It was only moments before it boiled and he made tea for them both in a round-bellied china pot.
“Look for similarities,” Brinsley said with a shrug. “I assume you have no testimony, no description?”
“I have some, but if it is accurate, the man seems to be far more violent with some women than with the others.”
“Interesting,” Brinsley said thoughtfully. “Usually they escalate with time. Are you certain it’s all one man?”
“No, I’m not. Can you describe the injuries to Catherine Quixwood?”
“They were very grave, but not fatal,” Brinsley replied. “She was deeply bruised on her body, upper arms, more so still upon her thighs, and there was tearing of her genital organs by forceful penetration.” His mouth twisted in a grimace. “There was also a fairly deep bite on her left breast. The man’s teeth had torn the skin and left distinct bruise marks, which became more pronounced after her death.”
“Thank you,” Pitt said quietly. “Was there anything about these injuries that would be distinct to the man who inflicted them?”
“If it was the same man, I’d say he was more deeply sunk in his state of … depravity … with Catherine. I can’t imagine any victim beaten more terribly than she was.”
“But that crime happened first,” Pitt said unhappily.
“Then it seems you have at least two rapists.” Brinsley shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
