He was startled. “Do you doubt it?” he said, his eyes wide.
“I don’t know.” She kept on walking, but slowly. She did not want to discuss the subject. She did not want Hector Manning to know the real purpose of her attendance at Jameson’s trial. “Probably they are perfectly right. Poor Quixwood-I don’t really know what would be the most painful.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Hector sounded confused. “Surely he must want the man convicted?”
“If he’s guilty, of course,” she agreed. “But if it was he, then it also seems as if he was having an affair with Catherine Quixwood. That can hardly be what anyone would want to have happen at all, let alone be made public news.”
“Yes, I see. Of course.” He too was walking very slowly now. “He loses, whatever the verdict. God help him.”
“Did he lose money in this miserable Jameson business as well, do you suppose?” she asked as artlessly as she could.
He stopped completely now, looking at her with a mixture of puzzlement and concern. “What makes you think so?” he asked, frowning.
“There is a suggestion that Catherine was very afraid that he had,” she answered truthfully, or at least without telling any direct untruth.
“Really? And you mean she was already looking for someone else, in case he did? What a-” He stopped himself in time before using language he would afterward be ashamed of.
“No, I don’t think so.” She tried not to sound too firm, or as if she might actually know anything. “It seemed to be rather more a concern that she might be able to give him advice to prevent it.”
“Bit too late for that!” he dismissed it out of hand. “Any good advice should have been before this trial and whatever judgment they reach!”
“But do you suppose Quixwood invested in Africa?” she pursued.
“Thought about it, then didn’t, I heard. Could be nonsense, but Quixwood is pretty astute.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, actually, I am,” he said reluctantly. “But that’s confidential. He took a better look at it, and could see the pitfalls.”
“But he didn’t tell Pelham Forsbrook,” she added.
“I think that’s clear from the look on Forsbrook’s face, no. But, of course, he could have told him, and Forsbrook might’ve just thought he knew better and ignored the advice. Well, he’ll pay for it now, poor devil.”
“Indeed,” Vespasia said quietly. She stopped as they reached her carriage. “Thank you so much, Hector. I have found it one of the most interesting afternoons I have spent in a long time. It is most kind of you, and a great pleasure to see you again.”
“Always,” he said graciously. He seemed about to add something more, then looked at her again, and knew it would be unwise. He smiled and bowed, then handed her up into her carriage.
THERE WAS NO TIME to waste. Vespasia went to Victor Narraway’s flat, prepared to wait for him if it should prove necessary. His manservant showed her to the sitting room and brought her tea, which was all she wished. She had no more than half an hour to occupy herself before he arrived.
When he did, he was disconcerted to find that she had been obliged to wait for him, but there was no time to indulge such emotions.
“I have learned a great deal that may perhaps be relevant,” she said as soon as greetings were exchanged and the manservant had brought fresh hot water and a second cup so Narraway could join her.
“The Jameson trial? Did Quixwood invest unwisely? Or could Catherine reasonably have feared he did? How could we find proof?”
She smiled very slightly at his eagerness. He so badly wanted to believe Catherine innocent, and somehow show it to the court.
“Several people will have invested unwisely,” she replied, measuring her words. Perhaps she had not learned as much as she had assumed, or led him to hope. “The prospects looked good enough to tempt many people. Had the raid succeeded, Jameson would have been instrumental in causing an uprising that could have led to us annexing the Transvaal, with its incalculable wealth. The Uitlanders would have given us the excuse. As it is, those who invested in the raid will not only have lost everything, but also cost the British South Africa Company and its investors a fortune in reparation to the Boers.”
“And that was what Catherine was afraid of?” he said, carefully controlling his excitement, but it flared up in his eyes. “Perhaps the figures in her diary were not telephone numbers, but really were money! Did Quixwood invest? Do you know?”
“Apparently he considered it, then withdrew in time,” she answered. “But Pelham Forsbrook did not. He has lost a great deal. Whether it will ruin him or not, I don’t know. He certainly looked very grim at the trial today.”
Narraway considered this for several moments before replying.
“But Quixwood withdrew?” he said at last. “I think we need to know a lot more about the relationship between those two men. Is it the mere acquaintance we assumed it to be? Even in his bereavement, Quixwood has gone out of his way to show that Forsbrook’s son could not have been guilty of raping Angeles Castelbranco. Under the circumstances, that is the act of an extraordinary friend.”
“Thomas does not believe it is true,” she pointed out. “Which leads one to wonder if he is mistaken, or deliberately lying. And if it is a lie, why would Quixwood do such a thing? Does he believe Neville Forsbrook innocent anyway, or has he some other reason?”
Narraway frowned. “I don’t see how that could be connected to the Jameson Raid, or the trial. There seems to be something very important that we have missed. And now we have little time indeed in which to find it.”
“How much longer do you think the trial of Alban Hythe will continue?” she asked quietly. The sitting room was calm, elegant, a little masculine for her taste, but very comfortable. The summer evening was still light. She could see the trees against the sky beyond the windows, clouds of starlings sweeping around in circles, all moving with some infinitely subtle communication, as though they had one mind.
There was no sound inside, not even the ticking of a clock.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Perhaps two more days, three at the very outside, but by then Symington could be stretching the judge’s patience, and the public’s credulity.”
She said nothing. There was no need to struggle for hopeful words. Neither their understanding nor their companionship required it.
CHAPTER 17
Stoker came into Pitt’s office and closed the door.
“Morning, sir,” he said as he walked over and sat down on the other side of the desk. Pitt would not have presumed to sit without permission when this had been Narraway’s office, he thought wryly. Stoker was becoming comfortable. Possibly that was a good thing; on the other hand, it might be a mark of the changing times.
“What do you have on Neville Forsbrook?” Pitt asked him.
Stoker pursed his lips. “Not sure it’s a lot of use,” he said a little awkwardly. “He’s never crossed the law, or if he has then his father paid people off for him and they kept quiet. Couple of whispers …” He hesitated.
“What, exactly?” Pitt pressed. “If it’s nothing out of the usual I don’t care: bad gambling debts, or fights … unless someone was very badly hurt. Did he seriously damage anyone? Use a knife? Maim or disfigure anyone?”
“No. Most of his trouble was with prostitutes,” Stoker replied with evident distaste. “One or two brothels had to be paid off, and accepted the money only on the condition he didn’t return.”
“Go on,” Pitt said sharply.
“Well, I don’t know if it’s true,” Stoker said tentatively. “But there’s word going round, very quietly, that Neville beat a prostitute pretty badly, and her pimp returned the favor, but with a knife. Left a few marks Forsbrook’ll carry for the rest of his life. At least that’s how the story goes.”
