other families who will be wounded forever by loss.”
Pitt stood up and held out his hand. “I’m sorry to offer so little.”
“It is much.” Castelbranco stood as well, his voice suddenly husky. “You have already gone far beyond the bounds of your office. I hope you do not suffer for it.” He firmly held on to Pitt’s hand for several seconds before releasing it.
Pitt left, and went out into the warm summer night hoping desperately that he had made the right decision, that he had acted with wisdom, not merely out of emotion.
He took a Hansom cab and rode through the heavy traffic barely noticing it, his mind in turmoil. He wanted to be at home, surrounded by the comforts he was familiar with, and put other people’s grief out of his mind, at least for a few hours.
But he knew home would not afford him that. He would look at all he had, the things that were precious to him beyond measure, the center of all value and happiness in his life, his wife and children, and he would not be able to forget. By the time he reached the quiet of Keppel Street, and his own house, he had no answers, only a greater clarity as to the questions.
Charlotte was happy to see him, as always. If she had concerns, she was wise enough to keep them until after supper when he would undoubtedly be more willing to listen-or, at the very least, not hungry.
Jemima was excited and full of energy, her eyes shining, her face flushed. He half listened as she told him in hectic detail about something to do with a musical performance. He had learned to feign an appearance of understanding, nodding at the right times. She did not expect him to understand. Charlotte understood, and that was sufficient.
Daniel rolled his eyes now and again, then when it was his turn to receive the attention he asked numerous questions about the geography of the Empire, and answered them himself. His knowledge was impressive and Pitt told him so, to his son’s immense pleasure.
Later, Pitt was standing in front of the French windows, which were wide open, the perfume of damp soil drifting into the room, when Charlotte approached him. The last of the light was on the tops of the neighbors’ trees. Starlings circled in the air. Apart from a very slight breeze moving the leaves, and a dog barking on and off in the distance, there was hardly any sound.
“What is it?” she asked quietly, coming to stand beside him.
“What is what?” His mind had been wandering and he could not remember the last thing he had said to her.
“Thomas! I know you are worrying about something. I imagine it is to do with Angeles Castelbranco.” There was a degree of exasperation in her voice, but it was gentle.
“Questions, to which I don’t know the answers,” he replied.
She linked her arm through his and stood close enough so he could feel the warmth of her body. “About Angeles?” she asked. “You are not sure it was Neville Forsbrook, are you? It was. I saw him taunting her. He knew exactly what he was doing, and why it would hurt her.”
“In spite of the fact that Rawdon Quixwood swears Neville was somewhere else and couldn’t have been involved?” He smiled very slightly, disengaging his arm from hers and then putting it around her and holding her even closer.
“Is that the question you’re asking yourself?” she said. “Why on earth Rawdon Quixwood would lie to protect Neville Forsbrook?”
“Yes,” he agreed. “Assuming he is lying.”
Charlotte weighed it in silence for several moments before she spoke.
“People lie for several reasons,” she said thoughtfully. “To protect themselves, or someone they love; or, of course, someone they are being pressured to protect. Or they lie to achieve something, or to avoid something. Do people lie to protect an ideal? Or because the truth is something they can’t afford to believe, for some reason? Something they just don’t want to believe? Refuse to?” She watched him, waiting for the answer. “Or are afraid to?” she added.
“Or maybe because of blackmail?” he answered. “Or debt? And if that’s the case, then the question arises, what could Rawdon Quixwood possibly owe either Neville or his father?”
“Maybe they knew something about Catherine that he wants to keep secret?” she suggested. “After all, the poor woman can’t protect herself now.”
“But she was already dead when Quixwood stepped forward to swear Forsbrook was innocent regarding Angeles,” he said grimly.
“Then it would have to be something that mattered very much. Considering how Catherine died, Rawdon Quixwood would be the very last man in London to protect a rapist.”
“And yet I think he’s lying,” Pitt responded. “I just can’t work out what the truth could be. Nothing I imagine makes any sense.”
“Let’s go through the scenarios one by one, then,” she suggested. “What might Forsbrook have, either father or son, that Quixwood would want? Not money, I don’t think. Vespasia said Quixwood got out of an African investment before the Jameson Raid, and she is all but certain that Forsbrook didn’t. She said he looked like a ghost at the Jameson trial.”
“All right,” Pitt agreed. “Not money. To protect someone? That’s obvious-to protect Neville, but why? Pelham Forsbrook certainly had nothing to do with Angeles’s rape. And she and the other young girl, Alice Townley, specifically said they were raped by Neville. Neither of them mentioned his father.”
“You’re right,” she said, biting her lip. “It’s difficult. Fear? Who is afraid of what? Or … Quixwood and the Forsbrooks are not related, are they?”
“No,” he said, turning it over in his mind. “Not by blood, or any business alliance that we can see.”
“Then something else,” Charlotte suggested. “If we start off assuming that Angeles and Alice Townley are telling the truth, then Quixwood is lying.”
“Indeed,” Pitt said, putting his other arm around her and tightening his hold. “But how do we find out why?”
She laid her head on his shoulder. “If it isn’t the men, try the women,” she suggested. “Neville Forsbrook’s mother must have had some influence on him.”
“She’s dead,” he reminded her, but as he said it the beginning of an idea stirred in his mind. “But I’ll try that tomorrow.”
CHAPTER 18
Narraway had hardly started his breakfast when his manservant interrupted him to say that Commander Pitt had called to see him, and the matter was urgent.
Narraway glanced at the clock, which read just before half-past seven.
“It must be,” he replied a trifle waspishly, perhaps because he was touched with a moment of fear. Only an emergency could bring Pitt at this time of the morning. “Ask him if he would like breakfast, and show him in,” he instructed.
A moment later Pitt came into the dining room dressed formally, and rather more neatly than usual. He looked excited more than alarmed.
Narraway waved at the opposite chair and Pitt sat down.
“Well?” Narraway asked.
“Let’s assume that Angeles Castelbranco and Alice Townley were telling the truth,” Pitt began without preamble. “We are left with the conclusion, then, that Rawdon Quixwood must be lying about being with Neville Forsbrook at the time of Angeles’s rape.” He leaned forward a little. “Which raises the question as to why he would do such a thing. One would presume he would be the last man in England to defend a rapist.”
“So why should we presume it?” Narraway asked. With anyone else he would have been sarcastic, but he knew Pitt better than to assume he spoke without an answer in mind. “What have we missed?”
Pitt gave a very slight, rueful gesture. “I’m not certain. Some connection between Forsbrook, either father or
