not. And if … if it was true, she thought he might repay some of the terrible loss.”
“Voluntarily, or that he could be compelled to?” Symington asked.
Hythe gulped again. “That the damage to his reputation as a financial adviser would oblige him to … to keep the matter private,” he said hoarsely.
Symington nodded. “And that was the reason she sought you out, and saw you increasingly frequently, and with a degree of privacy, at places your conversations would not be overheard, and where her husband would not know of it?”
“That is what she said,” Hythe agreed.
“And have you any evidence that this is what she asked you to research for her?” Symington pressed.
“She was very knowledgeable in the matter,” Hythe answered. “You have the papers in your hand. You know exactly what she wanted, and that it all makes sense. If you look at the dates you will see it is cumulative. After understanding one piece she then asked for more, based upon that knowledge. She was … she was most intelligent.”
“Was she aware of the plans for the Jameson Raid before it took place?” Symington asked with interest.
There was a rustle of movement in the gallery. Several jurors looked startled, one leaned forward, his face tense.
“She was aware that something of that nature would happen, yes.”
“But not that it would fail?” Symington continued. “Or did she know that too?”
“She believed it would,” Hythe answered.
Symington looked surprised. “Really? Very perceptive indeed. Do you know why she believed that?”
Hythe hesitated again, glancing down.
“Mr. Hythe!” Symington said sharply. “What did she know?”
Hythe jerked up his head. “She observed the behavior of other people,” he said so quietly even the judge was obliged to lean forward to hear him.
“What other people?” Symington asked. “Did she have access to plans?”
“No,” Hythe said instantly. “She was aware of who was investing, and of who was not.” He looked exasperated. “The raid cost a fortune, Mr. Symington. People pumped money into it: for men, guns, munitions, other equipment. She watched and listened.” His voice caught suddenly. “She was a very intelligent woman and she cared deeply about the situation.”
“Indeed,” Symington said with sudden emotions thickening his voice. “Altogether a remarkable woman, and her violation and death is a tragedy that must not go unpunished.” He hesitated a moment before going on.
One of the jurors had tears on his face. Another pulled out a large white handkerchief and mopped himself as if he was too hot.
Even Bower sat still.
Symington cleared his throat and went on. “So Catherine Quixwood had gathered a good deal of financial information regarding the Jameson Raid, and about various people who had made or lost money that had been invested in guns, munitions, and other speculations in Africa?” he asked Hythe.
“Yes,” Hythe said simply.
“Could this have been damaging to anyone, financially or in reputation, had she made it public?” Symington was careful to avoid naming anybody.
Hythe stared at him. “Yes, of course it would.”
“Very damaging?” Symington pressed.
“Yes.”
“Financial reputations depend upon trust, discretion, word of mouth, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Is it then possible, Mr. Hythe-indeed, probable-that there is someone named in these papers,” Symington held them up, “who would be ruined if she were to have made them public … had she lived?”
“Yes.” Hythe’s voice was barely able to be heard, even in the silent courtroom.
At last Bower rose to his feet. “My lord, this is all supposition. If it were truly the case, why on earth would the accused not have said so in the first place?”
The judge looked at Symington.
Symington smiled. He turned back to Hythe. “Mr. Hythe, you have a young and lovely wife to whom you are devoted, do you not? If you are found guilty and hanged, she will be alone and defenseless, disgraced, and possibly penniless. Are you afraid for her? Are you specifically afraid that if you name the man Catherine Quixwood could have ruined, and whom her evidence could still ruin, that he will take out his vengeance on your wife?”
There was a gasp of horror around the gallery. Several of the jurors stiffened and looked appalled. Even the judge’s face was grim.
Hythe stood frozen.
Symington was not yet finished. “Mr. Hythe, is that why I have been obliged to force this information from you, with the help of Special Branch, and financial papers that should have been confidential? Are you willing to be found guilty of a crime you did not commit, against a woman for whom you had the greatest admiration, because if you do not then your own beloved wife will be the next victim?”
It was a rhetorical question. He did not need or expect an answer.
He turned to the judge.
“My lord, I have no way of forcing Mr. Hythe to reply, nor in any honorable way would I wish to. I hope were I in his situation, I would have the courage and the depth of loyalty and honor to die, even such a hideous death as judicial hanging, to save someone I loved.” His face was devoid of all his confidence and easy charm; there was nothing in it but awe, as if he had seen something overwhelmingly beautiful, and it had robbed him of pretense. “I have no more questions for him.”
Vespasia, watching him, hoped with an intensity that surprised her that all he’d said was true. And then with pain almost physical, she longed to love with that depth again herself. She dreaded sinking into a graceful and passionless old age. It would be far better to die all at once than inch by inch, knowing the heart of you was gone.
She forced the thought from her mind. This moment belonged to Alban Hythe. It was his life they must save. Where was Victor? Why had he not found something, or at least come here?
Someone in the gallery sobbed.
It was now Bower’s turn. He walked forward into the center of the open floor space. For a moment he appeared confused. For the first time in the entire trial, the public tide was against him. If he criticized Hythe he would seem boorish, a man close to brutality.
“Mr. Hythe,” he began slowly, “my learned friend has suggested, but not proved, that you were seeking information for Mrs. Quixwood so that she could expose certain financial advice that was … shall we say, dishonest. You previously had been, for whatever reason, desperately reluctant to cooperate with him.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Did you come by this information honestly, Mr. Hythe? Mr. Symington has said that his copies were provided by Special Branch. How, then, were you able to obtain them?”
Hythe looked wretched. “I don’t know for certain what papers Mr. Symington has, sir,” he replied, his voice hoarse. “I had bank papers from several different sources, which put together produced the conclusions you mention.”
“I see. And you are suggesting that one of the men implicated in these dealings raped Mrs. Quixwood? If he feared her information so much, why on earth did he rape her? And did he leave her alive to testify against him? That appears unbelievably stupid, doesn’t it?”
“I suppose, but I have no idea who raped her,” Hythe said.
Symington stood up. “My lord, Mr. Bower is sabotaging his own case. Surely that is precisely what he is accusing Mr. Hythe of doing: raping Mrs. Quixwood, for no reason at all, and then leaving her alive to testify against him?”
The ghost of a smile lit the judge’s face for an instant, then vanished again. “Mr. Bower, Mr. Symington seems to have made a distinct point. If no one else would do such a thing, then why do you wish us to suppose that Mr. Hythe would?”
“Because he was having an affair with Mrs. Quixwood, my lord,” Bower said between his teeth. “And she
