I’ve heard from Rafael Castelbranco that Elmo Crask also added to the story about Neville Forsbrook and the prostitute he beat. Biting seems to be a weakness of Neville’s. That story is also provable, and is even uglier than we first assumed. Neville Forsbrook is a very violent young man with an uncontrollable, and evidently increasing, disposition to rape women. Who knows what has caused him to be that way. I’m sure having a father like Pelham didn’t help him much.”
“What are we going to do?” Vespasia asked, looking from one to the other of them.
“I’ve been thinking,” Pitt said to no one in particular. “We know of Eleanor’s affair and can prove it beyond reasonable doubt. We know that Quixwood advised Forsbrook to invest in the British South Africa Company, with almost certain knowledge of the Jameson Raid, and that it would fail, and that reparations would be enormous. It was worth the risk because for him the worst that could happen would only be that the raid succeeded and Forsbrook made money. Even then, he could always try something else in the future.”
“Did he know of Neville Forsbrook’s situation with the prostitute?” Narraway asked.
Stoker came to attention. “Yes, sir. He was friendly with Sir Pelham Forsbrook at that time, and he helped get Neville out of the country. Still can’t find out exactly where the boy went, but he started out in Lisbon, then seems to have gone on by sea.”
Narraway was surprised. “Lisbon? Not Paris?”
“Apparently not. Paris might have been the first place anyone would have looked for him. It was a pretty nasty business,” Stoker replied. “And Quixwood had connections in Lisbon.”
Narraway nodded slightly. “Interesting. So unquestionably Quixwood knew of Neville Forsbrook’s nature. Isn’t there a way we can hang him?” he asked, looking up at Pitt.
“Only if we can prove he poisoned his wife intentionally,” Pitt replied. “In truth, I’d rather hang Forsbrook for raping her.”
“Why?” Stoker demanded. “Quixwood murdered her.”
“Because Forsbrook is as much a monster,” Pitt answered. “I want him not just for Catherine, but for Angeles and Alice and Pamela.”
“You can’t get him for Angeles,” Charlotte said miserably. “Quixwood swears he was with him, so unless we can prove he’s lying … they’re both protecting themselves by protecting each other!”
“That’s it!” Pitt sat upright with a jolt.
“What’s it?” Narraway was weary.
“That’s the way to catch them!” Pitt said urgently, turning slightly to face him. “It’s dangerous, very, but it might work.” He went on without being prompted, leaning forward a little, his voice anxious. “Quixwood doesn’t really need Neville anymore. But what if we could persuade Neville of that, tell him Quixwood is preparing to give him up now that Hythe’s conviction isn’t certain anymore and we are still desperately looking for the true attacker, in order to prove Hythe’s innocence!”
Narraway was staring at him. “And what? Neville would go after Quixwood to silence him?”
“Wouldn’t you?” Pitt said. “Persuade Neville that Quixwood now needs to protect himself, and he can only do it by giving Neville up.”
“Dangerous,” Narraway warned, but the light was back in his face and there was a keen edge to his voice. “Very dangerous.” He did not look at either Charlotte or Vespasia, or even at Stoker. “How would we do it? If you tell him yourself he’ll instantly suspect a trap.”
Pitt’s mind was leaping forward. “Crask,” he answered. “Elmo Crask. Neville would believe him; he is impartial, and doesn’t have anything to gain by lying. Can you think of a better way-or any other way at all, for that matter?”
“No, I can’t,” Narraway admitted. “But we must plan this very carefully indeed. We can’t afford to have Neville succeed in killing Quixwood.”
“Or the other way around,” Pitt said with a twist of his mouth. “If Quixwood kills Neville he can legally, and morally, claim self-defense, and still walk away, and there’d be nothing we could do to touch him.”
“Though his reputation would hardly be untouched, after the evidence in court,” Vespasia pointed out.
“Neither name was mentioned,” Narraway said, his face tight with anger. “And anyone who did name them could be sued for libel. Quixwood still has the vast weight of public sympathy.”
“If we do this right, we’ll get both of them,” Pitt answered.
“If we do this right, we’ll be damned lucky!” Narraway retorted with a shrug. “But let’s try.”
“Are you sure?” Vespasia asked cautiously. “If we lose it would be a disaster.”
“Of course it would,” he agreed. “But if we don’t try it’s a disaster for certain-and one of cowardice, because we’d be giving up, to avoid taking a risk.”
Vespasia smiled very, very slightly. “I thought you would say that.”
The next evening Pitt and Narraway were together in Bryanston Square, waiting until Neville Forsbrook should appear. Stoker was in the Mews, just in case Neville left the house that way. Elmo Crask had already been and gone. They had agreed three men should be sufficient to follow Forsbrook, and they dared not trust anyone else with their plan, nor did they want to involve more men in something which was, at the very best, questionable.
They were in a hansom cab, slumped down so as to be all but invisible from the street. The cab driver was actually an agent from Special Branch, but he had no idea of the purpose they were pursuing.
Crask had been gone from Forsbrook’s house for nearly half an hour. To Pitt it seemed like far longer.
He was wondering if Neville could have gone out of the back into the Mews to take his father’s carriage and Stoker had missed him, or been unable to get a message to them at the front of the house. He was about to suggest going to look when the front door opened and Neville Forsbrook came out onto the step, hesitated a moment, then walked down to the pavement.
Narraway sat up instantly. “Get Stoker,” he told Pitt. “I’ll meet you just beyond the corner.”
Pitt was out on the road in a moment and going rapidly in the opposite direction from Neville, keeping the hansom between them for as long as possible so he would not be seen if Forsbrook glanced behind.
As soon as he reached the corner, he crossed the road and started to run along the distance of George Street to Bryanston Mews.
Stoker was looking back and forth, and saw him immediately. Together, they returned to Upper George Street. A glance told them that the hansom now faced the other way, and Neville Forsbrook was no longer in sight. They raced along the pavement and scrambled into the cab as it lurched forward and the horse broke into a trot.
They caught up with Neville on Great Cumberland Place just as he hailed a cab. They had already assumed he was going to Quixwood’s house in Lyall Street, and so were not surprised when his cab crossed Oxford Street and went south on Park Lane. They expected him to turn right on Piccadilly and then along Grosvenor Place, and then finally right again on any of the possible turns toward Eaton Square.
The light was fading and the traffic was growing heavier. They needed to follow him more closely. There were carriages and goods wagons in among the lighter, faster hansoms. Pitt found himself leaning forward. It was completely pointless, but it was instinctive, as if he could urge the horse himself.
They reached Piccadilly and there was a jam as two four-wheelers all but collided. In a matter of seconds everyone had stopped, but twenty yards ahead of them Forsbrook’s cab was clear and racing toward Hyde Park Corner. Surely it would turn down Grosvenor Place, but what if it didn’t?
Pitt clenched his hands and fidgeted with impatience. How long would it take for Forsbrook to face Quixwood and attack him, kill him, if that was what he intended? What if the whole tragedy played itself out before they got there? It would be a disaster, and they would be to blame. No, he would, not Narraway or Stoker. Narraway was a civilian, Stoker Pitt’s subordinate. The responsibility was entirely his.
What could he do? It was too far to run … wasn’t it? He glanced sideways at the street, considering it. Perhaps he should go on foot, and have Narraway and Stoker follow him in the cab?
Pitt tried to suggest it just as the carriages ahead unlocked and theirs lurched forward, picking up speed, weaving in and out dangerously. He broke out in a sweat of relief. He did not deserve the rescue, he thought. This was a totally irresponsible idea. But it was too late to back out now.
It was another full ten minutes before they pulled up outside Quixwood’s house off Eaton Square. There was no hansom outside, and nothing on the street except one Brougham coming toward them with a man and woman
