Anne Perry - Midnight at Marble Arch

Narraway waited. He did not want to sit; it implied remaining here for longer than he wished to.

Brinsley noticed and understood. The recognition of it flickered in his eyes.

“She was raped and pretty badly beaten. The damn animal even bit her breast,” he said with anger harsh in his voice. “But I don’t think that was what killed her, at least not directly.”

Narraway was startled, momentarily disbelieving.

Brinsley sighed. “I think she died of opium poisoning.”

Narraway felt a bitter chill run right through him. The smell of the place seemed to have crept into his nose and mouth. “Before she was raped, or after?” His voice sounded hoarse. “Do you know?”

“After,” Brinsley said. “Knox found the laudanum bottle and the glass from which she’d which she’d drunk in the hall cabinet. There was blood on the glass.”

“Her attacker forced her to drink it?” Narraway knew the question was foolish even as he asked it.

Brinsley’s face was filled with pity, for Catherine, but possibly for Narraway as well. “Far more likely she was stunned, close to despair,” he answered. “Either didn’t realize how much she’d taken or, more probably, meant to drink that much. The attack was very brutal. God knows what she must have felt. Many women never get over rape. Can’t bear the shame and the horror of it.”

“Shame?” Narraway snapped.

Brinsley sighed. “It’s a crime of violence, of humiliation. They feel as if they have been soiled beyond anything they can live with. Too many times the men they think love them don’t want them after that.” He swallowed with difficulty. “Husbands find they can’t take it, can’t live with it. They can’t get rid of the thought that somehow the woman must have allowed it.”

“She was beaten to-” Narraway started, his voice rising to a shout.

“I know!” Brinsley cut him off sharply. “I know. I’m telling you what happens. I’m not justifying it, or explaining it. It does strange things to some men, makes them feel impotent, that they couldn’t defend their own woman. I’m sorry, but it looks as if she drank it herself. God help her.” He swallowed, his face pinched with pain. “Find this one, will you? Get rid of him somehow.”

“We will.” Narraway felt his throat tighten and a helpless anger scald through him. “I will.”

Pitt was distracted at the breakfast table. He ate absentmindedly, his attention absorbed by whatever he was reading in the newspaper. He looked up briefly to bid goodbye to Jemima and Daniel, then returned to his article. He even allowed his tea to go cold in the cup.

Charlotte stood up and took the teapot to the stove, pushed the kettle over onto the hob, and waited a few moments until it reached a boil again. With the teapot refreshed, and carrying a clean cup, she returned to the table and sat down.

“More tea?” she asked.

Pitt looked up, then glanced at his cup beside him, puzzled.

“It’s cold,” she said helpfully.

“Oh.” He gave a brief smile, half-apologetic. “I’m sorry.”

“From your expression, it’s not good news,” she observed.

“Speculation on the Jameson trial,” he replied, folding the paper and putting it down. “Most people seem to be missing the point.”

She had read enough about it to know what he was referring to. Leander Starr Jameson had returned to Britain from Africa, accused of having led an extraordinarily ill-conceived invasion from British-held Bechuanaland across the border into the independent Transvaal in an attempt to incite rebellion there and overthrow the Boer government, essentially of Dutch origin.

“He’s guilty, isn’t he?” she asked, uncertain now if perhaps she had misunderstood what she had read. “Won’t we have to find him so?”

“Yes,” Pitt agreed, sipping his new hot tea. “It’ll be a question of what sentence is passed and how much the public lionizes him. Apparently he’s a remarkably attractive man; not in the ordinary sense of being handsome or charming, but possessing a certain magnetism that captivates people. They see him as the ideal hero.”

She looked at Pitt’s face, the somber expression in his eyes that belied the ease of his voice.

“There’s more than that,” she said gravely. “It matters, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” he answered softly. “Mr. Kipling believes him a hero for our time: brave, loyal, resourceful, seizing opportunity by the throat, a born leader, in fact.”

Charlotte swallowed. “But he isn’t?”

“Mr. Churchill says he is a dangerous fool who will, in the near future, cause war between Britain and the Boers in South Africa,” he replied.

She was horrified. “War! Could it?” She put her cup down with a slightly trembling hand. “Really? Isn’t Mr. Churchill being … I mean, just drawing attention to himself? Emily says he does that a bit.”

Pitt did not answer immediately.

“Thomas?” she demanded.

“I don’t know. I have a fear that Churchill could be right.” His gaze did not waver from hers. “Not just because of the Jameson Raid-there are other things as well. The gold found there is going to attract a lot of adventurers and profiteers.”

“Will it affect us?” she asked him. “Special Branch? You?”

He smiled. “I can’t absolutely ignore it.”

She nodded, started to say something else, then decided it would be wiser not to go on asking him questions no one could yet answer. She stood up.

“Charlotte,” he said gently.

She turned, waiting.

“One thing at a time.” He smiled.

She put out a hand and touched his. It was not necessary to say anything.

She had been looking forward to the garden party that afternoon, largely because she was going with Vespasia, who would call to pick her up. It was only lately, since Pitt’s promotion, that Charlotte had been able to afford new gowns suitable for such occasions, rather than borrowing something from either Vespasia, which would fit her very well but be a little different from her own taste, or her sister Emily, who was slimmer and a couple of inches shorter. Not to mention the fact that Charlotte’s coloring was more vivid than Vespasia’s exquisite silver or Emily’s delicately fair hair and alabaster skin.

Charlotte always enjoyed Vespasia’s company. The older woman never spoke trivially, and she was informed about all manner of things, from the most important to the merely amusing. Charlotte was filling the time reading a book in the parlor when Vespasia arrived and was shown in by Minnie Maude, their maid. Although Minnie Maude had been with Charlotte over a year now, she was still overawed when announcing, “Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, ma’am.”

Charlotte rose to her feet immediately.

“You are early. How very nice,” she said warmly. “Would you like a cup of tea before we leave?”

“Thank you,” Vespasia accepted. She sat gracefully in the other large chair and arranged her sweeping skirts, immediately at home in the modest room with its comfortable, well-used furniture, bookshelves, and family photographs.

Charlotte nodded to Minnie Maude. “The Earl Grey, please, and cucumber sandwiches,” she requested. She knew without having to ask what it was that Vespasia would like.

As soon as the door was closed Charlotte regarded Vespasia more closely and noticed a certain tension in her.

“What is it?” she asked quietly. “Has something happened?”

“I believe so,” Vespasia replied. “At least, beyond question, something has happened, but I believe it is more serious than it is pretending to be.” She smiled very briefly, as if in apology for the darkness she was about to introduce. “I heard from a friend of mine that Angeles Castelbranco has broken off her engagement to Tiago de Freitas.”