Anne Perry - Midnight at Marble Arch

“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 in it, their outlines visible but without color in the fast-fading light.

Narraway swore and leaped onto the pavement. Pitt and Stoker were only a step behind him. It was the middle of summer and the air was still warm. His clothes stuck to his body with sweat.

Narraway tugged on the front door’s bellpull. Seconds later, he yanked it again.

Silence. Another cab rattled along the street.

The door opened and a footman stood there patiently, his face expressionless.

“Yes, sir. May I help you?”

“Lord Narraway. I need to see Mr. Quixwood immediately,” he said.

“I’m sorry, sir, that won’t be possible,” the footman replied calmly.

“I’m not asking you,” Narraway snapped. “I’m telling you. This is business of state.”

“My lord, Mr. Quixwood is not at home,” the footman said. “He left about five minutes ago.”

“Alone?” Narraway demanded.

“No, sir, there was a Mr. Forsbrook with him-”

“Where did they go?” Narraway cut across him. “Now, man! Quickly!”

The footman was trembling. He was the same man who had been there the night Catherine Quixwood had been killed.

Narraway controlled himself with an effort and spoke again, more gently. “I need to find them both, immediately. Mr. Quixwood’s life is in danger.”

The footman gulped. “He said to tell you, my lord, that he had gone to the house of Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould. He said you would know where that was.”

Narraway stood motionless, as if an icy wind had frozen him.

“And Forsbrook was with him?” Pitt whispered, horrified.

“Yes, sir.”

Narraway whirled around, leaving Pitt and Soker to follow him down the steps and into the hansom again, shouting Vespasia’s address at the driver. They were barely seated when the cab lurched forward. It threw them hard backward and then swung them against the sides as it swept around the corner and picked up a crazy speed.

None of them spoke as they hurtled along the now lamplit streets. The horse’s feet were loud on the stones; the wheels rattled. One moment they were almost at a gallop, the next veering around a corner and skidding to straighten up before pitching forward again.

Pitt’s mind created all sorts of pictures of what might be happening, and what situation they would meet. What if the footman had lied to them, on Quixwood’s orders, and the two men had not gone to Vespasia’s house at all? Or what if they were actually at Pitt’s own house, and it was Charlotte, Daniel and Jemima who were in danger? Might Neville Forsbrook this moment be raping Jemima? The thought was unbearable.

Instinctively Pitt leaned forward and shouted at the driver to go faster, but his voice was lost in the hiss and clatter of their progress.

Or what if Quixwood had murdered Forsbrook and left him in his own house, and was escaping now to who knows where?

They slowed to a stop outside Vespasia’s house. Pitt all but fell onto the pavement. Once again there was no other vehicle in sight, but now it was fully dark. It must be an hour or so short of midnight.