Anne Perry - Midnight at Marble Arch

Narraway was beside him and Stoker just behind as they moved silently up to the front door. What if no one was able to let them in? The maids might even be locked up by Forsbrook or Quixwood.

Who was the master anyway? Was Forsbrook Quixwood’s hostage, or the other way around? Or were they truly allies?

Or was this a fool’s errand and they were not here at all?

Pitt could feel hysteria welling up inside him.

Narraway shot out a hand and gripped Pitt’s arm, his fingers like a vise. “Back,” he whispered. “Garden door.”

“Wait here,” Pitt whispered to Stoker. “In case they try to run.” Then he turned and led the way. There was a brief, highly undignified scramble over the wall and down again, then they tiptoed through the garden, probably treading on all kinds of flowers.

The light from the sitting room streamed through the French doors and across the grass. The curtains were at least half-open; there seemed to be no one in the room, then Pitt saw a shadow move beyond the curtains, and then another. He froze. He looked at Narraway and observed that he too had seen.

Might it simply be Vespasia and her maid? He motioned Narraway to stand well to the side, and he himself moved out of clear sight of the windows. Feeling his way he took one step at a time until he was just outside the glass. Inch by inch he leaned forward and got a better look.

Inside, Vespasia was standing motionless in front of Neville Forsbrook, her face pale. On one side of her, between her and the door, Rawdon Quixwood was standing facing them. He had a revolver in his hand, held steady. It was pointing downward, but any second he could lift it and shoot Vespasia and, when she fell, Forsbrook.

Pitt stepped back slowly and motioned to Narraway. When they were a couple of yards from the window he whispered urgently.

“Quixwood has a gun. Forsbrook appears unarmed. They have Vespasia. They’re talking, but through the glass I couldn’t hear what they’re saying.”

“Quixwood’s playing for time until we get here,” Narraway said softly. “Then he’ll shoot Forsbrook, and claim it’s self-defense, which I daresay it will be, by then.”

“Why here?” Pitt asked. “Why not do it at his own house?”

“Because this way he comes out the hero. He can claim he was trying to prevent Neville from committing another hideous act,” Narraway answered bitterly. “And I daresay both of us will be accidental deaths as well, blamed on Forsbrook.”

“He’d never get away with that,” Pitt said. “Vespasia would …” Then he stopped, realizing that Vespasia would be part of the tragedy as well. His brain seemed to be unable to think.

“I’ll go in from the kitchen,” Narraway whispered. “Give me time, and then you go in from this way. We might be able to surprise him that way.”

“What about Forsbrook?”

“To hell with him,” Narraway hissed. “We’ve got to get Vespasia out of there. I’m going.”

Pitt grasped his arm, holding him with all his power, but the older man was stronger than he had expected. “Stop it!” Pitt said savagely. “If you pull us off balance we’ll alert them and will both be shot. I’ll go round to the kitchen. I know my way, and I know how to break in without making a noise. Wait for me, then come in this way!”

Narraway drew in breath to argue.

“Do as you’re damn well told!” Pitt said under his breath. “I’m head of Special Branch-you’re a civilian. Stay here!” And without waiting for further argument he let go of Narraway and crept through the flower bed.

He found the scullery window and, after fishing in his pockets, came up with a piece of sticky paper and a small, very neat glass cutter. He put the paper on the window near where the catch was and quickly, carefully, cut out a circle, holding on to an edge of the paper. He removed the glass soundlessly and reached his hand through the opening.

A few moments later he had the window open and was inside. It was dark and he had to move very carefully. If he tripped over anything, upset a pile of boxes or bumped into anything, he would alert Quixwood to his presence.

Step by step he went through the kitchen and into the hall. Outside the sitting-room door he stopped. He could now hear the voices inside.

“You think Pitt will come?” Forsbrook asked huskily, his voice laced with fear. “He won’t. Why should he?”

“Because he’s following you, you fool!” Quixwood snapped. “He told you I’d betray you so you’d come and attack me.”

“You could betray me,” Forsbrook said loudly, his voice wavering now. “They’ll let Hythe go and come after you. They know you poisoned the wine. Why would you do that if you didn’t know she would be raped?” It was clear panic was mounting in him, and that he was close to losing control.

“That’s what they want you to think, you fool!” Quixwood said, his voice scalding with contempt. “Get a grip on yourself. They’ll come here. I told the footman to tell Narraway where I’d gone.”

“Why should he care what happens to me?” Forsbrook demanded. He was nearly shouting now. “Pitt would see me hanged for that Portuguese girl. He knows it was me, he just can’t prove it.”

“No, he can’t prove it,” Quixwood agreed. “Or any of the others.”

“They don’t know about the others!” Forsbrook yelled. “And if you tell them I raped Catherine, I’ll tell them you paid me to.”

“No you won’t,” Quixwood said levelly.

“If you shoot, you’ll hit Lady Vespasia.” Forsbrook’s voice was almost falsetto, panic tearing through him. “How are you going to explain that? The bullet’ll go through her and into me. You won’t be able to say it was my fault!” Now he was crowing, high and shrill, sudden victory in sight.

Pitt chose that instant to open the door, pushing it hard and following straight in behind it.

Quixwood had moved a yard or two from where he had been when Pitt had seen him through the window. He was closer to Vespasia. He heard Pitt and swung around to face him, the gun in his hand. He smiled.

“At last! But slow, Commander. There’s your rapist. Or perhaps I should say ‘my rapist.’ He’s the one who raped and beat poor Catherine. But I daresay you know that. Though, I must admit, I hadn’t expected you to work it out.”

Forsbrook started to speak, then changed his mind. He held Vespasia, tight and hard in front of him. “Quixwood’s mad. He kidnapped me and now he’s trying to kill me. I don’t know who murdered his wife. She must have had some other lover, if it really wasn’t Hythe.”

“You know exactly who murdered her.” Vespasia spoke for the first time. “You raped her and Angeles Castelbranco as well. Quixwood lied to protect you, probably the price for attacking Catherine for him.”

Quixwood raised his revolver. His dark face was twisted with passion. It seemed hate and pain were all but tearing him apart.

At that moment, Narraway crashed through the French doors and charged Forsbrook just as the gun went off. Vespasia fell sideways onto her hands and knees. Neville Forsbrook pitched after her, his chest blossoming scarlet blood.

Quixwood reacted instantly. With his other hand out, he dived toward Vespasia and yanked her to her feet, wrenching her shoulder and tearing her gown. He still had the gun in the other hand. His eyes were wild. He backed toward the door, swiveling his glance from Pitt to Narraway and back again, pulling Vespasia with him.

Forsbrook lay motionless on the floor, the blood spreading wider and wider around him. There was no movement of his chest, no breathing. Pitt scrambled over to the young man, checking for any sign of life.

The door was half-open where Pitt had pushed it. Quixwood groped for it with one hand, still holding the gun in the other, his arm around Vespasia.