Midnight at Marble Arch - By Anne Perry Page 0,101

was no hint of economic study or skill in what Narraway had learned of her. Her education was what would be expected of a young woman of her social class. She was well read in literature, spoke a little French, knew English history, and had the usual familiarity with the classics. She had added greatly to the last of these in her own private reading and attendance at various lectures. As far as he could see, none of them had concerned economics or investment strategy.

Her own private spending involved supervision of the kitchen expenses, and a dress allowance, which she had never exceeded. Quixwood himself saw to all other bills, and he was more than comfortably situated.

Was Hythe telling the truth, or building an elaborate, and frankly rather ridiculous, excuse for having met Catherine so frequently, where they could speak without being watched or overheard? If he offered that to Symington, without highly credible evidence, no jury would believe it.

What would such evidence be? Was it all paper investment, or real? Was it conceivable that the figures in Catherine’s diary were not telephone numbers but amounts of money? Thousands of pounds? Had Quixwood sunk a lot of his fortune in something Catherine had feared was morally or ethically questionable? Or in something she feared to be against British interests? In the Transvaal? Or in diamonds or gold specifically? In some venture with Cecil Rhodes? In the Pitsani Strip, in railways, in building? If Catherine was worried, why on earth look for vague information from Alban Hythe? Why not simply tell Quixwood that she was afraid, and ask him for assurance that he was not taking risks with their safety?

Was there any point in learning as much as he could about some dubious investment Quixwood might have considered, this late in the game? And what could any of it have to do with the rape?

The answer was almost certainly, nothing at all.

He went to bed tired and discouraged, and slept badly.

CHAPTER

15

ON THE MORNING OF the second day of Alban Hythe’s trial, Knox sent a message to Pitt to meet him at the home of a Mr. Frederick Townley, on Hunter Street, just off Brunswick Square. The footman had instructions to admit him as soon as he arrived.

It was a damp, hazy day, already warm at half-past nine, with a very fine drizzle falling. As Knox had been promised, a grim-faced footman opened the door so immediately after Pitt’s pulling of the bell that he had to have been waiting for him. He was shown into the morning room, where Knox and a very clearly distressed Frederick Townley were waiting.

Knox introduced Pitt with his full title.

Townley was gaunt, middle-aged, with dark hair receding at the brow. At the moment he was restless, fidgeting, and unable to control his nerves.

“I’ve told you, Mr. Knox, I was in error,” he said urgently, looking at Knox, then at Pitt, then back again. “I do not wish to make any such complaint. You may say anything you please. I withdraw the complaint. I have no idea in the world why you should think to involve Special Branch. It is completely absurd.” He turned to Pitt. “I apologize to you, sir. This is just a domestic matter. In fact, it is no more than a misunderstanding.”

Pitt looked at the man’s face and saw fear and grief, which at this moment were overridden by acute embarrassment.

“I’m sorry.” Townley regarded Pitt with discomfort. “You have been disturbed unnecessarily. Now I must return to my family. I would like to hope you understand, but at this point it really makes no difference to me. Good day to you, gentlemen.”

“Mr. Townley!” Knox said with asperity. “I may not have the authority to require a statement from you, if you choose to let this matter go unreported, but Commander Pitt cannot ignore it if the safety of the realm is in question.”

Townley’s jaw dropped in disbelief. “Don’t be absurd, man! How can my daughter’s … misfortune possibly concern the safety of the realm? I don’t know what it is you want, but I am laying no complaint whatever. You have wasted this gentleman’s time.” He gestured toward Pitt. “Please excuse me.” Again he moved toward the door, lurching a little and regaining his balance with a hand on the jamb. “My footman will be happy to see you out,” he added, as if he thought his meaning might have been unclear.

“If you do not speak the truth, Mr. Townley, whether in the