Midnight at Marble Arch - By Anne Perry Page 0,103

say it himself. Then Knox moved a fraction, no more than shifting his weight from one foot to the other, but reminding Pitt of his presence. Pitt let out his breath without speaking.

“He … violated her,” Townley said hoarsely. “She had not the power to fight him off. He left her bleeding and bruised on the floor. She had hit her head, and was knocked senseless for a while. When she came to she climbed to her feet, and was staggering to the door when a different young man met her. He assumed that she had taken too much wine, and rather than tell him the truth, that she … had lost her virginity, she said it was true, she was inebriated, and she accounted for her bruises and the blood by saying she had fallen down some steps. That was the story she gave her hostess too, and no one pressed her further.” Townley’s chin lifted and he glared at Pitt, then at Knox. “And that is the story I shall tell if I am pressed. I will swear to it under oath.”

“Did she say who the young man was who assaulted her?” Pitt asked.

“It will do you no good,” Townley said bluntly.

“Possibly not, but I wish to know,” Pitt insisted. “It would be very much better if she tells me than if I have to investigate all the balls in London last night to find out who attended which. People will inevitably ask why I need to know.”

“You are a brutal man,” Townley said icily, but his eyes filled with tears.

Pitt was silent for a moment. Would it really help to know? Yes, it would. Not just for Rafael Castelbranco, but for all other young women. He needed to get Neville Forsbrook off the streets—if he could just be certain it was he.

“Please?” he said.

Wordlessly, Townley led them upstairs and across a wide landing, to a door with a porcelain floral handle. Townley knocked, and when his wife answered, he told her that this was unavoidable. At his insistence, she allowed Pitt inside, but not Knox.

The girl propped up in the bed was white-faced, except for the tearstains on her cheeks, and the pink on the rims of her eyes. Her long honey-brown hair was loose around her shoulders. Her features were soft, but in a year or two would also reflect a considerable strength.

Pitt’s step faltered as he walked across the carpet and stood near the bed, but not too close.

“My name is Thomas Pitt,” he said quietly. “I have a daughter who will be your age soon. She looks quite a lot like you. I hope she will be as lovely. I understand you like paintings?”

She nodded.

“Yesterday evening you were shown some particularly beautiful ones, is that correct?”

Again she nodded.

“Were they portraits or landscapes?”

“They were mostly portraits, and some animals, very out of proportion.” She almost smiled. “Horses whose legs looked so thin I don’t know how they could stand on them.”

Pitt shook his head. “I’ve seen some like that. I don’t like them very much. I like to see horses with movement in the lines rather than standing still. Who showed you these pictures?”

“He wasn’t going to steal them,” she said quickly. “At least I don’t think. He has lots of money anyway … or his father does. He could just buy them.”

“Maybe he was thinking of offering to buy them,” Pitt said kindly, then, just as soft, “Who was he?”

“Do … do I have to tell you?”

“No, not if you really don’t want to.” The minute the words were out, he regretted them. Narraway wouldn’t have been so weak.

“It was Neville Forsbrook,” she whispered.

He let his breath out in a sigh. “Thank you, Alice. I appreciate knowing. And thank you for letting me visit with you.”

“It’s all right.” She gave him a tiny, uncertain smile.

He thanked Mrs. Townley as well and walked onto the landing, Townley at his heels. The door closed behind them with a faint click.

Townley stood on the landing by the window, surrounded by vases of carefully arranged flowers. His face was ravaged with fear and grief.

“Thank you,” he echoed. “Now that is the end of it.”

Pitt nodded and followed Knox down the stairs.

ALICE TOWNLEY’S FACE HAUNTED Pitt as he walked away from the house. It was as if he had met a ghost of Angeles Castelbranco, and what troubled him like an open wound was the fact that in his own mind he was certain that there would be other