Midnight at Marble Arch - By Anne Perry Page 0,104

girls in the future, perhaps not lucky enough to escape with their lives. Perhaps Pamela O’Keefe had been one of them? They would probably never know.

He could not blame Townley for wanting to protect his daughter. Had it been Jemima, Pitt doubted he would try to prosecute. In fact, if he were honest, he knew he would not. Whatever Forsbrook went on to do, one protected one’s own child first.

Alice Townley had been violated, but not seriously injured, certainly not beaten as Catherine had been. Pamela O’Keefe had been murdered, her neck broken. Why the difference? What injuries had Angeles Castelbranco sustained?

Were there two different men, then? One Neville Forsbrook, the other—Alban Hythe? Perhaps—perhaps not.

Had Pamela O’Keefe’s death been an accident? Had Forsbrook forced himself on her, and in the violence of her struggle snapped her neck? Was he terrified, then? Or exhilarated?

Was the difference in his perception of the woman, or in the way they reacted to him? Did he need their fear to excite him?

Pitt knew he must check on the degree of violence, the bruises of self-defense, and note all the differences and the similarities.

IT WAS NOT DIFFICULT to find Brinsley; he was in the police morgue performing a post-mortem on another body, a man stabbed in a barroom fight. Pitt waited half an hour until he was finished. He came out of the autopsy room cold, his hands still wet. He carried a faint odor of carbolic with him.

“Commander Pitt, Special Branch,” Pitt introduced himself.

“What can I do for you, Commander?” Brinsley asked. “Tea? I’m tired and I’m cold and I’ve still a long evening ahead of me.”

“Thank you,” Pitt accepted. “I’m looking into several rapes, to see if I can compare them to one that concerns me particularly. I need to know if they’re related.”

Brinsley reached his office and put a kettle onto a small burner. It was only moments before it boiled and he made tea for them both in a round-bellied china pot.

“Look for similarities,” Brinsley said with a shrug. “I assume you have no testimony, no description?”

“I have some, but if it is accurate, the man seems to be far more violent with some women than with the others.”

“Interesting,” Brinsley said thoughtfully. “Usually they escalate with time. Are you certain it’s all one man?”

“No, I’m not. Can you describe the injuries to Catherine Quixwood?”

“They were very grave, but not fatal,” Brinsley replied. “She was deeply bruised on her body, upper arms, more so still upon her thighs, and there was tearing of her genital organs by forceful penetration.” His mouth twisted in a grimace. “There was also a fairly deep bite on her left breast. The man’s teeth had torn the skin and left distinct bruise marks, which became more pronounced after her death.”

“Thank you,” Pitt said quietly. “Was there anything about these injuries that would be distinct to the man who inflicted them?”

“If it was the same man, I’d say he was more deeply sunk in his state of … depravity … with Catherine. I can’t imagine any victim beaten more terribly than she was.”

“But that crime happened first,” Pitt said unhappily.

“Then it seems you have at least two rapists.” Brinsley shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you anyway.” Pitt turned to leave, his tea only half-drunk. His throat felt too tight to swallow.

Brinsley took a breath.

Pitt turned back. “Yes?”

“Was there anything particularly different about the victims? Or about the places of attack, or the circumstances?”

“Would that account for it being two men?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible.” There was no lift in Brinsley’s voice, no brightness in his face. “But you should look.”

“Thank you,” Pitt said again.

HE DID NOT TELL Charlotte what Brinsley had said when they sat alone in the parlor late into the evening. There was no need for her to hear the details Brinsley had told him. He could spare her that much. She sat in one of the big armchairs. Pitt was too restless to sit, and too angry. The sense of helplessness burned inside him like acid, eating away at his belief in himself.

“He’ll go on,” he said bitterly, staring out at the familiar garden. This was where his children had grown up. They had played here with hoops, a skipping rope, had built castles with piles of colored bricks, ridden imaginary horses, used as make-believe swords the garden canes that now held up the delphiniums in bloom.

What good was he if he could not protect Jemima from such hideous violation of all her future promise? Or