Midnight at Marble Arch - By Anne Perry Page 0,109

couldn’t help it.

“Do you believe it?” she asked him directly.

He sighed. “I would like to, but frankly it is highly unlikely, and I know of nothing whatever to substantiate it. It makes no sense.”

She measured her words with care. “What did he actually claim? That Catherine had asked for further information about various financial investments because she was concerned her husband might lose money? Or that the money might be invested in ventures of dubious morality?”

“Briefly, yes, the latter,” he agreed. “But if Quixwood had money invested dubiously, why not simply ask him? She was his wife. Surely he would tell her? He would have to, if indeed he lost heavily. They would need to reduce their circumstances, possibly even sell the house and move to somewhere less expensive.” He matched his step more evenly with hers. “It doesn’t seem reasonable that she would need to know the details to the depth a banker such as Hythe could explain them to her.”

Vespasia could think of no counter for that. He was correct.

“But if he is telling the truth, then she did want exactly such details,” she argued.

“He is not telling the truth,” Narraway said patiently. “If something is unbelievable, then do not believe it.” His smile was twisted, unhappy. With anyone else he might have been impatient.

“Alternately,” she continued, “suppose that he is telling the truth. Then there must be some facts of which we are not aware. It does not make sense, therefore it is incomplete. Why would an otherwise sensible woman seek financial facts about her husband’s affairs by secretly cultivating the company of another man in financial business?”

“Because he is younger, handsomer, and a great deal more affectionate and interesting,” he answered sadly. “The explanation is not difficult.”

“Or else she does not trust her husband to tell her the truth,” she offered. “That also is a very old story.”

“It would be a stronger argument if it were her money and he invested it foolishly and dared not tell her,” he said. “But she had no money of her own, as far as I can tell.”

“I know,” she replied. “I took the precaution of finding out about that myself. It is his money. He is a man of remarkable financial acuity. He has multiplied his original inheritance from his grandfather at least ten times.”

“Then she should’ve trusted him,” he pointed out.

“To be wise, certainly, even to be fortunate,” she responded. “But not necessarily to be ethical.”

He was startled. He stopped and turned to face her. “Hence the detailed information. What is she afraid he might be doing?”

“Ah.” She stopped also, and met his eyes. “That I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’m going to attend the Jameson trial tomorrow, and see what more I can learn of the whole affair of the British South Africa investment, including Dr. Jameson’s part in it, and his connections to Mr. Cecil Rhodes, who apparently has financed this fiasco.”

“You won’t get in,” Narraway warned. “Three-quarters of London Society have been trying to obtain seats. They are harder to find than tickets for the opening night of a play.”

“The trial is probably more dramatic,” Vespasia said drily. “Don’t concern yourself. I have done favors for certain people in the past. I have called upon one or two in particular, and I believe I shall be fortunate.”

“I see.” Different emotions conflicted in his face. “I hope you will tell me if you learn anything at all that would be of use. The situation for Alban Hythe has become desperate.”

She stared at him, and he colored very slightly. She was about to make a fairly sharp retort when she realized he was in some way uncomfortable, but she did not know why.

“Of course I shall tell you,” she said more gently. “That is my purpose in going. If it were merely for the result of the trial, I should be perfectly content with reading it in the newspapers. I don’t see how they can do anything other than find him guilty. Whether you approve of it or not, he is unquestionably guilty of a serious misjudgment.”

His smile was wry, and quite gentle. “Of course he is guilty, my dear,” he replied. “He failed. It wasn’t even a glorious failure; it was an idiotic one.”

“Oh, Victor, how wise we have become. It isn’t always very pleasant, is it,” she asked with a smile.

“I think politics, and military escapades in particular, already have fools enough,” he answered. After a moment or two, he offered her his arm so