Midnight at Marble Arch - By Anne Perry Page 0,125
was thanking Narraway now, when Narraway was off trying to do everything in his power to help free Hythe.
“He spent a great deal of time at my home,” Quixwood went on thoughtfully. “He read through Catherine’s diaries, something I would find too painful to do, but which I was glad that he did.” He looked at the jury. “The items are all in evidence, so he has not had to testify. I believe Catherine’s maid authenticated them.”
“Thank you, Mr. Quixwood,” Bower said with a gracious gesture, an inclination of his head in respect.
Symington sat fidgeting, and Vespasia felt a wave of pity for him. It was clear he knew that Bower was asking such questions only to keep Quixwood on the stand and draw the jury’s sympathy even more. There was no real evidence to give. But if Symington challenged him on it and won, then the trial would be virtually at an end. So he must drag it out as long as he could, to give Pitt and Narraway a chance to find the new evidence they were searching for. Bower had all the cards to play and Symington was desperate.
Bower was smiling now. It was a gentle, friendly smile, one of compassion. “Mr. Quixwood, was your wife a beautiful woman?”
Quixwood blinked hard several times before replying. “Yes, she was, in every way. Her face was uniquely lovely, full of life and wit and grace. She could be terribly funny, when she wanted to, and without unkindness. She loved beauty of every kind, and knowledge. She was interested in everything. You may think I say that now because I loved her, but ask anyone who knew her and they will say the same.”
“Have you ever had instances before where another man craved her attention more than was appropriate?” Bower asked.
“Yes, but Catherine was well able to decline without ill feeling,” Quixwood answered. “I suppose every truly lovely woman has to learn that art.”
“So you had no cause to fear for her?”
“Of course not! For God’s sake …” His voice broke. “She was in her own home with the doors locked and … and a full complement of servants!” Quixwood said in a sudden burst of anguish. “What should I fear? I was out at a reception my business required I attend. What sane man would imagine such a … a …” He struggled to regain his control, but failed. He bowed his head and quickly wiped at his cheeks.
For a moment Vespasia thought Pitt and Narraway had to be wrong, at least in the assumption that Quixwood could have had anything to do with the crime. Perhaps it was Pelham Forsbrook, in revenge for Quixwood having been Eleanor’s lover—if that was true. Yes, surely that made more sense? She would say so to Symington, when she had the chance.
“I have no further questions for this witness, my lord,” Bower said. He looked at Symington with slightly raised eyebrows.
Symington rose to his feet, then seemed to hesitate. He looked at Quixwood, then at the jury. No one moved.
“Mr. Symington?” the judge asked courteously.
Symington smiled, a charming, almost luminous smile that Vespasia knew he could not possibly mean. The only chance he had was to win some sympathy from the jury, create some shred of doubt in their minds.
“Thank you, my lord,” Symington said gracefully. He looked up at Quixwood. “I hate this. Heaven only knows how you have suffered already, Mr. Quixwood, and I cannot imagine what you have lost in this whole terrible tragedy. I do not believe that the accused was the man who did this thing, but I do not believe that putting you through any further agony will assist me in proving that. I offer you my sincerest regrets over the fearful death of a woman who seems by every account to have been beautiful in all respects.”
He sat down again, to the amazement of the gallery, the jury, and the judge. Even Bower looked momentarily wrong-footed.
Vespasia felt her heart sink. Pitt and Narraway could not possibly have found anything yet. Why on earth did Symington not think of something to give them time? Was the man a fool? Or did he know he was beaten, and could see no point in stretching out the pain?
Bower stood up again, victory flushing his cheeks, making his eyes bright.
“The prosecution rests, my lord.”
Symington was pale as he stood again and asked the judge for an adjournment so he might speak privately with his client before beginning the defense.