Midnight at Marble Arch - By Anne Perry Page 0,131

we find to you in court by noon, will that be soon enough?” he asked Symington.

“Don’t worry,” Symington assured them. “I’ll create enough of a display to keep it going until then. Thank you.” He stood up. “Thank you very much. I’ll go home and plan.”

“Wouldn’t you like supper first?” Charlotte invited him. “You need to eat in order to fight your best.”

He grinned at her, a wide, charming expression full of warmth, and sat down again. “How wise you are,” he accepted. “Of course I would.”

THE TRIAL OF ALBAN Hythe resumed in the morning. Vespasia was again in attendance, this time aching with the double tensions of hope and dread. She watched Symington and was impressed with his air of confidence. Had she not known his anxiety from the previous evening, she would assume he had the perfect defense in his hands as he called Alban Hythe to the witness stand and listened to him take the oath.

Then, after a glance at Bower, he walked with grace into the center of the floor and looked up at Hythe’s ashen face.

“You are an expert in banking and investment affairs, are you not, Mr. Hythe?” he began gravely. “Indeed, I hear you have remarkable skills for one so young. Modesty notwithstanding, is that not a fair assessment of your ability?”

“I have some skill, yes,” Hythe replied. He looked puzzled.

Bower rose to his feet. “My lord, the prosecution will agree that Mr. Hythe has high intelligence, an excellent education, and is outstandingly good at his profession. There is no need for Mr. Symington to call evidence to that effect.”

Symington’s expression tightened so slightly, maybe no one other than Vespasia noticed.

Symington inclined his head toward Bower. “Thank you. I had not intended to call anyone, but you save me the anxiety of wondering if perhaps I should have.”

A flicker of annoyance crossed Bower’s face. “I fail to see the purpose of your observation.”

“Patience, sir, patience.” Symington smiled. “You have had several days to make your points. I am sure you have no quarrel with allowing me one day?” Before Bower could answer, Symington turned again to Hythe. “Are you acquainted with Mr. Rawdon Quixwood, sir?”

“Yes, slightly,” Hythe answered. His voice was husky, as though his throat was dry.

“Socially or professionally?” Symington asked.

“Mostly professionally.”

“You advised him on investments?” Symington raised his eyebrows as if he were interested.

Hythe tried to smile and failed. “No. That would be superfluous. Mr. Quixwood has great financial expertise himself. I doubt I could add anything to his knowledge.”

“He is excellent also?” Symington asked.

Bower started to rise again.

Symington turned sharply, his face showing a flicker of temper. “Sir,” he said irritably. “I afforded you the courtesy of letting you speak without unnecessary interruptions. Unless you are at your wits’ end to keep your case together, please don’t keep wasting everyone’s time with pointless objections. His Lordship is perfectly capable of stopping me, should I wander all over the place without reaching a point. You do not have to keep leaping up and down like a jack-in-the-box.”

There was a titter of laughter around the gallery and one of the jurors indulged in a fit of coughing, handkerchief up to obscure his face.

“Proceed, Mr. Symington,” the judge directed.

“Thank you, my lord.” Symington turned again to Alban Hythe, who stood rigid, his hands on the witness box rail as if he needed its support. “So you did not advise Mr. Quixwood as to his investments—say, for example, in the British South Africa Company?”

Bower sighed and put his head in his hands.

“No, sir,” Hythe replied, his body suddenly more tense, his voice sharper.

“Would you have advised him to invest, for example, before the news came of the raid led by Dr. Leander Starr Jameson, into the Transvaal?”

The judge leaned forward. “Is this relevant to the crime for which Mr. Hythe is on trial, Mr. Symington?”

“Yes, my lord, it is,” Symington assured him.

“Then please get to the point!” the judge said testily.

“Did you advise Sir Pelham Forsbrook to invest?” Symington asked, looking up at Hythe.

Hythe was, if anything, even paler. “No, sir, I did not. I did not advise anyone to invest in the British South Africa Company, either within a year before the Jameson Raid or since.”

“Is Sir Pelham Forsbrook one of your clients?” Symington asked.

“No, sir.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Of course I am!”

Before Bower could stand up Symington raised his hand as if to silence him. “Let us leave that subject for a while,” he said to Hythe. “Was Mrs. Catherine Quixwood a client