Midnight at Marble Arch - By Anne Perry Page 0,135

damaging to anyone, financially or in reputation, had she made it public?” Symington was careful to avoid naming anybody.

Hythe stared at him. “Yes, of course it would.”

“Very damaging?” Symington pressed.

“Yes.”

“Financial reputations depend upon trust, discretion, word of mouth, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Is it then possible, Mr. Hythe—indeed, probable—that there is someone named in these papers,” Symington held them up, “who would be ruined if she were to have made them public … had she lived?”

“Yes.” Hythe’s voice was barely able to be heard, even in the silent courtroom.

At last Bower rose to his feet. “My lord, this is all supposition. If it were truly the case, why on earth would the accused not have said so in the first place?”

The judge looked at Symington.

Symington smiled. He turned back to Hythe. “Mr. Hythe, you have a young and lovely wife to whom you are devoted, do you not? If you are found guilty and hanged, she will be alone and defenseless, disgraced, and possibly penniless. Are you afraid for her? Are you specifically afraid that if you name the man Catherine Quixwood could have ruined, and whom her evidence could still ruin, that he will take out his vengeance on your wife?”

There was a gasp of horror around the gallery. Several of the jurors stiffened and looked appalled. Even the judge’s face was grim.

Hythe stood frozen.

Symington was not yet finished. “Mr. Hythe, is that why I have been obliged to force this information from you, with the help of Special Branch, and financial papers that should have been confidential? Are you willing to be found guilty of a crime you did not commit, against a woman for whom you had the greatest admiration, because if you do not then your own beloved wife will be the next victim?”

It was a rhetorical question. He did not need or expect an answer.

He turned to the judge.

“My lord, I have no way of forcing Mr. Hythe to reply, nor in any honorable way would I wish to. I hope were I in his situation, I would have the courage and the depth of loyalty and honor to die, even such a hideous death as judicial hanging, to save someone I loved.” His face was devoid of all his confidence and easy charm; there was nothing in it but awe, as if he had seen something overwhelmingly beautiful, and it had robbed him of pretense. “I have no more questions for him.”

Vespasia, watching him, hoped with an intensity that surprised her that all he’d said was true. And then with pain almost physical, she longed to love with that depth again herself. She dreaded sinking into a graceful and passionless old age. It would be far better to die all at once than inch by inch, knowing the heart of you was gone.

She forced the thought from her mind. This moment belonged to Alban Hythe. It was his life they must save. Where was Victor? Why had he not found something, or at least come here?

Someone in the gallery sobbed.

It was now Bower’s turn. He walked forward into the center of the open floor space. For a moment he appeared confused. For the first time in the entire trial, the public tide was against him. If he criticized Hythe he would seem boorish, a man close to brutality.

“Mr. Hythe,” he began slowly, “my learned friend has suggested, but not proved, that you were seeking information for Mrs. Quixwood so that she could expose certain financial advice that was … shall we say, dishonest. You previously had been, for whatever reason, desperately reluctant to cooperate with him.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “Did you come by this information honestly, Mr. Hythe? Mr. Symington has said that his copies were provided by Special Branch. How, then, were you able to obtain them?”

Hythe looked wretched. “I don’t know for certain what papers Mr. Symington has, sir,” he replied, his voice hoarse. “I had bank papers from several different sources, which put together produced the conclusions you mention.”

“I see. And you are suggesting that one of the men implicated in these dealings raped Mrs. Quixwood? If he feared her information so much, why on earth did he rape her? And did he leave her alive to testify against him? That appears unbelievably stupid, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose, but I have no idea who raped her,” Hythe said.

Symington stood up. “My lord, Mr. Bower is sabotaging his own case. Surely that is precisely what he is accusing Mr. Hythe of doing: raping