cut-crystal glasses. The air smelled of earth and flowers, and the murmur of the river nearby made private conversation easy.
He greeted her with evident pleasure. For the first few minutes they laughed and considered the menu and made choices, as if nothing ugly or sordid ever thrust itself into the beauty of their world.
When they were served and the waiter had excused himself, Vespasia finally approached the subject that had caused her to arrange the meeting.
“How is the case going regarding the death of Catherine Quixwood?” She tried to make it sound as if her interest were casual concern.
He did not answer immediately but studied her face, searching for the depth behind her words.
She felt foolish. She should have known that even with her years of experience in Society at saying one thing and meaning another, she could not delude him. He was not so very much younger than she, and he had been in Special Branch much of his life.
“I have a reason for asking,” she said, then realized she was offering an explanation that had not been asked for. She smiled. “Am I transparent?”
His answering smile was quick. “Yes, my dear, today you are. But have we ever spoken idly to each other, looking for something to say?”
She felt a faint warmth creep up her cheeks, but it was from pleasure, not discomfort. “Perhaps I had better be frank and start at the beginning. It just seemed a little clumsy to bring it up at the luncheon table.”
With his back to the light, his eyes were so dark as to be black. Now they widened slightly in surprise. “Disturbing, perhaps, forthright always, but never clumsy. Is it my involvement you fear may be inappropriate? Or is it something to do with Catherine Quixwood herself? Did you know her?”
“No. So far as I am aware, I never met her,” she said with a strange touch of regret. “And it had not occurred to me that you would behave other than as always. It is the subject of …” She found herself reluctant to use the word, and yet to circle around it was somehow an insult to the victims. “The subject of rape,” she said distinctly. They were not close enough to anyone else to be overheard. “I am afraid that there may have been another incident, ending equally tragically, and I am uncertain what to do for the best.”
The concern in his face became profound. “Tell me,” he said simply.
Quietly and without elaboration she recounted what had happened at the party during which Angeles Castelbranco had met her death. She was startled and even a little embarrassed that her throat ached with the effort to keep her tears in check. She had not intended him to be aware of the depth of her feelings.
“There was nothing you could have done,” he said gently when she had finished.
The pity in his eyes, almost tenderness, caught her with a raw edge, awakening other, more complex emotions.
“But I didn’t try to do anything,” she said sharply.
“What could you have done?” he asked. “From what you say it was all over in a few terrible moments.”
She took a deep breath and stared down at the tablecloth, the silver and crystal still winking in the light as a breath of wind stirred the leaves above them. “I knew there was something wrong over a week ago,” she answered. “I should have done something then.”
“You knew, or you suspected?” he said.
“That’s splitting hairs, Victor. It doesn’t help.”
“What is it you want me to say?” he asked reasonably.
She felt a completely uncharacteristic flare of temper. She wanted to lash out at him for being patronizing and completely missing the point, but she knew that was unfair. She sipped her wine for a moment before answering.
“I suspect Angeles might have been assaulted, possibly raped, and that is why she reacted to young Forsbrook so violently. She was terrified, of that I am quite certain. What I do not know is what to do about it now.”
“Is Pitt aware of this?” he inquired.
“I imagine so; most certainly Charlotte is. But it is not a police matter, let alone one for Special Branch. I very much doubt the Castelbrancos will report it to anyone. They are foreigners here, in many senses alone in a strange country.”
“Vespasia—” he began.
“I know,” she said quickly. “It is not my right to interfere, and if I do so I will assuredly make it worse. But regardless of what the law may think,