He very seldom swore, and he heard the echo of his own voice with disgust. He was shaking with fury. Every instinct in him was to attack, to punish Forsbrook until there was nothing left of him. And all he could do was stand by and watch.
And now Stoker too was expecting something of him he could not give. He wondered for a brief instant if Narraway would have done better.
Stoker did not flinch. “So are we going to let it go … sir?” he asked. His voice was so tight in his throat it was a pitch higher than normal.
“When was Alban Hythe arrested?” Pitt asked coldly.
“Last night, sir, or more accurately, late yesterday evening,” Stoker replied. “Shortly after Pamela O’Keefe was raped and killed, if that’s what you’re asking. Too close to call.”
“Of course that’s what I’m asking!” Pitt snapped. “So could he be guilty of killing Pamela O’Keefe, regardless of the crimes against Mrs. Quixwood or Angeles Castelbranco?”
“It doesn’t seem likely, sir,” Stoker said grimly. He took a breath. “I’d say we’ve got two violent men raping respectable women. Maybe three. Unless you’re thinking Angeles Castelbranco wasn’t actually raped.”
“No, I’m not thinking that!” Pitt all but snarled. He knew he was being unfair, but the sense of outrage and futility suffocated him. “Coincidences happen, but I don’t believe in them until there’s nothing else left.” He stared at Stoker’s blank face. “Find out if there’s any further connection between Forsbrook and this poor girl. Maybe he is the leader of a whole bunch of cowards that go after women.”
“A gang of them?” Stoker said with disgust, his hands curled into fists. “Isn’t that some special sort of crime?” There was a lift of hope in his voice.
“If he or any of them killed the O’Keefe girl, we can hang them just as high for that as for Angeles’s death,” Pitt replied. “Go and find out. But, Stoker …”
The younger man halted at the door and turned. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“Be careful,” he warned again. “I would very much rather the Foreign Secretary had no occasion to think of us at the moment, let alone know anything. I’ve been told to leave it alone. It was an order. I need to be damn careful not to be seen disobeying. Your inquiries are for the purpose of making certain Mr. Forsbrook is not mistakenly blamed for any of this. Do you understand?”
Stoker snapped to attention, his eyes brilliant as sunlight on ice. “Absolutely, sir. We must protect our national honor. An upstanding young gentleman like Mr. Forsbrook musn’t be slandered by some foreign ambassador, no matter how upset the poor man might be about his daughter’s most unfortunate death in our capital city.” He took a breath and went on. “And we must make certain there is no connection in anyone’s mind between that and this other poor girl’s rape and murder, sir. Mrs. Quixwood is quite another matter … no connection whatever. Regrettably London appears to be full of rapists, and I suppose young ladies are not careful enough who they keep company with—”
“Stoker!” Pitt barked.
“Yes, sir?” Stoker opened his eyes wide.
“You’ve made your point.”
Stoker lowered his voice. “Yes, sir.” There was something close to a smile on his lips. “I’ll report to you as soon as I have anything, sir.” And without waiting to be dismissed, he turned on his heel and went out.
Pitt picked up the telephone to call Narraway.
TWO HOURS LATER PITT and Narraway walked along the Embankment with the magnificent Palace of Westminster towering above them in the sun. On the telephone Pitt had very briefly told Narraway of the new rape case, keeping the details until they met. Narraway in turn had given him nothing beyond the bare fact of Alban Hythe’s arrest. His own ambivalent emotions about it were clear in his voice.
On the river to their left a pleasure boat passed with people crowding the decks, laughing and pointing, straw hats waving, bright with ribbons. Somewhere out of sight a barrel organ was playing a popular song. The sound of laughter drifted on the breeze.
“Stoker told me this morning,” Pitt said quietly. “Apparently it happened yesterday evening. They can’t be sure as to the exact time. Quite early, though.”
“Alban Hythe was arrested by nine,” Narraway replied. “I know that beyond doubt.”
Pitt looked across at Narraway’s face, trying to read his emotions. As always, it was difficult. But he was getting to know Narraway far better now than he