wooden table. Narraway had to use considerable influence to gain access and be left alone with Hythe, while the barrel-chested jailer remaining outside the door.
“I haven’t seen that brooch, and I never received love letters from Catherine!” Hythe said urgently. His voice shook a little. “We were friends. That’s all! Never more than that. Maris is the only woman I’ve loved.”
“Did they show you the letter?” Narraway asked him.
“Yes, but I swear it’s the first time I ever saw it!” Hythe was barely in control. His hands twitched and there was a wild desperation in his eyes.
“Do you believe she wrote it?” Narraway pressed. “They say it is undoubtedly her handwriting, but is it also the kind of language she would’ve used?”
“I’ve no idea! The letter is all about love, and we didn’t speak of love. We only—” He stopped abruptly.
“What?” Narraway asked. “What did you talk about? This is not the time to be modest or circumspect. You’re fighting for your life.”
“I know!” Hythe shivered uncontrollably.
Narraway leaned forward. “Then tell me, what did you talk about? If it wasn’t you who did this, then who else could it have been?”
“Don’t you think I’ve racked my brain to remember anything she said that could help me?” Hythe was close to panic.
Narraway realized he had made a tactical error in frightening Hythe by bringing up the stakes so soon. He moderated his voice. “Have you any idea how often you met? Once a week? Twice a week? Her diaries suggest at least that.”
Hythe looked down at the scarred tabletop. His voice when he spoke was quiet. “The first time we met by chance, at a dinner party. I forget where. It was a business matter, and rather tedious. Then a little while later I was at an art gallery, filling time before meeting a client for luncheon. I saw Catherine and recognized her. It seemed quite natural that we should speak.”
“What did you discuss?” Narraway asked.
Hythe smiled for the first time, as if a pleasant memory had given him a few moments’ respite from reality. “Pre-Raphaelite paintings,” he answered. “She wondered what the models were thinking about, sitting still for so long while the artist drew them in such fanciful surroundings. We thought about where they had actually been—some studio or just an ordinary room—and if they even knew the legends and dreams into which they were painted.
“Catherine was very funny. She could make one laugh so easily. Her imagination was … quite unlike that of anyone else I have ever known. She always had the right words to make one see the absurdity of things, but she was never mocking. She liked eccentricity and wasn’t afraid of anything.” His expression became sad. “Except loneliness.”
“And Quixwood never noticed that, clearly,” Narraway observed.
“A clever man, but with a pedestrian soul,” Hythe answered without hesitation. “Her soul had wings, and she hated being made to spend her time with her feet in the dust.” He bent his head suddenly. “I’m sorry; my judgment is unwarranted and cruel. She was just so alive; I hate whoever did this to her. They have spoiled something that was lovely and destroyed a friend I cared about. She was … she was good.” He seemed to want to add more. It was in that moment that Narraway knew Hythe was lying, in essence if not in word.
“Just a friend?” he asked skeptically.
“Yes!” Hythe jerked his head up. “Just a friend. We talked; we looked at pictures painted from great imaginations, at pages from books written on papyrus from the very first poets and dreamers in the world. We saw carvings of grace made by artists who died before Christ was born. She escaped from her loneliness, and I from my world of facts and figures, interest on loans, duty on imported treasures, and prices of land.”
His voice trembled.
“Haven’t you ever had friends, Lord Narraway? People you like enormously, who enrich your world, and without whom you would be poorer in a dozen ways—but you are not in love with them?”
Narraway instantly thought of Vespasia.
“Yes, I have,” he said honestly, feeling the warmth himself, for a moment.
“Then you can understand.” Hythe looked relieved. The ghost of a smile returned to his pale face.
Narraway felt a sudden stab of surprise, a question in his mind. What exactly did he feel for Vespasia? She was older than he by several years. He had been elevated to the House of Lords because of his skills, and possibly as a sop to