“You are sure that Quixwood was aware of it?” Narraway pressed.
“Of course! He and I even talked about an exhibition at the National Geographical Society, photographs of Patagonia. He told me how beautiful Catherine found it: great sweeping wilderness country; all pale, wind-bleached colors, light and shadow. Superb.”
“Did she speak to anyone else about the financial issues?”
Hythe thought for several moments, then met Narraway’s eyes.
“I don’t think so. From what she said to me, I gathered I was the only person she trusted.”
“She came to you for financial information, but you said she was warm, amusing, a lovely woman.”
“She was!”
“And Quixwood was cold, without a true understanding of her?” Narraway insisted.
“Yes.”
“So she was lonely, maybe desperately lonely?”
Hythe swallowed painfully. “Yes.” His voice was husky with emotion, guilt, and perhaps pity. “But I did not take advantage of that. I had no wish to. I liked her, liked … cared … but I did not love her.” He added no oaths, no pleas, and his words were the more powerful for it.
“It’s not enough. You have to think harder!” Narraway leaned forward again, a note of desperation in his voice. He heard it and forced himself to speak more levelly. “Whoever it was that raped her, she let him in.” He swallowed hard. “She wasn’t afraid to be alone with him. What do you conclude from that?”
“That she knew him,” Hythe said miserably. He shook his head a little. “It doesn’t sound like Catherine at all, not as I knew her.”
“Then as you knew her, how do you explain it?” Narraway demanded. “What do you believe happened?”
“Do you think I haven’t tried to work it out?” Hythe said desperately. “If she let the servants go then she wasn’t expecting anyone. Letting them all retire for the night like that makes it obvious; Catherine was never careless in that way. It would be … unnecessarily dangerous. What if a footman had come down to check a door, or the butler came to ensure she didn’t need anything? Isn’t that what actually happened?”
“More or less,” Narraway agreed.
“So the person at the door had to be someone unexpected,” Hythe argued.
“But then why did she let him in?” Narraway persisted. “Why would the woman you knew have done that?”
“It must have been someone she knew and had no fear of,” Hythe answered. “Maybe he claimed to be hurt, or in some kind of trouble. She wouldn’t hesitate to try and help.” He stopped abruptly. He made no display of grief, but it was so deeply marked on his face that it was unmistakable.
Narraway suddenly was completely certain that Hythe had not raped Catherine or beaten her. Someone else had, but Hythe was going to face trial. The letter and the gift would damn him. And there was no one else to suspect. He felt a jolt of fear.
Who was going to defend Hythe in court, at the very least raise a reasonable doubt? That would not clear his name, but guilt would hang him, and finding the right person after that would matter little. Hythe would be dead, and Maris a widow and alone.
“Do you have a lawyer, a really first-class advocate?” Narraway asked.
Hythe looked as if he had been struck. “Not yet. I—I don’t know of anyone …” He trailed off, lost.
“I will find you someone,” Narraway promised rashly.
“I can’t pay … very much,” Hythe began.
“I will persuade him to represent you for free,” Narraway replied, intending if necessary to pay for the barrister himself. Already he had the man in mind, and he would speak to him this afternoon.
He remained only a little longer, going over details of facts again so they were clear in his mind. Then he excused himself and went straight from the prison to the chambers of Peter Symington in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, a short distance away. If any man would take on the case of defending Alban Hythe with a chance of winning, it was he.
Narraway insisted on seeing Symington immediately, using the suggestion of more influence than he possessed to override the clerk’s protests.
He found Symington standing in the middle of the well-carpeted floor, a leather-bound book in his hand. He had clearly been interrupted against his instructions. He was a handsome man in his early forties. Most remarkable about him were his thick, fair hair, curling beyond the barber’s control, and the dazzling charm of his smile.