matter of urgency, it can’t wait,” he explained as the clerk closed the door behind him.
“You’ve been charged with something?” Symington said curiously.
Narraway was in no mood for levity. “Inspector Knox has charged a man with the rape of Catherine Quixwood, and therefore morally, in the minds of the jury, with her murder. I would like you to defend him. I believe he’s innocent.”
Symington blinked. “You’d like me to defend him? Does he mean something to you, to the government, to Special Branch? Or is it just because you think he’s innocent?” There was amusement in his voice, and curiosity. “I presume he told you he is?” He put the book down on his desk, closed, as if it no longer interested him. “Why me? Or am I the only one you think fool enough to take it?”
In spite of himself Narraway smiled. “Actually, the last,” he admitted. “But you are also the only one who would stick to it long enough to have a chance of winning. I really believe he’s innocent, and that there is something large and very ugly behind the whole case—maybe more than one thing. Certainly someone raped and beat the woman so badly she died as a result. She was a funny, brave, and beautiful woman. She deserves justice—but even more important, whoever did it needs to be taken off the streets and put where he can never hurt anyone else.”
Symington raised his eyebrows. “Like a grave?”
“That would do nicely,” Narraway agreed. “Will you take the case? I would like Hythe to believe it is without charge, because he doesn’t have the means to meet it. I’ll pay you myself, but he must never know.”
Symington’s utterly charming smile beamed again. “I’m not a fool, my lord. The case sounds like a challenge. I think I can clear my desk sufficiently to give it my very best attention. And I’ll weigh the matter of my bill, and send you what I feel appropriate. I give you my word that Hythe will believe I do it for the love of justice.”
“Thank you,” Narraway said sincerely. “Thank you very much.”
He hesitated, wondering if he were risking the frail thread of trust he had just established with Symington—and yet it was the only hint he had that there might be someone else besides Hythe to blame. But he also believed that at least in some sense Hythe was lying, or at the very best willfully concealing something.
Symington was waiting for him to speak.
“Hythe admitted meeting Catherine Quixwood as often as her diaries suggested, but he said she arranged it. He said she wanted him to give her financial advice.”
“And you believed that?” Symington said with a twisted smile. “Quixwood’s a financier himself, and an extremely good one.”
“I know,” Narraway admitted. “Hythe said she was afraid Quixwood was into something dubious, and over his head. She wanted to know more about it. If she was afraid for her future, if he had been reckless, then that would be believable.”
“Ah. But do you? Believe it?” Symington asked. “If he has any proof of it, why didn’t he tell Knox?”
“I don’t know,” Narraway admitted. “He’s lying about something. I just don’t know what.”
“But you’re sure he didn’t rape her?” Symington looked puzzled and not angry.
“Yes,” Narraway answered, unable to explain himself.
“Then I’ll take the case, try to win the trial,” Symington promised.
“Thank you,” Narraway said.
THAT EVENING NARRAWAY WENT out rather later than was customary to call on a woman alone, particularly one with whom he had only the slightest acquaintance. He stood in the small parlor of Alban Hythe’s house and told Maris what he had achieved.
Maris was so pale that her dark dress, more suitable for autumn than summer, drained the last trace of the vitality from her face. However, she kept her composure and stood straight-backed, head high, in front of him. What effort it must be costing her he could only guess.
“And this Mr. Symington will defend my husband, in spite of the evidence?” she asked. “Why? He can’t know that Alban is innocent. He’s never even met him. And we can’t pay the sort of money such a man as you describe would ask.” She struggled to keep control of her voice and very nearly failed.
“Then I did not describe him very well,” Narraway apologized. “Symington cares far more about the case than the money.”
She studied Narraway’s face for several moments, searching his eyes to judge whether he was lying to her, or at the least prevaricating.