Midnight at Marble Arch

Anne Perry

Book - 2013

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Subjects
Genres
Mystery fiction
Historical fiction
Published
New York : Ballantine Books [2013], ©2013.
Language
English
Main Author
Anne Perry (-)
Edition
First edition
Physical Description
337 pages ; 25 cm
ISBN
9780345536662
Contents unavailable.
Review by New York Times Review

Anne Perry has killed off a lot of women in a lot of ways since she began writing her atmospheric mysteries about Thomas Pitt, a detective in late-Victorian London, and his highborn wife, Charlotte. But, strange as it may seem for such an unflinching observer of the criminal justice system, until now Perry hadn't trained her exacting eye on the subject of rape. MIDNIGHT AT MARBLE ARCH (Ballantine, $27) makes up for that lapse with a vengeance. Without losing her grip on the refined language appropriate to the day, Perry has written a sweeping and scandalous exposé of sexual brutality amid the upper classes. When violated women in Victorian novels say their lives are ruined, they aren't being melodramatic. "Many women never get over rape. Can't bear the shame and the horror of it," according to the police surgeon performing an autopsy on the wife of a merchant banker who took a lethal dose of laudanum after being raped and brutally beaten. Not only do the victims feel themselves damaged beyond repair, he explains, but their husbands often blame their wives for provocative behavior - and themselves for failing to protect those living under their care. The stigma is even worse for Angeles Castelbranco, the 16-year-old daughter of the Portuguese ambassador. Experts in the art of reading social cues, Charlotte Pitt and her great-aunt, Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, are made aware of the young woman's distress simply by noting how she recoils when a young man approaches her at a party. Thomas, who now occupies an exalted position as head of Special Branch, is busy on sensitive matters of security like a possible war with the Boers in southern Africa. So it falls to his friend, Victor Narraway, to continue the investigation when other women of good reputation are violently attacked. Although the subject is strictly taboo in this society, Perry has perfected a delicate touch in approaching the untouchable. Even when dealing with sexual violence, she applies the same nuanced technique that she uses to indicate a woman's age, class and marital status by recording the precise shade of her dress. It's more than a neat trick: it makes readers aware of how the violation of women, those symbols of social stability, can send a modern civilization back to the dark ages. Every narrative tactic that Anne Perry executes with a graceful flick of the wrist, David Morrell attacks with balled fists in MURDER AS A FINE ART (Mulholland/Little, Brown, $25.99), a hot-blooded account of a midVictorian case of multiple murder. In the London of 1854, Inspector Sean Ryan, an Irishman in a city that hates Irish immigrants, knows to hide his flaming red hair under a cap before taking to the unruly streets of the East End to investigate the killings of a shopkeeper and his entire household. The forensic science of the day may be primitive, but Ryan can see the similarities between these carefully staged slaughters and the horrific Ratcliffe Highway murders of 1811 - a domestic massacre luridly detailed in a contentious work, "On Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts," by the infamous opiumeater Thomas De Quincey. And wouldn't you know, De Quincey just happens to be in town. Morrell's style takes some getting used to, since he keeps switching time frames and points of view and dropping bits of background (like a lovely little lecture on laudanum) into the narrative. But, as might be expected from the creator of Rambo, Morrell writes action scenes like nobody's business. And that can be a kind of gift when you have the urge to step out of the drawing room and into a rat-infested alley. A good storyteller - and R. B. Chesterton is quite a good storyteller - knows to lower her voice when she's talking about ghosts. This author (who writes cozy mysteries under her real name, Carolyn Haines) reaches into the grave for the sepulchral tone in which she narrates THE DARKLING (Pegasus Crime, $24.95), a moody tale about a sad town that comes to grief trying to relive its glittering past. During the 1940s, movie stars flocked to Coden, Ala., "where pleasure and vice could be indulged" in peace and for a price at the Paradise Inn. But by 1974, the pretty people are gone, the hotel is boarded up, and the locals have linked their dreams for the town's rebirth to the Hendersons, a golden couple with three golden children. Having restored a grand house and raised hopes they might rescue the Paradise Inn, these California transplants spread more sunshine by taking in a homeless teenager and hiring a live-in tutor. That's how Marie Bosarge ("You can call me Mimi"), the 21-year-old narrator, comes to witness the mysterious events in this spellbinding tale, offering eloquent evidence that Southern storytelling is indeed a very special art form. Even writers who have found their groove like to refresh themselves and their sleuths. Jon Taiton started the process when he arranged for his Phoenix sheriff, Mike Peralta, to be voted out of office, making things considerably tougher for his series hero, David Mapstone, the sheriff's deputy. In THE NIGHT DETECTIVES (Poisoned Pen, $24.95) Mapstone and Peralta have gone into business as private detectives, and their first case sends Mapstone to San Diego to investigate the death of a young woman whose thuggish "brother" isn't happy with the official suicide verdict. The case itself is only mildly interesting, but the trip drags Mapstone out of his slump, gives his marriage a boost and gets the new partnership off to a flying start. In Anne Perry's latest Victorian mystery, women of good reputation are being violently attacked.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [May 5, 2013]
Review by Booklist Review

*Starred Review* Perry has two hit Victorian mystery series going, one starring William Monk and the other featuring Charlotte and Thomas Pitt. This twenty-sixth entry in the Pitt series shows once again the Victorian era's abundance of social abuses, which often led to crime. The Pitts have moved up the social ladder, not that they've sought it, but with each of Thomas' promotions in the police (he is now head of Special Branch), their world has included more of the wealthy and the aristocratic but also more of the depraved, who can cover crimes more easily than the poor. This mystery, involving, as always, the investigative talents of both Charlotte and Thomas, centers on sexual assault. Two gatherings, a formal ball and a reception, showcase two women caught up in Victorian male hypocrisy. One of the Pitts' friends, a high-up London financier, attends the ball alone. He's summoned away, however, when his wife, who begged off attending, is found raped and murdered in their front hall. At the same ball, the daughter of the Portuguese ambassador shows every evidence of terror as a young noble pursues her. Perry expertly shows how a society in which women have no recourse against sexual assault, except for covering it up themselves, opens itself to a variety of desperate acts highlighting women's vulnerabilities. Perry is a master at illuminating the wrongs of the Victorian age.--Fletcher, Connie Copyright 2010 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Sexual violence is at the heart of bestseller Perry's engrossing 28th Charlotte and Thomas Pitt novel (after 2012's Dorchester Terrace), set in 1896 London. Pitt, the new head of Special Branch, and his ousted predecessor, Victor Narraway, are about to leave a party when a police officer informs another guest, financier Rawdon Quixwood, that his wife, Catherine, is dead. Pitt and Narraway accompany Quixwood to the financier's house, where they find the wife's battered body. After being raped by her assailant-someone she apparently let inside-she drank a fatal dose of laudanum. Later, Angeles Castelbranco, the Portuguese ambassador's daughter, plunges to her death in an effort to escape the rake who had been tormenting her. Pitt learns that she, too, was the victim of sexual assault. In an intriguing twist, Quixwood provides the alibi for the suspect in that case. Perry does a nice job exploring late Victorian attitudes toward sex crimes. Agent: Donald Maass, Donald Maas Literary Agency. (Apr.) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Review by Library Journal Review

Perry's latest series entry (after Dorchester Terrace) examines the crime of rape. Two very different rape and death cases come to the Pitts' attention-one of the 16-year-old daughter of the Portuguese ambassador, the other of a charming, middle-aged socialite. Now head of Special Branch, Thomas is determined to bring the culprits to justice. Too soon he learns the frustrations of proving rape and prosecuting a rapist. Meanwhile, a skirmish in South Africa has ruined the investments of a prominent British financier. Can these events be connected? Can Thomas figure out the answers without endangering his family and his career? Davina Porter gives her usual sterling performance, voicing the increasingly worried Thomas, the more mature but still impetuous Charlotte, young Jemima Pitt on the brink of womanhood, and many other characters. Pitch and pacing are the effective means that Porter uses to bring the young girls, the brusque, impatient older men, and the experienced older women to life. VERDICT Recommended for fans of the series and historical mysteries. [The Ballantine hc was a New York Times best seller.-Ed.]-Juleigh Muirhead Clark, Colonial Williamsburg Fdn. Lib., VA (c) Copyright 2013. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

chapter 1 Pitt stood at the top of the stairs and looked across the glittering ballroom of the Spanish Embassy in the heart of London. The light from the chandeliers sparkled on necklaces, bracelets, and earrings. Between the somber black and white suits of the men, the women's gowns blossomed in every color of the early summer: delicate pastels for the young, burning pinks and golds for those in the height of their beauty, and wines, mulberries, and lavenders for the more advanced. Beside him was Charlotte, her hand resting lightly on his arm. She had no diamonds to wear, but he knew that she had long ago ceased to mind that. It was 1896 and she was now forty years old. The flush of youth had gone, but the richness of maturity became her even more. The happiness that glowed in her face was lovelier than flawless skin or sculpted features, which were mere gifts of chance. Her hand tightened on his arm for a moment as they started down the stairs. Then they moved into the throng of people, smiling, acknowledging this one and that, trying to remember names. Pitt had recently been promoted to head of Britain's Special Branch, and it was a heavier weight of responsibility than he had ever carried before. There was no one senior to him in whom he could confide, or to whom he could defer a difficult decision. He spoke now to ministers, ambassadors, people of influence far greater than their casual laughter in this room might suggest. Pitt had been born in the most modest of circumstances, and gatherings like this were still not easy for him. As a policeman, he had entered homes through the kitchen door, like any other servant, whereas now he was socially acceptable because of the power his position gave him and because he was privy to a range of secrets about almost everyone in the room. Beside him Charlotte moved easily, and he watched her grace with pleasure. She had been born into Society and knew its foibles and its weaknesses, even if she was too disastrously candid to steer her way through them, unless it was absolutely necessary, as it was now. She murmured some polite comment to the woman next to her, trying to look interested in the reply. Then she allowed herself to be introduced to Isaura Castelbranco, the wife of the Portuguese Ambassador to Britain. "How do you do, Mrs. Pitt?" Isaura replied with warmth. She was a shorter woman than Charlotte, barely of average height, but the dignity of her bearing made her stand apart from the ordinary. Her features were gentle, almost vulnerable, and her eyes were so dark as to seem black against her pale skin. "I hope you are finding our summer weather agreeable?" Charlotte remarked, for the sake of something to say. No one cared about the subject: it was the tone of voice, the smile in the eyes, that mattered. "It is very pleasant not to be too hot," Isaura answered immediately. "I am looking forward to the Regatta. It is at Henley, I believe?" "Indeed it is," Charlotte agreed. "I admit, I haven't been for years, but I would love to do so again." Pitt knew that was not really true. Charlotte found the chatter and the pretentiousness of lavish Society events a little tedious, but he could see in her face that she liked this woman with her quiet manner. They spoke for several minutes more before courtesy required that they offer their attention to the others who swirled around under the lights, or drifted to the various side rooms, or down the stairs to the hallway below. They separated with a smile as Pitt was drawn into conversation with a junior minister from the Foreign Office. Charlotte managed to catch the attention of her great-aunt, Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould. Actually she was great-aunt by marriage to Charlotte's sister Emily, but over the years that distinction had ceased even to be remembered, let alone matter. "You seem to be enjoying yourself," Vespasia said softly, amusement lighting her remarkable silver-gray eyes. In her prime she had reputedly been the most beautiful woman in Europe, certainly the wittiest. Did they but know it, she was also one who had fought at the barricades in Rome, during the turbulent revolution that had swept Europe in '48. "I haven't forgotten all my manners," Charlotte replied with her usual frankness. "I fear I am reaching an age when I cannot afford to wear an expression of boredom. It is terribly unflattering." Vespasia was quite openly amused, her smile warm. "It never does to look as if you are waiting for something," she agreed. "Which is good. Women who are waiting are so tiresome. Who have you met?" "The wife of the Portuguese ambassador," Charlotte replied. "I liked her immediately. There is something unusual in her face. I'm sorry I shall probably never see her again." "Isaura Castelbranco," Vespasia said thoughtfully. "I know little of her, thank heaven. I know too much about so many other people. A little mystery lends such charm, like the softness of the late afternoon or the silence between the notes of music." Charlotte was turning the thought over in her mind before replying when there was a sudden commotion a dozen yards away from them. Like those around her, she turned toward it. A very elegant young man with a sweep of fair hair took a step backward, raising his hands defensively, a look of disbelief on his face. In front of him a girl in a gown of white lace stood alone, the skin of her bosom, neck and cheeks flushed red. She was very young, perhaps no more than sixteen, but of a Mediterranean darkness, and already the woman she would become was clear in the curves of her body. Everyone around the two fell silent, either in embarrassment or possibly out of confusion, as if they had little idea what was happening. "Really, you are quite unreasonable," the young man said defensively, his voice light, trying to brush off the incident. "You misunderstood me." The girl was not soothed at all. She looked angry, even a little frightened. "No, sir," she said in slightly accented English. "I did not misunderstand. Some things are the same in all languages." He still did not seem to be perturbed, only elaborately patient, as with someone who was being unintentionally obtuse. "I assure you, I meant it merely as a compliment. You must be used to such things?" She drew in her breath to answer, but obviously could not find the words she wished. He smiled, now openly amused at her, perhaps just a little mocking. He was good-looking in an unusual way. He had a strong and prominent nose and thin lips, but fine dark eyes. "You'll have to get used to admiration." His look swept up and down her with just a fraction too much candor. "You'll receive a great deal of it, I can promise you." The girl was shaking now. Even from where she stood, Charlotte could see that she had no idea how to deal with such inappropriate appreciation of her beauty. She was too young to have learned the necessary composure. It seemed her mother was not close enough to have overheard the exchange, and the young man, whom she now recognized as Neville Forsbrook, was very confident. His father was one of London's foremost bankers and the family had wealth and status, and all the privilege that came with it. He was not used to being denied anything, most especially by a girl who was not even British. Charlotte took a step forward, and felt Vespasia's hand on her arm, restraining her. The color had drained out of the girl's face, leaving her ashen. "Leave me alone!" Her voice was shrill and a little too loud. "Don't touch me!" Neville Forsbrook laughed quite openly now. "My dear young lady, you are being ridiculous, and making something of a spectacle of yourself. I'm sure that is not what you wish." He was smiling, and he took a step toward her, one hand out in front of him, as if to soothe. The girl swung her hand wildly in an arc, catching his arm with hers and knocking it aside roughly. She swiveled around to escape, lost her balance and almost fell against another young woman, who promptly screamed and flung herself into the arms of a startled young man close to her. The girl managed to untangle herself and fled, sobbing now. Neville Forsbrook remained where he was with a half smile on his face, which quickly changed to a look of bewilderment. He shrugged and spread his hands, elegant and strong, but the shadow of a smile remained. Was it out of embarrassment, or was there still the faintest hint of mockery there? Charlotte wasn't sure. Someone stepped forward and began a polite conversation about nothing in particular. Others joined in gratefully. After a few moments the hum of voices resumed, the rustle of skirts, distant music, the slight sound of feet moving on the polished floor. It was as if nothing had happened. "That was very ugly," Charlotte said to Vespasia as soon as she was certain they were not overheard. "What an insensitive young man." "He must feel foolish," Vespasia replied with a touch of sympathy. "What on earth was that all about?" a dark-haired woman near them asked confusedly. The elderly man with her shook his head. "Young ladies tend to be rather excitable, my dear. I wouldn't worry about it. It's just some misunderstanding, no doubt." "Who is she, anyway?" the woman asked him, glancing at Charlotte also, in case she could shed light on it. "Angeles Castelbranco. Pretty young thing," the elderly man remarked, not really to anyone. "Going to be a beautiful woman." "That's hardly relevant, James!" his wife snapped. "She doesn't know how to behave! Imagine her doing that at a dinner party!" "Quite bad enough here, thank you," another woman joined in. The brilliance of her diamonds and the sheen on her lush green silks could not disguise the bitterness of her expression. Charlotte was stung to the girl's defense. "I'm sure you are right," she said, meeting the woman's eyes boldly. "You must know far more about it than we do. All we saw was what appeared to be a rather self-assured young man quite clearly embarrassing a foreign ambassador's daughter. I have no idea what preceded it, or how it might more kindly have been handled." Charlotte felt Vespasia's hand fall very lightly on her arm again, but she ignored it. She kept the fixed, inquiring smile on her face and did not lower her gaze. The woman in green colored angrily. "You give me too much credit, Mrs. . . . I'm afraid I do not know your name . . ." She left the denial hanging in the air, not so much a question as a dismissal. "But of course I am well acquainted with Sir Pelham Forsbrook, and therefore his son, Neville, who has been kind enough to show a very flattering interest in my youngest daughter." Pitt now rejoined them with a glance at Vespasia, but Charlotte did not introduce either him or herself to the woman in green. "Let us hope it is more graciously expressed than his unflattering interest in Miss Castelbranco," she continued in a tone so sweet as to be sickly. "But of course you will make sure of that. You are not in a foreign country and uncertain how to deal with ambiguous remarks from young men directed toward your daughter." "I do not know any young men who make ambiguous remarks!" the woman snapped back, her eyebrows arched high. "How pleasant for you," Charlotte murmured. The elderly man coughed, and raised his handkerchief to conceal his mouth, his eyes dancing. Pitt turned his head away as if he had heard some sudden noise to attract his attention, and accidentally pulled Charlotte with him, although in truth she was perfectly ready to leave. That had been her parting shot. From here on it could only get worse. She gave a dazzling smile to Vespasia, and saw an answering sparkle in her eyes. "What on earth are you doing?" Pitt demanded softly as soon as they were out of earshot. "Telling her she's a fool," Charlotte replied. She had thought her meaning was obvious. "I know that!" he retorted. "And so does she. You have just made an enemy." "I'm sorry," she apologized. "That may be unfortunate, but being her friend would have been even more so. She's a social climber of the worst sort." "How do you know? Who is she?" he asked. "I know because I've just seen how she acts. And I have no idea who she is, nor do I care." She knew she might regret saying that, but just at the moment she was too angry to curb her temper. "I am going to speak to Senhora Castelbranco and make sure her daughter is all right." "Charlotte . . ." She broke free, turned for a moment and gave him the same dazzling smile she had offered Vespasia, then moved into the crowd toward where she had last seen the Portuguese ambassador's wife. It took her ten minutes more to find her. Senhora Castelbranco was standing near one of the doorways, her daughter with her. The girl was the same height as her mother, and even prettier than she had appeared at a distance. Her eyes were dazzling, and her skin softly honey-colored with a faint flush across her cheeks. She watched Charlotte approach them with an alarm that she could not hide, even though she was clearly trying to. Charlotte smiled at her briefly, then turned to her mother. "I'm so sorry that wretched young man was rude. It must be impossibly difficult for you to do anything, in your diplomatic position. It really was inexcusable of him." She turned to the girl, then realized she was uncertain how fluent her English might be. "I hope you are all right?" she said a little awkwardly. "I apologize. We should have made sure you were not placed in such an ugly situation." Angeles smiled, but her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, I am quite all right, madam, I assure you. I . . . I am not hurt. I . . ." She gulped. "I just did not know how to answer him." Isaura put a protective arm around her daughter's shoulder. "She is well, of course. Just a little embarrassed. In our own language she would've known what to say." She gave a little shrug. "In English one is not always sure if one is being amusing, or perhaps insulting. It is better not to speak than risk saying something one cannot later withdraw." "Of course," Charlotte said, although she felt uneasy. It seemed like Angeles had actually been far more distressed than they were admitting. "The more awkward the situation, the harder it is to find the words in another language," she agreed. "That is why he should have known better than to behave as he did. I am so sorry." Isaura smiled at her, her dark eyes unreadable. "You are very kind, but I assure you there is no harm done beyond a few moments' unpleasantness. That is unavoidable in life. It happens to all of us at some time or another. The Season is full of events. I hope we will meet again." It was gracious, but it was also a dismissal, as if they wished to be left alone for a while, perhaps even to leave. "I hope so too," Charlotte agreed, and excused herself. Her feeling of unease was, if anything, greater. As she returned to where she had left Pitt, she passed several groups of people talking. One of half a dozen included the woman in green, of whom she had undoubtedly made an enemy. "Very excitable temperament," she was saying. "Unreliable, I'm afraid. But we have no choice except to deal with them, I suppose." "No choice at all, so my husband informs me," another assured her. "It seems we have a treaty with Portugal that is over five hundred years old, and for some reason or another, we consider it important." "One of the great colonial powers, I'm told," a third woman said with a lift of her fair eyebrows, as if the fact was scarcely credible. "I thought it was just a rather agreeable little country off the west side of Spain." She gave a tinkling laugh. Charlotte was unreasonably irritated, given that she knew very little more of Portuguese colonial history than the woman who had spoken. "Frankly, my dear, I think she had possibly taken rather too much wine and was the worse for it," the woman in green said confidentially. "When I was sixteen we never drank more than lemonade." The second woman leaned forward conspiratorially. "And too young to be engaged, don't you think?" "She is engaged? Good heavens, yes." Her voice was emphatic. "Should wait another year, at the very least. She is far too immature, as she has just most unfortunately demonstrated. To whom is she engaged?" "That's the thing," the third woman said, shrugging elegantly. "Very good marriage, I believe. Tiago de Freitas. Excellent family. Enormous amount of money, I think from Brazil. Could it be Brazil?" "Well, there's gold there, and Brazil is Portuguese," a fourth woman told them, smoothing the silk of her skirt. "So it could well be so. And Angola in the southwest of Africa is Portuguese, and so is Mozambique in southeast Africa, and they say there's gold there too." "Then how did we come to let the Portuguese have it?" the woman in green asked irritably. "Somebody wasn't paying attention!" "Perhaps they've quarreled?" one of them suggested. "Who? The Portuguese?" the woman in green demanded. "Or do you mean the Africans?" "I meant Angeles Castelbranco and Tiago de Freitas" came the impatient reply. "That would account for her being a bit hysterical." "It doesn't excuse bad manners," the woman in green said sharply, lifting her rather pronounced chin, and thereby making more of the diamonds at her throat. "If one is indisposed, one should say so and remain at home." At that rate, you should never set foot out of the door, Charlotte thought bitterly. And we should all be the happier for it. But she could not say so. She was an eavesdropper, not part of the conversation. She moved on quickly before they became aware that she had been standing in the same spot for several moments, for no apparent reason except to overhear. She found Pitt speaking with a group of people she didn't know. In case it might be important, she did not interrupt. When there was a break in the discussion, he excused himself temporarily and came over to her. "Did you find the ambassador's wife?" he asked, his brow slightly furrowed with concern. "Yes," she said quietly. "Thomas, I'm afraid she's still very upset. It was a miserable thing to do to a young girl from a foreign country. At the very least, he made public fun of her. She's only sixteen, just two years older than Jemima." In the moment of saying her own daughter's name she felt a tug of fear, conscious of how terribly vulnerable Jemima was. She was partway between child and woman, her body seeming to change every week, to leave behind the comfort of girlhood but not yet gain the grace and confidence of an adult. Pitt looked startled. Clearly he had not even imagined Jemima in a ball gown with her hair coiled up on her head and young men seeing so much more than the child she was. Charlotte smiled at him. "You should look more carefully, Thomas. Jemima's still a little self-conscious, but she has curves, and more than one young man has looked at her a second and third time--including her dance teacher and the rector's son." Pitt stiffened. She put her hand on his arm, gently. "There's no need to be alarmed. I'm watching. She's still two years younger than Angeles Castelbranco, and at this age two years is a lot. But she's full of moods. One minute she's so happy she can't stop singing, an hour later she's in tears or has lost her temper. She quarrels with poor Daniel, who doesn't know what's the matter with her, and then she's so reticent she doesn't want to come out of her bedroom." "I had noticed," Pitt said drily. "Are you sure it's normal?" Excerpted from Midnight at Marble Arch by Anne Perry All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.