by Anne Perry
“Did Mr. Quixwood often go to parties by himself?” he asked.
“I suppose, yes.” She looked anxious again, afraid that she might unintentionally have said the wrong thing.
Knox smiled at her encouragingly, the lines of weariness on his face momentarily disappearing. “So anyone watching the house, maybe with a mind to burgling it, might have noticed that she would be alone, after the servants had retired for the night?”
She nodded, her face pale, perhaps picturing someone waiting in the dark outside, watching for that moment. She gave a very slight shiver and her body remained rigid.
“On those nights, she wouldn’t have visitors?” Knox went on. “Not have a lady friend come over, for example?”
“No,” Mrs. Millbridge answered. “Nobody that I know of.”
“And would you know, ma’am?”
“Well … if she had someone visit her, she would want tea, at the very least, and perhaps a light supper,” she pointed out. “There would be someone to fetch that, and then wait to let the visitor out and lock up. That means at least one maid and one footman.”
“Indeed,” Knox said calmly. “And if she were to leave the house herself, then I suppose there would have to be a footman available to let her back in again. Not to mention perhaps a coachman to take her wherever she was going?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Millbridge nodded her head.
Narraway thought of the other alternative, that a man had visited her and she had let him in and out herself. Any refreshment he had taken would be a glass of whisky or brandy from the decanter in the study. However, he did not say so. The inspector would surely have thought of it also.
Knox left the subject of visitors. “What did Mrs. Quixwood like to do with her time?”
Mrs. Millbridge looked puzzled, and the anxiety was back again. She did not answer. Narraway wondered immediately what it was she feared. He watched Knox’s face, but had no idea what lay behind the furrowed brow and the sad downturn of the inspector’s mouth.
“Did she enjoy the garden, perhaps?” Knox suggested. “Maybe even direct the gardener about what to plant, and where?”
“Oh, I see,” Mrs. Millbridge said with relief. “Yes, she was interested in flowers and things. Often arranged them herself, she did. In the house, I mean.” For a moment there was life in her face again, as if she had allowed herself to forget why they were here. “Went to lectures at the Royal Horticultural Society now and then,” she added. “Geographical Society too. Liked to read about other places, even far-off ones, such as India and Egypt. She read about the people who used to live there thousands of years ago.” She shook her head in wonderment at such a fancy. “And the Greeks and Romans too.”
“She sounds like a very interesting lady,” Knox observed.
Mrs. Millbridge gulped and the tears spilled down her cheeks. Suddenly her grief was painfully apparent. She looked old and crumpled and very vulnerable.
“I’m sorry,” Knox apologized gently. “Maybe we can leave anything else for another time. You must be tired.” He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s nearly two.”
“It’s all right,” she insisted, lifting her chin and looking at him with a degree of defiance, her dignity returned. Perhaps it was what he had intended.
“I’m sure,” he agreed. “But you’ll have your hands full in the morning. The maids are all going to look to you. You’ll have to be like a mother for them.” He was telling her what she knew, but the reminder of her importance was obviously steadying. “They won’t have known anything like this before,” he went on. “We’re going to have to see Mrs. Quixwood’s lady’s maid tomorrow anyway. I realize it’s very late and she’s surely too upset to speak to us tonight. But when we do … well, even with the extra time, she’s still going to be in considerable distress. It’s only to be expected. And she’ll need someone’s support, someone’s strength. A person she knows and trusts.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Millbridge stood up. “Yes, of course. Flaxley was devoted to Mrs. Quixwood.” She smoothed her skirt down. “You’re right, sir.” She glanced at Narraway, but she had no idea who he was. For her, Knox was in charge. “Thank you, sir. Good night.”
“Good night, Mrs. Millbridge,” Knox answered.
When she had retired to her bedroom, Knox at last took some tea, which was now cold. He said nothing, but it was clear in his face the strain this questioning placed on him. Narraway was overwhelmingly grateful that his professional years had not put him again and again in this position. Not seeing the confusion and the grief so closely, but dealing instead with the greater issues of danger to the country. Having to distance himself from the individual human loss had insulated him from the hard and intimate reality of it. The responsibility he had carried was heavy, sometimes almost unbearably so, but it still did not have this immediacy. It called for courage, strength of nerve and accuracy of judgment; it did not need this endurance for other people’s pain. He looked at Knox with a new regard, even an admiration.
The butler, Luckett, knocked on the door and came in. He looked exhausted, his face deeply lined, his eyes red-rimmed. Still, he stood at attention in front of Knox.
“Please sit down, Mr. Luckett.” Knox waved at the chair where Mrs. Millbridge had been. “I’m sorry, the tea’s cold.”
“Would you like some fresh tea, sir?” Luckett asked, without making a move toward the chair.
“What? Oh, no, thank you,” Knox replied. “I meant for you.”
“I’m quite well, thank you, sir,” Luckett said. He followed Knox’s gesture and sat down. “The house is in order, sir, and I have checked that all the doors and windows are locked. We’re safe for the night.”
“Did you find where anyone had broken in? Or any open windows, where someone could have pushed them wider and climbed through?” Knox asked.
“No, sir. Nothing out of place, and all the windows were locked when I checked them. I don’t know how he got in.”
“Then it looks for now as if he must have been let in,” Knox said.
“Yes, sir,” Luckett agreed obediently, but his face was tight with unhappiness.
“Have you known Mrs. Quixwood to have visitors late in the evening, and see them in and out herself, on any other occasion?” Knox asked.
Luckett was acutely uncomfortable at the question and all that it implied. “No, sir, I haven’t,” he said a little stiffly.
“But it is possible?” Knox pressed.
“I suppose it is.” Luckett could not argue.
“Was the front door locked when you found Mrs. Quixwood’s body tonight?” Knox asked.
Luckett stiffened, and for seconds he did not answer.
Knox did not ask again but sat staring at Luckett with tired, sad eyes.
Luckett cleared his throat. “It was closed, sir. But the bolts were not sent home,” he said, looking back at Knox levelly.
“I see. And the other doors, from the side, or the scullery?”
“Locked, sir, and bolted,” Luckett said without hesitation.
“So whoever it was, he came in the front, and left the same way,” Knox concluded. “Interesting. At least we have learned something. When you went for your walk in Eaton Square, how did you go out, Mr. Luckett?”
Luckett froze, understanding flooding into his eyes, his face.
“I went out through the side door to the area,” Luckett said very quickly. “I have a key. I lock the door as I leave-but, of course, I can’t fasten the inside bolts. Then I come back through the same door. It was after that, when I went to check the front door a last time … that was when I saw Mrs. Quixwood.”
“Do you normally do it that way?” Knox asked. “Walk, then come through and check the front door?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So the side door bolts would be undone while you were out?”
“Yes, sir, but the door itself was locked,” Luckett said with certainty. “I had to use my key to open it. There was no doubt, sir. No dou
bt at all. I heard the latch pull back, I felt it!”
Knox inclined his head in agreement. “Thank you, Mr. Luckett. Perhaps we’ll speak again tomorrow. I think it would be a good idea if you went to your bed now. This isn’t going to be easy for you for quite some time. You’ll be needed.”
Luckett rose to his feet with something of an effort. Suddenly he seemed stiff, and moved with obvious pain. He was an old man whose world had imploded in one short evening, and the only guard he had against it was his dignity. “Yes, sir,” he said gratefully. “Good night, sir.”
When he had gone Narraway wondered who was going to lock up the house after he and Knox left. He turned to Knox to ask, just as there was a loud ringing on the bell board outside the housekeeper’s door.
Knox looked up. “Front door?” he asked of no one in particular. “Who the devil can that be at two o’clock in the morning?” He hauled himself up out of his chair and led the way from the servants’ quarters to the front hallway. As he stood there, Narraway almost on his heels, the bell rang again. In the hall it was only a dim chime.
When they reached the front entryway, there was a constable standing to attention on the outside step. Narraway could see his shadow through the hall window, and another person a little farther away.
Knox opened the door and the constable turned to face him.
“Gentleman of the press, sir,” the constable said in a voice so devoid of expression as to be an expression in itself.
Knox stepped out and approached the other man. “When there’s something to say, we’ll tell you.” His voice was cold and had an edge of suppressed anger in it. “It’s past two in the morning, man. What the devil are you doing knocking on people’s doors at this time of night? Have you no decency at all? I’ve half a mind to find out where you live and wait until you’ve had a tragedy in your family, and then send a constable around to bang on your front door in the middle of the night!”
The man looked momentarily taken aback. “I heard-” he began.
“I told you,” Knox grated the words between his teeth, “we’ll tell you when there’s anything to say! You damn carrion birds smell death in the air and come circling around to see what profit there is in it for you.”
Narraway saw a fury in Knox that took him aback-and then the instant after, he realized how deeply the inspector was offended, not for himself but for those inside the house, who were shocked and frightened by events they could not even have imagined only hours ago. There was a raw edge of pity in the man as if he could feel the wound himself. Narraway was about to go out and add his own weight to the condemnation when he heard a step on the polished floor behind him and turned to see Quixwood standing there. He looked appalling. His face was creased and almost bloodless, his eyes red-rimmed, his hair disheveled. His shoulders drooped as if he were exhausted from carrying some huge, invisible weight.
“It’s all right,” he said hoarsely. “We will have to speak to the press sometime. I would as soon do it now, and then not face them again. But I thank you for your protection, Inspector … I’m sorry, I forget your name.” He ran his fingers through his hair as if it might somehow clear his mind.
“Knox, sir,” Knox said gently, then: “Are you sure you want to talk to him? You don’t have to, you know.”
Quixwood nodded very slightly and walked past Narraway to the open front door. He went out onto the step, acknowledged the constable, then looked at the man from the press.
“Perhaps I should say ‘good morning’ at this hour,” he began bleakly. “You have no doubt come because you heard we are in the middle of tragedy so overwhelming we hardly know how to act. I was summoned here before midnight because my wife was found assaulted and beaten to death in the hallway of her own home. At the moment we have no idea who did this hellish thing, or why.”
He took a deep, shuddering breath. “We don’t seem to have been robbed, but on further search we may find we have. The servants were in their quarters at the back of the house-except for the butler, who was out for his brief walk-and they heard nothing. The butler was the one who discovered my wife’s body, when he returned. I have nothing more to say at the moment. I am sure the inspector will inform you when there is anything that is of public interest rather than private grief. Good night.” He turned toward the door.
“Sir!” the man called out.
Quixwood looked back very slowly, his face like a mask in the light from the lamp above the door. He said nothing.
The man lost his nerve. “Thank you,” he acknowledged.
Quixwood did not reply, but walked inside and allowed Knox to close the door behind him, leaving the constable outside.
Quixwood faced Narraway. “Thank you. I am enormously grateful for your support.” His eyes searched Narraway’s face. “I would appreciate it if you would do what you can to help the inspector keep speculation as … as low as possible. The circumstances are-” he swallowed “-are open to more than one interpretation. But I loved Catherine and I will not allow her memory to be soiled by the vulgar and prurient, who value nothing and know no honor. Please …” His voice cracked.
“Of course,” Narraway said quickly. “As I said, anything Knox will allow me to do, I will. There may be avenues I can explore that he can’t. I may not be head of Special Branch anymore, but still have some influence in higher offices.”
Quixwood gave the ghost of a smile. “Thank you.”
Narraway took one of the cabs that the police had kept and went home to get a few hours’ sleep before facing the next day and trying to see the case with clearer vision. He had a hot bath to wash away some of the weariness and the tension that gripped him, then went to bed.
He slept deeply, out of exhaustion, but woke before eight, haunted by dreams of the dead woman and the terror and searing pain she must have felt as the most intimate parts of her body were torn. His head was pounding and his mouth was dry. The emptiness in his own life since losing his position as head of Special Branch seemed ridiculously trivial now, something he was ashamed to own, compared with what had happened to Catherine Quixwood.
He washed, shaved, and dressed, then went down to have a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and tea before going out into the warm early summer day and finding a hansom to take him to Dr. Brinsley.
The morgue was a place Narraway loathed. It was too much a bitter reminder of mortality. The smell of it turned his stomach. He could always taste it for hours afterward.
Today the heat and dust, the smell of horse manure in the street outside, was suddenly sweet compared with what he knew he would face as soon as the doors closed behind him.
He found Brinsley almost immediately. The man’s long-nosed, wry-humored face told Narraway that the news was ugly and probably complicated.
“Morning, my lord,” Brinsley said with a grimace. “Not seen Inspector Knox, I take it?”
“No, not yet,” Narraway replied. “Are you able to tell me anything?”
“Come into the office,” Brinsley invited him. “Smells a little better, at least.” Without waiting, he walked along the corridor, turned right, and led the way into a small room piled high with books and papers on every available surface. He closed the door behind them.
Narraway waited. He did not want to sit; it implied remaining here for longer than he wished to.
Brinsley noticed and understood. The recognition of it flickered in his eyes.
“She was raped and pretty badly beaten. The damn animal even bit her breast,” he said with anger harsh in his voice. “But I don’t think that was what killed her, at least not directly.”
Narraway was startled, momentarily disbelieving.
Brinsley sighed. “I think she died of opium poisoning.”
Narraway felt a bitter chill run right through him. The smell of the place seemed to have crept into his nose and mouth. “Before she was raped, or after?” His voice sounded hoarse. “Do you know?”
“After,” Brinsley said. “Knox found the la
udanum bottle and the glass from which she’d which she’d drunk in the hall cabinet. There was blood on the glass.”
“Her attacker forced her to drink it?” Narraway knew the question was foolish even as he asked it.
Brinsley’s face was filled with pity, for Catherine, but possibly for Narraway as well. “Far more likely she was stunned, close to despair,” he answered. “Either didn’t realize how much she’d taken or, more probably, meant to drink that much. The attack was very brutal. God knows what she must have felt. Many women never get over rape. Can’t bear the shame and the horror of it.”
“Shame?” Narraway snapped.
Brinsley sighed. “It’s a crime of violence, of humiliation. They feel as if they have been soiled beyond anything they can live with. Too many times the men they think love them don’t want them after that.” He swallowed with difficulty. “Husbands find they can’t take it, can’t live with it. They can’t get rid of the thought that somehow the woman must have allowed it.”
“She was beaten to-” Narraway started, his voice rising to a shout.
“I know!” Brinsley cut him off sharply. “I know. I’m telling you what happens. I’m not justifying it, or explaining it. It does strange things to some men, makes them feel impotent, that they couldn’t defend their own woman. I’m sorry, but it looks as if she drank it herself. God help her.” He swallowed, his face pinched with pain. “Find this one, will you? Get rid of him somehow.”
“We will.” Narraway felt his throat tighten and a helpless anger scald through him. “I will.”
CHAPTER 3
Pitt was distracted at the breakfast table. He ate absentmindedly, his attention absorbed by whatever he was reading in the newspaper. He looked up briefly to bid goodbye to Jemima and Daniel, then returned to his article. He even allowed his tea to go cold in the cup.
Charlotte stood up and took the teapot to the stove, pushed the kettle over onto the hob, and waited a few moments until it reached a boil again. With the teapot refreshed, and carrying a clean cup, she returned to the table and sat down.
