by Anne Perry
“Would you like me to ask this man Knox what happened, as far as they can tell?” he offered.
“Would you?” Quixwood asked with a flash of gratitude. “I … I don’t think I can bear it. I mean … to look at her … like that.”
“Of course.” Narraway went to the door. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Is there anyone you would like me to telephone? Family? A friend?”
“No,” Quixwood answered numbly. “Not yet. I have no immediate family and Catherine …” He took a shaky breath. “Catherine’s sister lives in India. I’ll have to write to her.”
Narraway nodded and went out into the hallway, closing the door softly behind him.
Knox was standing beyond the body, closer to the outside doors. He turned as Narraway’s movement caught his eye.
“Sir?” he said politely. “I think, if you don’t mind, it would be better if you could keep Mr. Quixwood in there, with the door closed, for the next half hour or so. The police surgeon is on his way.” He glanced at the body, which was now entirely covered by the sheet. “Mr. Quixwood shouldn’t have to see that, you understand?”
“Do you have any idea what happened yet?” Narraway asked.
“Not really,” Knox replied, his politeness distancing Narraway as a friend of the victim’s husband, not someone who could be of any use, apart from comforting the widower.
“I might be able to help,” Narraway said simply. “I’m Lord Narraway, by the way. Until very recently I was head of Special Branch. I am not unacquainted with violence or, regrettably, with murder.”
Knox blinked. “I’m sorry, my lord. I didn’t mean to—”
Narraway brushed it aside. He was still not used to his title. “I might be of some assistance. Did she disturb a burglar? Who was it that found her? Where were the rest of the servants that they heard nothing? Isn’t it rather early in the night for someone to break in? Rather risky?”
“I’m afraid it isn’t that simple, my lord,” Knox said unhappily. “I’m waiting on Dr. Brinsley. It’s taking awhile because I had to send someone for him. Didn’t want just anyone for this.”
Narraway felt a twinge of anxiety, like a cold hand on his flesh.
“Because of Mr. Quixwood’s position?” he asked, knowing as he said it that it was not so.
“No, sir,” Knox replied, taking a step back toward the body. After placing himself to block any possible view from the study doorway, he lifted the sheet right off.
Catherine Quixwood lay on her front, but half curled over, one arm flung wide, the other underneath her. She was wearing a light summer skirt of flowered silk and a muslin blouse, or what remained of it. It had been ripped open at the front, exposing what could be seen of her bosom. There were deep gouges in her flesh, as if someone had dragged their fingernails across the skin, bruising and tearing it. Blood had seeped out of the scratch marks. Her skirt was so badly torn and raised up around her hips that its original shape was impossible to tell. Her naked thighs were bruised, and from the blood and other fluids it was painfully obvious that she had been raped as well as beaten.
“God Almighty!” Narraway breathed. He looked up at Knox and saw the pity in his face, perhaps more undisguised than it should have been.
“I need Dr. Brinsley to tell me what actually killed her, sir. I’ve got to handle this one exactly right, but as discreetly as possible, for the poor lady’s sake.” He looked again toward the study door. “And for his too, of course.”
“Cover her up again,” Narraway requested quietly, feeling a little sick. “Yes … as discreetly as possible, please.”
CHAPTER
2
“YOU’RE PART OF SPECIAL Branch, sir?” Knox asked, reassuring himself.
“Not now,” Narraway replied. “I have no standing anymore, but that means no obligations either. If I can help, and at the same time keep this as quiet as possible, I would like to. Have you any idea at all how it happened?”
“Not yet, sir,” Knox said unhappily. “We haven’t found any signs of a break-in, but we’re still looking. Funny thing is, none o’ the servants say they opened the door to anyone. Least, not the butler or the footman. Haven’t spoken to all the maids yet, but can’t see a maid opening the door at that time o’ night.”
“If a maid had let this man in, surely she would have been attacked also?” Narraway observed. “Or at least be aware of something going on? Could Mrs. Quixwood have …” He stopped, realizing the idea was ugly and unwarranted.
Knox was looking at him curiously. “You mean, was the man expected?” He said what Narraway had been thinking. “Someone Mrs. Quixwood knew?”
Narraway shook his head. “But who would do this sort of thing to a woman he knows? It’s bestial!”
Knox’s face tightened, the lines of misery deepening around his mouth. “Rape isn’t always by strangers, sir. God knows what happened here. But I swear in His name, I mean to find out. If you can help, then I’ll accept it gladly, long as you keep quiet about it. Can’t do with every amateur who fancies himself a detective thinking he can move in on police business. But you’re hardly that.” He sighed. “We’ll have to tell Mr. Quixwood what happened, but he doesn’t need to see her. Better not to, if he’ll be advised. Don’t want that to be the way he remembers her.” He passed his hand over his brow, pushing his hair back. “If it were my wife, or one o’ my daughters, I don’t know how I’d stay sane.”
Narraway nodded. He wasn’t going to get it out of his mind easily.
They were interrupted by the arrival of Brinsley, the police surgeon. He was at first glance an ordinary-looking man, with drooping shoulders and a tired face, which was not surprising after midnight on what had probably become a long day for him even before this.
“Sorry,” he apologized to Knox. “Out on another call. Man dead in an alley. Appears to be natural causes, but you can’t tell till you look.” He turned toward the sheet on the floor. “What’ve we got here?” Without waiting for an answer, he bent down and with surprising gentleness pulled the covering away. He winced and his face filled with sadness. He said something, but it was under his breath and Narraway did not catch it.
In case Quixwood should come out into the hall, possibly wondering what was happening, or to look for him, Narraway excused himself and went back into the study, closing the door behind him.
Quixwood was sitting in the big armchair exactly as he had been before. Aware of movement, he looked up as Narraway entered. He started to speak, and then stopped.
Narraway sat down opposite him. “Knox seems like a decent and competent man,” he said.
“But … does that mean you won’t help …” Quixwood left the half-spoken request hanging in the air.
“Yes, of course I will,” Narraway answered, surprised by his own vehemence. The face of the woman lying on the floor only a few yards from them had moved him more than he expected. There was something desperately vulnerable about her.
“Thank you,” Quixwood said quietly.
Narraway wanted to talk to him, distract his attention from what was going on out in the hallway, and above all make absolutely certain Quixwood did not go there while the surgeon was working. His examination of the body would be intimate and intrusive; it would have to be. The violation would be so terribly obvious that seeing it would be almost as bad as witnessing the rape itself. But what was there to say that was not facile and rather absurd in the circumstances? No conversation could seem natural.
It was Quixwood who broke the silence. “Did they find where he broke in? I don’t know how that happened. The doors and windows all lock. We’ve never been robbed.” He was speaking too quickly, as if saying it aloud could change the truth. “The house must have been full of servants at that time. Who found her? Did she cry out?” He swallowed hard. “Did she have time to … I mean, did she know?”
That was a question Narraway had been dreading. But Quixwood would have to hear it sometime. If Narraway lied to him now he would not be believe
d in the future. Yet if he told him anything even close to the truth, Quixwood would want to go out and look. Such a need would be instinctive, hoping it was not as bad as his imagination painted.
“No,” he said aloud. “They haven’t found any broken locks or forced windows so far. But they haven’t finished looking yet. There might be a pane of glass cut somewhere. It wouldn’t be easy to see in the dark, and there’s little wind to cause a draft.” He went on to describe the burglar’s skill of pasting paper over window glass, cutting it soundlessly and then pulling out a circular piece large enough to let a hand pass through to undo the latch. “Star-glazing, they call it,” he finished.
“Do you know that from working in Special Branch?” Quixwood asked curiously, as if it puzzled him.
“No, I learned it from a friend of mine who used to be in the regular police.” Narraway went on reciting other tricks Pitt had mentioned at one time or another: small details about forgers of many different sorts, about pickpockets, card sharps, fencers of all the different qualities of stolen goods. Neither of them cared about it but Quixwood listened politely. It was better than thinking about what was going on in the hall only feet away.
Narraway was just about out of explanations of the criminal underworld of which Pitt had educated him, when at last there was a knock on the door. At Quixwood’s answer, Knox came in, closing it behind him.
“Excuse me, my lord,” he said to Narraway, then turned to Quixwood. “The surgeon’s left, sir, and taken Mrs. Quixwood’s body with him. Would you mind if I ask you one or two questions, just to get things straight? Then … I don’t know if you wish to stay here, or perhaps you’d rather find somewhere else for the night? Do you have any friends you’d like to be with?”
“What? Oh … I’ll … just stay here, I think.” Quixwood looked bemused, as if he had not even considered what he was going to do.
“Wouldn’t you rather go to your club?” Narraway suggested. “It would be more comfortable for you.”
Quixwood stared at him. “Yes, yes, I suppose so. In a little while.” He turned to Knox. “What happened to her? Surely you must know now?” His face was white, his eyes hollow.
Knox sat down in the chair opposite Quixwood and Narraway. He leaned forward a little.
Narraway could not help wondering how often the inspector had done this, and if anything ever prepared him for it, or made it any easier. He thought probably not.
“I’d rather not have to tell you this, sir,” Knox began. “But you’re going to know it one way or another; I’m sorry, Mrs. Quixwood was raped, and then killed. We’re not quite sure how she died; the surgeon will tell us that when he’s had time to make an examination in his offices.”
Quixwood stared at him, eyes wide, his hands shaking. “Did … did you say ‘raped’?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry,” Knox said unhappily.
“Did she suffer?” Quixwood’s voice was hardly audible.
“Probably not for very long,” Knox said. His tone was gentle, but he would not lie.
Quixwood rubbed his hand over his face, pushing his hair back, hard. His skin was ashen. There was no blood in it, and the darkness of his hair and brows looked almost blue. “How did it happen, Inspector? How did anyone get in here to do that? Where were the servants, for God’s sake?”
“We’re looking into that, sir,” Knox answered.
“Who found her?” Quixwood persisted.
Knox was patient, knowing the answers were needed, no matter what they were.
“The butler, Mr. Luckett. It seems he frequently goes for a short walk along the street and over the square before retiring. He found her when he checked the front door last thing before going to bed himself, sir.”
“Oh …” Quixwood looked at the floor. “Poor Catherine,” he murmured.
“I presume he locked the front door, then left for his walk through the side door and up the area steps?” Narraway asked Knox.
“Yes, sir. And returned the same way, bolting the door after him for the night.”
“And saw no one?” Narraway asked.
“No, sir, so he says.”
“It’ll be the truth,” Quixwood interjected. “Been with us for years. He’s a good man.” His eyes widened. “For God’s sake, you can’t think he had anything to do with this?”
“No, sir,” Knox said calmly. “It’s just practice to check everything we can, from every angle.”
“Does Luckett know what time he returned to the house?” Narraway asked Knox.
“Yes, sir, just after half-past ten. He sent the footman for the police immediately.”
“No telephone?” Narraway looked surprised.
“He was probably too flustered to think of it,” Quixwood cut in. “Wouldn’t know the police station number anyway, or think to ask the exchange for it.”
“I understand,” Knox agreed. “Fall back on habit when we’re shaken up badly. Find the first policeman on the beat. Turned out to be a good idea, as it happens. He ran into Constable Tibenham a couple of hundred yards away, other side of Eaton Square. He came here at once and used the telephone to call me. I got here just after quarter-past eleven. Sent for you at the Spanish Embassy. You got back here, I made it half-past midnight. It’s now about twenty minutes past one.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Quixwood, but I need to speak to at least some of the servants before I let them go to bed. Got to get it when it’s fresh in their minds. Could forget something if I wait until morning.”
Quixwood looked down at the carpet again. “I understand. Do you … do you need me?”
“Not to stay for the interviews, sir. Not necessary you should know anything as you’d rather not. Just a few things I need to ask you.”
Quixwood seemed confused. “What?”
“This was a party at the Spanish Embassy you were attending, sir?” Knox asked.
“Yes. What of it?”
“It was a social sort of thing? Ladies there as well as gentlemen?”
Quixwood blinked.
“Oh! Oh, I see what you mean. Yes. Catherine didn’t go because she wasn’t feeling very well. Bad headache. She has … she had them sometimes.”
“But she was invited?”
“Of course. She said she preferred to go to bed early. Those parties can drag on a long time.”
“I see.”
Quixwood frowned. “What are you saying, Inspector? There was nothing so remarkable in that. My wife didn’t go to lots of the social parties I have to attend. Great deal of noise and chatter, most of it with very little meaning. I wouldn’t go myself if it weren’t part of my profession to make new acquaintances, contacts and so on.”
“What time did you leave the house to go to the Spanish Embassy, sir?”
“About half-past eight or so, arrived a little before nine. I didn’t need to be early.”
“Take a hansom, sir?”
“No, I have my own carriage.” He looked momentarily stunned. “Dear heaven, I forgot all about that! It’ll still be at the embassy, waiting for me.” He half rose out of his chair.
“No,” Narraway responded at once. “I gave your apologies. Commander Pitt would know to have your driver informed.”
Quixwood shot him a quick glance of gratitude, then turned back to Knox. “So when did it happen?”
“Probably about ten o’clock, sir, or thereabouts. After half-past nine, when the maid was in the hallway and spoke to Mrs. Quixwood, and before half-past ten, when Mr. Luckett came back and found her.”
Quixwood frowned. “Does that help?”
“Yes, sir, it probably does,” Knox agreed, nodding slightly. “It’s very early yet in the investigation. We’ll know more when we’ve spoken to the servants and had a proper look around in the daylight. There may even have been people—neighbors—out walking who saw something. Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I need to go speak to the servants.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Quixwood said hastily. “Please do what
you must. I shall just sit here a little longer.” He looked at Narraway. “I quite understand if you want to leave. It must have been a damned awful night for you, but I would be more grateful than I can say if you’d just … just keep an eye on things … do what you can …” His voice trailed off as if he was embarrassed.
“Anything that Inspector Knox will allow me,” Narraway said, looking toward the inspector, who nodded at once.
“Come with me then, by all means, my lord,” Knox said. “I’m having the servants meet with me in the housekeeper’s room. They’re a bit shaken up, so I thought it best to question everyone there. Cup of tea. Familiar surroundings.”
Narraway saw the wisdom of it. “Good idea. Yes, I’d like to come,” he accepted. “Thank you.”
He gave Quixwood’s shoulder a squeeze then followed Knox—past the crime scene, which was now occupied solely by a woman on her hands and knees with a bucket of water and a brush in her hand, scrubbing to clear the streaks of blood off the parquet floor where Catherine Quixwood had lain.
There were no other visible signs of disturbance. Presumably whatever had been knocked down or broken was already attended to. Narraway was grateful. At least when Quixwood himself emerged there would be no violent reminders of what had happened here.
In the housekeeper’s room, a very homey and surprisingly spacious parlor, they found the housekeeper, Mrs. Millbridge. She was a plump, middle-aged woman in a black stuff dress, her hair obviously hastily repinned. With her was a young maid, red-eyed and dabbing a wet handkerchief to her nose. On a small table there was a tray of tea with several clean cups, a jug of milk, and a bowl of sugar. Knox looked at it longingly, but it seemed he did not think it suitable to indulge himself.
Narraway felt the same need and exercised the same discipline. To do less would seem a little childish; also it would put a distance between them and mark him as something of an amateur.
The maid was the one who had last seen Catherine Quixwood alive. Knox spoke to her in soothing tones, but there was nothing she could add beyond being quite certain of the time. The long-cased clock in the hallway had just chimed, and it was always right, so Mr. Luckett assured her.
