Midnight at Marble Arch

chapter



4



NARRAWAY HAD DREADED THIS encounter with Quixwood, yet he felt compelled to come here to the club where he had, very understandably, taken up residence. The servants would have cleared away all possible evidence, but it had been only a couple of days since Catherine’s death. The sight of her sprawled across the floor would remain printed on Quixwood’s memory, perhaps for the rest of his life. The very pattern of the furniture, the way the light fell across the wooden parquet—everything would remind him of it.

Perhaps in time he would have the hall changed entirely, move all the furniture, hang the pictures in another room. Or would it make no difference?

The club steward conducted Narraway through the outer lounge with its comfortable, leather-covered chairs and walls decorated with portraits of famous past members. They approached the silent library where Quixwood was sitting. There was a leather-bound volume open in his lap, but his eyes were unfocused and he seemed to be looking far beyond its pages.

“Lord Narraway to see you, sir,” the steward said gently.

Quixwood looked up, a sudden light of pleasure in his face.

“Ah, good of you to come.” He rose to his feet, closing the book and holding out his hand. “Everyone else is avoiding me. I suppose they think I want to be alone, which is not true. Or—more likely—they have no idea what to say to me.” He smiled bleakly. “For which I can hardly blame them.” He gestured toward the other chair, a few feet from him.

The steward withdrew, closing the door behind him. There was a bell to summon him should either of them wish for anything.

Narraway grasped Quixwood’s hand for a moment, then sat down. “Sympathy hardly seems enough,” he agreed. “Whatever one says, it still sounds as if you have no idea what the person is suffering and that all you want to do is discharge your duty.”

“So are you here to tell me that this is the worst, and that time will heal the pain?” Quixwood said wryly.

Narraway raised his eyebrows. “It would seem a little redundant.”

“Yes. And it’s a lie anyway, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Narraway admitted. “I hope not. But I can’t imagine you want to hear that now. Though, I’m afraid you probably aren’t going to like what I have come to say either. Nevertheless I am going to say it.”

Quixwood looked surprised. “What, for heaven’s sake?”

“Have you heard anything further from Inspector Knox?”

Quixwood shrugged. “No, not beyond a polite message to say that he is pursuing every piece of evidence he can find. But I had assumed as much.” He leaned forward earnestly. “Tell me, Narraway, what was your impression of him? Please be honest. I need the truth, something I can rely on so I’ll stop lying awake wondering what is being kept from me, albeit with the best motives. Can you understand that?”

“Yes,” Narraway replied without hesitation. “Left to imagination we suffer not one ill but all of them.”

Quixwood searched Narraway’s face feature by feature. “Do you do that too? Have you ever lost anyone to something so … so vile, so bestial?” he asked finally.

Narraway made a tiny gesture of denial. “You know, at least by title, what my job has been. Do you think I have never experienced disillusion, horror, and then a sense of total helplessness? But this is nothing to do with my situation, Quixwood; it’s about you and your loss.”

Quixwood lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry. That was a stupid remark. I didn’t mean to be offensive. I feel so inadequate. Everything is slipping out of control and I can’t stop it.”

Narraway felt an overwhelming pity for the man.

“I think Knox is a good man, both personally and at his job. He’ll find whatever there is that anyone can know.” He said it with certainty.

“But you’ll still help him?” Quixwood asked quickly.

“As long as you wish me to. But I come here to warn you that we might discover details you would prefer not to learn. All facts are open to different interpretations, and your wife is not here to explain anything.” Was he being so delicate as to be incomprehensible?

Quixwood frowned. “You don’t need to tiptoe around it. You are trying to warn me that I may find out things about Catherine I would prefer not to know? Of course. I’m not entirely stupid or blind. I loved Catherine very much, but she was a complicated woman. She made friends with people I never would have. She tended to see good in them, or at least some value, that I didn’t.” He looked away. “She was always seeking something. I never knew what.

“I want justice for her,” Quixwood continued with sudden vehemence. “She deserves that, even if I learn a few things that perhaps are not comfortable for me. I didn’t save her from this. I wasn’t there. Allow me at least to do what I can now. I am not so squeamish or self-regarding that I need to hide from the truth.”

“I’m sorry,” Narraway apologized sincerely. “I meant that when they have sufficient evidence to charge the man, whoever he is, don’t look beyond that. Leave the details to Knox. Don’t press him to tell you more than will be made public at the trial anyway.”

“The trial …” Quixwood’s face tightened and his hands, resting easily on his lap till this point, now clenched. “I admit I hadn’t thought of that. Will they need to say any more than that she was killed?”

“I don’t know. I imagine the man will put up a defense.”

“Surely they won’t allow—”

“If they find him guilty he may be hanged,” Narraway pointed out. “He must be allowed to fight for his life.”

Quixwood looked down at the floor. “Do you think … Catherine fought for her life?”

Narraway said nothing to that. Quixwood would know his wife’s courage better than he. “I’ll do everything I can,” Narraway promised again. “To hang a man is a sickening thing, but this is one case where I would have few qualms about it.”

“Thank you.” Quixwood took a deep breath. “Thank you,” he said again.


NARRAWAY WENT FIRST TO the local police station to find Knox and was informed that he was at Lyall Street, so he followed him there. He approached Quixwood’s house with an odd mixture of familiarity and complete strangeness. The only time he had been here before was at night, in Quixwood’s company, and with the terrible knowledge of Catherine’s death. The shock of seeing her body had sharpened his senses so he could remember every detail of the corpse with awful clarity. And yet he could recall only foggy impressions of anything else.

Now, in the daylight, it looked as ordinary as any other wealthy and elegant house in the better parts of London. An open carriage passed by, then another in the opposite direction, coming toward him. The second was a landau, bodywork dark, brass gleaming in the sun. The liveried coachman sat bolt upright, the reins held tightly in his gloved hands.

In the back two women sat talking to each other, pink and yellow embroidered muslins fluttering in the breeze. One of them laughed. It was jarring, a waking nightmare, to think of Catherine lying obscenely flung like a broken doll on the floor of one of these quiet, sedate houses with their exquisite façades, life proceeding on outside as if her death was of no importance.

Narraway’s hansom came to a halt. He alighted, paid the driver, and walked toward the front door. Flickering in his mind was the memory of Pitt telling him how, in his early days, he used to be sent to the servants’ entrance. No one wished to have the police enter through the front part of the house, as though they were equal to the owners. Now Narraway was doing what had essentially been Pitt’s job, and he planned to use every privilege and artifice he could to obtain information, whether it was intended to be shared with him or not.

The door was opened by a footman whose face was appropriately polite and blank, as if everything in the household was normal.

“Yes, sir? May I help you?” He clearly did not recognize Narraway from the night of the murder. Narraway recalled him, but it was his profession to remember faces.

“Good morning.” He produced a card out of the silver case in his pocket. “If you would be so good as to ask Inspector Knox if he can spare me a few moments?”

The footman was about to refuse him when training took over from instinct and he looked at the card. The name was unfamiliar but the title impressed him.

“Certainly my lord. If you would care to follow me to the morning room, I shall inform the inspector.”

It was a full ten minutes before Knox appeared, walking straight in without knocking, and closing the door behind him. He looked tired; his shoulders drooped and his tie was slightly askew. There were lines of anxiety etched deep in his face.

“Morning, sir,” he said with a sigh. “Sorry, but I really don’t have any news that’ll help Mr. Quixwood. Only bits and pieces, and nothing’s for certain yet.”

Narraway remained standing rather stiffly by the mantel shelf.

“Regardless of its apparent lack of meaning, what have you found?” he asked. “You must know how the assailant got in by now, and have an excellent idea of what, if anything, is missing. Have you found any witnesses, if not nearby, then within a block of here? Has any missing jewelry or artifacts, or whatever, turned up at a pawnshop or with a receiver of such things? Have there been any similar crimes reported? Other break-ins or attacks on women?”

Knox looked down at the ground, his lips pursed in sadness rather than thought.

“There’s no sign of a break-in anywhere, Lord Narraway,” he answered. “We’ve searched every door and window. We’ve looked at the downpipes, ledges, everywhere a man could climb, and a few where he couldn’t. We even had a lad up in the chimney to look.” He saw Narraway’s expression of irritation. “Some of the houses in this part have big chimneys. You’d be surprised how a skinny little lad can come down one o’ these an’ open a door.”

Narraway acknowledged his error. “Yes, of course. I didn’t think of that. I assume you are not saying the attacker was here all the time? One of the servants? Please God, you are not saying that! We’ll have every household in London in a panic.”

“No, sir.” Knox gave a twisted little smile. “The servants are all very well accounted for.”

Narraway felt a chill. “Then you are saying there’s no doubt she let him in herself? That seems the only alternative left.”

Knox looked even more crumpled.

“Yes, sir, I am. Nothing was damaged, nothing torn or broken except what you already saw in the room where we found her. This leaves us with the conclusion that he was someone with whom she was comfortable, at least enough so that she let him in herself.”

Narraway started. “But it’s possible she was tricked somehow? Maybe he pretended he was a friend, a messenger from her husband, or the husband of a friend. Perhaps he gave a false name?”

Knox did all he could to keep his face expressionless, but failed. “No, my lord, I’m saying he was someone she knew, and she felt no apprehension about allowing him into the house without having a servant present. Someone she opened the door to herself rather than waiting until one of the servants answered the bell. She might have even expected him.”

Narraway breathed in and out deeply, slowly. He had done all he could to avoid facing this, even in his mind. His chest and stomach were tight. “You mean he was her lover?”

Knox chewed his lip, profoundly unhappy. “I’m sorry, sir, but that does seem probable. I’ll be most obliged if you can think up a more agreeable alternative.”

Narraway forced himself to picture again the inner hallway where they had found Catherine. She had fought hard for her life, but only there, not closer to the front door. She had allowed her attacker inside the house, beyond the vestibule.

“How did none of the servants hear her?” he demanded. “She must have cried out. A woman doesn’t submit to rape without a sound. Didn’t she scream, at the very least?”

“The servants had been excused for the night,” Knox replied. “The baize door to their quarters is pretty heavy. Sound-proof, if you take my meaning? If she’d wanted anything she’d have rung one of the bells and someone would have come, but a shout, especially from the front of the house, no one would have heard.”

Narraway imagined it. The baize door gave such privacy, locked you off from intrusion—or help. Perhaps one stifled cry, then a hand over your mouth, and only a muffled choking after that. If a servant heard anything at all, she would take it for a quarrel, and the last thing she would want would be to intrude on such a scene.

What were they used to, the well-trained servants in this outwardly respectable house? Did they recognize a mistress’s dismissal for the evening as a tacit command not to return?

He looked at Knox.

“Sorry, sir,” Knox said quietly. “This man may have stolen things, but the servants don’t recognize anything gone. And there’s very definitely been no break-in. The bolts across the front doors were undone. The butler and the footman have both sworn, without any hesitation, that the doors where she was found were closed only with the type of latch that shuts itself.”

“But the butler was alone when he found her; he wasn’t with the footman,” Narraway pointed out. It was a foolish observation. He knew it as he said the words, just as he knew what Knox would say in reply.

“Yes, sir,” Knox answered wearily. “He found her then he called the footman. Couldn’t really call one of the women. I’m sorry, but I don’t think there’s a way around it, my lord. We can conclude only that she knew him and let him in.”

“Then we’d better find out who he was,” Narraway said grimly. “Any ideas?”

“Not yet. The servants are either very loyal or else they truly don’t know.” Again unhappiness filled Knox’s tired face. Narraway wondered if he was thinking of his own family. He had said he had a wife and daughters. His voice had altered when he spoke of them: there was a gentleness, even a pride in it. Narraway had liked him for that.

“Have you looked at Mrs. Quixwood’s diary?” Narraway asked. “Or spoken to her maid?”

“Yes. The diary doesn’t tell me anything,” Knox replied. “She was busy, lots of engagements, but very few names mentioned, none of them outside of what you’d expect.” He frowned. “Do you want to see it? Maybe …” He left the idea hanging in the air, on the edge of asking Narraway something, but clearly not quite certain if he wanted to, or how to word it.

“Yes,” Narraway answered. “I’d like to look. I may know some of the names, at least.”

Knox frowned. “Do you think … I mean …” His expression was bleak. “A secret acquaintance? If it’s true, then it’s going to be very hard to prove.”

“Rape?” Narraway said the word with distaste. “If that ends up being the case, then I’ll settle for proving it’s murder.”

Knox smiled at him, as if they had reached some kind of understanding. “I suppose you’d like to speak to the lady’s maid as well. Read the diary first. It won’t take you long. Then I’ll send for her.”

Narraway thanked him and went into the garden room to wait while a constable fetched Catherine’s diary.

The room was sunny and warm in the morning light, a curious sense of peace in it, in such a troubled house. It was surprisingly feminine, greens and whites, white woodwork around the windows. The curtains were patterned, but only with leaves, echoing the potted plants, none of them with flowers. It was at the same time both bright and restful.

He was just sitting down on one of the rattan chairs when the constable brought the diary. He thanked him and settled down to read it.

He started in January. At first it was not very interesting, just the usual brief comments on the weather as it affected her daily life. “Very cold, streets slippery with ice.” “Ground quite hard, all very clear and glittering. Very beautiful.” “So wet today I really would rather not go out—I’ll get drenched no matter how careful I am.”

Then as the days lengthened and the weather became milder she commented on the first buds in the trees, the snowdrops, the birds. She saw a starling with twigs in its beak and wrote a short paragraph on the faith of building a nest when the days were still so dark. “How can such a small creature, who knows nothing, be so sure of a good future? Or is it only a blind and exquisite courage?”

The comments on the weather continued, with notes as to the flowers that had pleased her. Her botanical interest was written with acute observation, but mostly it was the beauty of the plants that moved her.

Narraway put the book down and wondered what Catherine Quixwood had thought as she had written those words. Was the loneliness he felt within the pages, the sense of confusion, hers or his own? Unwillingly he pictured her again, but lying on the floor. There had been such possibility of passion in her face, such turbulence, even in death. Or was he imagining that too?

He picked up the diary again and resumed reading it, paying more attention to where she had been and, when she had noted it, with whom.

As the weather grew more clement she had attended lectures at the Royal Geographical Society. After one on Egypt she had made a note of its excellence. Reading on, he saw that she had then gone to an exhibition of paintings of the Nile by various watercolorists, and then to the library to find books on Egyptian history.

In May she had gone to a lecture on astronomy. This time it was not the night sky that drew her most enthusiastic comments, but the sublime order of the stars in their courses, from the most random comet or meteor to the most immense galaxies. There was too little room on the page for all she wanted to say to remind herself of her emotions, and her writing eventually became so small he could not read it.

Then she went back to the library and searched for other books on astronomy, and more lectures she might attend. In the following weeks she even went by train to both Birmingham and Manchester to learn more.

But, as Knox had said, there were very few names in the diary. Those that were present all seemed exactly the acquaintances one might have expected: other married women in Society of her own age and station, a couple of distant cousins, one unmarried and apparently of considerable means. Catherine seemed to enjoy her company when it was available. There were also two aunts mentioned, the vicar and his wife and business associates of Quixwood’s and their wives.

He read the entry from the day before she was killed, then closed the book. There was nothing further. He asked Knox if he might now speak to the lady’s maid, although he did not hold much hope of learning anything from her that would be of value.

Flaxley was a tall, spare woman, her brown hair liberally threaded with gray. The marks of grief were all too evident in her face. She came in and sat down opposite Narraway at his invitation, then folded her hands in her lap and waited for him to speak. Her back was ramrod straight, probably from a lifetime of self-discipline; every emotion within her seemed to have been drained away. She looked exhausted.

Narraway was deeply moved by her loyalty. He wondered for a fleeting moment how many people had inspired such sense of loss, even among their own families.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Miss Flaxley,” he said quietly. He decided to be completely honest with her. “But the more I learn of Mrs. Quixwood, the more determined I am to do what I can to see that the man who attacked her is punished.” He chose very deliberately not to use the word “rape.” There was no need to distress Flaxley further.

He saw the flicker of surprise in her eyes.

“I am certain that if you had any idea how to achieve this,” he went on, “with as little unpleasant speculation as possible, you would already have told Inspector Knox. I have been reading Mrs. Quixwood’s appointment diary, and I feel I know her better than I did before.”

“Her appointment diary,” Flaxley repeated. She did not ask if he believed that Catherine could possibly have had any idea what would happen to her, but it was implicit in the lift of her voice and the contempt in her eyes.

“Do you believe Mrs. Quixwood would have opened the front door to a man she did not both know and trust?” he asked her.

“No, of course—” She stopped. Clearly she had not even considered the matter. “Was her … attacker not a thief?”

“I don’t know what he was, Miss Flaxley, but it’s clear he did not break into the house, which leaves only one other possibility—that she let him in. Indeed, that initially she had no fear of him. Therefore he was someone she already knew, quite well enough not to call a servant to attend her.”

She stared at him, her eyes filling with horror, her hands knotted in her lap so tightly that the knuckles shone white. He noticed with surprise how delicately boned they were. In their own way, they were quite beautiful.

“I will not smear her reputation.” There was anger in her voice, and warning. “But tell me, what can I do to help?”

He admired her for it. He hoped that she would be able to keep that resolve and it pained him that she would probably not.

“Please go through the diary with me and tell me which of her friends she kept company with, and something about each of them. I will call on them in due course, but your insight will be more acute than mine. You knew Mrs. Quixwood, and possibly her true feelings about these people rather than the socially polite face she showed. Also, I have learned to my cost that women can judge one another far more observantly than men can.” He allowed himself a very slight smile.

He saw it echoed in a momentary easing in her expression also.

“Yes, my lord, of course,” she agreed.


IT TOOK NARRAWAY THE next three days to meet with eight of the people mentioned in Catherine’s diaries. He found it difficult, which surprised him. They were all women very like those he had known and mixed with all his adult life, and yet when speaking of Catherine, the artificiality of polite conversation between strangers irritated him.

He began with a cousin of Catherine’s, a dark, rather elegant woman with beautiful hair and a very ordinary face. Her name was Mary Abercrombie.

“Of course we are deeply grieved,” she said earnestly, but without any signs of pain that Narraway could see. “I don’t know what I can tell you; I was very fond of Catherine, of course. We grew up together.” She fidgeted slightly with her skirts. “But as so often happens, when we both married we drifted apart. Our tastes were … different.”

“But you still went to the British Museum together,” he pointed out. “Or was the entry in her diary incorrect?”

Mrs. Abercrombie smiled and looked down at her hands. Narraway had a fleeting and irrelevant thought about how much uglier they were than those of Flaxley.

“It was incorrect?” he prompted.

“Yes … and no,” she equivocated. “We did meet there, and visited a few of the exhibits. I ran into a friend and left to take tea with her. It was about that time in the afternoon. Catherine stayed on, I presumed by herself, but I don’t know. When I spoke to Rawdon a few days later at a reception, he implied that Catherine had returned home very late. I’m afraid I rather let her down by saying to him that I had left the museum before four o’clock.”

“And Catherine was not at the reception?” he asked.

“No.” She shook her head, a shadow of disapproval crossing her face. “She found such light social exchanges rather tedious. So do many of us, but one must make the effort.” It was a statement, as if it were a fact agreed to by all.

Narraway wondered if she had made the remark to Quixwood on purpose. Catherine had been beautiful. Even in violent death the remnants of it were there in her face. Mary Abercrombie was agreeable enough and without obvious blemish, but she was no beauty, at least not to Narraway.

“Was that the last time you saw her?” he asked.

“Yes. Except briefly at a concert about two weeks ago.”

“Who was she with at the concert?”

“I’m not sure she was with anyone.” She raised her eyebrows slightly. “When we spoke she was alone.”

“Did that surprise you?”

“Frankly, no. Catherine was inclined to go to events alone. If it was something she wished to do, she would prefer to be alone to indulge in it, rather than go with company, who might require conversation from her.” Her disapproval of such behavior was clear, if still unspoken.

Narraway had a sudden vision of Catherine bent forward, listening to great, sweeping symphonies of music while the fashionable women around her were talking to one another, gossiping, flirting, or merely pretending to listen while they waited for the opportunity to recommence speaking. He imagined in her an inner loneliness he found disturbing, and frighteningly easy to understand.

Or was he simply projecting his own emotions onto her, because he had never known her alive and there was no one to refute his picture?

“Was there anyone to whom she was particularly close?” he asked.

“You mean someone who might know if she was … having an unsuitable friendship?” Mrs. Abercrombie asked, delicate eyebrows raised. “Possibly. But I cannot imagine that they would be indiscreet enough to speak of it, even had she been that foolish and disloyal. Poor Rawdon is suffering enough, don’t you think? And Catherine has certainly paid for any indiscretions.”

Narraway smiled coldly, feeling the temper like an ice storm inside him. “Actually, Mrs. Abercrombie, I was thinking of someone who might know if she was being troubled by unwanted attentions,” he corrected her. “Men sometimes look at a beautiful woman and imagine she has given them some encouragement, when in truth she was no more than civil—or at most, kind. Denials do not always persuade them of their error.”

She opened her pale eyes very wide. “Really? I have never known anyone so … disturbed.”

“No,” he agreed without a flicker in his expression. “I imagine not.”

The anger burned up her face. “But most perceptive of you to have realized Catherine may have,” she retorted. “Remarkable, because apparently you did not know her. But then, perhaps you know women like her.”

“Unfortunately not,” he said, keeping his eyes on hers. “From all I hear, she seems to have been unique. Please accept my condolences on your loss, Mrs. Abercrombie.” He rose to his feet and gave a very slight inclination of his head.

She remained seated, her eyes cold. “You are too kind,” she said sarcastically.


STILL ANNOYED AND SOMEWHAT confused in trying to make sense of Catherine’s seemingly innocent life, Narraway called on the police surgeon, Brinsley, to see if he had anything further to report.

Brinsley was busy with another autopsy, but he did not keep Narraway waiting more than fifteen minutes. He came into the sparse waiting room rolling down his shirtsleeves, his hair a little tousled.

“Afternoon, my lord,” he said briskly. He did not hold out his hand. Perhaps he had experienced too many people’s revulsion, their imagination picturing where it had just been.

“Good afternoon, Doctor,” Narraway replied. “Am I too soon to learn if you have anything further to say about Mrs. Quixwood’s death?”

“No, no. Preformed the autopsy this morning,” Brinsley’s face was pinched. “I’ve really nothing to add, unless you want the details of the rape? Can’t think it’ll help you. Very violent.” His voice sank even lower, grating with anger. “Very ugly.”

“Can you tell if she fought, or at least tried to?” Narraway asked.

Brinsley winced. “She tried. A few ugly bruises have come out. They do, after death, if they were inflicted just before. Wrists, arms, shoulders. He was unnecessarily brutal. Thighs, but you’d expect that. And the bite, of course, on her breast.” His mouth was tight, as if his jaw was clenched. “Only thing that might make a difference to you is that I’m now quite certain she actually died of opium poisoning. Overdose of laudanum, dissolved in a glassful of Madeira wine. Pretty heavily laced, I must say. Far more than enough to kill her.”

Narraway stood paralyzed, grief washing over him. He had hoped the doctor’s initial reading had been an error. Now he couldn’t help but picture the despair she must have felt, as if everything she was had been torn violently from her: her body, her dignity, the very core of herself damaged beyond hope.

“I’m sorry,” Brinsley said hoarsely. “I keep thinking that one day I’ll get used to it, but I never do. I can’t say for certain that it was suicide, since we don’t know if the man stayed long enough to force her to drink it, but that seems extremely unlikely. If he’d wanted her dead he could simply have broken her neck. I’m afraid everything suggests she crawled to the cabinet and poured herself enough to deaden the pain, and either accidentally or intentionally overdid the dose.” His face was bleak. “I’m sorry.”

Narraway struggled to picture it. “Could she have dragged herself that far? And why on earth would she keep laudanum in the cabinet in the hallway? Wouldn’t she keep it upstairs? In the bedroom?”

“I’ve no idea,” Brinsley said patiently. “But as far as we know, there was no one else in that part of the house, right? And from the bruising on her knees, I believe she crawled over to the cabinet. It isn’t difficult to assume that from there she opened it and poured and drank the Madeira. The dregs were full of laudanum, both in the glass and in the bottle.” He shook himself. “For God’s sake! The poor woman can’t have had the least idea of what she was doing. She just tipped the laudanum into the bottle and drank the whole damn thing. Can you blame her?”

“It doesn’t make sense. Why would she pour opium into the bottle? Why not just straight into her glass, then?”

“I don’t know,” Brinsley said. “I’ve just given you the facts, and I don’t see what else you can make of them. But I hope to hell you find whoever did it, and if you can’t hang him, literally, for murder, then find a way to get him for rape.”

“I’ll try,” Narraway swore. “Believe me.”


HE VISITED AND SPOKE with all the other people on Miss Flaxley’s list. He gained a wider view of Catherine Quixwood, but it did not alter radically from that already given him by Mary Abercrombie. Catherine had been interested in all manner of science, in the artifacts of other times and places, in human thought and above all in the passions of the mind.

She seemed to have skirted more carefully around the edges regarding passions of the heart. He wondered if they had frightened her, perhaps come too close to breaching the walls of her own safety, or her loneliness.

Or was that his overfanciful imagination seeking in her a likeness to himself? He could understand being drawn to the music of Beethoven, and yet at the same time frightened of it. It challenged all the flimsy arguments of safety and dared beyond the known into something far bigger, both more beautiful and more dangerous. At times he wanted to stay with what his mind could conquer and hold. To be enchanted by the brilliance of the mind was exciting, but without the risk of injury.

Look at vases of flowers, not the wild paintings of Turner in which all the light was caught and imagined on canvas. Look at the artifacts of ancient Troy, but do not think of the passion and the loss of the time. Always keep the mind busy.

Was that what Catherine had been doing?

At the end of three days Narraway had a plethora of facts, statements, and stories, but no fixed frame in which to place them. If she had made secret assignations with anyone, she had been sufficiently clever in concealing them that he had found no trace. She was charming to everyone and intimate with none.

About the only thing she did not appear to have had any interest in was the last few years of extraordinary events in Africa. There was one brief note in her diary on the discovery of gold in Johannesburg, but no mention of the massacres carried out by Lobengula, or the extraordinary career of Cecil Rhodes, or even of the catastrophic Jameson Raid only months ago. For a woman interested in so many things it was a curious omission.

Finally Narraway was driven to going back again to speak to Quixwood himself, little as he wished to. He owed the man a report of his discoveries, fruitless as they were so far.

He found him in the library of the club, as before, but this time he was busy writing letters. He looked up as Narraway came in. He was clearly tired, the lines in his face more deeply scored.

“Have you found anything further?” he asked as Narraway sat down on the smooth, comfortable leather.

“I’m not certain,” Narraway replied honestly. “I have been asking questions of her friends, mostly the people with whom she attended lectures and visited museums, that sort of thing.”

Quixwood frowned. “Why? What might that have to do with her death?” His voice held a note of disappointment.

“She knew whoever killed her,” Narraway said, gently but without hesitation. He could think of little more painful than the possibility Quixwood now faced. If he balked at it, or blamed the man who told him, it was a very human reaction. He needed someone to be angry with for his pain.

Quixwood blinked as if caught in a sudden, bright light. “And you think one of her friends might know who it is?”

“Possibly without being aware of the connection, but yes, I do,” Narraway told him.

Quixwood stared at him for several long seconds, then he lowered his gaze. “Yes, you are quite right, of course. I suppose it is what I have been trying hard to deny to myself. Such things do not happen in isolation. And I can’t willfully refuse to accept that she let him in. I appreciate your patience in allowing me come to it a trifle more slowly.”

“I’m sorry,” Narraway said with intense regret. “I cannot see any other answer that fits the facts we have.”

“And … do you have any idea who it was?” Quixwood framed the words with difficulty, staring down at his half-written-on paper.

“No, not yet. But I have further questions I intend to ask Flaxley. She seems a sensible woman, and loyal. I believe she wishes to see this man punished, as far as is consistent with protecting Mrs. Quixwood’s reputation.”

Quixwood looked bleak but he forced a rather shaky smile. “I’m sure Flaxley will give you all the help she can. She was devoted to Catherine. I’ve no idea what she’ll do now, because there is nothing for her to do in what is left of my household. I suppose I can offer her an excellent reference, but that feels like precious little to do for a woman who’s given so many years of her life, and seen it end in such hideous crime.” He took a deep breath. “And a pension, of course. Fortunately I’m in a position to do that.”

“That would be good of you, and quite appropriate,” Narraway agreed. “But I would be obliged if you kept her on until we have solved this case.”

“Of course! I’ll do all I can in every way. Good God, man, no one could care about it more than I do!” Quixwood reasserted control of himself with something of an effort. “Someone else who might be able to help is Alban Hythe, a young man with a good position in the Treasury. I know he shared many of Catherine’s tastes.” He made a slight gesture with his strong, slender hands. “He is a most intelligent and civil young man, who traveled widely earlier in his career. According to Catherine, he is a lover of music and art. If there is someone who became … who became obsessed with Catherine and imagined there was something between them, Mr. Hythe might have noticed it. Narraway, I would be extraordinarily grateful if you did not speak of the”—he swallowed—“of the details of her death to him.”

“Of course,” Narraway agreed. “I will tell him nothing except that she was attacked in her own home by someone she had assumed to be a friend, and therefore she was not initially afraid of him. That will cover all the truth he needs to know.”

“Thank you.” Quixwood gave the ghost of a smile. “I’m sure he will help you if he can.”

Narraway felt a chill. Was it possible this was the answer? He did not want to believe Catherine might’ve been having an affair. He could understand her loneliness. Everything he had learned about her indicated a woman unfulfilled in her life, desperately seeking something more. He had thought it was purpose she was looking for, to exercise her intelligence. But maybe it was simply a love more immediate to her nature than that offered by her husband.

He rose to his feet. “Thank you. I had better go and visit this man Hythe, and see what I can learn.”


HE ARRIVED AT HYTHE’S address in a very nice part of Holborn just before seven. It was not really a courteous hour to call—people would be preparing for dinner, or to go out for the evening—but he was not willing to wait another day. Added to which, if he was honest, he was concerned enough about the part Hythe might have played in Catherine’s death that he had no concern whatsoever for the man’s convenience.

Narraway was admitted by a parlormaid and had only moments to wait before Hythe himself appeared, looking startled but not worried. He was a handsome man, probably in his late thirties, tall and slender, his brownish hair streaked fair where already the summer sun had bleached it.

“Lord Narraway?” he said questioningly, closing the door of the parlor behind him. The house was charming but modest and had no separate morning room for visitors.

“I am sorry to disturb you so late,” Narraway apologized blandly. “In fact for calling upon you unannounced at all. If the matter were not so serious I would have made an appointment in the usual way.”

Hythe frowned, indicating Narraway should be seated. “Is it something at the Treasury?”

Narraway sat, and Hythe lowered himself into the chair opposite.

“No,” Narraway replied. “As far as I am aware there is nothing amiss at the Treasury. This concerns the recent death of Mrs. Catherine Quixwood.”

He saw the anxiety in Hythe’s face change to deep grief, a look so genuine it was hard to disbelieve it. But he had known people before whose loyalties had been so violently torn apart that they could kill and weep for the victim at the same time.

“How can I possibly help?” Hythe seemed genuinely confused. “For heaven’s sake, if I knew anything at all, I would already have contacted the police.” He frowned. “Who are you? Clearly you are not a policeman.”

“Until recently I was head of Special Branch,” Narraway replied, caught slightly off guard by the question. He had not expected to have to explain himself except casually, and in his own way. “Mr. Quixwood asked me to help him as much as I am able, both to close the matter as quickly as possible and to keep it as discreet as circumstances allow.”

“And the police?” Hythe said with some anxiety. “Is there need to be concerned as to their … clumsiness?”

Narraway smiled bleakly. He found Hythe agreeable. It was easy to see how Catherine Quixwood could have liked him also, even though he was perhaps a decade younger than she.

“Actually, I think Inspector Knox is both capable and discreet, but the situation is not easy to deal with,” he answered.

“How can I help?” Hythe appeared still to have no idea how he was involved. “Both my wife and I were very fond of Mrs. Quixwood, but I have no idea what I could do to be of assistance.”

“She was killed by someone she knew well enough to let into the house, quite late in the evening, and was comfortable enough with to not send for one of the servants to be present,” Narraway answered. He saw the surprise in Hythe’s face, and a degree of apprehension, perhaps even alarm. Was it because he was guilty, and had he not expected anyone to deduce so much?

“I see from Mrs. Quixwood’s diary that she went to many interesting events,” Narraway went on. “Lectures, displays at the British Museum, concerts, and the theater, many of which Mr. Quixwood was unable to attend. He tells me that these were events that also interested you, and that you might be able to tell me a little of others she would have become acquainted with.” Narraway shrugged slightly. “It is unpleasant to have to question her friends in such a way, but we are trying to uncover the entire truth about what happened.”

“I see.” Hythe rose to his feet and went to the door. He excused himself and disappeared for several minutes, returning accompanied by a young woman who at first glance seemed quite ordinary-looking, apart from the steadiness of her gaze. Her hair was the color of honey and had a deep, natural wave.

Narraway rose to his feet immediately.

Hythe introduced her as his wife.

“How do you do, Lord Narraway?” Maris Hythe said with interest. Her voice was soft and surprisingly deep, giving her a gravity that her smooth, candid face belied.

“How do you do, Mrs. Hythe?” he replied. “I am sorry to intrude on your evening with such an unhappy subject.”

She sat down gracefully and the men followed her lead.

“That is hardly of any importance, if we can assist you in any way.” She dismissed it with a slight gesture of one hand. “I liked Catherine very much. She was funny and wise and brave. I have no idea who could have wanted to kill her, but if I can help you find him, then all my time is yours.” She looked at him gravely, waiting for his answer.

He told her of his conversation with Flaxley, and then later with Quixwood, explaining why he needed to know Catherine’s friends, but always skirting around the subject of rape. However, he was not subtle enough to deceive her.

“Was his intention robbery?” she said very quietly, almost under her breath. “Or did he attack her … personally?”

There was nothing to be gained by evasion, and he needed her help. “I am afraid it was the latter. The details of that would be better not spoken of.”

“I see.” She did not argue with him, nor respond to her husband’s sudden look of surprise and distress.

“Perhaps if I give you a list of her most recent engagements,” Narraway suggested, “then you can tell me who you remember as also being present, and who might have become close to her recently. I realize it is distasteful, but—”

“We understand,” Hythe interrupted him. He glanced at Maris and then back at Narraway, holding out his hand for the list.

Narraway passed it to him, and watched as he and Maris read it together.

For half an hour they mentioned names back and forth, and Narraway learned something of each of the events Flaxley had described. Hythe appeared to have enjoyed those he had also attended, and there was pleasure in his voice as he told of each. If the grief Hythe exhibited as he remembered Catherine was artificial, he was a superb actor.

But Narraway had known people every bit as convincing who would kill without hesitation if their own needs were thwarted or their safety in jeopardy. Quixwood was right: Hythe and Catherine had clearly been good friends, and Maris also, especially where music was concerned. If there had been an affair between Catherine and Hythe, then it was well concealed. But he had to grant that it was easily possible. Everything Hythe said seemed to be true, and yet looking at the tenseness in his shoulders, the awkward way he sat, without moving, Narraway grew increasingly certain that he was concealing something that mattered, something that frightened him.

Maris explained that she was close to one of her sisters, recently widowed, and she spent much of her time helping her, offering comfort, simply being there so her sister was not alone. Alban Hythe could not account for his time on most of these occasions, including the night of Catherine’s murder.

The three conversed for nearly two hours. Afterward, Narraway thanked them both and left, walking out into the soft dusk of the summer evening, the last light fading pink in the west. He was saddened by the possibility that Alban Hythe had begun an affair with Catherine because of her loneliness and his temporary solitude, and perhaps a weakness in both of them, played on by the depth of intellectual understanding and mutual love of the interesting, beautiful and creative.

But what terrible change in their seeming friendship had led to such violence? Had he wanted more and she refused him? Or had she wanted more, possibly even a commitment, and he refused her? Had she threatened his safety in some way and he responded from a fearful darkness in his character she had not for a moment imagined?

Narraway walked along the pavement toward the lights of the main thoroughfare and felt sadness overwhelm him. His anger at Hythe also returned, for the life and passion that, he was beginning to suspect, Hythe might’ve destroyed.