Midnight at Marble Arch (9 page)

She stayed there only a few moments longer. She did not want Jemima to waken and see her.

Quietly she closed the door and walked along the passage a few steps to Daniel’s room. The man who had raped Angeles was somebody’s son. Did his parents have any idea what he had become?

She opened that door also, very softly, and looked in on Daniel. He was curled over, facing the window where the curtains were wide open and the last of the summer evening light still glowed. His dark eyelashes shadowed across his smooth, unblemished cheek. It was an impossible thought, but in another seven years he would be a man.

Suddenly she felt frightened, aware of how precious everything was, of the happiness, the safety, the hope she took for granted; even the little things like the daily certainty of kindness, someone to touch, to love, to talk to; of being surrounded by people who mattered to her.

Charlotte felt tears slip down her cheeks and a tightness in her chest. The enormity of life, the joy and the pain, the caring so deeply—it was almost too much.

She closed the door in case she disturbed Daniel, and walked very slowly along the passage. She hesitated at the top of the stairs. She did not want to go down yet. Pitt would wonder what on earth was the matter with her, and she was not ready to try to explain.

4

N
ARRAWAY 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.

N
ARRAWAY 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?”