Midnight at Marble Arch (11 page)

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

S
TILL 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.”

H
E 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.”

H
E ARRIVED AT
H
YTHE
’
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.