Anne Perry - Midnight at Marble Arch

“Good evening, m’lord,” he said to Narraway. Then without hesitation, he turned to Pitt, holding out his hand. “Rawdon Quixwood,” he introduced himself.

“Thomas Pitt,” Pitt responded.

“Yes, I know.” Quixwood’s smile widened. “Perhaps I am not supposed to, but seeing you standing here talking so comfortably with Lord Narraway, the conclusion is obvious.”

“Either that, or he has no idea who I am,” Narraway said drily. “Or who I was.” There was no bitterness in his voice, or even in his eyes, but Pitt knew how the dismissal had hurt and guessed how heavily Narraway’s new idleness weighed on him. A joke passed off lightly, a touch of self-mockery, did not hide the wound. But perhaps if Pitt had been so easily deceived he would not belong in the leadership of Special Branch now. All his adult life in the police had made understanding people as second nature to him as dressing a certain way, or exercising courtesy or discretion. Seeing through the masks of privacy worn by friends was a different matter. He would have preferred not to.

“If he did not know who you were, my lord, he would be a total outsider,” Quixwood responded pleasantly. “And I saw him speaking with Lady Vespasia half an hour ago, which excludes that as a possibility.”

“She speaks to outsiders,” Narraway pointed out. “In fact, I have come to the conclusion that at times she prefers them.”

“With excellent judgment,” Quixwood agreed. “But they do not speak to her. She is somewhat intimidating.”

Narraway laughed, and there was genuine enjoyment in the sound.

Pitt was going to add his own opinion when a movement beyond Narraway caught his eye. He saw a young man approaching them, his face pale and tense with anxiety. His gaze was fixed on Pitt with a kind of desperation.

“Excuse me,” Pitt said briefly, and moved past Narraway to go toward the man.

“Sir …” the man began awkwardly. “Is … is that Mr. Quixwood you were speaking to? Mr. Rawdon Quixwood?”

“Yes, it is.” Pitt wondered what on earth was the matter. The younger man’s distress was palpable. “Is there something wrong?” he prompted.

“Yes, sir. My name’s Jenner, sir. Police. Are you a friend of Mr. Quixwood’s?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I’ve only just met him. I’m Commander Pitt, of Special Branch. What is it you want?” He was aware that by now at least one of the other two would have noticed the awkward conversation and Jenner’s obvious unhappiness. They might be refraining from interruption on the assumption it was Special Branch business.

Jenner took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Quixwood’s wife has been found dead at their home. It’s worse than just that, sir.” He gulped, and swallowed with difficulty. “It looks pretty plain that she’s been murdered. I need to tell Mr. Quixwood, and take him there. If he has any friends who could … be there to help him …” He trailed off, not knowing what else to say.

After all his experience with violent and unexpected death, Pitt should have been used to hearing of it and been familiar with the grief it would cause. But, if anything, it seemed to grow more difficult with each case.

“Wait here, Jenner. I’ll tell him. I daresay Lord Narraway will go with him, if Quixwood wishes.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Jenner was clearly relieved.

Pitt turned back to Narraway and Quixwood, who had continued talking together, deliberately not paying him attention.

“Never off duty, eh?” Quixwood said with much sympathy.

Pitt felt the knot of pity tighten inside him. “It isn’t actually me he was looking for,” he said quickly. He put his hand on Narraway’s arm in a kind of warning. “I’m afraid there has been a tragedy.” He looked directly at Quixwood, who stared back at him with nothing more than polite bemusement in his eyes.

Narraway stiffened, hearing the catch in Pitt’s voice. He glanced at him, then at Quixwood.

“I’m sorry,” Pitt said gently. “He’s from the police. Mr. Quixwood, they have found your wife’s body in your home. He has come to take you there, and anyone you may wish to accompany you at this time.”

Quixwood stared at him as if the words made no sense. He seemed to sway a little before making a deliberate effort to compose himself. “Catherine?” He turned slowly to Narraway, then back to Pitt. “Found …? Why the police, for God’s sake? What’s happened?”

Pitt wanted to reach out and take the man’s arm to steady him. However, on so brief an acquaintance, such a gesture would have been intrusive, unless Quixwood was actually on the brink of falling. “I’m very sorry; it looks as if there was some kind of violence.”

Quixwood looked at Narraway. “Violence? Will … will you come with me?” He passed his hand across his brow. “This is absurd! Who would hurt Catherine?”

“Of course I’ll come,” Narraway said immediately. “Make my excuses, Pitt, and Quixwood’s. Don’t give the reason. Just an emergency.” He took Quixwood’s arm and led him toward where Jenner was waiting, and together the three of them left.

The ride by Hansom cab was one of the most distressing Narraway could recall. He sat next to Quixwood, with the young policeman, Jenner, on the far side. Half a dozen times Quixwood drew in his breath to speak, but in the end there was nothing to say.

Narraway was only half aware of the brightly lit streets and the warm, summer night. They passed other carriages, one so closely that he glimpsed the faces of the man and woman inside, the brief fire of the diamonds at her neck.

They turned a corner and were obliged to slow down. Light spilled out of open doors and there was a sound of laughter and distant music from inside. People were starting to leave their various parties, too busy talking to one another, calling goodbyes, to pay attention to the traffic. The world continued as if death did not exist and murder was impossible.

Could it really have been murder, or was Jenner misinformed? He looked quite young and very upset.

Narraway did not know Quixwood well. Theirs was a social acquaintance, a matter of being pleasant on a number of occasions where both were required to attend a gathering, and now and then a drink at a gentlemen’s club or dinner at some government function. Narraway had been head of Special Branch; Quixwood was involved in one of the major merchant banks, handling enormous amounts of money. Their paths had never crossed professionally. Narraway could not even remember meeting Quixwood’s wife.

They were coming from the Spanish Embassy in Queen’s Gate, Kensington, traveling east toward Belgravia. Quixwood lived on Lyall Street, just off Eaton Square. They had less than two hundred yards to go. Quixwood was sitting forward, staring at the familiar façades as they slowed down and came to a stop just short of a house where police were blocking the way.

Narraway alighted immediately and paid the driver, telling him not to wait. Jenner came out from the same side, with Quixwood beside him. Narraway followed them across the pavement and up the steps, through the classically pillared front door, into the vestibule. Every room was lit and there were servants standing around, white-faced. He saw a butler and a footman, and another man, who was probably a valet. There were no women in sight.

A man came out of the inner hallway and stopped. He looked to be in his forties, hair mostly gray, his face weary and crumpled with distress. He glanced at Jenner, then looked at Narraway and Quixwood.

“Which of you is Mr. Quixwood?” he said quietly, his voice cracking a little as though his throat was tight.

“I am,” Quixwood answered. “Rawdon Quixwood.”

“Inspector Knox, sir,” the man answered. “I’m very sorry indeed.”