Anne Perry - Midnight at Marble Arch

Quixwood started to say something, then lost the words.

Knox looked at Narraway, clearly trying to work out who he was and why he had come.

“Victor Narraway. I happened to be with Mr. Quixwood when the police found him. I’ll be of any help I can.”

“Thank you, Mr. Narraway. Good of you, sir.” Knox turned back to Quixwood again. “I’m sorry to distress you, sir, but I need you to take a very quick look at the lady and confirm that it is your wife. The butler said that it is, but we’d prefer it if you … you were to …”

“Of course,” Quixwood replied. “Is she …?”

“In the inner hall, sir. We’ve covered her with a sheet. Just look at her face, if you don’t mind.”

Quixwood nodded and walked a little unsteadily through the double doors. He glanced to his left and stopped, swaying a little, putting out his hand as if reaching for something.

Narraway went after him in half a dozen strides, ready to brace him if he were to stagger.

The body of Catherine Quixwood was lying sprawled, slightly on its side, mostly facedown, on the wooden parquet floor, all of her concealed by the bedsheet thrown over her, except her face. Her long, dark hair was loose, some of it fallen over her brow, but it did not hide the bloody bruises on her cheek and jaw, or the split lip stained scarlet by the blood that had oozed from her mouth. In spite of that it was possible to see that she had been a beautiful woman.

Narraway felt a knot of shock and sorrow that he had not expected. He had not known her when she was alive, and she was far from the first person he had seen who had been killed violently. Without thinking, he reached out and grasped Quixwood’s arm, holding him hard. The other man was totally unresisting, as if he were paralyzed.

Narraway pushed him very gently. “You don’t need to stay here. Just tell Knox if it is her, and then go into the withdrawing room or your study.”

Quixwood turned to face him. His skin was ashen. “Yes, yes, of course you’re right. Thank you.” He looked beyond him to Knox. “That is my wife. That is Catherine. Can I … I mean … do you have to leave her there like that? On the floor? For God’s sake.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I suppose you do.”

Knox’s face was pinched with grief. “Mr. Narraway, sir, perhaps if you would take Mr. Quixwood into the study.” He indicated the direction with his hand. “I’ll ask the butler to bring brandy for both of you.”

“Of course.” Narraway guided Quixwood to the door Knox had indicated.

The room would have been pleasant and comfortable at any other time. The season being early summer, there was no fire lit in the large hearth, and the curtains were open onto the garden. The lamps were already lit. Possibly Knox and his men had searched the house.

Quixwood sank into one of the large leather-covered armchairs, burying his face in his hands.

Almost immediately a footman appeared with a silver tray holding a decanter of brandy and two balloon glasses. Narraway thanked him. He poured one and gave it to Quixwood, who took it and swallowed a mouthful with a wince, as if it had burned his throat.

Narraway did not take one himself. He looked at Quixwood, who was almost collapsed in the chair.

“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.”

“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.