Anne Perry - Midnight at Marble Arch

Knox was looking at him curiously. “You mean, was the man expected?” He said what Narraway had been thinking. “Someone Mrs. Quixwood knew?”

Narraway shook his head. “But who would do this sort of thing to a woman he knows? It’s bestial!”

Knox’s face tightened, the lines of misery deepening around his mouth. “Rape isn’t always by strangers, sir. God knows what happened here. But I swear in His name, I mean to find out. If you can help, then I’ll accept it gladly, long as you keep quiet about it. Can’t do with every amateur who fancies himself a detective thinking he can move in on police business. But you’re hardly that.” He sighed. “We’ll have to tell Mr. Quixwood what happened, but he doesn’t need to see her. Better not to, if he’ll be advised. Don’t want that to be the way he remembers her.” He passed his hand over his brow, pushing his hair back. “If it were my wife, or one o’ my daughters, I don’t know how I’d stay sane.”

Narraway nodded. He wasn’t going to get it out of his mind easily.

They were interrupted by the arrival of Brinsley, the police surgeon. He was at first glance an ordinary-looking man, with drooping shoulders and a tired face, which was not surprising after midnight on what had probably become a long day for him even before this.

“Sorry,” he apologized to Knox. “Out on another call. Man dead in an alley. Appears to be natural causes, but you can’t tell till you look.” He turned toward the sheet on the floor. “What’ve we got here?” Without waiting for an answer, he bent down and with surprising gentleness pulled the covering away. He winced and his face filled with sadness. He said something, but it was under his breath and Narraway did not catch it.

In case Quixwood should come out into the hall, possibly wondering what was happening, or to look for him, Narraway excused himself and went back into the study, closing the door behind him.

Quixwood was sitting in the big armchair exactly as he had been before. Aware of movement, he looked up as Narraway entered. He started to speak, and then stopped.

Narraway sat down opposite him. “Knox seems like a decent and competent man,” he said.

“But … does that mean you won’t help …” Quixwood left the half-spoken request hanging in the air.

“Yes, of course I will,” Narraway answered, surprised by his own vehemence. The face of the woman lying on the floor only a few yards from them had moved him more than he expected. There was something desperately vulnerable about her.

“Thank you,” Quixwood said quietly.

Narraway wanted to talk to him, distract his attention from what was going on out in the hallway, and above all make absolutely certain Quixwood did not go there while the surgeon was working. His examination of the body would be intimate and intrusive; it would have to be. The violation would be so terribly obvious that seeing it would be almost as bad as witnessing the rape itself. But what was there to say that was not facile and rather absurd in the circumstances? No conversation could seem natural.

It was Quixwood who broke the silence. “Did they find where he broke in? I don’t know how that happened. The doors and windows all lock. We’ve never been robbed.” He was speaking too quickly, as if saying it aloud could change the truth. “The house must have been full of servants at that time. Who found her? Did she cry out?” He swallowed hard. “Did she have time to … I mean, did she know?”

That was a question Narraway had been dreading. But Quixwood would have to hear it sometime. If Narraway lied to him now he would not be believed in the future. Yet if he told him anything even close to the truth, Quixwood would want to go out and look. Such a need would be instinctive, hoping it was not as bad as his imagination painted.

“No,” he said aloud. “They haven’t found any broken locks or forced windows so far. But they haven’t finished looking yet. There might be a pane of glass cut somewhere. It wouldn’t be easy to see in the dark, and there’s little wind to cause a draft.” He went on to describe the burglar’s skill of pasting paper over window glass, cutting it soundlessly and then pulling out a circular piece large enough to let a hand pass through to undo the latch. “Star-glazing, they call it,” he finished.

“Do you know that from working in Special Branch?” Quixwood asked curiously, as if it puzzled him.

“No, I learned it from a friend of mine who used to be in the regular police.” Narraway went on reciting other tricks Pitt had mentioned at one time or another: small details about forgers of many different sorts, about pickpockets, card sharps, fencers of all the different qualities of stolen goods. Neither of them cared about it but Quixwood listened politely. It was better than thinking about what was going on in the hall only feet away.

Narraway was just about out of explanations of the criminal underworld of which Pitt had educated him, when at last there was a knock on the door. At Quixwood’s answer, Knox came in, closing it behind him.

“Excuse me, my lord,” he said to Narraway, then turned to Quixwood. “The surgeon’s left, sir, and taken Mrs. Quixwood’s body with him. Would you mind if I ask you one or two questions, just to get things straight? Then … I don’t know if you wish to stay here, or perhaps you’d rather find somewhere else for the night? Do you have any friends you’d like to be with?”

“What? Oh … I’ll … just stay here, I think.” Quixwood looked bemused, as if he had not even considered what he was going to do.

“Wouldn’t you rather go to your club?” Narraway suggested. “It would be more comfortable for you.”

Quixwood stared at him. “Yes, yes, I suppose so. In a little while.” He turned to Knox. “What happened to her? Surely you must know now?” His face was white, his eyes hollow.

Knox sat down in the chair opposite Quixwood and Narraway. He leaned forward a little.

Narraway could not help wondering how often the inspector had done this, and if anything ever prepared him for it, or made it any easier. He thought probably not.

“I’d rather not have to tell you this, sir,” Knox began. “But you’re going to know it one way or another; I’m sorry, Mrs. Quixwood was raped, and then killed. We’re not quite sure how she died; the surgeon will tell us that when he’s had time to make an examination in his offices.”

Quixwood stared at him, eyes wide, his hands shaking. “Did … did you say ‘raped’?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry,” Knox said unhappily.

“Did she suffer?” Quixwood’s voice was hardly audible.

“Probably not for very long,” Knox said. His tone was gentle, but he would not lie.

Quixwood rubbed his hand over his face, pushing his hair back, hard. His skin was ashen. There was no blood in it, and the darkness of his hair and brows looked almost blue. “How did it happen, Inspector? How did anyone get in here to do that? Where were the servants, for God’s sake?”

“We’re looking into that, sir,” Knox answered.

“Who found her?” Quixwood persisted.

Knox was patient, knowing the answers were needed, no matter what they were.

“The butler, Mr. Luckett. It seems he frequently goes for a short walk along the street and over the square before retiring. He found her when he checked the front door last thing before going to bed himself, sir.”

“Oh …” Quixwood looked at the floor. “Poor Catherine,” he murmured.

“I presume he locked the front door, then left for his walk through the side door and up the area steps?” Narraway asked Knox.

“Yes, sir. And returned the same way, bolting the door after him for the night.”