Anne Perry: Midnight at Marble Arch

“And saw no one?” Narraway asked.

“No, sir, so he says.”

“It’ll be the truth,” Quixwood interjected. “Been with us for years. He’s a good man.” His eyes widened. “For God’s sake, you can’t think he had anything to do with this?”

“No, sir,” Knox said calmly. “It’s just practice to check everything we can, from every angle.”

“Does Luckett know what time he returned to the house?” Narraway asked Knox.

“Yes, sir, just after half-past ten. He sent the footman for the police immediately.”

“No telephone?” Narraway looked surprised.

“He was probably too flustered to think of it,” Quixwood cut in. “Wouldn’t know the police station number anyway, or think to ask the exchange for it.”

“I understand,” Knox agreed. “Fall back on habit when we’re shaken up badly. Find the first policeman on the beat. Turned out to be a good idea, as it happens. He ran into Constable Tibenham a couple of hundred yards away, other side of Eaton Square. He came here at once and used the telephone to call me. I got here just after quarter-past eleven. Sent for you at the Spanish Embassy. You got back here, I made it half-past midnight. It’s now about twenty minutes past one.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Quixwood, but I need to speak to at least some of the servants before I let them go to bed. Got to get it when it’s fresh in their minds. Could forget something if I wait until morning.”

Quixwood looked down at the carpet again. “I understand. Do you … do you need me?”

“Not to stay for the interviews, sir. Not necessary you should know anything as you’d rather not. Just a few things I need to ask you.”

Quixwood seemed confused. “What?”

“This was a party at the Spanish Embassy you were attending, sir?” Knox asked.

“Yes. What of it?”

“It was a social sort of thing? Ladies there as well as gentlemen?”

Quixwood blinked.

“Oh! Oh, I see what you mean. Yes. Catherine didn’t go because she wasn’t feeling very well. Bad headache. She has … she had them sometimes.”

“But she was invited?”

“Of course. She said she preferred to go to bed early. Those parties can drag on a long time.”

“I see.”

Quixwood frowned. “What are you saying, Inspector? There was nothing so remarkable in that. My wife didn’t go to lots of the social parties I have to attend. Great deal of noise and chatter, most of it with very little meaning. I wouldn’t go myself if it weren’t part of my profession to make new acquaintances, contacts and so on.”

“What time did you leave the house to go to the Spanish Embassy, sir?”

“About half-past eight or so, arrived a little before nine. I didn’t need to be early.”

“Take a hansom, sir?”

“No, I have my own carriage.” He looked momentarily stunned. “Dear heaven, I forgot all about that! It’ll still be at the embassy, waiting for me.” He half rose out of his chair.

“No,” Narraway responded at once. “I gave your apologies. Commander Pitt would know to have your driver informed.”

Quixwood shot him a quick glance of gratitude, then turned back to Knox. “So when did it happen?”

“Probably about ten o’clock, sir, or thereabouts. After half-past nine, when the maid was in the hallway and spoke to Mrs. Quixwood, and before half-past ten, when Mr. Luckett came back and found her.”

Quixwood frowned. “Does that help?”

“Yes, sir, it probably does,” Knox agreed, nodding slightly. “It’s very early yet in the investigation. We’ll know more when we’ve spoken to the servants and had a proper look around in the daylight. There may even have been people-neighbors-out walking who saw something. Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I need to go speak to the servants.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Quixwood said hastily. “Please do what you must. I shall just sit here a little longer.” He looked at Narraway. “I quite understand if you want to leave. It must have been a damned awful night for you, but I would be more grateful than I can say if you’d just … just keep an eye on things … do what you can …” His voice trailed off as if he was embarrassed.

“Anything that Inspector Knox will allow me,” Narraway said, looking toward the inspector, who nodded at once.

“Come with me then, by all means, my lord,” Knox said. “I’m having the servants meet with me in the housekeeper’s room. They’re a bit shaken up, so I thought it best to question everyone there. Cup of tea. Familiar surroundings.”

Narraway saw the wisdom of it. “Good idea. Yes, I’d like to come,” he accepted. “Thank you.”

He gave Quixwood’s shoulder a squeeze then followed Knox-past the crime scene, which was now occupied solely by a woman on her hands and knees with a bucket of water and a brush in her hand, scrubbing to clear the streaks of blood off the parquet floor where Catherine Quixwood had lain.

There were no other visible signs of disturbance. Presumably whatever had been knocked down or broken was already attended to. Narraway was grateful. At least when Quixwood himself emerged there would be no violent reminders of what had happened here.

In the housekeeper’s room, a very homey and surprisingly spacious parlor, they found the housekeeper, Mrs. Millbridge. She was a plump, middle-aged woman in a black stuff dress, her hair obviously hastily repinned. With her was a young maid, red-eyed and dabbing a wet handkerchief to her nose. On a small table there was a tray of tea with several clean cups, a jug of milk, and a bowl of sugar. Knox looked at it longingly, but it seemed he did not think it suitable to indulge himself.

Narraway felt the same need and exercised the same discipline. To do less would seem a little childish; also it would put a distance between them and mark him as something of an amateur.

The maid was the one who had last seen Catherine Quixwood alive. Knox spoke to her in soothing tones, but there was nothing she could add beyond being quite certain of the time. The long-cased clock in the hallway had just chimed, and it was always right, so Mr. Luckett assured her.

Knox thanked her and let her go. Then he asked a footman to fetch Luckett himself from wherever he might be.

“Trying to keep the staff calm, sir,” the servant told him. “And see that everything’s tidied up and all the windows and doors are fast. I expect they are, but the women’ll rest better if they know he’s checked, personal like.”

Knox nodded his head. “Then ask him to come as soon as he’s done. In the meantime I’ll speak with Mrs. Millbridge here.”

“Yes, sir; thank you, sir,” the footman said gratefully, and went out, closing the door behind him.

Knox turned to the motherly woman. “Mrs. Quixwood stayed at home alone this evening. Why was that, do you know? And please give me the truth, ma’am. Being polite and discreet may not actually be the best loyalty you can give right now. I’m not going to tell other people anything I don’t have to. I have a wife and three daughters myself. I love them dearly, but I know they can have their funny ways-like all of us.” He shook his head. “Daughters, especially. I think I know them, then I swear they do some strange thing as has me completely lost.”

Mrs. Millbridge smiled very slightly, perhaps as much as she dared in the circumstances.

“Mrs. Quixwood wasn’t all that fond of parties,” she said quietly. “She liked music and the theater well enough. Loved some of the more serious plays, or the witty ones, like Mr. Wilde’s used to be.” She blinked, aware that since Oscar Wilde’s disgrace perhaps one shouldn’t admit to enjoying his work.

Knox was momentarily at a loss.