Anne Perry - Midnight at Marble Arch

“So do I,” Narraway put in quickly. “His wit stays in the mind to be enjoyed over and over again.”

Mrs. Millbridge shot him a glance of gratitude, then turned her attention back to Knox.

“Did Mr. Quixwood often go to parties by himself?” he asked.

“I suppose, yes.” She looked anxious again, afraid that she might unintentionally have said the wrong thing.

Knox smiled at her encouragingly, the lines of weariness on his face momentarily disappearing. “So anyone watching the house, maybe with a mind to burgling it, might have noticed that she would be alone, after the servants had retired for the night?”

She nodded, her face pale, perhaps picturing someone waiting in the dark outside, watching for that moment. She gave a very slight shiver and her body remained rigid.

“On those nights, she wouldn’t have visitors?” Knox went on. “Not have a lady friend come over, for example?”

“No,” Mrs. Millbridge answered. “Nobody that I know of.”

“And would you know, ma’am?”

“Well … if she had someone visit her, she would want tea, at the very least, and perhaps a light supper,” she pointed out. “There would be someone to fetch that, and then wait to let the visitor out and lock up. That means at least one maid and one footman.”

“Indeed,” Knox said calmly. “And if she were to leave the house herself, then I suppose there would have to be a footman available to let her back in again. Not to mention perhaps a coachman to take her wherever she was going?”

“Of course.” Mrs. Millbridge nodded her head.

Narraway thought of the other alternative, that a man had visited her and she had let him in and out herself. Any refreshment he had taken would be a glass of whisky or brandy from the decanter in the study. However, he did not say so. The inspector would surely have thought of it also.

Knox left the subject of visitors. “What did Mrs. Quixwood like to do with her time?”

Mrs. Millbridge looked puzzled, and the anxiety was back again. She did not answer. Narraway wondered immediately what it was she feared. He watched Knox’s face, but had no idea what lay behind the furrowed brow and the sad downturn of the inspector’s mouth.

“Did she enjoy the garden, perhaps?” Knox suggested. “Maybe even direct the gardener about what to plant, and where?”

“Oh, I see,” Mrs. Millbridge said with relief. “Yes, she was interested in flowers and things. Often arranged them herself, she did. In the house, I mean.” For a moment there was life in her face again, as if she had allowed herself to forget why they were here. “Went to lectures at the Royal Horticultural Society now and then,” she added. “Geographical Society too. Liked to read about other places, even far-off ones, such as India and Egypt. She read about the people who used to live there thousands of years ago.” She shook her head in wonderment at such a fancy. “And the Greeks and Romans too.”

“She sounds like a very interesting lady,” Knox observed.

Mrs. Millbridge gulped and the tears spilled down her cheeks. Suddenly her grief was painfully apparent. She looked old and crumpled and very vulnerable.

“I’m sorry,” Knox apologized gently. “Maybe we can leave anything else for another time. You must be tired.” He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s nearly two.”

“It’s all right,” she insisted, lifting her chin and looking at him with a degree of defiance, her dignity returned. Perhaps it was what he had intended.

“I’m sure,” he agreed. “But you’ll have your hands full in the morning. The maids are all going to look to you. You’ll have to be like a mother for them.” He was telling her what she knew, but the reminder of her importance was obviously steadying. “They won’t have known anything like this before,” he went on. “We’re going to have to see Mrs. Quixwood’s lady’s maid tomorrow anyway. I realize it’s very late and she’s surely too upset to speak to us tonight. But when we do … well, even with the extra time, she’s still going to be in considerable distress. It’s only to be expected. And she’ll need someone’s support, someone’s strength. A person she knows and trusts.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Millbridge stood up. “Yes, of course. Flaxley was devoted to Mrs. Quixwood.” She smoothed her skirt down. “You’re right, sir.” She glanced at Narraway, but she had no idea who he was. For her, Knox was in charge. “Thank you, sir. Good night.”

“Good night, Mrs. Millbridge,” Knox answered.

When she had retired to her bedroom, Knox at last took some tea, which was now cold. He said nothing, but it was clear in his face the strain this questioning placed on him. Narraway was overwhelmingly grateful that his professional years had not put him again and again in this position. Not seeing the confusion and the grief so closely, but dealing instead with the greater issues of danger to the country. Having to distance himself from the individual human loss had insulated him from the hard and intimate reality of it. The responsibility he had carried was heavy, sometimes almost unbearably so, but it still did not have this immediacy. It called for courage, strength of nerve and accuracy of judgment; it did not need this endurance for other people’s pain. He looked at Knox with a new regard, even an admiration.

The butler, Luckett, knocked on the door and came in. He looked exhausted, his face deeply lined, his eyes red-rimmed. Still, he stood at attention in front of Knox.

“Please sit down, Mr. Luckett.” Knox waved at the chair where Mrs. Millbridge had been. “I’m sorry, the tea’s cold.”

“Would you like some fresh tea, sir?” Luckett asked, without making a move toward the chair.

“What? Oh, no, thank you,” Knox replied. “I meant for you.”

“I’m quite well, thank you, sir,” Luckett said. He followed Knox’s gesture and sat down. “The house is in order, sir, and I have checked that all the doors and windows are locked. We’re safe for the night.”

“Did you find where anyone had broken in? Or any open windows, where someone could have pushed them wider and climbed through?” Knox asked.

“No, sir. Nothing out of place, and all the windows were locked when I checked them. I don’t know how he got in.”

“Then it looks for now as if he must have been let in,” Knox said.

“Yes, sir,” Luckett agreed obediently, but his face was tight with unhappiness.

“Have you known Mrs. Quixwood to have visitors late in the evening, and see them in and out herself, on any other occasion?” Knox asked.

Luckett was acutely uncomfortable at the question and all that it implied. “No, sir, I haven’t,” he said a little stiffly.

“But it is possible?” Knox pressed.

“I suppose it is.” Luckett could not argue.

“Was the front door locked when you found Mrs. Quixwood’s body tonight?” Knox asked.

Luckett stiffened, and for seconds he did not answer.

Knox did not ask again but sat staring at Luckett with tired, sad eyes.

Luckett cleared his throat. “It was closed, sir. But the bolts were not sent home,” he said, looking back at Knox levelly.

“I see. And the other doors, from the side, or the scullery?”

“Locked, sir, and bolted,” Luckett said without hesitation.

“So whoever it was, he came in the front, and left the same way,” Knox concluded. “Interesting. At least we have learned something. When you went for your walk in Eaton Square, how did you go out, Mr. Luckett?”

Luckett froze, understanding flooding into his eyes, his face.

“I went out through the side door to the area,” Luckett said very quickly. “I have a key. I lock the door as I leave-but, of course, I can’t fasten the inside bolts. Then I come back through the same door. It was after that, when I went to check the front door a last time … that was when I saw Mrs. Quixwood.”