Anne Perry - Midnight at Marble Arch

“Do you normally do it that way?” Knox asked. “Walk, then come through and check the front door?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So the side door bolts would be undone while you were out?”

“Yes, sir, but the door itself was locked,” Luckett said with certainty. “I had to use my key to open it. There was no doubt, sir. No doubt at all. I heard the latch pull back, I felt it!”

Knox inclined his head in agreement. “Thank you, Mr. Luckett. Perhaps we’ll speak again tomorrow. I think it would be a good idea if you went to your bed now. This isn’t going to be easy for you for quite some time. You’ll be needed.”

Luckett rose to his feet with something of an effort. Suddenly he seemed stiff, and moved with obvious pain. He was an old man whose world had imploded in one short evening, and the only guard he had against it was his dignity. “Yes, sir,” he said gratefully. “Good night, sir.”

When he had gone Narraway wondered who was going to lock up the house after he and Knox left. He turned to Knox to ask, just as there was a loud ringing on the bell board outside the housekeeper’s door.

Knox looked up. “Front door?” he asked of no one in particular. “Who the devil can that be at two o’clock in the morning?” He hauled himself up out of his chair and led the way from the servants’ quarters to the front hallway. As he stood there, Narraway almost on his heels, the bell rang again. In the hall it was only a dim chime.

When they reached the front entryway, there was a constable standing to attention on the outside step. Narraway could see his shadow through the hall window, and another person a little farther away.

Knox opened the door and the constable turned to face him.

“Gentleman of the press, sir,” the constable said in a voice so devoid of expression as to be an expression in itself.

Knox stepped out and approached the other man. “When there’s something to say, we’ll tell you.” His voice was cold and had an edge of suppressed anger in it. “It’s past two in the morning, man. What the devil are you doing knocking on people’s doors at this time of night? Have you no decency at all? I’ve half a mind to find out where you live and wait until you’ve had a tragedy in your family, and then send a constable around to bang on your front door in the middle of the night!”

The man looked momentarily taken aback. “I heard-” he began.

“I told you,” Knox grated the words between his teeth, “we’ll tell you when there’s anything to say! You damn carrion birds smell death in the air and come circling around to see what profit there is in it for you.”

Narraway saw a fury in Knox that took him aback-and then the instant after, he realized how deeply the inspector was offended, not for himself but for those inside the house, who were shocked and frightened by events they could not even have imagined only hours ago. There was a raw edge of pity in the man as if he could feel the wound himself. Narraway was about to go out and add his own weight to the condemnation when he heard a step on the polished floor behind him and turned to see Quixwood standing there. He looked appalling. His face was creased and almost bloodless, his eyes red-rimmed, his hair disheveled. His shoulders drooped as if he were exhausted from carrying some huge, invisible weight.

“It’s all right,” he said hoarsely. “We will have to speak to the press sometime. I would as soon do it now, and then not face them again. But I thank you for your protection, Inspector … I’m sorry, I forget your name.” He ran his fingers through his hair as if it might somehow clear his mind.

“Knox, sir,” Knox said gently, then: “Are you sure you want to talk to him? You don’t have to, you know.”

Quixwood nodded very slightly and walked past Narraway to the open front door. He went out onto the step, acknowledged the constable, then looked at the man from the press.

“Perhaps I should say ‘good morning’ at this hour,” he began bleakly. “You have no doubt come because you heard we are in the middle of tragedy so overwhelming we hardly know how to act. I was summoned here before midnight because my wife was found assaulted and beaten to death in the hallway of her own home. At the moment we have no idea who did this hellish thing, or why.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath. “We don’t seem to have been robbed, but on further search we may find we have. The servants were in their quarters at the back of the house-except for the butler, who was out for his brief walk-and they heard nothing. The butler was the one who discovered my wife’s body, when he returned. I have nothing more to say at the moment. I am sure the inspector will inform you when there is anything that is of public interest rather than private grief. Good night.” He turned toward the door.

“Sir!” the man called out.

Quixwood looked back very slowly, his face like a mask in the light from the lamp above the door. He said nothing.

The man lost his nerve. “Thank you,” he acknowledged.

Quixwood did not reply, but walked inside and allowed Knox to close the door behind him, leaving the constable outside.

Quixwood faced Narraway. “Thank you. I am enormously grateful for your support.” His eyes searched Narraway’s face. “I would appreciate it if you would do what you can to help the inspector keep speculation as … as low as possible. The circumstances are-” he swallowed “-are open to more than one interpretation. But I loved Catherine and I will not allow her memory to be soiled by the vulgar and prurient, who value nothing and know no honor. Please …” His voice cracked.

“Of course,” Narraway said quickly. “As I said, anything Knox will allow me to do, I will. There may be avenues I can explore that he can’t. I may not be head of Special Branch anymore, but still have some influence in higher offices.”

Quixwood gave the ghost of a smile. “Thank you.”

Narraway took one of the cabs that the police had kept and went home to get a few hours’ sleep before facing the next day and trying to see the case with clearer vision. He had a hot bath to wash away some of the weariness and the tension that gripped him, then went to bed.

He slept deeply, out of exhaustion, but woke before eight, haunted by dreams of the dead woman and the terror and searing pain she must have felt as the most intimate parts of her body were torn. His head was pounding and his mouth was dry. The emptiness in his own life since losing his position as head of Special Branch seemed ridiculously trivial now, something he was ashamed to own, compared with what had happened to Catherine Quixwood.

He washed, shaved, and dressed, then went down to have a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and tea before going out into the warm early summer day and finding a hansom to take him to Dr. Brinsley.

The morgue was a place Narraway loathed. It was too much a bitter reminder of mortality. The smell of it turned his stomach. He could always taste it for hours afterward.

Today the heat and dust, the smell of horse manure in the street outside, was suddenly sweet compared with what he knew he would face as soon as the doors closed behind him.

He found Brinsley almost immediately. The man’s long-nosed, wry-humored face told Narraway that the news was ugly and probably complicated.

“Morning, my lord,” Brinsley said with a grimace. “Not seen Inspector Knox, I take it?”

“No, not yet,” Narraway replied. “Are you able to tell me anything?”

“Come into the office,” Brinsley invited him. “Smells a little better, at least.” Without waiting, he walked along the corridor, turned right, and led the way into a small room piled high with books and papers on every available surface. He closed the door behind them.