a landau, bodywork dark, brass gleaming in the sun. The liveried coachman sat bolt upright, the reins held tightly in his gloved hands.
In the back two women sat talking to each other, pink and yellow embroidered muslins fluttering in the breeze. One of them laughed. It was jarring, a waking nightmare, to think of Catherine lying obscenely flung like a broken doll on the floor of one of these quiet, sedate houses with their exquisite façades, life proceeding on outside as if her death was of no importance.
Narraway’s hansom came to a halt. He alighted, paid the driver, and walked toward the front door. Flickering in his mind was the memory of Pitt telling him how, in his early days, he used to be sent to the servants’ entrance. No one wished to have the police enter through the front part of the house, as though they were equal to the owners. Now Narraway was doing what had essentially been Pitt’s job, and he planned to use every privilege and artifice he could to obtain information, whether it was intended to be shared with him or not.
The door was opened by a footman whose face was appropriately polite and blank, as if everything in the household was normal.
“Yes, sir? May I help you?” He clearly did not recognize Narraway from the night of the murder. Narraway recalled him, but it was his profession to remember faces.
“Good morning.” He produced a card out of the silver case in his pocket. “If you would be so good as to ask Inspector Knox if he can spare me a few moments?”
The footman was about to refuse him when training took over from instinct and he looked at the card. The name was unfamiliar but the title impressed him.
“Certainly my lord. If you would care to follow me to the morning room, I shall inform the inspector.”
It was a full ten minutes before Knox appeared, walking straight in without knocking, and closing the door behind him. He looked tired; his shoulders drooped and his tie was slightly askew. There were lines of anxiety etched deep in his face.
“Morning, sir,” he said with a sigh. “Sorry, but I really don’t have any news that’ll help Mr. Quixwood. Only bits and pieces, and nothing’s for certain yet.”
Narraway remained standing rather stiffly by the mantel shelf.
“Regardless of its apparent lack of meaning, what have you found?” he asked. “You must know how the assailant got in by now, and have an excellent idea of what, if anything, is missing. Have you found any witnesses, if not nearby, then within a block of here? Has any missing jewelry or artifacts, or whatever, turned up at a pawnshop or with a receiver of such things? Have there been any similar crimes reported? Other break-ins or attacks on women?”
Knox looked down at the ground, his lips pursed in sadness rather than thought.
“There’s no sign of a break-in anywhere, Lord Narraway,” he answered. “We’ve searched every door and window. We’ve looked at the downpipes, ledges, everywhere a man could climb, and a few where he couldn’t. We even had a lad up in the chimney to look.” He saw Narraway’s expression of irritation. “Some of the houses in this part have big chimneys. You’d be surprised how a skinny little lad can come down one o’ these an’ open a door.”
Narraway acknowledged his error. “Yes, of course. I didn’t think of that. I assume you are not saying the attacker was here all the time? One of the servants? Please God, you are not saying that! We’ll have every household in London in a panic.”
“No, sir.” Knox gave a twisted little smile. “The servants are all very well accounted for.”
Narraway felt a chill. “Then you are saying there’s no doubt she let him in herself? That seems the only alternative left.”
Knox looked even more crumpled.
“Yes, sir, I am. Nothing was damaged, nothing torn or broken except what you already saw in the room where we found her. This leaves us with the conclusion that he was someone with whom she was comfortable, at least enough so that she let him in herself.”
Narraway started. “But it’s possible she was tricked somehow? Maybe he pretended he was a friend, a messenger from her husband, or the husband of a friend. Perhaps he gave a false name?”
Knox did all he could to keep his face expressionless, but failed. “No, my lord, I’m saying he was someone she knew, and she felt no apprehension about allowing him into the house without having a servant present. Someone she opened the door to herself rather than waiting until one of the servants answered the bell. She might have even expected him.”
Narraway breathed in and out deeply, slowly. He had done all he could to avoid facing this, even in his mind. His chest and stomach were tight. “You mean he was her lover?”
Knox chewed his lip, profoundly unhappy. “I’m sorry, sir, but that does seem probable. I’ll be most obliged if you can think up a more agreeable alternative.”
Narraway forced himself to picture again the inner hallway where they had found Catherine. She had fought hard for her life, but only there, not closer to the front door. She had allowed her attacker inside the house, beyond the vestibule.
“How did none of the servants hear her?” he demanded. “She must have cried out. A woman doesn’t submit to rape without a sound. Didn’t she scream, at the very least?”
“The servants had been excused for the night,” Knox replied. “The baize door to their quarters is pretty heavy. Sound-proof, if you take my meaning? If she’d wanted anything she’d have rung one of the bells and someone would have come, but a shout, especially from the front of the house, no one would have heard.”
Narraway imagined it. The baize door gave such privacy, locked you off from intrusion-or help. Perhaps one stifled cry, then a hand over your mouth, and only a muffled choking after that. If a servant heard anything at all, she would take it for a quarrel, and the last thing she would want would be to intrude on such a scene.
What were they used to, the well-trained servants in this outwardly respectable house? Did they recognize a mistress’s dismissal for the evening as a tacit command not to return?
He looked at Knox.
“Sorry, sir,” Knox said quietly. “This man may have stolen things, but the servants don’t recognize anything gone. And there’s very definitely been no break-in. The bolts across the front doors were undone. The butler and the footman have both sworn, without any hesitation, that the doors where she was found were closed only with the type of latch that shuts itself.”
“But the butler was alone when he found her; he wasn’t with the footman,” Narraway pointed out. It was a foolish observation. He knew it as he said the words, just as he knew what Knox would say in reply.
“Yes, sir,” Knox answered wearily. “He found her then he called the footman. Couldn’t really call one of the women. I’m sorry, but I don’t think there’s a way around it, my lord. We can conclude only that she knew him and let him in.”
“Then we’d better find out who he was,” Narraway said grimly. “Any ideas?”
“Not yet. The servants are either very loyal or else they truly don’t know.” Again unhappiness filled Knox’s tired face. Narraway wondered if he was thinking of his own family. He had said he had a wife and daughters. His voice had altered when he spoke of them: there was a gentleness, even a pride in it. Narraway had liked him for that.
“Have you looked at Mrs. Quixwood’s diary?” Narraway asked. “Or spoken to her maid?”
“Yes. The diary doesn’t tell me anything,” Knox replied. “She was busy, lots of engagements, but very few names mentioned, none of them outside of what you’d expect.” He frowned. “Do you want to see it? Maybe …” He left the idea hanging in the air, on the edge of asking Narraway something, but clearly not quite certain if he wanted to, or how to word it.
“Yes,” Narraway answered. “I’d like to look. I may know some of the names, at least.”
Knox frowned. “Do you think … I mean …” His expression was bleak. “A secret acquaintance? If it’s true, then it’s going to be very hard to prove.”
“Rape?” Narraway said the word with distaste. “If that ends up being the case, then I’ll settle for proving it’s murder.”
Knox smiled at him, as if they had reached some kind of understanding. “I suppose you’d like to speak to the lady’s maid as well. Read the diary first. It won’t take you long. Then I’ll send for her.”
Narraway thanked him and went into the garden room to wait while a constable fetched Catherine’s diary.
