She looked at them again. Most of them were four digits. “Perhaps-I don’t know.”
They were sitting in the housekeeper’s room again, a sudden squall of rain battering against the windows. Flaxley was pale and tired, even though she had little to do except consider what position she would be able to obtain after it became known she had worked for a victim of rape and murder. People were terrified of scandal and there were plenty of good lady’s maids. Narraway was acutely conscious of that as he sat opposite her.
Having achieved nothing with his questions so far, he changed direction and became blunter.
“Did she ever speak to you about Mr. Hythe?”
“Not often,” she replied. “Just that he was a very pleasant gentleman. It was only really in connection with what dress to wear.” She smiled for a moment. “She did not care to dress in the same gowns if she was aware she had done so on a previous meeting with the same person.” There was affection in her voice, in her eyes, and for a moment it seemed her mind was back in the happier past.
“She knew he would notice?” Narraway said quickly. He hated to break the spell of memory, and yet he had to learn all he could.
For an instant there was a flicker of contempt in her eyes, but she carefully concealed it. “No, my lord, most gentlemen don’t know more than if they like a thing or if they don’t. Another lady, of course, would know exactly, and might even be unkind enough to remark on it, but mostly ladies dress to make the best of their appearance and have the confidence then to forget about themselves and behave with wit and charm.”
Narraway had never considered the subject before, but it made perfect sense. He could see it true, above all, of Vespasia. He could not imagine her dressing to impress anyone else.
But that did not answer the question of whether Catherine had been in love with Alban Hythe or not. Or, for that matter, anyone else.
Was there any point in asking Flaxley? He looked at her rather bony face, still smudged with grief and now anxiety. Her skin was scrubbed clean, her eyelids a little puffed. Her hair was pinned up neatly, but without softness, without care. He suddenly felt profoundly sorry for her. A year ago he would have brushed by the idea of being no longer needed as merely a part of life that had to be accepted. But now it was a pain he felt in his own flesh and understood.
“Miss Flaxley,” he said, leaning forward slightly and meeting her eyes with more urgency, “it was clearly important to Mrs. Quixwood that she meet with Mr. Hythe. She seems to have made arrangements to do so increasingly as often as every week or even twice a week, in the month before her death. Other plans were set aside to fit with his convenience, and as far as I can find out, she mentioned these meetings to no one else. In fact she barely referred to the acquaintance at all. It was not exactly secret, but it was certainly discreet.”
Flaxley did not reply, but her gaze never left his.
“It was important to her that they meet,” he went on. “She dressed carefully, but not so as to draw undue attention to herself, not as if she were meeting a lover with whom she dared to be seen.” He stopped as he saw the flare of anger in Flaxley’s eyes.
“Please describe her manner before she went out on these occasions, and when she returned,” he pressed. “I know I am asking you to speak of things that normally you would regard as a trust that you could not ever betray, but someone abused her terribly, Miss Flaxley. Someone beat her and caused her death as surely as if they had put their hands around her throat and choked the life out of her.” He saw the tears spill over and run down her cheeks and he ignored them. “If that was Alban Hythe, then I want to see him hang for it. And if it was not, then I want to save him. Don’t you?”
She nodded so minutely it was hardly a movement at all.
“How was she, Miss Flaxley? Excited? Frightened? Anxious? Sad? Tell me. It is too late to protect her now. And if it is loyalty to Mr. Quixwood you are considering, either for his sake, or for your own-and I am aware that you will need his goodwill in securing another position-I will tell him nothing that you say unless I have to, and even then I will attribute it to another source.”
She was surprised, confused, sad to the point of rocking herself back and forth very slightly, as if the movement offered some relief.
“She was anxious,” she said in little more than a whisper. “But not as if she were going to meet a lover, more as if she was going to hear something that was good news, or … or bad news. She liked Mr. Hythe, but more than that I think she trusted him.”
She looked down, avoiding Narraway’s eyes. “I have known her, in the past, when she was a little in love with a gentleman-though, of course, she never did anything … wrong. She wasn’t excited like that over Mr. Hythe. But she would never miss an appointment, no matter what else had to be rescheduled. And it seemed to grow more important to her as time went by. I swear, my lord, I don’t know why. I’d tell you if I knew, whatever it was. I’d tie a rope myself to hang whoever did that to her.”
Narraway believed her. He said so, thanked her and took his leave. There was nothing more to be gained. He made a note in his mind to speak to Vespasia and see if a position could be found for Flaxley among her friends. Then he smiled as he walked out of the front door, down the steps, and turned toward the square. He was becoming soft. What was the fate of one maid in a city of millions? A year ago he had held the fates of whole nations in his hands!
When he spoke to Quixwood a couple of days later, again in the library of the club, they seemed to have achieved nothing new. Quixwood was tired. It was easy to imagine he had found sleep elusive. He looked thinner than before and the lines in his face deeper. There was a certain hectic light in his eyes.
Narraway felt a gnawing pity for him, and a guilt that he had no real progress to report.
“She saw him often?” Quixwood said, his voice curiously flat, as if he was deliberately trying to keep it unemotional.
“Yes, at least once a week, or more, in the last month of her life,” Narraway agreed. “But judging from her diary, and what Flaxley says of her dress and her manner, it was not a love affair.”
Quixwood gave a tiny, painful laugh. “Dear Flaxley. Loyal to the end, even when it has become absurd. She’s a good servant. It’s a shame I have no possible position for her now. If Catherine was not meeting Hythe for an affair, what could it have been? He is a handsome man, at least ten years younger than she was, maybe more.”
He smiled, blinking hard. “Catherine was beautiful, you know? And perhaps she was bored. After all, I could not spend all day with her. But I loved her.” He stared at some point in the distance, perhaps at a vision or a memory only he could see. “I assumed she knew it. Maybe I should have told her so more … more believably.”
“She seemed to have many interests,” Narraway said after a few moments of silence that dragged heavily. The footsteps of servants could be heard on the wooden floor in the passageway outside.
Quixwood looked up. “You mean other than going to museums and galleries?”
“She seemed to find Africa as fascinating as many others do, especially with the present unrest.”
“Unrest?” Quixwood said quickly.
“The Jameson Raid in particular,” Narraway elaborated.
“Oh.” A brief smile crossed Quixwood’s face and vanished again. “Yes, of course. That trial should start soon. The man can’t have had the wits he was born with.” He sighed. “Although I admit that in the beginning I can see how many would have thought it was a grand adventure, with money to be made.” He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly, his voice thick with unshed tears. “I … I went home the other day. I can’t stay away forever.”
Narraway waited.
Quixwood kept his eyes lowered. “I collected some of my clothes, a few personal things. I thought I might be ready to move back again, but I … I can’t. Not yet.” He looked up at Narraway. “I was looking at Catherine’s jewelry. I thought I should put it in the bank. I don’t really know why. I don’t know what to do with it, except keep it safe. I suppose there will be something to do with it … one day. I …” Again he stopped and took a long, jerky breath. “I found this.” He held out a small, delicate brooch, not expensive but very pretty-three tiny flowers in various stages of opening, like buttercups. It could have been gold, possibly pinchbeck. “It’s new,” he said softly. “I didn’t give it to her. I asked Flaxley where it came from. She didn’t know, but she could tell me when she last saw
