The jurors looked puzzled. One middle-aged man blushed hotly.
“I will show you how else this terrible thing could have happened,” Symington said finally. “And why Alban Hythe had no part in it at all. I will convince you of this until in good conscience you cannot return a verdict of guilty. You cannot see him hang.” He smiled again, warmly, as if he liked them, and turned away, walking quite casually back to his place.
Narraway wondered how much of that was bluff. Watching him, listening, he could see no doubt in Symington at all.
Bower called his first witness: a very nervous man in a plain, dark suit that did not fit him comfortably. Narraway recognized him only when he told the court that his occupation was as butler to Rawdon Quixwood.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Luckett,” Bower started, as he walked over toward the high witness box, which was something like the prow of a ship, or a tower several feet above the floor of the courtroom, “but I must ask you to turn your mind back to the evening of May the 23rd. Mr. Quixwood was in the city at a function, I believe, at the Spanish Embassy, and Mrs. Quixwood had allowed all the servants to retire early, leaving her alone in the withdrawing room. Is that correct?”
Luckett was clearly distressed and having some difficulty composing himself. The judge looked at Symington to see if he objected to Bower putting so many words into the witness’s mouth, but Symington remained seated in his place, smiling and silent.
“Mr. Luckett …” the judge prompted.
“Yes …” Luckett said jerkily. “Yes, she often allowed us to retire if she knew she would need nothing.” He gulped. “She was very considerate.”
“She did not even retain a footman to answer the door?” Bower said with surprise.
“No, sir,” Luckett replied, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“Did you yourself go to bed, Mr. Luckett?”
“No, sir. I went for a walk. I know some of the younger servants, girls, went to the servants’ quarters before I left, and the housekeeper was sitting up with a pot of tea. The cook was doing something in the kitchen, I believe.” He was twisting his hands. He knew, as did the rest of the court, what was coming next.
In the gallery no one moved.
“Did Mrs. Quixwood send for you?” Bower asked.
“No … no, sir.”
“But you did return to the front of the house? What time would that have been?”
“I … can’t say, sir. I didn’t look at the clock. It was late.”
“Why did you go back after Mrs. Quixwood had expressly dismissed you?”
“I returned from my walk and saw the lights still on, sir. It was a lot later than Mrs. Quixwood usually retired. I thought she must have forgotten to turn them down. And … and I wished to check the front door a last time.”
“Would you tell us what you found, Mr. Luckett?” Bower looked grave. He was an excellent prosecutor. It flickered through Narraway’s mind that he would also have been a good undertaker. He had an expression made for disaster.
Luckett gulped. “I–I went into the vestibule and I saw … I saw Mrs. Quixwood lying on the floor. For an instant I thought she had slipped and fallen, perhaps fainted.” He was not looking at Bower but at some terrible memory within himself. “She was sort of … sprawled out, on her side. There … her … her clothes were torn and there was blood on the floor. I bent to touch her and I could see that she was … dead.”
“What did you do then, Mr. Luckett?” Bower said gently.
“I–I sent the footman for the police. Then I went back into the housekeeper’s room and informed her of what I had found.”
“Thank you, Mr. Luckett,” Bower said gravely. “Did you let anyone into the house that evening, before Mrs. Quixwood’s death? Did you hear the doorbell ring, or were you made aware in any way of anyone entering the premises?”
Luckett stared at him with the same expression of revulsion he might have worn had he discovered a caterpillar in his dinner.
“No, sir, I did not.”
Bower raised his eyebrows. “Then how did any visitor gain entrance?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“But you locked the door before leaving for your walk?” Bower would not allow him to evade the issue.
“Yes, sir.”
“So who unlocked the door and let in whoever attacked Mrs. Quixwood?”
Luckett said nothing.
“You did place the bolts in their sockets, did you not?” Bower insisted.
“Yes, sir. Mr. Quixwood expected to be very late from his function. When that happens he stays at his club.” Luckett looked as if he were having teeth drawn.
“Just so,” Bower agreed. “So who let in the man who raped Mrs. Quixwood and beat her?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Must she not have let him in herself?” Bower demanded.
“It would seem so,” Luckett said very quietly.
“Thank you.” Bower turned to Symington.
Symington rose to his feet. He smiled up at Luckett.
“It does seem rather as if she let him in herself, doesn’t it?” he said ruefully. “But my learned friend has run the whole question into one. Let me rephrase it. Did Mrs. Quixwood ring for anyone to open the door? Or was there anyone else in the house who could have answered the door and let someone in, for whatever purpose?”
“No, sir.” Luckett regarded him warily.
“So Mrs. Quixwood opened the door. Is there any way to know whom she expected to be on the other side? A friend? Someone in trouble needing her counsel or help, perhaps? Even Mr. Quixwood, returning from his function earlier than he had expected? Or someone with an urgent message?”
“Yes, sir. It could have been any of those,” Luckett agreed with relief.
“Had Mr. Quixwood ever mislaid his key?”
“He did not carry a key, sir. It was his house. He would expect one of us to answer the door. But, like I said, he had intended to spend the night at his club.”
“Quite my point.” Symington smiled dazzlingly. “You have been butler to the household for several years, and a footman before that, I believe? You must have known Mrs. Quixwood since her marriage?”
“Yes, sir.” There was warmth in Luckett’s face, swiftly followed by grief.
“My learned friend said she must have let in the man who attacked her so terribly. Do you suppose she imagined he was there for that purpose?”
“Of course not!” Luckett was astonished.
“My thought exactly,” Symington agreed. “She let him in believing him to be harmless, even a friend. Thank you, Mr. Luckett.”
The judge looked at Bower, who declined to pursue the subject and instead called Inspector Knox.
Narraway realized he was sitting with his shoulders so tense his neck ached. At least Symington was putting up a fight. But he had been given no ammunition. Every avenue Narraway had followed regarding Catherine’s inquiries for financial advice had proved useless. She had inherited no money of her own, and Quixwood himself kept his affairs from her. They were complicated and extremely successful, as was to be expected with his profession.
Knox was sworn in and Bower began immediately asking him about the message he had received, and his arrival at the Quixwood house. Knox described what he had seen, being as brief as he could about the details. Apart from the fact that his voice trembled, he might have been speaking of a burglary, not what at that point had seemed to be a particularly dreadful murder.
“After you had sent for the police surgeon, what did you do then, Inspector Knox?” Bower asked.
“I sent my men to see if they could find how the attacker had gained entry, sir,” Knox replied. “We found nothing out of order at that time, and in the daylight the following morning we ascertained that that was indeed
