be almost as bad as witnessing the rape itself. But what was there to say that was not facile and rather absurd in the circumstances? No conversation could seem natural.
It was Quixwood who broke the silence. “Did they find where he broke in? I don’t know how that happened. The doors and windows all lock. We’ve never been robbed.” He was speaking too quickly, as if saying it aloud could change the truth. “The house must have been full of servants at that time. Who found her? Did she cry out?” He swallowed hard. “Did she have time to … I mean, did she know?”
That was a question Narraway had been dreading. But Quixwood would have to hear it sometime. If Narraway lied to him now he would not be believed in the future. Yet if he told him anything even close to the truth, Quixwood would want to go out and look. Such a need would be instinctive, hoping it was not as bad as his imagination painted.
“No,” he said aloud. “They haven’t found any broken locks or forced windows so far. But they haven’t finished looking yet. There might be a pane of glass cut somewhere. It wouldn’t be easy to see in the dark, and there’s little wind to cause a draft.” He went on to describe the burglar’s skill of pasting paper over window glass, cutting it soundlessly and then pulling out a circular piece large enough to let a hand pass through to undo the latch. “Star-glazing, they call it,” he finished.
“Do you know that from working in Special Branch?” Quixwood asked curiously, as if it puzzled him.
“No, I learned it from a friend of mine who used to be in the regular police.” Narraway went on reciting other tricks Pitt had mentioned at one time or another: small details about forgers of many different sorts, about pickpockets, card sharps, fencers of all the different qualities of stolen goods. Neither of them cared about it but Quixwood listened politely. It was better than thinking about what was going on in the hall only feet away.
Narraway was just about out of explanations of the criminal underworld of which Pitt had educated him, when at last there was a knock on the door. At Quixwood’s answer, Knox came in, closing it behind him.
“Excuse me, my lord,” he said to Narraway, then turned to Quixwood. “The surgeon’s left, sir, and taken Mrs. Quixwood’s body with him. Would you mind if I ask you one or two questions, just to get things straight? Then … I don’t know if you wish to stay here, or perhaps you’d rather find somewhere else for the night? Do you have any friends you’d like to be with?”
“What? Oh … I’ll … just stay here, I think.” Quixwood looked bemused, as if he had not even considered what he was going to do.
“Wouldn’t you rather go to your club?” Narraway suggested. “It would be more comfortable for you.”
Quixwood stared at him. “Yes, yes, I suppose so. In a little while.” He turned to Knox. “What happened to her? Surely you must know now?” His face was white, his eyes hollow.
Knox sat down in the chair opposite Quixwood and Narraway. He leaned forward a little.
Narraway could not help wondering how often the inspector had done this, and if anything ever prepared him for it, or made it any easier. He thought probably not.
“I’d rather not have to tell you this, sir,” Knox began. “But you’re going to know it one way or another; I’m sorry, Mrs. Quixwood was raped, and then killed. We’re not quite sure how she died; the surgeon will tell us that when he’s had time to make an examination in his offices.”
Quixwood stared at him, eyes wide, his hands shaking. “Did … did you say ‘raped’?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry,” Knox said unhappily.
“Did she suffer?” Quixwood’s voice was hardly audible.
“Probably not for very long,” Knox said. His tone was gentle, but he would not lie.
Quixwood rubbed his hand over his face, pushing his hair back, hard. His skin was ashen. There was no blood in it, and the darkness of his hair and brows looked almost blue. “How did it happen, Inspector? How did anyone get in here to do that? Where were the servants, for God’s sake?”
“We’re looking into that, sir,” Knox answered.
“Who found her?” Quixwood persisted.
Knox was patient, knowing the answers were needed, no matter what they were.
“The butler, Mr. Luckett. It seems he frequently goes for a short walk along the street and over the square before retiring. He found her when he checked the front door last thing before going to bed himself, sir.”
“Oh …” Quixwood looked at the floor. “Poor Catherine,” he murmured.
“I presume he locked the front door, then left for his walk through the side door and up the area steps?” Narraway asked Knox.
“Yes, sir. And returned the same way, bolting the door after him for the night.”
“And saw no one?” Narraway asked.
“No, sir, so he says.”
“It’ll be the truth,” Quixwood interjected. “Been with us for years. He’s a good man.” His eyes widened. “For God’s sake, you can’t think he had anything to do with this?”
“No, sir,” Knox said calmly. “It’s just practice to check everything we can, from every angle.”
“Does Luckett know what time he returned to the house?” Narraway asked Knox.
“Yes, sir, just after half-past ten. He sent the footman for the police immediately.”
“No telephone?” Narraway looked surprised.
“He was probably too flustered to think of it,” Quixwood cut in. “Wouldn’t know the police station number anyway, or think to ask the exchange for it.”
“I understand,” Knox agreed. “Fall back on habit when we’re shaken up badly. Find the first policeman on the beat. Turned out to be a good idea, as it happens. He ran into Constable Tibenham a couple of hundred yards away, other side of Eaton Square. He came here at once and used the telephone to call me. I got here just after quarter-past eleven. Sent for you at the Spanish Embassy. You got back here, I made it half-past midnight. It’s now about twenty minutes past one.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Quixwood, but I need to speak to at least some of the servants before I let them go to bed. Got to get it when it’s fresh in their minds. Could forget something if I wait until morning.”
Quixwood looked down at the carpet again. “I understand. Do you … do you need me?”
“Not to stay for the interviews, sir. Not necessary you should know anything as you’d rather not. Just a few things I need to ask you.”
Quixwood seemed confused. “What?”
“This was a party at the Spanish Embassy you were attending, sir?” Knox asked.
“Yes. What of it?”
“It was a social sort of thing? Ladies there as well as gentlemen?”
Quixwood blinked.
“Oh! Oh, I see what you mean. Yes. Catherine didn’t go because she wasn’t feeling very well. Bad headache. She has … she had them sometimes.”
“But she was invited?”
“Of course. She said she preferred to go to bed early. Those parties can drag on a long time.”
“I see.”
Quixwood frowned. “What are you saying, Inspector? There was nothing so remarkable in that. My wife didn’t go to lots of the social parties I have to attend. Great deal of noise and chatter, most of it with very little meaning. I wouldn’t go myself if it weren’t part of my profession to make new acquaintances, contacts and so on.”
“What time did you leave the house to go to the Spanish Embassy, sir?”
“About half-past eight or so, arrived a little before nine. I didn’t need to be early.”
“Take a hansom, sir?”
“No, I have my own carriage.” He looked momentarily stunned. “Dear heaven, I forgot all about that! It’ll still be at the embassy, waiting for me.” He half rose out of his chair.
“No,” Narraway responded at once. “I gave your apologies. Commander Pitt would know to have your driver informed.”
Quixwood shot him a quick glance of gratitude, then turned back to Knox. “So when did it happen?”
“Probably about ten o’clock, sir, or thereabouts. After half-past nine, when the maid was in the hallway and spoke to Mrs. Quixwood, and before half-past ten, when Mr. Luckett came back and found her.”
Quixwood frowned. “Does that help?”
“Yes, sir, it probably does,” Knox agreed, nodding slightly. “It’s very early yet in the investigation. We’ll know
