“Did you know that Mrs. Quixwood attended such events quite often?”
“Yes, of course I did. She had many interests, and friends. These were natural and very pleasant places to meet.” He sounded a little annoyed, as if Bower were tainting Catherine’s reputation gratuitously.
“But you had no idea that she was seeing him increasingly often, up to as much as two times in a week, toward the end of her life?” Bower went on.
Quixwood gripped the railing in front of him. “No.”
“Would you have acted differently had you known?” Bower asked.
“Naturally. I would have required an explanation from her, and then forbidden her to continue. It was foolish … and …” he swallowed convulsively, “… ill-considered, at best. As it turned out, it seems to have been tragic. I had no idea she was so … so emotionally fragile. I had not seen it in her character.”
Bower nodded sagely. “She had always been of good judgment until this … friendship?”
“Yes. Excellent. Catherine was a beautiful and gracious woman.”
“You were happy in your marriage?”
“Very. No one who knew Catherine would be surprised at it. Many men envied me my good fortune. And I held myself to be fortunate.” Quixwood stood quite still. Never once did his eyes stray up toward Hythe in the dock, or toward the jury.
“Did she ever give you cause to be concerned that she was forming a romantic attachment to another man? Please think carefully. I regret asking such an ugly question, but circumstances force me to.” Bower looked genuinely distressed.
“I understand,” Quixwood said softly. “If you please, let us get it over with. Allow me to answer the question you are leading toward too delicately.” He straightened his shoulders with an effort. “Yes, looking back with hindsight, it is perfectly possible that my wife was having an affair with Alban Hythe. He is a charming man and has many interests Catherine shared-interests I myself had not time to indulge in. She may have hungered for someone with whom to discuss them. It never occurred to me at the time. I trusted her absolutely. She had the freedom to come and go as she wished. We-we did not have children, and I asked no social duties of her except the occasional dinner party.”
Vespasia could feel a wave of sympathy for him emanating in the courtroom. The jury was all but overcome by emotion.
Quixwood took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. “Perhaps I should have asked more of her; then she would not have …” He was unable to complete the thought aloud.
Bower did not press him.
“We have heard that you were attending a function at the Spanish Embassy when the police informed you of Mrs. Quixwood’s death,” Bower continued.
“Yes,” Quixwood agreed. “At the Spanish Embassy. I was in conversation with Lord Narraway when I was told … told that Catherine had been … attacked.”
There was a shudder of horror in the gallery, a sigh. Two or three women let out little moans of pity and grief.
“Quite so.” Bower nodded. “I regret raising the question, had you noticed any change in Mrs. Quixwood’s behavior over the last few months before the incident? Was she absentminded? Did she wear any very attractive new clothes? Did she seem to take more than the usual care over her appearance? Was she evasive about where she had been or whom she had met?”
Quixwood smiled bleakly and the pain in his face was evident.
“You are asking me if she was having a love affair. The answer is that I noticed nothing at the time. Perhaps I should have, but I deal in major finance, enormous sums of money, all of which belong to other people. It is a great responsibility. I paid her too little attention.” He blinked several times and took a moment to regain control of his grief.
Quixwood had said nothing against Hythe whatever, and yet at this moment Vespasia knew the jury would have convicted him without even retiring to debate the issue. The anger and the pain in their faces testified to it more vividly than words. Symington would have to be more than a genius, he would need to be a magician to turn this tide.
“Mr. Quixwood, I will not harrow you by asking you to describe for us your feelings as you traveled back home, or when you saw your wife’s body broken and bleeding on the floor, hideously violated,” Bower said gravely.
“Please tell the jury, Mr. Quixwood-briefly, if it is easier for you-what you yourself did after that terrible night, in order to assist the investigation. As much as you can recall. I am sure the Court appreciates that it has been a nightmare for you, one in which your memory may be imperfect.”
Vespasia was aware of the skill of the question, the careful making of room for error. It would be almost impossible now for Symington, who was furiously scribbling notes to himself, to trip him up. Was that on purpose because Bower feared Quixwood would make errors? Or was it a usual precaution he would have taken with anyone?
Quixwood hesitated, as if arranging his thoughts, then began. His voice was low and very clear, his eyes downcast. He looked like a man controlling terrible pain.
“That night, as I recall, I asked Lord Narraway to give me any help he could personally. He was very gracious, and seemed to me to care deeply, both for justice in general, and in this case in particular. I knew of him, of course, when he was head of Special Branch, but I found him in this instance a man of remarkable compassion. He seemed genuinely appalled at the savagery of the crime, and moved to do whatever he could to find out who was guilty. I’m not sure if I ever told him how much his support meant to me.”
There was another murmur of approval around the gallery and a few of the jurors smiled.
Vespasia felt the bitterness of the irony, that Quixwood was thanking Narraway now, when Narraway was off trying to do everything in his power to help free Hythe.
“He spent a great deal of time at my home,” Quixwood went on thoughtfully. “He read through Catherine’s diaries, something I would find too painful to do, but which I was glad that he did.” He looked at the jury. “The items are all in evidence, so he has not had to testify. I believe Catherine’s maid authenticated them.”
“Thank you, Mr. Quixwood,” Bower said with a gracious gesture, an inclination of his head in respect.
Symington sat fidgeting, and Vespasia felt a wave of pity for him. It was clear he knew that Bower was asking such questions only to keep Quixwood on the stand and draw the jury’s sympathy even more. There was no real evidence to give. But if Symington challenged him on it and won, then the trial would be virtually at an end. So he must drag it out as long as he could, to give Pitt and Narraway a chance to find the new evidence they were searching for. Bower had all the cards to play and Symington was desperate.
Bower was smiling now. It was a gentle, friendly smile, one of compassion. “Mr. Quixwood, was your wife a beautiful woman?”
Quixwood blinked hard several times before replying. “Yes, she was, in every way. Her face was uniquely lovely, full of life and wit and grace. She could be terribly funny, when she wanted to, and without unkindness. She loved beauty of every kind, and knowledge. She was interested in everything. You may think I say that now because I loved her, but ask anyone who knew her and they will say the same.”
“Have you ever had instances before where another man craved her attention more than was appropriate?” Bower asked.
“Yes, but Catherine was well able to decline without ill feeling,” Quixwood answered. “I suppose every truly lovely woman has to learn that art.”
“So you had no cause to fear for her?”
“Of course not! For God’s sake …” His voice broke. “She was in her own home with the doors locked and … and a full complement of servants!” Quixwood said in a sudden burst of anguish. “What should I fear? I was out at a reception my business required I attend. What sane man would imagine such a … a …” He struggled to regain his control, but failed. He bowed his head and quickly wiped at his cheeks.
For a moment Vespasia thought Pitt and Narraway had to be wrong, at least in the assumption that Quixwood could have had anything to do with the crime. Perhaps it was Pelham Forsbrook, in revenge for Quixwood having been Eleanor’s lover-if that was true. Yes, surely that made more sense? She would say so to Symington, when she had the chance.
“I have no further questions for this witness, my lord,” Bower said. He looked at Symington with slightly
