more when we’ve spoken to the servants and had a proper look around in the daylight. There may even have been people-neighbors-out walking who saw something. Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I need to go speak to the servants.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Quixwood said hastily. “Please do what you must. I shall just sit here a little longer.” He looked at Narraway. “I quite understand if you want to leave. It must have been a damned awful night for you, but I would be more grateful than I can say if you’d just … just keep an eye on things … do what you can …” His voice trailed off as if he was embarrassed.
“Anything that Inspector Knox will allow me,” Narraway said, looking toward the inspector, who nodded at once.
“Come with me then, by all means, my lord,” Knox said. “I’m having the servants meet with me in the housekeeper’s room. They’re a bit shaken up, so I thought it best to question everyone there. Cup of tea. Familiar surroundings.”
Narraway saw the wisdom of it. “Good idea. Yes, I’d like to come,” he accepted. “Thank you.”
He gave Quixwood’s shoulder a squeeze then followed Knox-past the crime scene, which was now occupied solely by a woman on her hands and knees with a bucket of water and a brush in her hand, scrubbing to clear the streaks of blood off the parquet floor where Catherine Quixwood had lain.
There were no other visible signs of disturbance. Presumably whatever had been knocked down or broken was already attended to. Narraway was grateful. At least when Quixwood himself emerged there would be no violent reminders of what had happened here.
In the housekeeper’s room, a very homey and surprisingly spacious parlor, they found the housekeeper, Mrs. Millbridge. She was a plump, middle-aged woman in a black stuff dress, her hair obviously hastily repinned. With her was a young maid, red-eyed and dabbing a wet handkerchief to her nose. On a small table there was a tray of tea with several clean cups, a jug of milk, and a bowl of sugar. Knox looked at it longingly, but it seemed he did not think it suitable to indulge himself.
Narraway felt the same need and exercised the same discipline. To do less would seem a little childish; also it would put a distance between them and mark him as something of an amateur.
The maid was the one who had last seen Catherine Quixwood alive. Knox spoke to her in soothing tones, but there was nothing she could add beyond being quite certain of the time. The long-cased clock in the hallway had just chimed, and it was always right, so Mr. Luckett assured her.
Knox thanked her and let her go. Then he asked a footman to fetch Luckett himself from wherever he might be.
“Trying to keep the staff calm, sir,” the servant told him. “And see that everything’s tidied up and all the windows and doors are fast. I expect they are, but the women’ll rest better if they know he’s checked, personal like.”
Knox nodded his head. “Then ask him to come as soon as he’s done. In the meantime I’ll speak with Mrs. Millbridge here.”
“Yes, sir; thank you, sir,” the footman said gratefully, and went out, closing the door behind him.
Knox turned to the motherly woman. “Mrs. Quixwood stayed at home alone this evening. Why was that, do you know? And please give me the truth, ma’am. Being polite and discreet may not actually be the best loyalty you can give right now. I’m not going to tell other people anything I don’t have to. I have a wife and three daughters myself. I love them dearly, but I know they can have their funny ways-like all of us.” He shook his head. “Daughters, especially. I think I know them, then I swear they do some strange thing as has me completely lost.”
Mrs. Millbridge smiled very slightly, perhaps as much as she dared in the circumstances.
“Mrs. Quixwood wasn’t all that fond of parties,” she said quietly. “She liked music and the theater well enough. Loved some of the more serious plays, or the witty ones, like Mr. Wilde’s used to be.” She blinked, aware that since Oscar Wilde’s disgrace perhaps one shouldn’t admit to enjoying his work.
Knox was momentarily at a loss.
“So do I,” Narraway put in quickly. “His wit stays in the mind to be enjoyed over and over again.”
Mrs. Millbridge shot him a glance of gratitude, then turned her attention back to Knox.
“Did Mr. Quixwood often go to parties by himself?” he asked.
“I suppose, yes.” She looked anxious again, afraid that she might unintentionally have said the wrong thing.
Knox smiled at her encouragingly, the lines of weariness on his face momentarily disappearing. “So anyone watching the house, maybe with a mind to burgling it, might have noticed that she would be alone, after the servants had retired for the night?”
She nodded, her face pale, perhaps picturing someone waiting in the dark outside, watching for that moment. She gave a very slight shiver and her body remained rigid.
“On those nights, she wouldn’t have visitors?” Knox went on. “Not have a lady friend come over, for example?”
“No,” Mrs. Millbridge answered. “Nobody that I know of.”
“And would you know, ma’am?”
“Well … if she had someone visit her, she would want tea, at the very least, and perhaps a light supper,” she pointed out. “There would be someone to fetch that, and then wait to let the visitor out and lock up. That means at least one maid and one footman.”
“Indeed,” Knox said calmly. “And if she were to leave the house herself, then I suppose there would have to be a footman available to let her back in again. Not to mention perhaps a coachman to take her wherever she was going?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Millbridge nodded her head.
Narraway thought of the other alternative, that a man had visited her and she had let him in and out herself. Any refreshment he had taken would be a glass of whisky or brandy from the decanter in the study. However, he did not say so. The inspector would surely have thought of it also.
Knox left the subject of visitors. “What did Mrs. Quixwood like to do with her time?”
Mrs. Millbridge looked puzzled, and the anxiety was back again. She did not answer. Narraway wondered immediately what it was she feared. He watched Knox’s face, but had no idea what lay behind the furrowed brow and the sad downturn of the inspector’s mouth.
“Did she enjoy the garden, perhaps?” Knox suggested. “Maybe even direct the gardener about what to plant, and where?”
“Oh, I see,” Mrs. Millbridge said with relief. “Yes, she was interested in flowers and things. Often arranged them herself, she did. In the house, I mean.” For a moment there was life in her face again, as if she had allowed herself to forget why they were here. “Went to lectures at the Royal Horticultural Society now and then,” she added. “Geographical Society too. Liked to read about other places, even far-off ones, such as India and Egypt. She read about the people who used to live there thousands of years ago.” She shook her head in wonderment at such a fancy. “And the Greeks and Romans too.”
“She sounds like a very interesting lady,” Knox observed.
Mrs. Millbridge gulped and the tears spilled down her cheeks. Suddenly her grief was painfully apparent. She looked old and crumpled and very vulnerable.
“I’m sorry,” Knox apologized gently. “Maybe we can leave anything else for another time. You must be tired.” He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “It’s nearly two.”
“It’s all right,” she insisted, lifting her chin and looking at him with a degree of defiance, her dignity returned. Perhaps it was what he had intended.
“I’m sure,” he agreed. “But you’ll have your hands full in the morning. The maids are all going to look to you. You’ll have to be like a mother for them.” He was telling her what she knew, but the reminder of her importance was obviously steadying. “They won’t have known anything like this before,” he went on. “We’re going to have to see Mrs. Quixwood’s lady’s maid tomorrow anyway. I realize it’s very late and she’s surely too upset to speak to us tonight. But when we do … well, even with the extra time, she’s still going to be in considerable distress. It’s only to be expected. And she’ll need someone’s support, someone’s strength. A person she knows and trusts.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Millbridge stood up. “Yes, of course. Flaxley was devoted to Mrs. Quixwood.” She smoothed her skirt down. “You’re right, sir.” She glanced at Narraway, but she had no idea who he was. For her, Knox was in
