Midnight at Marble Arch (6 page)

“Perhaps I should say ‘good morning’ at this hour,” he began bleakly. “You have no doubt come because you heard we are in the middle of tragedy so overwhelming we hardly know how to act. I was summoned here before midnight because my wife was found assaulted and beaten to death in the hallway of her own home. At the moment we have no idea who did this hellish thing, or why.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath. “We don’t seem to have been robbed, but on further search we may find we have. The servants were in their quarters at the back of the house—except for the butler, who was out for his brief walk—and they heard nothing. The butler was the one who discovered my wife’s body, when he returned. I have nothing more to say at the moment. I am sure the inspector will inform you when there is anything that is of public interest rather than private grief. Good night.” He turned toward the door.

“Sir!” the man called out.

Quixwood looked back very slowly, his face like a mask in the light from the lamp above the door. He said nothing.

The man lost his nerve. “Thank you,” he acknowledged.

Quixwood did not reply, but walked inside and allowed Knox to close the door behind him, leaving the constable outside.

Quixwood faced Narraway. “Thank you. I am enormously grateful
for your support.” His eyes searched Narraway’s face. “I would appreciate it if you would do what you can to help the inspector keep speculation as … as low as possible. The circumstances are—” he swallowed “—are open to more than one interpretation. But I loved Catherine and I will not allow her memory to be soiled by the vulgar and prurient, who value nothing and know no honor. Please …” His voice cracked.

“Of course,” Narraway said quickly. “As I said, anything Knox will allow me to do, I will. There may be avenues I can explore that he can’t. I may not be head of Special Branch anymore, but still have some influence in higher offices.”

Quixwood gave the ghost of a smile. “Thank you.”

N
ARRAWAY TOOK ONE OF
the cabs that the police had kept and went home to get a few hours’ sleep before facing the next day and trying to see the case with clearer vision. He had a hot bath to wash away some of the weariness and the tension that gripped him, then went to bed.

He slept deeply, out of exhaustion, but woke before eight, haunted by dreams of the dead woman and the terror and searing pain she must have felt as the most intimate parts of her body were torn. His head was pounding and his mouth was dry. The emptiness in his own life since losing his position as head of Special Branch seemed ridiculously trivial now, something he was ashamed to own, compared with what had happened to Catherine Quixwood.

He washed, shaved, and dressed, then went down to have a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and tea before going out into the warm early summer day and finding a hansom to take him to Dr. Brinsley.

T
HE MORGUE WAS A
place Narraway loathed. It was too much a bitter reminder of mortality. The smell of it turned his stomach. He could always taste it for hours afterward.

Today the heat and dust, the smell of horse manure in the street outside, was suddenly sweet compared with what he knew he would face as soon as the doors closed behind him.

He found Brinsley almost immediately. The man’s long-nosed, wry-humored face told Narraway that the news was ugly and probably complicated.

“Morning, my lord,” Brinsley said with a grimace. “Not seen Inspector Knox, I take it?”

“No, not yet,” Narraway replied. “Are you able to tell me anything?”

“Come into the office,” Brinsley invited him. “Smells a little better, at least.” Without waiting, he walked along the corridor, turned right, and led the way into a small room piled high with books and papers on every available surface. He closed the door behind them.

Narraway waited. He did not want to sit; it implied remaining here for longer than he wished to.

Brinsley noticed and understood. The recognition of it flickered in his eyes.

“She was raped and pretty badly beaten. The damn animal even bit her breast,” he said with anger harsh in his voice. “But I don’t think that was what killed her, at least not directly.”

Narraway was startled, momentarily disbelieving.

Brinsley sighed. “I think she died of opium poisoning.”

Narraway felt a bitter chill run right through him. The smell of the place seemed to have crept into his nose and mouth. “Before she was raped, or after?” His voice sounded hoarse. “Do you know?”

“After,” Brinsley said. “Knox found the laudanum bottle and the glass from which she’d which she’d drunk in the hall cabinet. There was blood on the glass.”

“Her attacker forced her to drink it?” Narraway knew the question was foolish even as he asked it.

Brinsley’s face was filled with pity, for Catherine, but possibly for Narraway as well. “Far more likely she was stunned, close to despair,” he answered. “Either didn’t realize how much she’d taken or, more probably, meant to drink that much. The attack was very brutal. God knows what she must have felt. Many women never get over rape. Can’t bear the shame and the horror of it.”

“Shame?” Narraway snapped.

Brinsley sighed. “It’s a crime of violence, of humiliation. They feel as if they have been soiled beyond anything they can live with. Too many times the men they think love them don’t want them after that.” He swallowed with difficulty. “Husbands find they can’t take it, can’t live with it. They can’t get rid of the thought that somehow the woman must have allowed it.”

“She was beaten to—” Narraway started, his voice rising to a shout.

“I know!” Brinsley cut him off sharply. “I know. I’m telling you what happens. I’m not justifying it, or explaining it. It does strange things to some men, makes them feel impotent, that they couldn’t defend their own woman. I’m sorry, but it looks as if she drank it herself. God help her.” He swallowed, his face pinched with pain. “Find this one, will you? Get rid of him somehow.”

“We will.” Narraway felt his throat tighten and a helpless anger scald through him. “I will.”

3

P
ITT WAS DISTRACTED AT
the breakfast table. He ate absentmindedly, his attention absorbed by whatever he was reading in the newspaper. He looked up briefly to bid goodbye to Jemima and Daniel, then returned to his article. He even allowed his tea to go cold in the cup.

Charlotte stood up and took the teapot to the stove, pushed the kettle over onto the hob, and waited a few moments until it reached a boil again. With the teapot refreshed, and carrying a clean cup, she returned to the table and sat down.

“More tea?” she asked.

Pitt looked up, then glanced at his cup beside him, puzzled.

“It’s cold,” she said helpfully.

“Oh.” He gave a brief smile, half-apologetic. “I’m sorry.”

“From your expression, it’s not good news,” she observed.

“Speculation on the Jameson trial,” he replied, folding the paper and putting it down. “Most people seem to be missing the point.”

She had read enough about it to know what he was referring to. Leander Starr Jameson had returned to Britain from Africa, accused of having led an extraordinarily ill-conceived invasion from British-held Bechuanaland across the border into the independent Transvaal in an attempt to incite rebellion there and overthrow the Boer government, essentially of Dutch origin.

“He’s guilty, isn’t he?” she asked, uncertain now if perhaps she had misunderstood what she had read. “Won’t we have to find him so?”

“Yes,” Pitt agreed, sipping his new hot tea. “It’ll be a question of what sentence is passed and how much the public lionizes him. Apparently he’s a remarkably attractive man; not in the ordinary sense of being handsome or charming, but possessing a certain magnetism that captivates people. They see him as the ideal hero.”

She looked at Pitt’s face, the somber expression in his eyes that belied the ease of his voice.

“There’s more than that,” she said gravely. “It matters, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” he answered softly. “Mr. Kipling believes him a hero for our time: brave, loyal, resourceful, seizing opportunity by the throat, a born leader, in fact.”

Charlotte swallowed. “But he isn’t?”

“Mr. Churchill says he is a dangerous fool who will, in the near future, cause war between Britain and the Boers in South Africa,” he replied.

She was horrified. “War! Could it?” She put her cup down with a slightly trembling hand. “Really? Isn’t Mr. Churchill being … I mean, just drawing attention to himself? Emily says he does that a bit.”

Pitt did not answer immediately.

“Thomas?” she demanded.

“I don’t know. I have a fear that Churchill could be right.” His gaze did not waver from hers. “Not just because of the Jameson Raid—there are other things as well. The gold found there is going to attract a lot of adventurers and profiteers.”

“Will it affect us?” she asked him. “Special Branch? You?”

He smiled. “I can’t absolutely ignore it.”

She nodded, started to say something else, then decided it would
be wiser not to go on asking him questions no one could yet answer. She stood up.

“Charlotte,” he said gently.

She turned, waiting.

“One thing at a time.” He smiled.

She put out a hand and touched his. It was not necessary to say anything.

S
HE HAD BEEN LOOKING
forward to the garden party that afternoon, largely because she was going with Vespasia, who would call to pick her up. It was only lately, since Pitt’s promotion, that Charlotte had been able to afford new gowns suitable for such occasions, rather than borrowing something from either Vespasia, which would fit her very well but be a little different from her own taste, or her sister Emily, who was slimmer and a couple of inches shorter. Not to mention the fact that Charlotte’s coloring was more vivid than Vespasia’s exquisite silver or Emily’s delicately fair hair and alabaster skin.

Charlotte always enjoyed Vespasia’s company. The older woman never spoke trivially, and she was informed about all manner of things, from the most important to the merely amusing. Charlotte was filling the time reading a book in the parlor when Vespasia arrived and was shown in by Minnie Maude, their maid. Although Minnie Maude had been with Charlotte over a year now, she was still overawed when announcing, “Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, ma’am.”

Charlotte rose to her feet immediately.

“You are early. How very nice,” she said warmly. “Would you like a cup of tea before we leave?”

“Thank you,” Vespasia accepted. She sat gracefully in the other large chair and arranged her sweeping skirts, immediately at home in the modest room with its comfortable, well-used furniture, bookshelves, and family photographs.

Charlotte nodded to Minnie Maude. “The Earl Grey, please, and cucumber sandwiches,” she requested. She knew without having to ask what it was that Vespasia would like.

As soon as the door was closed Charlotte regarded Vespasia more closely and noticed a certain tension in her.

“What is it?” she asked quietly. “Has something happened?”

“I believe so,” Vespasia replied. “At least, beyond question, something has happened, but I believe it is more serious than it is pretending to be.” She smiled very briefly, as if in apology for the darkness she was about to introduce. “I heard from a friend of mine that Angeles Castelbranco has broken off her engagement to Tiago de Freitas.”

Charlotte was puzzled. “Is that so serious? She is very young. Perhaps that is why she was so highly strung the other evening? She is not yet ready to think of marriage? She’s only two years older than Jemima. She’s still a child!”

“My dear, there is a lot of difference between fourteen and sixteen,” Vespasia responded.

“Two years!” Charlotte could not possibly imagine Jemima thinking of marriage in two years. Any thought of her leaving home was years away.

Now Vespasia’s smile was gentle but bright with amusement. “You will be surprised what a change those two years will bring. The first time she will fall in love with a real man, not a dream, is not nearly as far away as you think.”

“Well, perhaps Angeles is in love, but not yet ready to think of marrying,” Charlotte suggested. “It is fun to be in love without the thought of settling down in a new home, with new responsibilities—and before you know it, children of your own. She has barely begun to taste life. It would be very natural to wish for another year or two at least before that.”

“Indeed. But one may remain engaged for several years,” Vespasia pointed out.

Charlotte frowned. “Then what is it you think may have happened? A quarrel? Or she imagines herself in love with someone else?” A more painful thought occurred to her. “Or she has heard something distressing about her fiancé?”

“I doubt that,” Vespasia answered.

Minnie Maude knocked on the door and came in with a tray of
tea and very thin cucumber sandwiches, which Charlotte had recently taught her to cut.

The maid glanced at Charlotte to see if she approved.