key. I lock the door as I leave—but, of course, I can’t fasten the inside bolts. Then I come back through the same door. It was after that, when I went to check the front door a last time … that was when I saw Mrs. Quixwood.”
“Do you normally do it that way?” Knox asked. “Walk, then come through and check the front door?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So the side door bolts would be undone while you were out?”
“Yes, sir, but the door itself was locked,” Luckett said with certainty. “I had to use my key to open it. There was no doubt, sir. No doubt at all. I heard the latch pull back, I felt it!”
Knox inclined his head in agreement. “Thank you, Mr. Luckett. Perhaps we’ll speak again tomorrow. I think it would be a good idea if you went to your bed now. This isn’t going to be easy for you for quite some time. You’ll be needed.”
Luckett rose to his feet with something of an effort. Suddenly he seemed stiff, and moved with obvious pain. He was an old man whose world had imploded in one short evening, and the only guard he had against it was his dignity. “Yes, sir,” he said gratefully. “Good night, sir.”
When he had gone Narraway wondered who was going to lock up the house after he and Knox left. He turned to Knox to ask, just as there was a loud ringing on the bell board outside the housekeeper’s door.
Knox looked up. “Front door?” he asked of no one in particular. “Who the devil can that be at two o’clock in the morning?” He hauled himself up out of his chair and led the way from the servants’ quarters to the front hallway. As he stood there, Narraway almost on his heels, the bell rang again. In the hall it was only a dim chime.
When they reached the front entryway, there was a constable standing to attention on the outside step. Narraway could see his shadow through the hall window, and another person a little farther away.
Knox opened the door and the constable turned to face him.
“Gentleman of the press, sir,” the constable said in a voice so devoid of expression as to be an expression in itself.
Knox stepped out and approached the other man. “When there’s something to say, we’ll tell you.” His voice was cold and had an edge of suppressed anger in it. “It’s past two in the morning, man. What the devil are you doing knocking on people’s doors at this time of night? Have you no decency at all? I’ve half a mind to find out where you live and wait until you’ve had a tragedy in your family, and then send a constable around to bang on your front door in the middle of the night!”
The man looked momentarily taken aback. “I heard—” he began.
“I told you,” Knox grated the words between his teeth, “we’ll tell you when there’s anything to say! You damn carrion birds smell death in the air and come circling around to see what profit there is in it for you.”
Narraway saw a fury in Knox that took him aback—and then the instant after, he realized how deeply the inspector was offended, not for himself but for those inside the house, who were shocked and frightened by events they could not even have imagined only hours ago. There was a raw edge of pity in the man as if he could feel the wound himself. Narraway was about to go out and add his own weight to the condemnation when he heard a step on the polished floor behind him and turned to see Quixwood standing there. He looked appalling. His face was creased and almost bloodless, his eyes red-rimmed, his hair disheveled. His shoulders drooped as if he were exhausted from carrying some huge, invisible weight.
“It’s all right,” he said hoarsely. “We will have to speak to the press sometime. I would as soon do it now, and then not face them again. But I thank you for your protection, Inspector … I’m sorry, I forget your name.” He ran his fingers through his hair as if it might somehow clear his mind.
“Knox, sir,” Knox said gently, then: “Are you sure you want to talk to him? You don’t have to, you know.”
Quixwood nodded very slightly and walked past Narraway to the open front door. He went out onto the step, acknowledged the constable, then looked at the man from the press.