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.”
NARRAWAY 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.
THE 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.”