“Yes,” Narraway answered. “I’d like to look. I may know some of the names, at least.”
Knox frowned. “Do you think … I mean …” His expression was bleak. “A secret acquaintance? If it’s true, then it’s going to be very hard to prove.”
“Rape?” Narraway said the word with distaste. “If that ends up being the case, then I’ll settle for proving it’s murder.”
Knox smiled at him, as if they had reached some kind of understanding. “I suppose you’d like to speak to the lady’s maid as well. Read the diary first. It won’t take you long. Then I’ll send for her.”
Narraway thanked him and went into the garden room to wait while a constable fetched Catherine’s diary.
The room was sunny and warm in the morning light, a curious sense of peace in it, in such a troubled house. It was surprisingly feminine, greens and whites, white woodwork around the windows. The curtains were patterned, but only with leaves, echoing the potted plants, none of them with flowers. It was at the same time both bright and restful.
He was just sitting down on one of the rattan chairs when the constable brought the diary. He thanked him and settled down to read it.
He started in January. At first it was not very interesting, just the usual brief comments on the weather as it affected her daily life. “Very cold, streets slippery with ice.” “Ground quite hard, all very clear and glittering. Very beautiful.” “So wet today I really would rather not go out—I’ll get drenched no matter how careful I am.”
Then as the days lengthened and the weather became milder she commented on the first buds in the trees, the snowdrops, the birds. She saw a starling with twigs in its beak and wrote a short paragraph on the faith of building a nest when the days were still so dark. “How can such a small creature, who knows nothing, be so sure of a good future? Or is it only a blind and exquisite courage?”
The comments on the weather continued, with notes as to the flowers that had pleased her. Her botanical interest was written with acute observation, but mostly it was the beauty of the plants that moved her.
Narraway put the book down and wondered what Catherine Quixwood had thought as she had written those words. Was the loneliness he felt within the pages, the sense of confusion, hers or his own? Unwillingly he pictured her again, but lying on the floor. There had been such possibility of passion in her face, such turbulence, even in death. Or was he imagining that too?
He picked up the diary again and resumed reading it, paying more attention to where she had been and, when she had noted it, with whom.
As the weather grew more clement she had attended lectures at the Royal Geographical Society. After one on Egypt she had made a note of its excellence. Reading on, he saw that she had then gone to an exhibition of paintings of the Nile by various watercolorists, and then to the library to find books on Egyptian history.
In May she had gone to a lecture on astronomy. This time it was not the night sky that drew her most enthusiastic comments, but the sublime order of the stars in their courses, from the most random comet or meteor to the most immense galaxies. There was too little room on the page for all she wanted to say to remind herself of her emotions, and her writing eventually became so small he could not read it.
Then she went back to the library and searched for other books on astronomy, and more lectures she might attend. In the following weeks she even went by train to both Birmingham and Manchester to learn more.
But, as Knox had said, there were very few names in the diary. Those that were present all seemed exactly the acquaintances one might have expected: other married women in Society of her own age and station, a couple of distant cousins, one unmarried and apparently of considerable means. Catherine seemed to enjoy her company when it was available. There were also two aunts mentioned, the vicar and his wife and business associates of Quixwood’s and their wives.
He read the entry from the day before she was killed, then closed the book. There was nothing further. He asked Knox if he might now speak to the lady’s maid, although he did not hold much hope of learning