found something he hadn’t taken notice of before. Notations like reminders: small marks, sometimes initials, quite often figures, as if for a time of day. Others were larger numbers, and he copied them down to see if they might be telephone numbers, even though there were no names of exchanges in front of them. Perhaps she knew the areas in which people lived sufficiently well that a reminder was not necessary.
He questioned the staff at Quixwood’s house about the numbers.
“No,” Flaxley said unhappily when he showed her the pages. “I don’t know what she meant by that.”
“Telephone numbers?” he asked.
She looked at them again. Most of them were four digits. “Perhaps—I don’t know.”
They were sitting in the housekeeper’s room again, a sudden squall of rain battering against the windows. Flaxley was pale and tired, even though she had little to do except consider what position she would be able to obtain after it became known she had worked for a victim of rape and murder. People were terrified of scandal and there were plenty of good lady’s maids. Narraway was acutely conscious of that as he sat opposite her.
Having achieved nothing with his questions so far, he changed direction and became blunter.
“Did she ever speak to you about Mr. Hythe?”
“Not often,” she replied. “Just that he was a very pleasant gentleman. It was only really in connection with what dress to wear.” She smiled for a moment. “She did not care to dress in the same gowns if she was aware she had done so on a previous meeting with the same person.” There was affection in her voice, in her eyes, and for a moment it seemed her mind was back in the happier past.
“She knew he would notice?” Narraway said quickly. He hated to break the spell of memory, and yet he had to learn all he could.
For an instant there was a flicker of contempt in her eyes, but she carefully concealed it. “No, my lord, most gentlemen don’t know more than if they like a thing or if they don’t. Another lady, of course, would know exactly, and might even be unkind enough to remark on it, but mostly ladies dress to make the best of their appearance and have the confidence then to forget about themselves and behave with wit and charm.”
Narraway had never considered the subject before, but it made perfect sense. He could see it true, above all, of Vespasia. He could not imagine her dressing to impress anyone else.
But that did not answer the question of whether Catherine had been in love with Alban Hythe or not. Or, for that matter, anyone else.
Was there any point in asking Flaxley? He looked at her rather bony face, still smudged with grief and now anxiety. Her skin was scrubbed clean, her eyelids a little puffed. Her hair was pinned up neatly, but without softness, without care. He suddenly felt profoundly sorry for her. A year ago he would have brushed by the idea of being no longer needed as merely a part of life that had to be accepted. But now it was a pain he felt in his own flesh and understood.
“Miss Flaxley,” he said, leaning forward slightly and meeting her eyes with more urgency, “it was clearly important to Mrs. Quixwood that she meet with Mr. Hythe. She seems to have made arrangements to do so increasingly as often as every week or even twice a week, in the month before her death. Other plans were set aside to fit with his convenience, and as far as I can find out, she mentioned these meetings to no one else. In fact she barely referred to the acquaintance at all. It was not exactly secret, but it was certainly discreet.”
Flaxley did not reply, but her gaze never left his.
“It was important to her that they meet,” he went on. “She dressed carefully, but not so as to draw undue attention to herself, not as if she were meeting a lover with whom she dared to be seen.” He stopped as he saw the flare of anger in Flaxley’s eyes.
“Please describe her manner before she went out on these occasions, and when she returned,” he pressed. “I know I am asking you to speak of things that normally you would regard as a trust that you could not ever betray, but someone abused her terribly, Miss Flaxley. Someone beat her and caused her death as surely as if they had put their hands around