her throat and choked the life out of her.” He saw the tears spill over and run down her cheeks and he ignored them. “If that was Alban Hythe, then I want to see him hang for it. And if it was not, then I want to save him. Don’t you?”
She nodded so minutely it was hardly a movement at all.
“How was she, Miss Flaxley? Excited? Frightened? Anxious? Sad? Tell me. It is too late to protect her now. And if it is loyalty to Mr. Quixwood you are considering, either for his sake, or for your own—and I am aware that you will need his goodwill in securing another position—I will tell him nothing that you say unless I have to, and even then I will attribute it to another source.”
She was surprised, confused, sad to the point of rocking herself back and forth very slightly, as if the movement offered some relief.
“She was anxious,” she said in little more than a whisper. “But not as if she were going to meet a lover, more as if she was going to hear something that was good news, or … or bad news. She liked Mr. Hythe, but more than that I think she trusted him.”
She looked down, avoiding Narraway’s eyes. “I have known her, in the past, when she was a little in love with a gentleman—though, of course, she never did anything … wrong. She wasn’t excited like that over Mr. Hythe. But she would never miss an appointment, no matter what else had to be rescheduled. And it seemed to grow more important to her as time went by. I swear, my lord, I don’t know why. I’d tell you if I knew, whatever it was. I’d tie a rope myself to hang whoever did that to her.”
Narraway believed her. He said so, thanked her and took his leave. There was nothing more to be gained. He made a note in his mind to speak to Vespasia and see if a position could be found for Flaxley among her friends. Then he smiled as he walked out of the front door, down the steps, and turned toward the square. He was becoming soft. What was the fate of one maid in a city of millions? A year ago he had held the fates of whole nations in his hands!
How the mighty have fallen! Or was it just a realignment of his focus? Perhaps one a trifle overdue.
WHEN HE SPOKE TO Quixwood a couple of days later, again in the library of the club, they seemed to have achieved nothing new. Quixwood was tired. It was easy to imagine he had found sleep elusive. He looked thinner than before and the lines in his face deeper. There was a certain hectic light in his eyes.
Narraway felt a gnawing pity for him, and a guilt that he had no real progress to report.
“She saw him often?” Quixwood said, his voice curiously flat, as if he was deliberately trying to keep it unemotional.
“Yes, at least once a week, or more, in the last month of her life,” Narraway agreed. “But judging from her diary, and what Flaxley says of her dress and her manner, it was not a love affair.”
Quixwood gave a tiny, painful laugh. “Dear Flaxley. Loyal to the end, even when it has become absurd. She’s a good servant. It’s a shame I have no possible position for her now. If Catherine was not meeting Hythe for an affair, what could it have been? He is a handsome man, at least ten years younger than she was, maybe more.”
He smiled, blinking hard. “Catherine was beautiful, you know? And perhaps she was bored. After all, I could not spend all day with her. But I loved her.” He stared at some point in the distance, perhaps at a vision or a memory only he could see. “I assumed she knew it. Maybe I should have told her so more … more believably.”
“She seemed to have many interests,” Narraway said after a few moments of silence that dragged heavily. The footsteps of servants could be heard on the wooden floor in the passageway outside.
Quixwood looked up. “You mean other than going to museums and galleries?”
“She seemed to find Africa as fascinating as many others do, especially with the present unrest.”
“Unrest?” Quixwood said quickly.
“The Jameson Raid in particular,” Narraway elaborated.
“Oh.” A brief smile crossed Quixwood’s face and vanished again. “Yes, of course. That trial should start soon. The man can’t have