Finally she must have come to the conclusion that he was not. But her words were interrupted by a maid at the door telling her that Mr. Rawdon Quixwood had called and wished to speak with her.
Narraway was startled but, turning to look at the maid, saw that her face was completely expressionless. Clearly she was not surprised.
Maris looked pleased.
“Thank you. Please ask him to come in,” she instructed.
The maid withdrew obediently and Maris turned to Narraway.
“He has been so kind. Even with all his own grief, he has found time to call on me and assure me of his help.” She lowered her eyes. “I fear sometimes he believes Alban guilty, but his gentleness toward me has been without exception.” She gave a small, very rueful smile. “Perhaps he feels we are companions in misfortune, and I have not the heart to tell him it is not so, because it does seem that Catherine was more familiar with someone than she should have been. I would so much rather think that was not true, of course, but I have no argument that stands up to reason.”
She had not time to add any more before Rawdon Quixwood came in. The hollowness of his face had eased a little, perhaps because at last someone had been arrested for the crime, even though the loss must still feel just as bitter.
“Maris, my dear—” he began, stopping abruptly when he realized Narraway was also in the room. He checked himself quickly. “Lord Narraway! How agreeable to see you. I wonder if we are here on the same errand. I’m afraid I can offer little comfort. Perhaps you have better news?”
Narraway met Quixwood’s eyes and found he could read nothing of what the man was thinking. The idea occurred to him that the effort of hiding his own pain might be the only way Quixwood could turn his mind from his grief.
Still, Narraway found himself reluctant to trust him, or to risk wounding him still more deeply with the possibility that they had not actually caught his wife’s attacker.
“I am still searching,” he replied quietly. “Without much profit so far, for all the information I can find. I hear contradicting stories of Mrs. Quixwood.”
Quixwood gave a very slight shrug, a graceful gesture. “I daresay they are exercising the customary charity toward the dead who cannot defend themselves. I appreciate it. Women who are … assaulted … are often blamed almost as much as the men who assault them. The euphemisms and occasional silences are a kindness.”
“But not helpful,” Narraway pointed out. “We need the truth if we are to obtain justice, for any of the people concerned.”
Maris gestured for both men to be seated. As soon as they were, Quixwood spoke.
“Justice.” He seemed to be turning the word over in his mind. “I began wanting justice for Catherine as a starving man wants food. Now I am less certain that it is really what I wish. Silence might be more compassionate. After all, she can no longer speak for herself.”
Maris looked down at her hands folded in her lap, white-knuckled.
“Rawdon, you have been the essence of kindness to me,” she said gently. “In spite of the fact that it is my husband the police have arrested for the terrible wrong done to your wife. But Alban is not guilty, and he needs justice also. Apart from that, do you not wish the real monster to be caught, before he goes on and does something similar to another woman?”
Quixwood’s face reflected an inner conflict so profound, so intense, he could barely keep still. His hands in his lap were more tightly twisted than Maris’s. In that moment Narraway knew beyond any doubt that Quixwood was certain that Alban Hythe was guilty, and he was here to do what he could to help the man’s wife face that fact. It was a startling generosity. But … well, what did he know that Narraway and Maris did not?
Quixwood was still searching for words, his eyes on Maris’s face, troubled and almost tender. “I don’t think it is likely,” he said at last. “It is far better that you do not know the details, but I assure you, it was not a random maniac who did this deed. It was very personal. Please, think no more of it. You must concern yourself with your own well-being. If there is anything I can do to help, I will.” He gave a very slight smile, wry and self-deprecating. “It would