“My thought exactly,” Symington agreed. “She let him in believing him to be harmless, even a friend. Thank you, Mr. Luckett.”
The judge looked at Bower, who declined to pursue the subject and instead called Inspector Knox.
Narraway realized he was sitting with his shoulders so tense his neck ached. At least Symington was putting up a fight. But he had been given no ammunition. Every avenue Narraway had followed regarding Catherine’s inquiries for financial advice had proved useless. She had inherited no money of her own, and Quixwood himself kept his affairs from her. They were complicated and extremely successful, as was to be expected with his profession.
Knox was sworn in and Bower began immediately asking him about the message he had received, and his arrival at the Quixwood house. Knox described what he had seen, being as brief as he could about the details. Apart from the fact that his voice trembled, he might have been speaking of a burglary, not what at that point had seemed to be a particularly dreadful murder.
“After you had sent for the police surgeon, what did you do then, Inspector Knox?” Bower asked.
“I sent my men to see if they could find how the attacker had gained entry, sir,” Knox replied. “We found nothing out of order at that time, and in the daylight the following morning we ascertained that that was indeed the case. He must have been let in through the front door.”
“And did you ever find evidence to contradict that?”
“No, sir.”
“But you looked?” Bower insisted.
“Yes, sir.”
“I shall call the police surgeon to give his own evidence,” Bower warned him. “But from the information he gave you, what did you conclude had happened to cause Mrs. Quixwood’s death?”
Symington rose to his feet. “My lord, Mr. Bower has asked the witness a question, and at the same time directed him not to answer it. How can the poor man know what to say?” He looked apologetic, and slightly amused.
“Perhaps you should rephrase your question, Mr. Bower,” the judge suggested. “Or else have the police surgeon testify now, and recall Inspector Knox after you have established how Mrs. Quixwood met her death.”
There was a rustle of interest in the gallery. Two of the jurors nodded. But it was light without substance, and Narraway knew it. It would make no difference in the end.
Without any outward loss of composure Bower said he would release Knox, and he sent for Dr. Brinsley.
Narraway half listened as Brinsley described the appalling injuries sustained by Catherine Quixwood. He used no emotive adjectives, and somehow his calm voice and bleak, sad face made the brutality of it even more horrific. The packed court could not but be reminded of the intimate and intense vulnerability of all of them.
Narraway had heard it before, but it still appalled him. He had seen her body lying on the floor, but he had not then imagined the fearful damage done to her. Only when Knox and Brinsley had described it to him had it become real.
The court listened in silence. There was no sound in the gallery, no whisper or rustle of movement, only the occasional gasp. A little farther along the row Narraway saw a woman reach out and take hold of her husband’s hand, and his fingers close over hers tightly.
What could have possessed any man to do such things? Surely only gut-wrenching fear or insane hatred drove this kind of depravity?
Why had he gone there, whoever he was—Hythe or anyone else? If she had intended to break off an affair, why had she let him into the house without a servant within call? Had the man in question never lost his temper before, never shown any inclination toward violence? Was that possible? Had she never had any other bruises, cuts, abrasions, from him before—nothing to show his nature?
Narraway fished in his pocket and found a pencil and paper. Hastily he wrote a note to Symington, then gave it to the usher to pass it to him.
“And what was the ultimate cause of Mrs. Quixwood’s death, Dr. Brinsley?” Bower asked after the doctor had finished.
“Her wounds were severe,” Brinsley replied. “But she actually died of an overdose of laudanum, taken in Madeira wine.”
“Self-administered?” Bower asked.
“No idea,” Brinsley said tartly.
“Could it have been just a little more than the usual medicinal dose?” Bower persisted.
“It was several times the usual medicinal dose,” Brinsley answered him. “No one could take that much by accident.”