you saw her?” he asked.
“Yes. Except briefly at a concert about two weeks ago.”
“Who was she with at the concert?”
“I’m not sure she was with anyone.” She raised her eyebrows slightly. “When we spoke she was alone.”
“Did that surprise you?”
“Frankly, no. Catherine was inclined to go to events alone. If it was something she wished to do, she would prefer to be alone to indulge in it, rather than go with company, who might require conversation from her.” Her disapproval of such behavior was clear, if still unspoken.
Narraway had a sudden vision of Catherine bent forward, listening to great, sweeping symphonies of music while the fashionable women around her were talking to one another, gossiping, flirting, or merely pretending to listen while they waited for the opportunity to recommence speaking. He imagined in her an inner loneliness he found disturbing, and frighteningly easy to understand.
Or was he simply projecting his own emotions onto her, because he had never known her alive and there was no one to refute his picture?
“Was there anyone to whom she was particularly close?” he asked.
“You mean someone who might know if she was … having an unsuitable friendship?” Mrs. Abercrombie asked, delicate eyebrows raised. “Possibly. But I cannot imagine that they would be indiscreet enough to speak of it, even had she been that foolish and disloyal. Poor Rawdon is suffering enough, don’t you think? And Catherine has certainly paid for any indiscretions.”
Narraway smiled coldly, feeling the temper like an ice storm inside him. “Actually, Mrs. Abercrombie, I was thinking of someone who might know if she was being troubled by unwanted attentions,” he correctedher. “Men sometimes look at a beautiful woman and imagine she has given them some encouragement, when in truth she was no more than civil—or at most, kind. Denials do not always persuade them of their error.”
She opened her pale eyes very wide. “Really? I have never known anyone so … disturbed.”
“No,” he agreed without a flicker in his expression. “I imagine not.”
The anger burned up her face. “But most perceptive of you to have realized Catherine may have,” she retorted. “Remarkable, because apparently you did not know her. But then, perhaps you know women like her.”
“Unfortunately not,” he said, keeping his eyes on hers. “From all I hear, she seems to have been unique. Please accept my condolences on your loss, Mrs. Abercrombie.” He rose to his feet and gave a very slight inclination of his head.
She remained seated, her eyes cold. “You are too kind,” she said sarcastically.
S TILL ANNOYED AND SOMEWHAT confused in trying to make sense of Catherine’s seemingly innocent life, Narraway called on the police surgeon, Brinsley, to see if he had anything further to report.
Brinsley was busy with another autopsy, but he did not keep Narraway waiting more than fifteen minutes. He came into the sparse waiting room rolling down his shirtsleeves, his hair a little tousled.
“Afternoon, my lord,” he said briskly. He did not hold out his hand. Perhaps he had experienced too many people’s revulsion, their imagination picturing where it had just been.
“Good afternoon, Doctor,” Narraway replied. “Am I too soon to learn if you have anything further to say about Mrs. Quixwood’s death?”
“No, no. Preformed the autopsy this morning,” Brinsley’s face was pinched. “I’ve really nothing to add, unless you want the details of therape? Can’t think it’ll help you. Very violent.” His voice sank even lower, grating with anger. “Very ugly.”
“Can you tell if she fought, or at least tried to?” Narraway asked.
Brinsley winced. “She tried. A few ugly bruises have come out. They do, after death, if they were inflicted just before. Wrists, arms, shoulders. He was unnecessarily brutal. Thighs, but you’d expect that. And the bite, of course, on her breast.”
“Yes. Except briefly at a concert about two weeks ago.”
“Who was she with at the concert?”
“I’m not sure she was with anyone.” She raised her eyebrows slightly. “When we spoke she was alone.”
“Did that surprise you?”
“Frankly, no. Catherine was inclined to go to events alone. If it was something she wished to do, she would prefer to be alone to indulge in it, rather than go with company, who might require conversation from her.” Her disapproval of such behavior was clear, if still unspoken.
Narraway had a sudden vision of Catherine bent forward, listening to great, sweeping symphonies of music while the fashionable women around her were talking to one another, gossiping, flirting, or merely pretending to listen while they waited for the opportunity to recommence speaking. He imagined in her an inner loneliness he found disturbing, and frighteningly easy to understand.
Or was he simply projecting his own emotions onto her, because he had never known her alive and there was no one to refute his picture?
“Was there anyone to whom she was particularly close?” he asked.
“You mean someone who might know if she was … having an unsuitable friendship?” Mrs. Abercrombie asked, delicate eyebrows raised. “Possibly. But I cannot imagine that they would be indiscreet enough to speak of it, even had she been that foolish and disloyal. Poor Rawdon is suffering enough, don’t you think? And Catherine has certainly paid for any indiscretions.”
Narraway smiled coldly, feeling the temper like an ice storm inside him. “Actually, Mrs. Abercrombie, I was thinking of someone who might know if she was being troubled by unwanted attentions,” he correctedher. “Men sometimes look at a beautiful woman and imagine she has given them some encouragement, when in truth she was no more than civil—or at most, kind. Denials do not always persuade them of their error.”
She opened her pale eyes very wide. “Really? I have never known anyone so … disturbed.”
“No,” he agreed without a flicker in his expression. “I imagine not.”
The anger burned up her face. “But most perceptive of you to have realized Catherine may have,” she retorted. “Remarkable, because apparently you did not know her. But then, perhaps you know women like her.”
“Unfortunately not,” he said, keeping his eyes on hers. “From all I hear, she seems to have been unique. Please accept my condolences on your loss, Mrs. Abercrombie.” He rose to his feet and gave a very slight inclination of his head.
She remained seated, her eyes cold. “You are too kind,” she said sarcastically.
S TILL ANNOYED AND SOMEWHAT confused in trying to make sense of Catherine’s seemingly innocent life, Narraway called on the police surgeon, Brinsley, to see if he had anything further to report.
Brinsley was busy with another autopsy, but he did not keep Narraway waiting more than fifteen minutes. He came into the sparse waiting room rolling down his shirtsleeves, his hair a little tousled.
“Afternoon, my lord,” he said briskly. He did not hold out his hand. Perhaps he had experienced too many people’s revulsion, their imagination picturing where it had just been.
“Good afternoon, Doctor,” Narraway replied. “Am I too soon to learn if you have anything further to say about Mrs. Quixwood’s death?”
“No, no. Preformed the autopsy this morning,” Brinsley’s face was pinched. “I’ve really nothing to add, unless you want the details of therape? Can’t think it’ll help you. Very violent.” His voice sank even lower, grating with anger. “Very ugly.”
“Can you tell if she fought, or at least tried to?” Narraway asked.
Brinsley winced. “She tried. A few ugly bruises have come out. They do, after death, if they were inflicted just before. Wrists, arms, shoulders. He was unnecessarily brutal. Thighs, but you’d expect that. And the bite, of course, on her breast.”
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