everyone and intimate with none.
About the only thing she did not appear to have had any interest in was the last few years of extraordinary events in Africa. There was one brief note in her diary on the discovery of gold in Johannesburg, but no mention of the massacres carried out by Lobengula, or the extraordinary career of Cecil Rhodes, or even of the catastrophic Jameson Raid only months ago. For a woman interested in so many things it was a curious omission.
Finally Narraway was driven to going back again to speak to Quixwood himself, little as he wished to. He owed the man a report of his discoveries, fruitless as they were so far.
He found him in the library of the club, as before, but this time he was busy writing letters. He looked up as Narraway came in. He was clearly tired, the lines in his face more deeply scored.
“Have you found anything further?” he asked as Narraway sat down on the smooth, comfortable leather.
“I’m not certain,” Narraway replied honestly. “I have been asking questions of her friends, mostly the people with whom she attended lectures and visited museums, that sort of thing.”
Quixwood frowned. “Why? What might that have to do with her death?” His voice held a note of disappointment.
“She knew whoever killed her,” Narraway said, gently but without hesitation. He could think of little more painful than the possibility Quixwood now faced. If he balked at it, or blamed the man who told him, it was a very human reaction. He needed someone to be angry with for his pain.
Quixwood blinked as if caught in a sudden, bright light. “And you think one of her friends might know who it is?”
“Possibly without being aware of the connection, but yes, I do,” Narraway told him.
Quixwood stared at him for several long seconds, then he lowered his gaze. “Yes, you are quite right, of course. I suppose it is what I havebeen trying hard to deny to myself. Such things do not happen in isolation. And I can’t willfully refuse to accept that she let him in. I appreciate your patience in allowing me come to it a trifle more slowly.”
“I’m sorry,” Narraway said with intense regret. “I cannot see any other answer that fits the facts we have.”
“And … do you have any idea who it was?” Quixwood framed the words with difficulty, staring down at his half-written-on paper.
“No, not yet. But I have further questions I intend to ask Flaxley. She seems a sensible woman, and loyal. I believe she wishes to see this man punished, as far as is consistent with protecting Mrs. Quixwood’s reputation.”
Quixwood looked bleak but he forced a rather shaky smile. “I’m sure Flaxley will give you all the help she can. She was devoted to Catherine. I’ve no idea what she’ll do now, because there is nothing for her to do in what is left of my household. I suppose I can offer her an excellent reference, but that feels like precious little to do for a woman who’s given so many years of her life, and seen it end in such hideous crime.” He took a deep breath. “And a pension, of course. Fortunately I’m in a position to do that.”
“That would be good of you, and quite appropriate,” Narraway agreed. “But I would be obliged if you kept her on until we have solved this case.”
“Of course! I’ll do all I can in every way. Good God, man, no one could care about it more than I do!” Quixwood reasserted control of himself with something of an effort. “Someone else who might be able to help is Alban Hythe, a young man with a good position in the Treasury. I know he shared many of Catherine’s tastes.” He made a slight gesture with his strong, slender hands. “He is a most intelligent and civil young man, who traveled widely earlier in his career. According to Catherine, he is a lover of music and art. If there is someone who became … who became obsessed with Catherine and imagined there was something between them, Mr. Hythe might have noticed it. Narraway,
About the only thing she did not appear to have had any interest in was the last few years of extraordinary events in Africa. There was one brief note in her diary on the discovery of gold in Johannesburg, but no mention of the massacres carried out by Lobengula, or the extraordinary career of Cecil Rhodes, or even of the catastrophic Jameson Raid only months ago. For a woman interested in so many things it was a curious omission.
Finally Narraway was driven to going back again to speak to Quixwood himself, little as he wished to. He owed the man a report of his discoveries, fruitless as they were so far.
He found him in the library of the club, as before, but this time he was busy writing letters. He looked up as Narraway came in. He was clearly tired, the lines in his face more deeply scored.
“Have you found anything further?” he asked as Narraway sat down on the smooth, comfortable leather.
“I’m not certain,” Narraway replied honestly. “I have been asking questions of her friends, mostly the people with whom she attended lectures and visited museums, that sort of thing.”
Quixwood frowned. “Why? What might that have to do with her death?” His voice held a note of disappointment.
“She knew whoever killed her,” Narraway said, gently but without hesitation. He could think of little more painful than the possibility Quixwood now faced. If he balked at it, or blamed the man who told him, it was a very human reaction. He needed someone to be angry with for his pain.
Quixwood blinked as if caught in a sudden, bright light. “And you think one of her friends might know who it is?”
“Possibly without being aware of the connection, but yes, I do,” Narraway told him.
Quixwood stared at him for several long seconds, then he lowered his gaze. “Yes, you are quite right, of course. I suppose it is what I havebeen trying hard to deny to myself. Such things do not happen in isolation. And I can’t willfully refuse to accept that she let him in. I appreciate your patience in allowing me come to it a trifle more slowly.”
“I’m sorry,” Narraway said with intense regret. “I cannot see any other answer that fits the facts we have.”
“And … do you have any idea who it was?” Quixwood framed the words with difficulty, staring down at his half-written-on paper.
“No, not yet. But I have further questions I intend to ask Flaxley. She seems a sensible woman, and loyal. I believe she wishes to see this man punished, as far as is consistent with protecting Mrs. Quixwood’s reputation.”
Quixwood looked bleak but he forced a rather shaky smile. “I’m sure Flaxley will give you all the help she can. She was devoted to Catherine. I’ve no idea what she’ll do now, because there is nothing for her to do in what is left of my household. I suppose I can offer her an excellent reference, but that feels like precious little to do for a woman who’s given so many years of her life, and seen it end in such hideous crime.” He took a deep breath. “And a pension, of course. Fortunately I’m in a position to do that.”
“That would be good of you, and quite appropriate,” Narraway agreed. “But I would be obliged if you kept her on until we have solved this case.”
“Of course! I’ll do all I can in every way. Good God, man, no one could care about it more than I do!” Quixwood reasserted control of himself with something of an effort. “Someone else who might be able to help is Alban Hythe, a young man with a good position in the Treasury. I know he shared many of Catherine’s tastes.” He made a slight gesture with his strong, slender hands. “He is a most intelligent and civil young man, who traveled widely earlier in his career. According to Catherine, he is a lover of music and art. If there is someone who became … who became obsessed with Catherine and imagined there was something between them, Mr. Hythe might have noticed it. Narraway,
Similar Books
