Midnight at Marble Arch Read online

  The second woman leaned forward conspiratorially. “And too young to be engaged, don’t you think?”

  “She is engaged? Good heavens, yes.” Her voice was emphatic. “Should wait another year, at the very least. She is far too immature, as she has just most unfortunately demonstrated. To whom is she engaged?”

  “That’s the thing,” the third woman said, shrugging elegantly. “Very good marriage, I believe. Tiago de Freitas. Excellent family. Enormous amount of money, I think from Brazil. Could it be Brazil?”

  “Well, there’s gold there, and Brazil is Portuguese,” a fourth woman told them, smoothing the silk of her skirt. “So it could well be so. And Angola in the southwest of Africa is Portuguese, and so is Mozambique in southeast Africa, and they say there’s gold there too.”

  “Then how did we come to let the Portuguese have it?” the woman in green asked irritably. “Somebody wasn’t paying attention!”

  “Perhaps they’ve quarreled?” one of them suggested.

  “Who? The Portuguese?” the woman in green demanded. “Or do you mean the Africans?”

  “I meant Angeles Castelbranco and Tiago de Freitas,” came the impatient reply. “That would account for her being a bit hysterical.”

  “It doesn’t excuse bad manners,” the woman in green said sharply, lifting her rather pronounced chin, and thereby making more of the diamonds at her throat. “If one is indisposed, one should say so and remain at home.”

  At that rate, you should never set foot out of the door, Charlotte thought bitterly. And we should all be the happier for it. But she could not say so. She was an eavesdropper, not part of the conversation. She moved on quickly before they became aware that she had been standing in the same spot for several moments, for no apparent reason except to overhear.

  She found Pitt speaking with a group of people she didn’t know. In case it might be important, she did not interrupt. When there was a break in the discussion, he excused himself temporarily and came over to her.

  “Did you find the ambassador’s wife?” he asked, his brow slightly furrowed with concern.

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “Thomas, I’m afraid she’s still very upset. It was a miserable thing to do to a young girl from a foreign country. At the very least, he made public fun of her. She’s only sixteen, just two years older than Jemima.” In the moment of saying her own daughter’s name she felt a tug of fear, conscious of how terribly vulnerable Jemima was. She was partway between child and woman, her body seeming to change every week, to leave behind the comfort of girlhood but not yet gain the grace and confidence of an adult.

  Pitt looked startled. Clearly he had not even imagined Jemima in a ball gown with her hair coiled up on her head and young men seeing so much more than the child she was.

  Charlotte smiled at him. “You should look more carefully, Thomas. Jemima’s still a little self-conscious, but she has curves, and more than one young man has looked at her a second and third time—including her dance teacher and the rector’s son.”

  Pitt stiffened.

  She put her hand on his arm, gently. “There’s no need to be alarmed. I’m watching. She’s still two years younger than Angeles Castelbranco, and at this age two years is a lot. But she’s full of moods. One minute she’s so happy she can’t stop singing, an hour later she’s in tears or has lost her temper. She quarrels with poor Daniel, who doesn’t know what’s the matter with her, and then she’s so reticent she doesn’t want to come out of her bedroom.”

  “I had noticed,” Pitt said drily. “Are you sure it’s normal?”

  “Consider yourself lucky,” she replied with a slight grimace. “My father had three daughters. As soon as Sarah was all right, I started, and then when I was more or less sane again, it was Emily’s turn.”

  “I suppose I should be grateful Daniel’s a boy,” he said ruefully.

  She gave a little laugh. “He’ll have his own set of problems,” she replied. “It’s just that you’ll understand them better—and I won’t.”

  He looked at her with sudden, intense gentleness. “She’ll be all right, won’t she?”

  “Jemima? Of course.” She refused to think otherwise.

  He put his hand over hers and held it. “And Angeles Castelbranco?”

  “I expect so, although she looked terribly fragile to me just now. But I expect it’s all the same thing. Sixteen is so very young. I shudder when I remember myself at that age. I thought I knew so much, which shows how desperately little I really did know.”

  “I wouldn’t tell Jemima that, if I were you,” he advised.

  She gave him a wry look. “I hadn’t planned on it, Thomas.”

  TWO HOURS LATER THE idea had crossed Pitt’s mind a few times that he and Charlotte could finally excuse themselves and go home, satisfied that duty had been fulfilled. He caught sight of her at the far side of the room, talking to Vespasia. Watching them, he could not help smiling. Charlotte’s dark, chestnut-colored hair was almost untouched by gray; Vespasia’s was totally silver. To him, Charlotte was increasingly lovely, and he never tired of looking at her. He knew she did not have the staggering beauty that was still there in Vespasia’s face—the grace of her bones, the delicacy—but he could see so much of each in Charlotte’s poise and vitality. Standing together now, they spoke as if they were oblivious to the rest of the room.

  He became aware of someone near him, and turned to see Victor Narraway a few feet over, looking in the same direction. His face was unreadable, his eyes so dark they seemed black, his thick hair heavily streaked with silver. Less than a year ago he had been Pitt’s superior in Special Branch, a man with access to a host of secrets and the iron will to use them as need and conscience dictated. He also had a steadiness of nerve Pitt thought he himself might never achieve.

  Betrayal from within the department had cost Narraway his position and Pitt had been set in his place, his enemies sure he would not have the steel in his soul to succeed. They had been wrong, at least so far. But Victor Narraway had remained out of office, removed to the House of Lords, where his abilities were wasted. There were always committees, and political intrigues of one sort or another, but nothing that offered the immense power he had once wielded. That in itself might not matter to him, but to be unable to use his extraordinary talents was a loss he surely found hard to bear.

  “Looking for the cue to go home?” Narraway asked with a slight smile, reading Pitt as easily as he always had.

  “It’s not far off midnight. I don’t think we really need to stay much longer,” Pitt agreed, returning the slightly rueful smile. “It’ll probably take half an hour to make all the appropriate goodbyes.”

  “And Charlotte, another half hour after that,” Narraway added, glancing across the room toward Charlotte and Vespasia.

  Pitt shrugged, not needing to answer. The remark was made with affection—or probably more than that, as he well knew.

  Before his train of thought could go any further, they were joined by a slender man well into his forties. His dark hair was threaded with gray at the temples but there was a youthful energy in his unusual face. He was not exactly handsome—his nose was not straight and his mouth was a little generous—but the vitality in him commanded not only attention but an instinctive liking.

  “Good evening, m’lord,” he said to Narraway. Then without hesitation, he turned to Pitt, holding out his hand. “Rawdon Quixwood,” he introduced himself.

  “Thomas Pitt,” Pitt responded.

  “Yes, I know.” Quixwood’s smile widened. “Perhaps I am not supposed to, but seeing you standing here talking so comfortably with Lord Narraway, the conclusion is obvious.”

  “Either that, or he has no idea who I am,” Narraway said drily. “Or who I was.” There was no bitterness in his voice, or even in his eyes, but Pitt knew how the dismissal had hurt and guessed how heavily Narraway’s new idleness weighed on him. A joke passed off lightly, a touch of self-mockery, did not hide the wound. But perhaps if Pitt had
been so easily deceived he would not belong in the leadership of Special Branch now. All his adult life in the police had made understanding people as second nature to him as dressing a certain way, or exercising courtesy or discretion. Seeing through the masks of privacy worn by friends was a different matter. He would have preferred not to.

  “If he did not know who you were, my lord, he would be a total outsider,” Quixwood responded pleasantly. “And I saw him speaking with Lady Vespasia half an hour ago, which excludes that as a possibility.”

  “She speaks to outsiders,” Narraway pointed out. “In fact, I have come to the conclusion that at times she prefers them.”

  “With excellent judgment,” Quixwood agreed. “But they do not speak to her. She is somewhat intimidating.”

  Narraway laughed, and there was genuine enjoyment in the sound.

  Pitt was going to add his own opinion when a movement beyond Narraway caught his eye. He saw a young man approaching them, his face pale and tense with anxiety. His gaze was fixed on Pitt with a kind of desperation.

  “Excuse me,” Pitt said briefly, and moved past Narraway to go toward the man.

  “Sir …” the man began awkwardly. “Is … is that Mr. Quixwood you were speaking to? Mr. Rawdon Quixwood?”

  “Yes, it is.” Pitt wondered what on earth was the matter. The younger man’s distress was palpable. “Is there something wrong?” he prompted.

  “Yes, sir. My name’s Jenner, sir. Police. Are you a friend of Mr. Quixwood’s?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. I’ve only just met him. I’m Commander Pitt, of Special Branch. What is it you want?” He was aware that by now at least one of the other two would have noticed the awkward conversation and Jenner’s obvious unhappiness. They might be refraining from interruption on the assumption it was Special Branch business.

  Jenner took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Quixwood’s wife has been found dead at their home. It’s worse than just that, sir.” He gulped, and swallowed with difficulty. “It looks pretty plain that she’s been murdered. I need to tell Mr. Quixwood, and take him there. If he has any friends who could … be there to help him …” He trailed off, not knowing what else to say.

  After all his experience with violent and unexpected death, Pitt should have been used to hearing of it and been familiar with the grief it would cause. But, if anything, it seemed to grow more difficult with each case.

  “Wait here, Jenner. I’ll tell him. I daresay Lord Narraway will go with him, if Quixwood wishes.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Jenner was clearly relieved.

  Pitt turned back to Narraway and Quixwood, who had continued talking together, deliberately not paying him attention.

  “Never off duty, eh?” Quixwood said with much sympathy.

  Pitt felt the knot of pity tighten inside him. “It isn’t actually me he was looking for,” he said quickly. He put his hand on Narraway’s arm in a kind of warning. “I’m afraid there has been a tragedy.” He looked directly at Quixwood, who stared back at him with nothing more than polite bemusement in his eyes.

  Narraway stiffened, hearing the catch in Pitt’s voice. He glanced at him, then at Quixwood.

  “I’m sorry,” Pitt said gently. “He’s from the police. Mr. Quixwood, they have found your wife’s body in your home. He has come to take you there, and anyone you may wish to accompany you at this time.”

  Quixwood stared at him as if the words made no sense. He seemed to sway a little before making a deliberate effort to compose himself. “Catherine?” He turned slowly to Narraway, then back to Pitt. “Found …? Why the police, for God’s sake? What’s happened?”

  Pitt wanted to reach out and take the man’s arm to steady him. However, on so brief an acquaintance, such a gesture would have been intrusive, unless Quixwood was actually on the brink of falling. “I’m very sorry; it looks as if there was some kind of violence.”

  Quixwood looked at Narraway. “Violence? Will … will you come with me?” He passed his hand across his brow. “This is absurd! Who would hurt Catherine?”

  “Of course I’ll come,” Narraway said immediately. “Make my excuses, Pitt, and Quixwood’s. Don’t give the reason. Just an emergency.” He took Quixwood’s arm and led him toward where Jenner was waiting, and together the three of them left.

  THE RIDE BY HANSOM cab was one of the most distressing Narraway could recall. He sat next to Quixwood, with the young policeman, Jenner, on the far side. Half a dozen times Quixwood drew in his breath to speak, but in the end there was nothing to say.

  Narraway was only half aware of the brightly lit streets and the warm, summer night. They passed other carriages, one so closely that he glimpsed the faces of the man and woman inside, the brief fire of the diamonds at her neck.

  They turned a corner and were obliged to slow down. Light spilled out of open doors and there was a sound of laughter and distant music from inside. People were starting to leave their various parties, too busy talking to one another, calling goodbyes, to pay attention to the traffic. The world continued as if death did not exist and murder was impossible.

  Could it really have been murder, or was Jenner misinformed? He looked quite young and very upset.

  Narraway did not know Quixwood well. Theirs was a social acquaintance, a matter of being pleasant on a number of occasions where both were required to attend a gathering, and now and then a drink at a gentlemen’s club or dinner at some government function. Narraway had been head of Special Branch; Quixwood was involved in one of the major merchant banks, handling enormous amounts of money. Their paths had never crossed professionally. Narraway could not even remember meeting Quixwood’s wife.

  They were coming from the Spanish Embassy in Queen’s Gate, Kensington, traveling east toward Belgravia. Quixwood lived on Lyall Street, just off Eaton Square. They had less than two hundred yards to go. Quixwood was sitting forward, staring at the familiar façades as they slowed down and came to a stop just short of a house where police were blocking the way.

  Narraway alighted immediately and paid the driver, telling him not to wait. Jenner came out from the same side, with Quixwood beside him. Narraway followed them across the pavement and up the steps, through the classically pillared front door, into the vestibule. Every room was lit and there were servants standing around, white-faced. He saw a butler and a footman, and another man, who was probably a valet. There were no women in sight.

  A man came out of the inner hallway and stopped. He looked to be in his forties, hair mostly gray, his face weary and crumpled with distress. He glanced at Jenner, then looked at Narraway and Quixwood.

  “Which of you is Mr. Quixwood?” he said quietly, his voice cracking a little as though his throat was tight.

  “I am,” Quixwood answered. “Rawdon Quixwood.”

  “Inspector Knox, sir,” the man answered. “I’m very sorry indeed.”

  Quixwood started to say something, then lost the words.

  Knox looked at Narraway, clearly trying to work out who he was and why he had come.

  “Victor Narraway. I happened to be with Mr. Quixwood when the police found him. I’ll be of any help I can.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Narraway. Good of you, sir.” Knox turned back to Quixwood again. “I’m sorry to distress you, sir, but I need you to take a very quick look at the lady and confirm that it is your wife. The butler said that it is, but we’d prefer it if you … you were to …”

  “Of course,” Quixwood replied. “Is she …?”

  “In the inner hall, sir. We’ve covered her with a sheet. Just look at her face, if you don’t mind.”

  Quixwood nodded and walked a little unsteadily through the double doors. He glanced to his left and stopped, swaying a little, putting out his hand as if reaching for something.

  Narraway went after him in half a dozen strides, ready to brace him if he were to stagger.

  The body of Catherine Quixwood was lying sprawled, slightly on its side, mostly facedown, on the wooden
parquet floor, all of her concealed by the bedsheet thrown over her, except her face. Her long, dark hair was loose, some of it fallen over her brow, but it did not hide the bloody bruises on her cheek and jaw, or the split lip stained scarlet by the blood that had oozed from her mouth. In spite of that it was possible to see that she had been a beautiful woman.

  Narraway felt a knot of shock and sorrow that he had not expected. He had not known her when she was alive, and she was far from the first person he had seen who had been killed violently. Without thinking, he reached out and grasped Quixwood’s arm, holding him hard. The other man was totally unresisting, as if he were paralyzed.

  Narraway pushed him very gently. “You don’t need to stay here. Just tell Knox if it is her, and then go into the withdrawing room or your study.”

  Quixwood turned to face him. His skin was ashen. “Yes, yes, of course you’re right. Thank you.” He looked beyond him to Knox. “That is my wife. That is Catherine. Can I … I mean … do you have to leave her there like that? On the floor? For God’s sake.” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I suppose you do.”

  Knox’s face was pinched with grief. “Mr. Narraway, sir, perhaps if you would take Mr. Quixwood into the study.” He indicated the direction with his hand. “I’ll ask the butler to bring brandy for both of you.”

  “Of course.” Narraway guided Quixwood to the door Knox had indicated.

  The room would have been pleasant and comfortable at any other time. The season being early summer, there was no fire lit in the large hearth, and the curtains were open onto the garden. The lamps were already lit. Possibly Knox and his men had searched the house.

  Quixwood sank into one of the large leather-covered armchairs, burying his face in his hands.

  Almost immediately a footman appeared with a silver tray holding a decanter of brandy and two balloon glasses. Narraway thanked him. He poured one and gave it to Quixwood, who took it and swallowed a mouthful with a wince, as if it had burned his throat.

  Narraway did not take one himself. He looked at Quixwood, who was almost collapsed in the chair.