Chapter One #2
“Shocked. Devastated. If you can trust in outward appearances.”
“Which you don’t,” Solomon said. “Have you involved the police?”
Kellar lifted his shoulders. “With what? Neither her doctor nor her husband believe there was a crime.”
“But you do,” Constance said, “with no evidence except your instinct.”
“Precisely.”
Constance cast a quick glance at Solomon.
She knew he was thinking much the same as she was.
That Kellar’s grief—which in itself was vaguely troubling—had induced this denial of a natural death.
She did not want to know any more about his relationship with the dead woman. And yet they owed him something.
She said, “We can ask a few questions amongst her neighbors, perhaps speak to servants and her colleagues at the theatre, but we have no authority and no reason to intrude on Mr. Montague’s mourning.”
“That will not be a problem,” Kellar said briskly. “I propose to take you there myself—now, if you are free.”
Annoyingly, they were free. They had not yet begun the next case on their list, having pushed everything aside for the missing child.
This time, Constance was careful not to look at Solomon.
They should not let Kellar jump their waiting list for a non-case.
And yet if by any chance he was right about foul play, speed was of the essence.
The body would not remain on view for long.
“We will come,” Solomon said. “Though it is only fair to tell you we doubt there is a case. We are agreeing only to a preliminary visit.”
“There speaks the careful merchant,” Kellar murmured. He rose to his feet. “Shall we go? I have my carriage waiting.”
*
The house where the much lauded soprano Caterina di Ripoli had lived and died was in one of those almost-hidden, easily forgotten parts of London, a square close to Fleet Street, on the edges of the City itself.
Some of the buildings looked old enough to have escaped the Great Fire, although in reality they had probably been built in the century after.
Eagle Square was surprisingly quiet for its situation, mostly residential, with a few quaint, half-timbered houses built around a small, square garden that was a riot of bright yellow, white, and red roses.
Kellar handed Constance down from the carriage and led the way up the short path to a front door. A mourning wreath, veiled in black net, hung there. The curtains had been drawn across all the front-facing windows.
A young maidservant with watery eyes, wearing a starched cap and apron, opened the door. She seemed surprised to see Kellar—presumably because she had shown him out not so long ago—but admitted him and his companions at once.
“Is Mr. Montague still at home?” Kellar asked her.
“Yes, sir. I’ll tell him you’re here, if you’d care to wait in the morning room.”
The girl hurried silently up the hall, leaving Kellar to show the other guests the way. Obviously, he was a frequent visitor.
Despite its low ceilings with exposed beams, Constance rather liked the house.
Or, at least, she would when the yards of black crepe draped over everything were taken down.
As a home, it had character, though she noticed Solomon had to duck his head as he passed through the morning room doorway.
At least they were at the back of the house, and the curtains had been left open.
They had barely sat down on comfortable sofas before the maid returned and led them across the wainscoted hall to a larger room, where the master of the house stood with his back to the empty fireplace, dressed all in somber black.
He wore the dazed expression Constance had recently grown used to among the bereaved, although he seemed genuinely pleased to welcome them.
She had the impression he didn’t know what else to do with himself.
He was a little older than she had expected, well into his forties. A scattering of gray flecked his neat brown hair. Even in the first stage of grief he bore an air of slightly battered distinction.
“These are old friends of mine, Mr. and Mrs. Grey,” Kellar said easily. “Also admirers of Caterina’s talent. Mr. Digby Montague.”
Constance offered her hand. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Montague,” she murmured. “Such a terrible loss.”
“She was only twenty-eight years old,” Montague said. “It seems…monstrous. Please, sit down. Sarah will bring tea…”
They sat in comfortable, well-upholstered chairs.
A good-quality carpet lay in the middle of the floor, and long velvet curtains in harmonizing shades framed the windows.
Mirrors and pictures, which included a portrait of the dramatically beautiful singer, were draped in black crepe.
A rather fine piano stood in one corner, and a violin was propped up against one of its legs.
In all, it must have been a rather lovely room before the tragedy and the mourning black.
“I brought Mr. and Mrs. Grey to meet you, Montague,” Kellar began, “not just because they are saddened by Caterina’s death, but because they are very useful people in puzzling things out.”
Montague looked slightly irritated. “There is nothing to puzzle, Kellar. Her heart stopped and she is dead.”
“I know,” Kellar said soothingly. “And nothing can change that. But would it not mean something to know all the circumstances?”
“Such as what, for heaven’s sake?”
“We won’t know until they look,” Kellar said reasonably.
Montague appeared unimpressed, but he was clearly in no state to argue the matter. He didn’t really care, or so Constance gathered. He merely shrugged and flapped one hand as though to say, Do as you like.
“Then you don’t mind if they ask a few questions, perhaps look around Caterina’s room while they pay their respects?”
Montague looked at Solomon. “Ask me anything you like, but I am no physician.”
“May we speak to her physician, too?” Solomon asked. “And to your servants?”
“If you must,” Montague said, “though I don’t see what good it will do.”
Neither did Constance. Montague did not behave much like a husband who had just killed his wife.
“Thank you,” Solomon said gravely. “I apologize in advance if our questions cause you pain.”
“The cause will not be your questions.”
Solomon inclined his head. “When was the last time you saw your wife alive?”
“Last night,” Montague said dully. “She came home from the theatre around eleven. We had a glass of sherry together, and then I escorted her upstairs to her room, where Webb, her maid, was waiting for her.”
“Did she seem well?”
“A little tired, but yes, very well. She was delighted with how she had sung, and the audience’s appreciation always lifts her.” His eyelids drooped. “Lifted her.”
“And over the past few weeks, did she complain of any symptoms of her heart problem?” Solomon asked. “Did you notice any?”
Montague shook his head. “None. It was more than a year ago that she first noticed it—it interfered with her singing, as you might imagine, and that frightened her more than anything. She could not imagine life without singing. She consulted our doctor, and his prescription worked almost like magic. It was as if she had never been ill.”
“Digitalis,” Solomon said. “Was Mrs. Montague aware of the dangers of varying her dose?”
“Of course. It was the first thing Dr. Sorenson impressed upon us. Each dose was carefully measured out in powdered form.”
“So she would not have taken an extra dose, even secretly? Perhaps to deal with a return of her symptoms?”
Montague frowned. “No. She was not so foolish. And in any case, Webb—her personal maid—is very careful and observant.”
Solomon nodded, as though this was what he had expected to hear.
Constance leaned forward. “Mr. Montague, you said your wife was well and happy last night when she came home. Was this happy state normal for her?”
“Well…yes. Like everyone, she had her moments of gloom or irritability, and certainly she was very cast down when she was ill. But in general, she was contented.”
“No recent worries or concerns that troubled her spirit?” Constance pressed.
Montague’s eyes flickered. “Nothing that was lasting. Such troubles were quickly solved.”
They generally were between compatible married couples, as Constance had discovered over recent months.
She knew exactly what Montague meant, and yet that flickering gaze bothered her.
He was hiding something. But then, he was a bereaved husband and they were strangers.
There was a limit to how far they could pry without cruelty.
So she gave an understanding nod and asked gently, “How long were you married, sir?”
“Almost three years,” he said, a catch in his voice.
A pitifully short time that made her want to physically hold on to Solomon. “How did you meet?”
In the chair opposite, Kellar’s brow twitched in impatience, but Montague did not mind the question.
“At a private concert. She had not long arrived in this country from Italy, and she was not yet well known. But as soon as I saw her, I knew…” His lips twisted. “You will think me foolish.”
Constance, who had felt that sudden blaze on her first contact with Solomon—although she’d denied it for a long time—merely shook her head.
“Everything about her,” Montague said, “overwhelmed me—her beauty, her laughter, her voice… The whole woman. Of course, she had that effect on everyone. I didn’t really expect her to notice me.”
From Kellar’s expression, which he didn’t trouble to hide, neither had anyone else.
“But she did,” Montague said. “She felt it too, you see.”
Again, Constance flicked a glance at Kellar. Was that pity she glimpsed before his usual veils came down? Again, she realized how shaken the man was. Normally, his emotions would have been kept so much better hidden.
“Would you mind if we paid our respects now?” Solomon asked. Which was, of course, a polite way of asking to examine the dead woman and her surroundings.
“I can take them up,” Kellar said, rising to his feet, “if you like.”
Montague nodded. “Thank you, Kellar.”