Chapter Two #2
“Not unusual,” the maid replied. “Sometimes she did, sometimes she didn’t. Either way, I had my key to make her mornings comfortable.”
Solomon decided to leave the matter there for now. But if the door had been locked, then it was a lot less likely that someone else had harmed Caterina, whatever the arrangement of the pillows.
“You are very observant,” he said. “Besides the arrangement of the pillows, did you notice anything else unusual about the room when you first came in this morning?”
“Not apart from the roses.”
Everyone looked at the roses.
“What’s odd about them?” Constance asked.
“Nothing,” the maid replied, “except they weren’t there last night when I left her.”
*
“Well?” Kellar demanded, as soon as his carriage, bearing the three of them, began to move away from Montague’s house. “Am I right to have doubts about Caterina’s death?”
Opposite Solomon, who sat on the back-facing bench, Constance shifted with the tiny wriggle she gave when she was uncomfortable.
Solomon said carefully, “There are one or two things that don’t make sense without further explanation.
But there is no sign of physical attack, and even an overdose of digitalis is unlikely.
The maid is clearly keeping close track of every dose, and she was happy enough to show the powders to us.
She has marked a date on each. And by everyone’s account—including yours—Mrs. Montague was not suicidally inclined. ”
“The doctor could have given her an extra dose,” Kellar said mulishly.
“Why would he do that?” Solomon asked.
“You said you would speak to him,” Kellar countered.
Constance turned her head to look at him. Then she met Solomon’s gaze.
Solomon sighed. “Are you asking us to take this matter on as a formal investigation?”
“Yes,” Kellar said.
“Even though we have advised you there is likely nothing to investigate?”
“Find the answer to the matter of the roses. Look into the household, the doctor, the violinist and any other lover you come across, and if you find nothing suspicious and no other inquiries to follow, then so be it. I am happy to pay for your time.”
“Good,” Constance said. “Because that is how we avoid—for the most part—frivolous cases. People prepared to pay have genuine concerns.”
That formula didn’t work so well with the poorest in society, but even there, the proffered mite made a point.
“I have,” Kellar said, “genuine concerns.”
“What we discover may tarnish Mrs. Montague’s reputation,” Solomon warned. “You may not like what we uncover.”
“I believe I already know her flaws. They do not change my affection for her. Do you have some kind of contract for me to sign?”
“Yes,” Constance said. “And we are not cheap.”
*
“I wonder,” Constance murmured, as they finally waved off Sebastian Kellar in his carriage and closed Silver and Grey’s black-painted door, “if we will regret this.”
“We never have before,” Solomon pointed out.
“We never worked for anyone who knows my mother before. He didn’t mention her once.”
Solomon raised his eyebrows. “Are you outraged on her behalf?”
“No,” she said crossly. “Well, yes, perhaps. I’m not sure he’s telling the truth about his relationship with Caterina. It would explain why he helped her come to England, and why he’s so antagonistic toward her husband. But in fact, I’m relieved—or I should be—that he didn’t ask about Juliet.”
Her relationship with her mother was always complicated and often seemed contradictory.
In this case, mostly, she was probably thinking of her mother’s pride.
The no doubt beautiful and pure young woman of Kellar’s memory had been badly ravaged by life.
What Juliet’s happiness depended on was anyone’s guess, though Constance seemed to think it was staying away from men altogether.
“You’ve never had that conversation with her?” he asked.
“She’s never brought him up, so neither did I after the first time. But I suppose having him as a client is no reason why they should ever meet. Unless she chooses to. Are we wasting our time and his money, Solomon?”
“Probably,” he said, strolling into his office. “But with luck, we can quickly put his mind to rest. I’ll write the report about the child, and then, I think, we can go home for the day.”
“Excellent plan,” she agreed.
She followed him across to his desk and picked up the piece of paper on which Kellar had written down the name and address of the violinist he believed to have been Caterina’s lover.
“Carl Darrow,” she read aloud, slowly raising her eyes to Solomon’s. “We know him. He played at one of our charity evenings at the establishment.”
“And I thought we could invite him to play at our soiree,” Solomon said ruefully.
Her eyes narrowed. “What soiree?”
“The one you are considering.”
“The one I have considered and rejected,” she said.
He reached across the desk to kiss her full on the mouth. “Keep considering for a little while longer.”
*
Mary Webb had nothing to do, nothing to prepare for her mistress.
In fact, she no longer had a position. Tomorrow she would have to begin looking for another.
For now, late in the afternoon, when she often helped Mrs. Montague to dress for the theatre, there was no reason why she should not sit in the bedchamber with the body of her beautiful, turbulent, flawed mistress.
She opened the bedchamber door, and the instant scent of roses immediately reminded her of the people asking questions.
A lot of questions, which she had been too stunned not to answer—though looking back, they were insolent and not anyone’s business but hers.
She was the keeper of Mrs. Montague’s secrets.
She would pray beside her, pray for peace for them both.
Something moved on the bed, and she gasped, falling back and clutching at her heart. Wild hope mingled with startled fear, just for an instant, until she realized it was not Mrs. Montague who had risen from the bed, but the master.
The lamp was not lit. In the gloom caused by the closed curtains, he was a stranger.
And yet he had been lying on the bed beside his dead wife.
She pitied him. But still, at this moment, she felt a thrill of something close to fear.
She should apologize for disturbing his privacy, and yet she froze, unable to find the words.
He said, “They will take her away tomorrow.”
He had always been a gently spoken man. At this moment, half visible by the body of his wife, he sounded positively…sepulchral.
She shivered, but at least her tongue loosened. “I know. I came to pray, but I’ll come back…”
She had already turned away when he spoke again. “They asked you questions. Here.”
How does he know that? Did they tell him? “Yes.” What else could she say? “He was fond of her, Mr. Kellar,” she blurted. “I never saw that couple before, but they seemed very concerned…”
“What did you tell them?”
Mary turned back to face him. “The truth, sir.”
“They will be back,” he said, his quiet voice curiously expressionless. “It might be best if you were gone by then.”