Chapter Four
Thanks to their late and strenuous night, they woke too late in the morning to indulge Solomon’s desire for a repeat.
He was only too aware of the danger he had managed to avert last night, largely through his own desperation, though he hadn’t expected the crisis to leave him feeling so vulnerable, so in need of the reassurance of her passion.
Although he truly hadn’t meant to hurt Constance by what he had said to the Tizsas, he had been a little too crass in making his point. And no point in the world was worth losing her for.
The making-up of their quarrel had brought a wild new intensity to their lovemaking, of course. The pleasure still made him want to purr. But it had not solved the problem, which, perhaps, they were both making too much of.
Constance, wrapped loosely in her dressing gown, padded toward him with a tray of delicious-smelling coffee. No doubt she had retrieved it from the dressing room, where Anne had developed the habit of leaving it each morning.
“That smells good,” he said, struggling into a sitting position to accept his cup.
Constance sat on the edge of the bed beside him. “Shall we try to see Dr. Sorenson this morning? And then perhaps Darrow and his friend.”
Solomon nodded, glad of the normality of discussing cases. And yet she was delectable in her half-tied dressing gown with her red-gold hair wild and loose…
Focus, Grey!
“We should probably try to speak to her colleagues at the theatre, too. And then I’d rather like to talk to Montague without Kellar standing over us.”
“I thought that. The servants, too.” She set her cup on its saucer and rose. “Then I had better ring for Anne.”
Solomon had thoroughly approved of her acquiring a lady’s maid, even though he avoided a valet of his own. However, there were times when body servants were inconvenient. Constance met his gaze, with complete understanding and a wicked smile.
“It’s half past eight,” she reminded him.
He sighed. “So it is.”
Giving in, he rose and retreated to the dressing room.
*
Since Dr. Sorenson dealt largely with the rich and fashionable, his patients did not keep early hours.
Constance and Solomon were shown almost immediately into his consulting room, where he had been catching up with his medical reading, judging by the books and journals scattered across his large desk.
He rose at once to greet them, a man of middle years with kind, attentive eyes and a beaming smile. “Mr. Grey, a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you, doctor,” Solomon said, shaking hands. “This is my wife.”
“Charmed,” the doctor said, managing to make his eyes smile at her without leering. He was indeed charmed, but most professionally. “Do sit down. Were you recommended to me?”
“In a way,” said Solomon. “By Mr. Digby Montague, although we are not here as patients.”
“You are friends of Mr. Montague?” Sorenson asked, a certain wariness entering his expression.
“Acquaintances. He has given us permission to inquire into the circumstances surrounding his wife’s sad demise.”
Sorenson blinked. “Inquire? What circumstances? It is beyond tragic, of course, both personally for poor Montague, and more broadly for the loss of her great talent. But I fail to see—” He broke off with a sudden frown. “Does he want a postmortem examination now?”
“Would you mind?” Solomon asked.
“No, though I think it unnecessary. However, he has no need to speak to me through anyone else on the matter.”
“Oh, no. He didn’t mention it to us, and I don’t believe he has changed his mind. Yet. It is really a matter of setting his mind at rest, for his sake and that of Mrs. Montague’s friends.”
“I mean to call on him later today, when we may talk in person.” The doctor’s mustache bristled. “Are you a physician, sir?”
“I am not,” Solomon said.
The doctor reared up from his chair. “Dear God, you’re not a journalist, are you? Digging for dirt on the poor—”
“No, sir,” Constance intervened soothingly. “We are not journalists, far from it. We are agents of inquiry, engaged to sort out a few muddles that are worrying Mrs. Montague’s friends. We understand you treated her for a heart complaint.”
The doctor met her gaze with dignity. “I shall not discuss my patients with you. It would be improper of me to do so.”
“We understand your duty of confidentiality,” Constance said.
“But I’m sure we can talk together without breaking it.
We are bound, you know, by our own code of discretion.
Is it fair to say that the digitalis you prescribed worked well for her and enabled her to carry on with her life and her singing career? ”
There was nothing to object to in that, so he didn’t. “Quite fair,” he said reluctantly.
“Did you examine her regularly to be sure that was the case?” Solomon asked.
“Every month.”
“In recent months, did you see any need to increase that dose?”
“None. She responded well.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
The doctor opened a drawer in his desk, consulting whatever was within. An appointment book, judging by the rustle of pages as he turned them.
“Two weeks ago, on the twenty-third of June,” he said, closing the drawer with a brisk snap. “It was a routine consultation. She reported being well, and my examination concurred.”
“Both Mr. Montague and the maid, Mary Webb, agree that the correct amount of medicine remains. Did you look for yourself?”
“It was one of the first things I did once I had assured myself of her death. All was as it should have been.”
“Then you did not provide her with, say, an emergency dose or two?”
“Of course not!”
“Could she have got it from someone else?” Constance asked.
The doctor frowned at her. “Yes, I suppose so, but why would she?”
“Would you have been able to tell if she had?”
“No,” he admitted. “But if you are suggesting suicide, she would never have done such a thing.”
“Then, in your professional opinion, she showed no signs of melancholy or unhappiness?”
“No,” the doctor said firmly, “and you are hardly helping Montague by suggesting such a thing.”
Solomon leaned forward. “Doctor, do you have any doubts at all that she died of anything other than heart failure caused by her existing condition?”
“None,” Sorenson said firmly.
“Not even why her heart should suddenly fail after a year of healthy response to the drug you prescribed?”
He lifted his shoulders helplessly. “Such things happen without warning sometimes. I wish we could prevent it, but we can’t. In this case, I was surprised but hardly astonished.” He pulled out his watch. “I am expecting a patient…”
“One last question, if you don’t mind,” Solomon said. “In your professional opinion, is Mr. Montague healthy in mind and body?”
Sorenson stared at him coldly. “Good day, Mr. Grey. Mrs. Grey.”
*
Since Constance had engaged Carl Darrow to play at the establishment, she knew his address, just to the east of Bloomsbury. Solomon instructed the coachman and joined her in the carriage.
“What do you think of Dr. Sorenson?” he asked, sitting beside her. “Is he covering up misdeeds?”
“If he is, I don’t think they are his own,” Constance replied. “But he was very reluctant to speak of Montague.”
“Montague is still his patient,” Solomon pointed out. “It may have been a flat denial caused by his own ethics, or…”
“It wouldn’t have given much away to tell us Montague was healthy in mind and body,” Constance said. “So perhaps he is not.”
“Or perhaps Sorenson is suspicious of Montague, too,” Solomon said.
“Then why protect him?”
Solomon shrugged. “Lack of evidence? Reluctance to lose another patient? Or simply that we have no authority to question him and he doesn’t like us—or at least me.”
“Hmm…”
“How should we approach Darrow? Honestly?”
Constance considered and nodded. “I think so. After all, we might want to engage him again.”
Solomon could not prevent his quick glance at her, but she had turned her head to gaze out of the window.
He didn’t know if she referred to engaging the violinist again for the establishment or for the party he wanted to hold at home.
And he didn’t like the feeling that he would be stepping on eggshells to ask. He let it go.
Darrow lived in the upper rooms of what seemed to be a respectable house.
As soon as Solomon stepped down from the carriage, he could hear the strains of the violin floating from the house, a phrase repeated over and over.
At first it seemed like exact reproduction, and certainly the notes were the same.
Yet by the time the front door opened to his knock, he had recognized the minute changes of touch and delicacy.
The music moved on, flowing seamlessly. He did not recognize the piece.
“Yes?” said the woman at the door impatiently, and he realized he had not spoken.
“Mr. Darrow, if you please,” Constance said, presenting their Inquiries card. “Our name is Grey.”
The woman, a stout being of stern expression, looked as if she had no idea what to do with the card. She sniffed and handed it back before opening the door wide. “Top of the stairs and turn right. He won’t thank you for the interruption.”
In fact, Darrow didn’t seem to notice the interruption, despite repeated knocks. It was the door directly facing the stairs that opened to reveal a tousle-headed young man in a hurry.
“He won’t answer,” the man said cheerfully, brushing past Solomon to throw open the door. “Just go in. Carl!”
The young man clattered off down the stairs, and Solomon entered the room first, just in case Darrow was playing in his underclothes.
The violin had cut off abruptly. Carl Darrow, a good-looking young man with raven-black hair and eyebrows, stood in the middle of the cluttered floor, glowering, violin and bow dangling at his side. He was in his shirt sleeves, but at least he was dressed.
His frown smoothed in recognition. “Mrs. Silver!”