Chapter Five
From the sitting room window, shaded by the curtain, Carl Darrow watched his visitors depart.
What on earth had that been about? He stared at the card he had been given.
Silver and Grey. Inquiries. She was a madam, for God’s sake, even if a somewhat refined one.
For that reason, he had almost turned down her invitation to play at her house in the spring.
Yet a powerful courtesan had the kind of clientele he needed, so he had taken the chance—and discovered she was married to that wealthiest of recluses, Solomon Grey.
Well, he didn’t seem to be much of a recluse either.
He had been present at Carl’s recital at that house of civilized ill repute, along with many other influential gentlemen.
And there was no denying that it had led to several more lucrative private engagements with the best people. His reputation was growing…
Though how much did that matter without Caterina?
Her loss both filled and emptied him. He needed music… Where was his damned violin?
He was about to turn away from the window when a jaunty figure caught his eye: Reid loping around the corner from the bakery, a loaf in one hand, a small basket of strawberries in the other.
Carl paused, his gaze shifting to the carriage in front of the house. Grey already had the door open, and Carl willed Constance Silver into it.
Too late. She had seen Reid.
Grey closed the door again, and Carl’s heart sank. For the first time ever, he wished Geoffrey Reid was less good natured. He would never walk past someone who clearly wanted to talk to him, much less be deliberately rude.
Slowly, Carl eased the bottom sash up, careful not to let it rattle. The three people below did not appear to notice. They were too focused on each other. Annoyingly, he could only hear snatches of their conversation, but it was enough to understand.
The courtesan, who was now Mrs. Grey, was clearly asking Reid about Wednesday night.
“He was home before me,” Reid answered cheerfully. “Afraid I had a few at the Pig and Whistle.”
“Did you see him when you went in?” Grey asked.
“No. He was too grumpy. I scratched at his door, but he told me in no uncertain terms to—er…go away. So I did.”
Thank you, Geoff… The last thing Carl needed was to be under suspicion for murder. That it should be her murder was unbearable… Bloody Montague…
“Did either of you go out again?” Grey asked.
This time Reid’s answer was less satisfactory. “I didn’t. Out like a light as soon as my head touched the pillow. I’d have slept through a riot in the street.”
Damn it, Reid…
Mrs. Grey’s next words were lost in the breeze, and the call of a costermonger in the next street. But Reid’s reply was clear enough.
“Oh no. Carl doesn’t go out when he’s grumpy. He plays his violin until he feels better.”
“Not after ten o’clock, surely,” Grey said, which made Reid laugh.
“No, but certainly well before ten the next morning!”
Carl stepped back from the window. Was it enough? He hoped so. He didn’t want to think of Caterina, of his loss, of the blackness. Almost blindly, he stumbled back to his own room and snatched his violin off the bed.
It was the only thing to do with grief.
*
Constance had been aware of the window lifting above her and wondered if Darrow would somehow try to disrupt their conversation with Reid. But if she hoped for a reaction from Caterina’s lover, she was disappointed. There was only silence above, and then she heard the violin.
“Were you with him,” Solomon asked, his voice low and confidential, “when he learned of Caterina di Ripoli’s death?”
Reid’s expression grew troubled. “No. I saw it in the newspaper stand around the corner when I was on my way home last night and immediately went in to see him. He already knew.”
“How?” Constance asked.
“From the newspaper open on his bed, I suppose. It is hard on him…” Reid straightened his shoulders suddenly, as though pulling himself together. “He knew her, you see. He accompanied her several times, most recently at Covent Garden when he played with the orchestra.”
He was endearingly blatant. Constance held his gaze. “But there was a little more to it than that, was there not?”
“He was devoted to her,” Reid admitted. “Beyond that, I cannot and will not go.”
“Did you never see them together?” she asked.
Reid hesitated. “I had supper with them once. And coffee one afternoon in Covent Garden.”
“Was it your impression that she was as devoted as he?”
Reid dragged his gaze free, shifting his feet uncomfortably.
“She liked him, certainly, but she never excluded me to make sheep’s eyes at him.
She was a very charming lady.” He seemed to recognize that this was not a terribly satisfactory answer, for he gave a helpless shrug.
A young man trying to describe emotion without the aid of music.
Or perhaps without landing his friend or his friend’s late lover in trouble.
Constance gave him her hand in an encouraging sort of way. He might, after all, have more to tell. “Thank you, Mr. Reid. Goodbye.”
Solomon handed her into the carriage, and they set off for Montague’s house. They were both silent for several minutes.
Constance said, “I don’t think there is a case. Darrow’s explanation of the roses makes sense. She left them at the theatre overnight on Tuesday and then brought them home on Wednesday.”
“Most likely, but wouldn’t she have asked the maid to put them in water? Wouldn’t Mary Webb have seen them, at least? She was waiting in the bedroom for Caterina that last night.”
“It’s possible Caterina hid them—a guilty wife concealing her lover’s token.
” She shifted impatiently, drawing closer to Solomon.
“I don’t like this case. I’ll be glad to tell Kellar there is nothing in his suspicions.
A few interviews with the servants and Montague himself, and then we can stop wasting everyone’s time. ”
“I wonder why this matters so much to Kellar?” Solomon mused.
Constance didn’t like to think about that either. She wanted to be finished with the whole business and wave Kellar back off to Italy.
It was the same maid who opened the front door of Montague’s house and dropped a brief curtsey.
“Good afternoon, sir, ma’am. I’m afraid Mr. Montague is not at home.”
“That’s fine,” Solomon said easily. “I’m sure you were told that we would be asking a few questions. We’ll just get that over with now.”
A flash of distinct hostility showed in the girl’s eyes before her long lashes swept down to cover them. But she stepped back to allow them entry and closed the door behind them.
“Yes, sir,” she said woodenly.
“Let’s step into the morning room,” Constance said. “Remind us of the way, if you please.”
The girl led the way and stood stiffly by the door while Constance sat down. Solomon went to the window and leaned against the wall there.
“What is your name?” Constance asked the maid.
“Nancy, ma’am.”
“You are the parlor maid, is that right? You are responsible for opening the door to visitors and showing them out again?”
“Yes, ma’am. Unless Mr. Collins—he’s the butler—chooses to do it himself.
” There may have been a shade of insolence there, a contempt for someone who was not sure of the parlor maid’s duties.
But Constance was used to dealing with insolent girls.
Up to a point, she even allowed it. Respect, after all, had to be earned.
“You are happy with your employment in this house, Nancy?” she asked amiably.
“Yes, ma’am.” Color began to seep into the girl’s pretty face. “That is, I was. Until the mistress died. Who could be happy with that?”
“No one,” Constance said. “Which is why we—I include Mr. Montague here—need to make as much sense as possible out of what happened. On Wednesday night, was it you who let Mrs. Montague into the house? Or did she use her key?”
“I heard her carriage while I was setting the breakfast parlor for the morning. So I opened the door as soon as she reached the doorstep.”
“Did she seem happy to you? Pleased to be home?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. All smiles, she were, when she greeted me and then all but ran to the master as soon as he poked his head out of the drawing room. She’s like that when she’s had a good performance.”
Or when she’s in love? Constance wondered. “Did she leave her bag in the hall for you to take up to her room?” A large bag hiding a dozen red roses, perhaps?
Nancy blinked. “She didn’t have a bag. She just swept in with her cloak billowing—so graceful, she always was.”
No bag? Damn it!
Without a word, Solomon left the room, no doubt going to see if a bag still lurked unnoticed under a hall table or in some other shadowy corner. Nancy’s eyes flickered to him as he passed her, then returned to Constance.
“Did you take her cloak?” Constance asked.
“Didn’t get the chance. She went into the drawing room wearing it and told me over her shoulder we could all go to bed. So I did. Easy enough to finish the breakfast table in the morning.”
“Are you a light sleeper?”
Nancy frowned in quick suspicion. “What does that mean?”
“I mean, does any noise outside or inside the house tend to wake you? Or do you sleep all night without ever being disturbed?”
“Mostly all night, I suppose. Why?”
“Then you wouldn’t have heard any sounds of distress from Mrs. Montague’s room? Or anyone entering or leaving the house?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I hear Mr. and Mrs. Montague when they come in late. Other times I don’t.”
Constance sighed. She drummed her fingers on the arm of her chair, then forced them to stop.
“You won’t want to answer this, because you are clearly a good and loyal servant, but the truth will help Mr. Montague, and even your late mistress.
And please don’t tell me it’s not your place to say, because I know you have an opinion.
Were Mr. and Mrs. Montague happy together? As a couple?”