Chapter Five #3
Constance could hardly wait for her footsteps to fade into the distance. “Kellar?” she said accusingly. “Why ask about him?”
Solomon lifted one apologetic shoulder. “Three reasons, I suppose. First, because I thought you’d want to know, and secondly, why is he so keen for us to investigate a death that everyone else regards as easily explained?”
Constance nodded slowly. “I suspect he always has reasons for what he does, and he’s not exactly open by nature, is he? You said three reasons.”
“He knew the way to her bedchamber. He seemed just a little too familiar there.”
It was as valid as his other points. And yet…
“He asked us to investigate in the first place. Why would he do that if he were guilty of any impropriety? Which isn’t to say his feelings aren’t involved.
” She paced restlessly toward the window.
“No. She was a charming and talented woman with a messy life and a heart condition. There are no marks of foul play on her body, and she does not appear to have taken too much of her medicine. Everyone loved her, flaws and all. There is no case here, Solomon.”
She spun around on the final words, and the roses seemed to glare at her accusingly. She scowled back at them. “Do they even matter?”
“We believe Darrow gave them to her on Tuesday and she took them to the theatre with her. On Wednesday she must have brought them home and somehow smuggled them into the house.” He came and stood beside her, and they both gazed out of the window at the pretty garden below.
“Nancy heard her carriage in the street, so I doubt Caterina had time to run round to the back of the house and hide her roses. If she had, the kitchen staff would probably have seen her. So she must have hidden them at the front of the house somewhere, then, when the house was asleep, slipped out and brought them in.”
“That would explain it,” Constance said. “Only, why did she bother? She was always bringing flowers back from the theatre. Montague never needed to know they were from Darrow.”
“Red roses are a very obvious love token.”
“Then why put them on display at all, let alone sneak about to do so?”
Solomon smiled ruefully. “Who is trying to convince whom here? Do we want there to be a case or not?”
“Not,” Constance said emphatically. “I just wish we could explain the roses to Kellar’s satisfaction, charge him a modest fee, and move on to the next case.”
Solomon tilted his head, listening. “That was a key in the front door. I think the master of the house has returned. With luck, one more interview with him will decide the matter.”
Accordingly, they left the dead woman’s bedroom and went downstairs. They found Montague in the drawing room once more. This time he had his back to them, gazing up at the large portrait of his wife that hung above the fireplace.
Solomon tapped on the open door. “Mr. Montague?”
The widower turned almost reluctantly to face them. “Nancy said you were here again. I hope you have finished upsetting the servants. It isn’t pleasant for them either, you know. Particularly if they start imagining some kind of foul play.”
“We have found no sign of that,” Constance said truthfully. “May we talk to you for a few moments?”
In answer, he merely gestured to the sofa and, when Constance had sat, took the chair opposite.
“I made the funeral arrangements and went to the office,” he said. “It seemed better than sitting alone in this house, and there is always much to do. The difficulty is making myself care about work. What is the point without her?”
Constance nodded sympathetically.
Solomon said, “You trade in tea, I believe?”
Montague nodded. “A profitable business. For the most part.”
“You have had some bad luck recently?”
“My last cargo went down with its ship. It entails a few…economies, but we can weather the storm. Fortunately, no lives were lost. Do you deal much in tea, Mr. Grey?”
“We ship it. From China and Ceylon and India.”
“Perhaps I should look to you for my transport.”
“Feel free.”
Montague lapsed into silence, so Constance said, “This is a house of great character and charm. Was it always your home, or did you and your wife choose it together?”
Another spark of animation lit Montague’s face. “It has been my family’s home for generations. Caterina fell in love with it and made many improvements. All the decoration you see is hers—she had a wonderful eye for color.”
“It is beautiful,” Constance agreed.
“And yet I can’t bear to be in it. Can’t bear to be away from it, either, which is why I came home early.”
“You need time,” Constance said.
He nodded, the brief liveliness of his expression fading into bleakness, as though he saw too much time ahead and had no idea what to do with it.
Making an obvious effort, he said, “Have you made enough inquiries to satisfy Mr. Kellar’s view of circumstances?”
“Almost,” Solomon said. “The main thing that puzzles us is the vase of roses in her bedchamber. No one saw them come into the house, and they were not there when Caterina’s maid left her. Did you ever give roses to your wife?”
“Yes, but if you are imagining I made the romantic gesture of slipping them into her room in the middle of the night, I’m afraid I didn’t. She must have had them lying around in her room somewhere and suddenly remembered them.”
“Without Miss Webb’s seeing?” Constance asked doubtfully.
“Webb sees Caterina and clothes,” Montague said with a hint of impatience. “She is not so very observant of anyone or anything else.”
Oddly, that possibility had not struck Constance before. It made sense, too. “According to Miss Webb, Mrs. Montague had locked her door on the night she died. Was that significant in any way?”
“It signified that she did not wish to be disturbed.”
“Some husbands,” Constance said tactfully, “would object to being locked out of their wife’s room.”
Montague gave a twisted little smile. “But I wasn’t locked out. I have a key to that room too.”
“Then why did she bother locking it at all?” Solomon said. “Who else was likely to disturb her?”
A slight pinkness stained Montague’s cheeks. “No one. It was merely a sign to me. We had an agreement. You see, we both wanted to have children, but in Caterina’s case, not just yet. She wanted to further her career first. I respected that.”
So Caterina decided when they were intimate in order to prevent pregnancy… Was she as careful with Darrow? Not that it mattered. With a key, Montague could indeed have put the roses in his wife’s room. There was just no reason for him to deny it.
“Did you have any visitors on Wednesday evening?” Solomon asked.
“No. I completed some work, then read until Caterina came home.”
“Did you ever go to the theatre to hear her sing?”
“Often. But not every night.”
“I suppose her dressing room was full of flowers from admirers.”
Montague smiled. “Yes, it was, whenever I was there. I can see you wondering if I minded. I didn’t.
I was proud of her, and it was all part of her being who and what she was.
I can see you also wondering why on earth such a vibrant creature chose me, a dull, middle-aged merchant, to be her husband.
Believe me, I asked myself the same question many times.
Kellar has made no secret of his disapproval.
None of us may understand it, but the truth is, she loved me.
I was her stability, as necessary to her life as she was to mine. ”
His voice cracked just at the end, and Constance propelled herself to her feet. “We are so sorry for your loss,” she said. “And we thank you for your candor. We won’t intrude any further.”
In fact, she was desperate to get out of the house, which suddenly seemed full of Caterina’s ghost and choked with the profound grief of the living.
Annoyingly, when they stepped out of the front door, the carriage was missing.
“John must be walking the horses,” Solomon said.
Constance took his arm, still impelled to put distance between them and the house, and all but dragged him across the road to the gardens in the middle of the square.
“I believe in his grief,” she said intensely. “He had nothing to gain from her death.”
“Apart from the money he inherits, which will certainly be useful to his business.”
“Even then, he said they were weathering the storm. Either he genuinely loved his wife, or he is the best actor in Creation. Sol?”
“Yes?”
“I tried to will myself into Caterina’s shoes when Mary was explaining. I tried to imagine myself betraying you with some other man who caught my eye.”
“And could you?” he asked lightly. He wasn’t looking at her, but he cared about the answer. The very stillness of his arm beneath her fingers told her so.
“Solomon, I couldn’t even imagine the man. For me, there can’t be anyone else.”
He pressed her arm closer against him, as if he understood the depth of her revelation.
Last night’s quarrel had been driven back into perspective.
There had been so few of them that it had taken her by surprise.
Their desperate lovemaking had shown her many things, chiefly that she could not lose him.
But more than that, there could be no one else for her, ever, whether he was at her side or not.
“We never understand other people’s relationships,” Constance said.
“Whores have lovers and husbands as well as clients. Some people love more than one man or woman at a time. Some people indulge in affairs that never change how they regard their wives or husbands. For all his worldly wisdom and apparent cynicism, I don’t think Kellar understood her at all.
If she strayed, he assumed it was Montague’s fault, that there was a lack of… Solomon?”
He had stopped dead on the path, not even looking at her. Quite suddenly, she had lost his attention. Piqued, she followed his gaze to the bed of red roses beside her. It was a lovely display…
And the petals were exactly the same shade as the flowers in Caterina’s room.
More than that, there were gaps. Stems cut precisely, as though with sharp scissors or secateurs, several from one plant, more from the one next to it.
Slowly releasing Solomon’s arm, she began to walk around.
Flowers had been taken from four plants, and when she counted them, there were twelve pristinely cut stems.
“They’re not Darrow’s roses,” she said. “Whoever put them in her room, they came from here.”