Chapter Seven
Constance and Solomon had just sat down to dine when the front doorbell rang.
Constance liked welcoming visitors to her new home, but in this case, she was conscious of faint annoyance.
She couldn’t work out quite what irritated her, though it seemed to be a messy tangle of different things: last night’s argument and its wildly delicious aftermath, Solomon’s eyes, and Caterina’s death. She did not wish to be disturbed.
Neither did Solomon, from his expression, so they carried on eating their soup, which was very good. Constance knew that Bibby—recently taken on from the establishment as cook’s assistant—had made it herself and was waiting anxiously for their verdict.
Lottie the parlor maid scratched at the dining room door. “Sorry, ma’am, sir, but a Mr. Kellar has called. Shall I deny him or ask him to wait?”
Constance met Solomon’s gaze. He gave the faintest of shrugs, but it was enough. Get the matter over with now and the rest of the evening was theirs.
“Show him in here, if you please, and set another place.”
Kellar entered with all his usual urbanity. “Oh, forgive me! The girl did not tell me you were dining.”
“Join us,” Constance said, indicating the chair on her other side. “We have just begun, and there is plenty of soup.”
Kellar let himself be persuaded, while Lottie set the place before fleeing to warn the kitchen in time for the second course, and Solomon poured another glass of wine.
“The soup is delicious,” Kellar said. “My compliments to your cook.”
“I shall tell her,” Constance said, happier with him already. There had always been something beguiling about Kellar.
He made pleasant small talk until the soup course was removed and the duck brought in. Only when the servants had left again did he say why he had come.
“I only meant to call in for a moment,” he said, “to ask how your investigation progresses.”
Solomon picked up his knife and fork. “We have found no evidence of any cause of death other than the doctor’s opinion, nothing to justify an autopsy. Nor have we met anyone who wished her ill.”
Kellar took a sip of wine and paused, twisting the stem of the glass between his long, shapely fingers. “You don’t believe me about Montague.”
“We’re not even sure you believe it,” Constance said wryly. “Beyond disliking the man, you have no real reason, and you are not a fool.”
Kellar inclined his head in sardonic appreciation and set down the glass. “You may be right. Although do you not find the haste of the funeral somewhat indecent? We have run out of time for any autopsy now.”
“I doubt it matters,” Constance said. “Montague seems to be just filling his days in a slightly desperate manner. You gave us no indication that Caterina was afraid of him.”
“I don’t believe she was,” Kellar replied.
“Then you never heard of them quarreling?”
“No…”
“Did you see any sign that he ever beat her?”
“Good God, no! I would have intervened long before this if I had ever imagined such a thing. What makes you ask that?”
“One person’s hearsay,” Constance said vaguely.
Kellar drummed on the table with the fingers of his left hand. “What about the lover?” he asked abruptly, proving his interest was more than merely dislike of Montague.
“Darrow? He too seems to have been devoted. Caterina, however, may have been at least considering breaking off the relationship, which might have maddened him, theoretically. But there is no evidence he left his own home, let alone entered hers. There is no evidence of any wrongdoing at all. Even the roses seem to have come from the square. The simplest explanation is that she picked them herself during the night.”
“In her nightgown?” Kellar said dubiously. “I’m not sure I believe that.”
Constance shrugged. “Again, there is no evidence one way or another, but everyone we have spoken to said she was excited by her success that evening—”
“With cause,” Kellar agreed. “She was splendid.”
“Isn’t it possible that this excitement prevented her from sleeping? And I’m sure she was quite capable of dressing and undressing herself.”
Kellar frowned. “Isn’t it more likely that Montague picked them and took them to her?”
“Before murdering her?” Solomon asked. “How? Anyway, he denies giving the flowers to her, though he admitted he had a key for his wife’s door. He was perfectly open.”
Kellar continued to eat with evident enjoyment, as though they were conversing about everyday matters that did not trouble him. And yet he wouldn’t have begun this if he were not deeply concerned.
“What about the pillows?” he asked at last.
Constance had not forgotten about the pillows, but they seemed the sort of oddity that would never have an explanation. “Who knows? The propped-up pillows could have fallen during the night and she pulled one under her head while still asleep.”
“Placing the other neatly beside her, also in her sleep?” Kellar said blandly. “Pillows can be used to kill, you know.”
Constance shivered. “We do know. We have investigated such a case. I looked, as it happens, and there was no sign of tearing on any of the pillowcases, or of damage to her fingernails, which were quite elegantly long.”
“If she was asleep, she might not have struggled,” Kellar pointed out.
“If she was asleep,” Solomon retorted, “how did the killer get in? If it was Montague, he must know her preferred pillow arrangement. Why would he make such a mistake?”
“People do, in the heat of the moment.”
“I thought he was too dull to have heated moments?” Constance argued.
Kellar laughed and laid down his knife and fork.
“I think,” Solomon said, “it is time you told us the true reason for your suspicions—which, frankly, aren’t borne out by any evidence whatsoever. The truth, Kellar, if you please.”
The man’s eyes widened only slightly, but Constance did not believe in his surprise.
The mystery of the man had beguiled her in Venice.
She had even wondered at one point if he was her father.
But for an instant, she saw him clearly, an aging man with a lifetime of deviousness behind him, whatever his role for the government he served.
His friendship, his help, were always conditional, and she doubted she would ever know what those conditions were.
In that moment, she did not like him at all.
“You are manipulating us,” she said. “Why?”
She could not even trust her sudden sense of his vulnerability because, frustratingly, he was not looking at her. But at the doorway—where her mother stood.
Oh, for the love of… Trust Juliet to interrupt at this precise moment! Now what were they meant to do?
But Juliet appeared to be up to the challenge. Dressed in her usual, flowing, tentlike garments of many colors, she threw up her hands in horror.
“Bless me, dearies, I never knew you had company,” she exclaimed. She had never called Constance dearie in her life. “Silly girl just told me to go in. I’ll see meself out again and come back tomorrow.”
And with that, she did indeed whisk herself out of the door, closing it behind her as softly as she had opened it.
Constance closed her mouth and, with an effort, refused to be distracted. In fact, distracting him from the brief interruption was now imperative.
“Well?” she demanded of Kellar, who was looking as bland as ever.
“Well, what, my dear Mrs. Grey?” he asked. “I asked you to do something for me and you agreed. Do you accuse all your clients of manipulation?”
Constance thought of Angela Lambert and her ghost, of Barnabas Lloyd and his entire family, and said, “Only those who are guilty of it. If you really want the truth, if you really want us to pursue Caterina’s death any further, you have to tell us exactly why you are suspicious, and what she was to you. ”
He curled steady fingers around his wine glass without lifting it. There was nothing about him that spoke of unease, let alone lies.
“I don’t know why I’m suspicious,” he said seriously. “I just feel it in my bones, as I told you at the outset. As for what she was to me, I told you that, too. I knew her parents and helped her escape from trouble in Rome to England. I am fond of her, and I feel responsible for her.”
“Were you her lover?” Constance asked directly.
His face broke into smiles. “Of course not. She could be my daughter.”
“Is she?” Solomon asked.
Kellar still looked amused. “No. Though her mother and I were closer than you might approve of, I did not even meet her until Caterina was thirteen years old.”
“But you had an affair with her mother?”
Kellar lifted his shoulders. “What can I say? I am an imperfect man.”
“Stop it,” Solomon said sharply.
For the first time, Kellar betrayed the faintest hint of surprise. One finger shifted very slightly on his wine glass. Then he released it and leaned back in his chair.
“I don’t know what it is you suspect me of,” he said, “but it is clearly getting in the way of the investigation. In the course of my diplomatic career, I have done many things for queen and country that I cannot speak of. Some would, indeed, be reprehensible were they not for that greater good.”
As if mechanically, he reached again for his wine glass and this time took a drink. Because he needed it? Or was he just giving himself time to think what to say?
Kellar lowered the glass from his lips and gazed into it.
“Traveling players, singers—entertainers of all kinds make excellent couriers of information and private messages. As things grew more turbulent in 1847, Caterina’s father tried to step away from our arrangement.
I…used his wife’s affection for me to maintain their role in my communications.
Early in 1848, they were both killed by Roman government forces.
I don’t know whether or not it was their connection to me that led to their deaths, but I felt responsible for Caterina in more ways than one.
That was why I took her out of Italy and brought her here to be safe. ”