Chapter Nine
Clearly, Collins had dashed back from the funeral to attend to his duties at the house. And he did not look pleased to see them.
“A little fresh air,” Constance said breezily. “Tell me, Collins, is there a rule regarding the flowers in the square? Are residents allowed to pick them?”
The butler’s nostrils flared. “No, madam. The residents have an agreement not to, so that we may all enjoy the gardens equally.”
“And do all the residents keep to that agreement?” Solomon asked.
“We do, sir,” Collins said. “I can’t speak for any other household.” He inclined his head and retreated back toward the kitchen, glancing at his pocket watch as he went.
Constance and Solomon returned to the drawing room, from where, a moment later, they heard footsteps in the passage and the opening of the front door. Montague had returned.
Perhaps he needed a few moments alone, for when the drawing room door opened, it was to reveal only a middle-aged couple Solomon had never met before.
The woman looked surprised but recovered quickly, advancing with her hand held out and her expression at once solemn and gracious.
“Forgive me, we meant to be here to welcome Digby’s guests.
I’m his sister, Mrs. Potter. This is my husband.
Digby has asked us to act as his hosts for the day, in case he is not quite up to the challenge. ”
Solomon introduced himself and Constance, and they all shook hands.
“How is Mr. Montague?” Constance asked.
“Cast very low,” Mrs. Potter replied briskly. “Quite understandably.”
Solomon had the impression she didn’t find it understandable at all. Her face, like her mourning dress, was somewhat severe, her lips thin by temperament as much as nature’s gift. Her eyes, while shaped like her brother’s, lacked his friendliness. A woman of hard practicality, perhaps.
“Such a beautiful and talented lady,” Mr. Potter contributed. Perhaps he was the softer side of the couple, or just had the imagination to hide his lack of sympathy.
Their conventional, almost mundane words in the circumstances sounded peculiarly rehearsed. Neither was overwhelmed by their sister-in-law’s death. They had not, Solomon guessed, approved of her in the first place.
But then, much like Solomon, Montague had married someone regarded by most as inappropriate.
A woman who performed on the stage would never be good enough for stifling middle-class respectability.
In the eyes of the world, Caterina’s profession put her almost in the same category as Constance.
Montague had defied convention and the disapproval of his family to marry Caterina.
And she had not even had the grace to give up the stage.
That said a great deal about Montague’s strength of feeling for his wife.
“We advised him to wait longer before burying her,” Mrs. Potter added, addressing what some, including Kellar, might have regarded as unseemly haste.
“After all, she has friends scattered all over the country—and abroad, of course—who might have wanted the chance to attend, but he wouldn’t hear of it. ”
“Needed to be doing something,” Mr. Potter pronounced. “Poor fellow.”
Or he’d needed to bury her quickly before an autopsy could be ordered? How did a world-defying love turn to murder within three years? Because murder needed strong feeling…
“Does he have more than his work—and his family, of course—to help sustain him through these next difficult months?” Constance asked. “Good friendships? Special interests?”
“I’m sure his music will be enough,” Mrs. Potter said. “Though, of course, that was how he met Caterina, so…”
“He is a musician, too?” Solomon said in surprise. He remembered the piano and the violin in the drawing room, but had assumed they were Caterina’s, either for personal use, or for her teachers and accompanists.
“Oh yes,” Mrs. Potter said. “Quite a distinguished one, actually, although, of course, only in an amateur sense. He used to play in an orchestra in London. And of course there was that quartet in India—very highly thought of. Ah… You will excuse me.” Mrs. Potter flitted back toward the door as new arrivals could be heard in the hall.
“Did he spend long in India?” Solomon asked before her husband could hurry after her.
Mr. Potter paused again. “A few years, in his youth. Learning the tea business, don’t you know. Not recently, though. Since old Montague died, he’s been needed here at the head of the ship, as it were. Well, I suppose he should…”
As he made leaving motions, Constance caught his eye and smiled dazzlingly, with inevitable effect. “Mr. and Mrs. Montague’s was a rare match,” she said encouragingly. “Unusual.”
Mr. Potter nodded at once in instant, almost slavish agreement.
She could have suggested black was white at that point and he would have bent over backward to prove it for her.
“Indeed, it was not quite what we had hoped for Digby, especially in his mature years. His first choice was more appropriate.” He smiled quickly, adding hastily, “But not to be.”
“His first choice?” Constance pounced.
“Oh, don’t misunderstand me,” Mr. Potter begged. “This was years ago, and of course Caterina was a very fine woman in her own way.”
“He was married before?” Solomon asked. Why had they not thought of this? Montague was not a young man, after all.
“Oh, no, not married,” Mr. Potter said. “But he was engaged—oh, some ten years ago now—to a charming girl, Sophie Worthington. Of the banking family, you know.”
“She changed her mind?” Constance asked with sympathy.
“No, no, she seemed very devoted. Sadly, she died, a mere few weeks before the wedding. Poor Digby has not been lucky in love. As the vulgar put it.” His gaze flickered to his wife, who was glaring at him from across the room, and he gave Constance a last, wistful smile before he excused himself and went to do his duty by the other guests.
The room had filled up quickly during this conversation, with somber people dressed uniformly in black, speaking in hushed voices.
Solomon remembered why he hated funerals.
But, as previously agreed, he and Constance now parted ways in order to speak to as many people as possible and learn what they could.
He introduced himself to a group of people who appeared to be Montague’s neighbors in the square, largely a mixture of tradespeople, some highly educated, some not so much. Several had grown up together with Montague and appeared genuinely appalled by the sudden death of his lovely young wife.
When Solomon mentioned how happy the couple had been, everyone nodded in agreement. Because it was expected of them? Or because they genuinely believed it?
Montague himself entered the room inconspicuously, clearly with his emotions well under control, and began to greet people, moving from group to group.
Carl Darrow, who had entered with a theatrical group that included Geoffrey Reid, Ellen Gentle, and the dresser Rose Samuels, appeared to offer his quiet condolences along with everyone else, and Montague accepted them with dignified thanks, as he did all others.
Clearly Darrow also had himself well in hand, for Solomon saw no sign of animosity in his posture.
He was keeping very much in the background for once.
“Sir?” Mary Webb offered him a choice of drinks from her tray. Although this was hardly part of her job, she was obviously making herself useful, as required. Solomon took a glass of wine from the tray and stepped back from the neighbors to give himself a modicum of privacy with Mary.
“A quick question for you,” he murmured. “Did your mistress go to sleep that night with her window open or closed?”
“Open a crack, as usual,” Mary replied.
“As it is now?”
She didn’t even ask him how he knew. She just nodded and excused herself to move on.
“Are you by any chance Mr. Grey?” asked a well-modulated female voice on his other side.
Inevitably dressed in black but with a certain theatrical flair in the dark lace of her collar and cuffs, she had the kind of stoutness he associated with opera singers, along with a strong-featured, beautiful face.
She could have been any age, but Solomon guessed somewhere in the thirties.
More than that, she was vaguely familiar, though he could not place her.
He inclined his head. “I am.”
“I’m Marianne Locke. I sing.”
He smiled. “Quite beautifully, in my opinion. I am honored to make your acquaintance. Were you a friend of Mrs. Montague?”
“I was indeed. Carl Darrow told me you have been asking questions about her. As if you think her doctor was wrong.”
“It is as well to be sure,” he said vaguely. “Would you agree with me?”
Her eyes flickered. “I might.” She opened her plain black reticule and extracted a business card, which she handed to him. “This is hardly the time or the place, but perhaps you and your wife would call upon me?”
“Would tomorrow suit?” Solomon said at once. A quick glance at the card was enough to assure him that her house was where Caterina had met Darrow.
“After two o’clock,” she said, inclining her head before she drifted away.
Interesting. She was the first person they had encountered in this case who had sought them out, so presumably she had something important to say.
Turning, he caught sight of Kellar for the first time, on his way out of the room.
Constance was casually following him at a distance.
Montague, still doing his duty, left one group of people and moved toward some men Solomon thought were musicians—Darrow’s friend Reid was among them.
But as though sensing scrutiny, the widower changed direction and approached Solomon instead.
“Thank you for coming,” he said, offering his hand. Solomon took it, and it slid free almost at once. “I didn’t really expect you. I assumed from our last conversation that your questions—or Kellar’s—were satisfied.”