Chapter Twelve
On Monday morning, Solomon and Constance left the house together in the carriage, and went first to a building near the river, where he dropped off the powders they had purloined from Caterina’s bedroom.
Even so, they still arrived early at the office, armed with Constance’s updated notes—and a plan.
Over tea in Solomon’s room with Janey, and with Lenny Knox, who had turned up on the off chance of a day’s work, Solomon outlined the campaign.
“The aim is to find out as much as we possibly can about Caterina’s movements between Monday the twenty-eighth of June and the night of Wednesday the sixth of July, when she died.
We need to know everywhere she went, everyone she spoke to, who visited her, what her state of mind appeared to be after every encounter. ”
Janey’s jaw dropped. “Get away, guv’nor. You need a whole army of peelers for that, and even then you’d never get everything.”
“We’re hoping we’ll get everything that stands out,” Constance said.
“And it’s not as daunting a task as you think.
She led a busy life, but mostly in predictable places.
Her home, the theatre for both rehearsals and performances, the house of a particular friend.
She was not a great socialite, except in her own immediate circle. ”
“Start at the theatre in Covent Garden,” Solomon instructed them. “We’ve already spoken to her dresser, Rose Samuels, and to her understudy, Ellen Gentle, but not in such detail. Bother everyone you can think of, from stagehands and doormen to singers and dancers, even passing hackney drivers.”
He passed a letter across the desk to each of them. “To vouch that you are asking on our behalf, if it proves necessary.”
“And what are you going to be doing?” Janey asked cheekily. “Writing reports?”
“No, much the same as you, only in Eagle Square,” Constance replied. “Starting with your rose thief at number two.”
*
In fact, it was Solomon’s privilege to approach the accused rose thief at number two, while Constance went straight to Montague’s house.
The house was newer and probably a little smaller than Montague’s, its owner, Arthur Wainright, a small, cheerful man of few pretensions and a pronounced East London accent.
He was dressed in well-made clothes of decent quality but old-fashioned cut that somehow suited him.
Solomon had seen him at the funeral on Saturday, but wasn’t sure the man remembered him.
“Mr. Grey?” Wainright said as though in surprise as he ushered Solomon into what was clearly his office. A cluttered desk strewn with papers and ledgers took pride of place, and the chairs were not built for comfort. “What can I do for you?”
Since Wainright appeared to be a plain, open man, Solomon opted for the same approach. “I have come on what might seem a trivial and impudent quest. Understand, I have no authority to ask, let alone act upon what you might tell me. The matter bears on another that is more important.”
Wainright looked intrigued, and gestured Solomon to sit on the visitor’s side of the desk before taking his own chair. “Ask.”
“Did you, by any chance, pick some roses from the square during the hours of darkness on the night of last Wednesday to Thursday morning?”
Wainright’s eyes gleamed. “Old Jonesy at number twelve complaining again? He blames everything on me, from dogs fouling the gardens to his own leaky roof. I don’t have any dogs and I keep my own roof in good repair.”
“But do you pick the roses?”
“I have done, largely to annoy him, so always when he’s at home and watching.”
A faint hope flickered in Solomon’s mind, but even if Wainright was the rose thief, it didn’t explain how his or anyone else’s flowers had got into Caterina’s bedroom. “Was he watching on Wednesday evening?”
“I don’t know. I like my own comforts too much to go out in the middle of the night. I rise early. Work, you know.”
“What is it you do, Mr. Wainright?”
“Carter. Rent ’em out nowadays, with or without drivers. Does very well for me.”
“I’m glad to hear it. To be clear, my informant did not definitively accuse you. He just said he saw the figure of a man picking roses at about two in the morning. If it wasn’t you, I don’t suppose you saw who did do it?”
“Didn’t see anyone at all. I was sound asleep at two in the morning. Who wouldn’t be? Except a gentleman of leisure like yourself.”
Solomon smiled. “You would be surprised. Do you have much to do with your neighbors the Montagues?”
“We say good morning and good evening. We don’t dine together. Though I was over there on Saturday to pay my respects. You know that. You were there too.” Wainright sighed. “Such a tragedy. Poor lady.”
“Did you see Mrs. Montague out and about much?”
“Can’t say I did. Occasionally, of an evening, I’d see her going out or coming in. Heard her more often—practicing, I suppose. Voice like an angel. I saw her once in the theatre…”
“When was the last time you saw her here in the square?” It was the first of many times Solomon was going to have to ask the questions, sort the accurate from the vague and build a timetable of Caterina’s movements. At least Wainright seemed happy to help. Not everyone would be so accommodating.
*
Surprisingly, Montague had again gone to work.
Since he clearly had not rescinded his instruction to co-operate with Constance, she was able to interview each of the servants again.
They didn’t like it, of course—they had work to do, apart from anything else—but the hint this was all for their master’s peace of mind seemed to remove any reluctance to talk.
Which was interesting. They didn’t just feel sorry for their master, they liked him, were protective of him.
Did a man like that—a distant man who inspired devotion in spite of himself—really decide to kill his wife? His very reserve made it hard to judge.
Even before she spoke again to Mary Webb, the other servants had helped her build up a schedule of Caterina’s outings and returns to the house.
She had exercised her voice at home most mornings, sometimes with an instructor, sometimes alone.
In the afternoons, she generally went to the theatre or met friends.
Often, she did not come home until after the evening performances, but sometimes she returned earlier, often with purchases made at the shops.
It seemed that on Wednesday the twenty-ninth of June, the day after she was supposed to have ended her affair with Darrow, she had left home in the carriage before luncheon, with the intention of shopping, though she had returned with no purchases.
“Did Mary Webb go with her?” Constance asked Collins the butler.
Unusually, Collins was not sure. “She might have. If madam required her presence on her outings, Miss Webb usually came home late in the afternoon to attend to her duties here. She didn’t usually accompany her to the theatre.”
“Thank you. Tell me, did Mrs. Montague seem at all agitated or different in any way when she came home on the evening of Monday the twenty-seventh of June? Or at any time after that?”
“No, madam.” The butler’s supercilious face relaxed slightly. “But then, she was different, if you like, every time you saw her, sometimes livelier and laughing. At others more subdued. Sometimes talkative, at others more thoughtful.”
“And on Monday the twenty-seventh?”
“I really couldn’t say.”
He wasn’t being obstructive, she thought. He really couldn’t remember all his mistress’s moods. Times and destinations were things he remembered better.
“And the week that she died,” Constance said. “Everyone tells me she was very happy on Wednesday night. What about Monday and Tuesday?”
Butler frowned in thought. “Monday, she seemed…preoccupied,” he said at last. “I don’t recall Tuesday. She was tired, I think, but contented.”
“One last thing, Collins. You have been employed here for some years?”
“Indeed.”
“Do you recall Mr. Montague being betrothed to another lady, some ten years ago?”
“Miss Worthington. Of course.”
“Another tragedy poor Mr. Montague has had to face,” Contance said with genuine sympathy. “I suppose he was very much upset by that, too.”
“Naturally. It was so sudden, and she was so young…”
The familiarity of his phrase caused a chill to skitter down her spine. The words had been used so often about Caterina’s death.
“How did Miss Worthington die?” Constance asked.
Collins spread his hands. “No one knows. She was found dead in her parents’ garden, as though she had just stopped breathing.”
Just like Caterina… Her chill became a thrill of excitement. Dear God, no wonder Kellar was suspicious. Why had he not told them this in the first place? She wanted to bolt from the house, find Solomon immediately and tell him this stunning fact.
Montague… It had always made more sense. He was in the house, could easily have unlocked his wife’s door—after picking the roses, perhaps as a reason to be welcomed into the bedroom. She was unfaithful and he needed the money…
And if she had been planning to run away with Darrow, she could, thanks to Kellar, have found a way to take her money with her.
On top of which, Sophie Worthington’s death could well be why Caterina had been afraid of her husband.
Solomon needed to know.
But there was more to learn here first, armed now with this new knowledge.
She put her notebook away and stood up.
“Thank you, Collins,” she said calmly. “Where will I find Miss Webb?”
“In the mistress’s room.”
*
The maid was packing her mistress’s clothes into a trunk. The theatre trunk was no longer in the room.
“A sad task,” Constance remarked.
Mary cast her unfriendly glance. “You again. Can’t you let the poor lady be? She’s dead.”
“If she wasn’t, I’d have no cause for these questions, would I?”
“You’ve no cause for them now,” Mary retorted. “All you’re doing is upsetting the master.”
“Do you think so?” Constance asked. “Don’t you think he’d be equally upset whether we asked questions or not? He did give us permission, after all.”