Chapter Fourteen #2
Mrs. Worthington nodded. “The doctor advised it because there was no obvious cause of death. But it revealed nothing. She was perfectly healthy. Just…dead. There was no obvious signs of disease, but the coroner did say there was much they still had to understand about diseases of the heart and the brain…” She gave a helpless little shrug.
“The cause didn’t really matter to me. It would not bring my daughter back to life. ”
“No,” Constance agreed. “I am sorry. Where is your husband’s study, where he heard your call for help? At the back of the house?”
“It looks onto the side. My husband is dead too, you know. He never really got over Sophie’s loss. I think he was glad when the lung fever took him the following winter.”
Constance’s heart twisted. “I’m sorry,” she said again. “You have had much to contend with.”
“So has poor Digby,” Mrs. Worthington said. “He did not harm my daughter, and I very much doubt he harmed his wife. If that is what you are thinking.”
It was. It still was. “Where is the back door? To the kitchen?”
“At the side also.”
“So there is no kitchen window at the back of the house?”
“No.”
“And what time of day did this happen? In the afternoon?”
“I found her at half past two o’clock.”
When the servants would have finished their housework and were preparing for tea and dinner, and showing any callers into the parlor or the drawing room Constance had glimpsed at the front of the house.
“What time did you expect Mr. Montague to call?”
“He came most days, around three, earlier if he and Sophie had planned some excursion.”
“Then he was not hard at work at the office every day?”
“I think he played truant sometimes. But he had begun to look a little tired and drawn. I suspect he began early and returned to the office in the evenings, even after concerts and parties.”
“He was a devoted suitor?”
“He was.”
“And Sophie, was she equally devoted?”
“It was a love match. My husband would have preferred her to marry a banker like himself, of course, but he bowed to her wishes. We both liked Digby.”
“Did she ever give you any indication that he frightened her in any way?”
“You mean was he over-amorous?” Mrs. Worthington said wryly. “If he was, she never told me.”
“In any way at all,” Constance repeated.
“No,” Mrs. Worthington said. “She was eager to marry him.”
“Did they ever quarrel?” Constance asked.
“Occasionally. Little squalls, quickly over on both sides.”
“In the week before she died,” Constance said, “did she seem different in any way? Worried? Distracted? Euphoric, even?”
Mrs. Worthington shook her head. “No. She was an even-tempered girl, in love, and looking forward to her wedding.”
Yet there was a motive somewhere, Constance thought grimly. However, she would not find it here.
*
Montague had never set foot in a police establishment before. He had no real idea what went on there. But he had once met a superintendent of police whose place of employment was at Scotland Yard, and he remembered the man’s name. He had definitely been a gentleman.
“Mr. Galsworth, if you please,” he said, presenting his card to the rough fellow in uniform who had just batted a crowd of grubby urchins out of the way to get to him.
The name worked like a charm. Galsworth must indeed be a senior figure, for the rough fellow straightened even further and snapped across the room, “Mr. Galsworth in his office?”
“Yes, sergeant. No further appointments this afternoon.”
“Come with me, sir, if you please.” Abandoning the disconsolate urchins, the sergeant marched across the hall to the stairs and Montague followed him, his heart racing.
He knew he was taking a chance. It had cost him several hours to work out the best course of action, for he knew not to act on impulses born of anger.
And he had been furious to find that woman poking about his desk, outraged by the invasion of his privacy, the abuse of a permission he had granted like a fool.
Kellar should have known better, for though Mrs. Grey spoke like a lady, she was no more than a thief, a burglar, with all the little tools of her grubby trade.
He wanted her arrested, slung in prison, hanged.
And yet she was married to Solomon Grey, whom he had no desire to offend. Grey could well be a means to stabilize his business, and he could think of no inoffensive way to tell him to rein in his wife’s criminal impulses. No, that would come better from some officer of the law.
Which brought its own risks. The last thing he wanted was to have the police taking an interest in Caterina’s death. Dear God, no. He was walking on a knife’s edge…
The sergeant left him for a mere moment to present his card to the superintendent, before Galsworth himself came to the door, his hand held out in welcome.
“Montague, my dear fellow. My sincere condolences on your loss. We were so saddened to hear of it.”
“Thank you,” Montague said mechanically, allowing himself to be ushered into a large office—a little functional, perhaps, but Galsworth had added a few homely touches: a couple of decent landscapes on the walls, a photograph of his wife and children on his desk.
“They’ll bring tea,” Galsworth said, indicating the visitor’s chair on the near side of the desk, “though I’m afraid you might not recognize it as such! What brings you to me today?”
“I’ve had a bit of a run-in with someone,” Montague said diffidently, “someone who has taken advantage of my trust and my state of mourning to commit what I can only call a crime.” He threw up his hand to forestall Galsworth’s immediate outrage.
“No, I don’t want her charged. I don’t want Caterina’s name associated with scandal of this nature.
But I cannot allow the incident to pass, either. ”
Galsworth was frowning. “What exactly did this woman do?”
“I found her kneeling in front of my desk, applying instruments I can only imagine to be lockpicks to the drawer.”
“My dear fellow!” Galsworth exclaimed. “How did she even get into your house?”
Montague sighed. No acting was necessary here to produce the kind of tolerant annoyance he had always felt for Kellar.
“It was the fault of a family friend who had become something of a father figure to Caterina after the death of her parents. He actually helped her to come to this country with her inheritance intact. He was fond of her. I don’t doubt his sense of loss, and so when he began looking for answers to the suddenness of Caterina’s death, I humored him.
I allowed him to send a couple I thought respectable to ask more questions of my household and the doctor who had treated my wife. ”
“Did they learn anything…concerning?”
“Nothing that we did not already know. They kept harping on the roses found in her room. Roses. I ask you, what harm could roses have done her? I think it was just an excuse to keep poking around the house. But I have had enough, Galsworth. I want them to leave me and my household alone.”
“Quite right,” Galsworth said, gratifyingly downright. “Have you told your servants not to admit them?”
“Of course. But as I said, she has lockpicks.”
Galsworth’s eyebrows flew up. “And you think she might… But that is outrageous! But you know she has used devices already.”
“Which is why I thought a word—perhaps not from you, but from someone relatively senior—might deter them. If they know the police are informed, they will surely desist and leave us in peace.”
“It’s the least a grieving widower can expect,” Galsworth said, clearly incensed. He snatched a piece of paper toward him and reached for a pen. “Who exactly are these people?”
Montague was prepared. He fished Silver and Grey’s business card from his pocket and passed it across the desk.
Galsworth frowned. “Silver and Grey… Why do I know those names? Yes, they have figured in a few reports that have crossed my desk. Leave it with me, Montague. I have just the man to put them in their place.”
Montague allowed himself to shift in his chair and made his smile both uncomfortable and apologetic. “Grey is one Solomon Grey, a rather important shipping magnate with his fingers in many pies.”
“Political pies?” Galsworth asked sharply.
“Largely commercial, but we know how these things overlap. Wealth such as his brings power. This investigation sideline must be largely his wife’s business.
I can see no other reason for him to be involved in such a low enterprise.
Naturally, I wouldn’t mind his being made aware of her methods—without accusing him of anything that might adversely affect you. ” Or me.
Galsworth nodded sagely. “I quite understand.”
“I have taken up enough of your time.” Montague rose and held out his hand. “Forgive me for presuming on our slight acquaintance, but I did not know where else to turn.”
Galsworth stood up and grasped his hand. “I’m very glad you did. As I say, I know just the right man to sort this out for you.” He accompanied Montague to the door, where he addressed the constable outside. “Send Inspector Harris to me.”
So it was done. The woman would be scared off and Grey informed without alienating him from Montague’s business interests.
And Montague himself was free from suspicion.