“No, sir,” Constance intervened soothingly. “We are not journalists, far from it. We are agents of inquiry, engaged to sort out a few muddles that are worrying Mrs. Montague’s friends. We understand you treated her for a heart complaint.”
The doctor met her gaze with dignity. “I shall not discuss my patients with you. It would be improper of me to do so.”
“We understand your duty of confidentiality,” Constance said. “But I’m sure we can talk together without breaking it. We are bound, you know, by our own code of discretion. Is it fair to say that the digitalis you prescribed worked well for her and enabled her to carry on with her life and her singing career?”
There was nothing to object to in that, so he didn’t. “Quite fair,”he said reluctantly.
“Did you examine her regularly to be sure that was the case?” Solomon asked.
“Every month.”
“In recent months, did you see any need to increase that dose?”
“None. She responded well.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
The doctor opened a drawer in his desk, consulting whatever was within. An appointment book, judging by the rustle of pages as he turned them.
“Two weeks ago, on the twenty-third of June,” he said, closing the drawer with a brisk snap. “It was a routine consultation. She reported being well, and my examination concurred.”
“Both Mr. Montague and the maid, Mary Webb, agree that the correct amount of medicine remains. Did you look for yourself?”
“It was one of the first things I did once I had assured myself of her death. All was as it should have been.”
“Then you did not provide her with, say, an emergency dose or two?”
“Of course not!”
“Could she have got it from someone else?” Constance asked.
The doctor frowned at her. “Yes, I suppose so, but why would she?”
“Would you have been able to tell if she had?”
“No,” he admitted. “But if you are suggesting suicide, she would never have done such a thing.”
“Then, in your professional opinion, she showed no signs of melancholy or unhappiness?”
“No,” the doctor said firmly, “and you are hardly helping Montague by suggesting such a thing.”
Solomon leaned forward. “Doctor, do you have any doubts at all that she died of anything other than heart failure caused by herexisting condition?”
“None,” Sorenson said firmly.
“Not even why her heart should suddenly fail after a year of healthy response to the drug you prescribed?”
He lifted his shoulders helplessly. “Such things happen without warning sometimes. I wish we could prevent it, but we can’t. In this case, I was surprised but hardly astonished.” He pulled out his watch. “I am expecting a patient…”
“One last question, if you don’t mind,” Solomon said. “In your professional opinion, is Mr. Montague healthy in mind and body?”
Sorenson stared at him coldly. “Good day, Mr. Grey. Mrs. Grey.”
*
Since Constance hadengaged Carl Darrow to play at the establishment, she knew his address, just to the east of Bloomsbury. Solomon instructed the coachman and joined her in the carriage.
“What do you think of Dr. Sorenson?” he asked, sitting beside her. “Is he covering up misdeeds?”
