“From the newspaper open on his bed, I suppose. It is hard on him…” Reid straightened his shoulders suddenly, as though pulling himself together. “He knew her, you see. He accompanied her several times, most recently at Covent Garden when he played with the orchestra.”
He was endearingly blatant. Constance held his gaze. “But there was a little more to it than that, was there not?”
“He was devoted to her,” Reid admitted. “Beyond that, I cannot and will not go.”
“Did you never see them together?” she asked.
Reid hesitated. “I had supper with them once. And coffee one afternoon in Covent Garden.”
“Was it your impression that she was as devoted as he?”
Reid dragged his gaze free, shifting his feet uncomfortably. “She liked him, certainly, but she never excluded me to make sheep’s eyes at him. She was a very charming lady.” He seemed to recognize thatthis was not a terribly satisfactory answer, for he gave a helpless shrug. A young man trying to describe emotion without the aid of music. Or perhaps without landing his friend or his friend’s late lover in trouble.
Constance gave him her hand in an encouraging sort of way. He might, after all, have more to tell. “Thank you, Mr. Reid. Goodbye.”
Solomon handed her into the carriage, and they set off for Montague’s house. They were both silent for several minutes.
Constance said, “I don’t think there is a case. Darrow’s explanation of the roses makes sense. She left them at the theatre overnight on Tuesday and then brought them home on Wednesday.”
“Most likely, but wouldn’t she have asked the maid to put them in water? Wouldn’t Mary Webb have seen them, at least? She was waiting in the bedroom for Caterina that last night.”
“It’s possible Caterina hid them—a guilty wife concealing her lover’s token.” She shifted impatiently, drawing closer to Solomon. “I don’t like this case. I’ll be glad to tell Kellar there is nothing in his suspicions. A few interviews with the servants and Montague himself, and then we can stop wasting everyone’s time.”
“I wonder why this matters so much to Kellar?” Solomon mused.
Constance didn’t like to think about that either. She wanted to be finished with the whole business and wave Kellar back off to Italy.
It was the same maid who opened the front door of Montague’s house and dropped a brief curtsey.
“Good afternoon, sir, ma’am. I’m afraid Mr. Montague is not at home.”
“That’s fine,” Solomon said easily. “I’m sure you were told that we would be asking a few questions. We’ll just get that over with now.”
A flash of distinct hostility showed in the girl’s eyes before her long lashes swept down to cover them. But she stepped back to allow them entry and closed the door behind them.
“Yes, sir,” she said woodenly.
“Let’s step into the morning room,” Constance said. “Remind us ofthe way, if you please.”
The girl led the way and stood stiffly by the door while Constance sat down. Solomon went to the window and leaned against the wall there.
“What is your name?” Constance asked the maid.
“Nancy, ma’am.”
“You are the parlor maid, is that right? You are responsible for opening the door to visitors and showing them out again?”
“Yes, ma’am. Unless Mr. Collins—he’s the butler—chooses to do it himself.” There may have been a shade of insolence there, a contempt for someone who was not sure of the parlor maid’s duties. But Constance was used to dealing with insolent girls. Up to a point, she even allowed it. Respect, after all, had to be earned.
“You are happy with your employment in this house, Nancy?” she asked amiably.
“Yes, ma’am.” Color began to seep into the girl’s pretty face. “That is, Iwas. Until the mistress died. Who could be happy with that?”
“No one,” Constance said. “Which is why we—I include Mr. Montague here—need to make as much sense as possible out of what happened. On Wednesday night, was it you who let Mrs. Montague into the house? Or did she use her key?”
“I heard her carriage while I was setting the breakfast parlor for the morning. So I opened the door as soon as she reached the doorstep.”
“Did she seem happy to you? Pleased to be home?”
