“Did Mr. Montague know about Darrow?”
“God, no. She would never hurt him.”
“And what he didn’t know couldn’t,” Constance murmured. It was a flawed philosophy. She had used it herself, cynically enough, to justify the straying husbands who flocked to her establishment.
“I left the theatre to be with her when she married Mr. Montague because I wanted the respectability. Better to be a lady’s maid than a theatre dresser. Or that’s what I told myself.” Mary’s eyes were streaming again, her voice muffled in her handkerchief. “But Imissher…”
Constance went and placed a gentle hand on the maid’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
The handkerchief fell away, and Mary’s swimming eyes pleaded with her. “To her, she wasn’t being unfaithful, because she never stopped loving her husband.”
Another justification Constance had heard used by some men.Well, what’s sauce for the goose…
“The world won’t understand,” Mary said intensely. “Don’t tell them. For his sake if no other…”
“Do you mean Mr. Montague’s sake?” Solomon asked. “Or Mr. Darrow’s?”
The maid flapped her hand again. “Both, I suppose.”
And her own, no doubt. Servants tended to be tarred with thesame immoral brush as their employers. But there was no doubting that Mary Webb was genuinely upset and grieving for her mistress.
“We only want to be sure how she died,” Constance said gently. “Not to judge her, or you. Tell me, apart from the roses, have you ever noticed anything else appearing overnight in this room? Other flowers? Gifts? Ornaments?”
Mary wiped her eyes again and frowned in concentration. She shook her head. “No. I don’t remember anything.”
“Do you think she might have gone out again on Wednesday night when the household was asleep?”
“Shecouldhave,” the maid said, clearly dubious. “But she hated being tired in the morning. She liked to spend time with Mr. Montague before he went to work, and she was always serious about her voice exercises, even on the days she didn’t have formal rehearsals or performances. She said if she wasn’t rested, it spoiled the clarity of her voice.”
“Is that why she and her husband have separate bedrooms?” Solomon asked.
A flush of outrage showed the maid was recovering from her uncontrolled display of emotion. “I couldn’t say, sir.”
“Had they quarreled recently?” he pursued.
“Not to my knowledge,” Mary replied firmly.
“Had she quarreled with Darrow?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“How often does Mr. Kellar come to the house?” Solomon asked unexpectedly.
Mary blinked. “He was away for a long time. Since he’s come home, a few times for dinner, a few morning calls when Mrs. Montague was at home.”
“And before he went away the last time? Did he come to the wedding?”
“He gave her away. He was a friend of her parents and helped herescape the nasty revolutions. He’d pop up occasionally after that, always without warning. She was always glad to see him, hopeful he’d be settling in England for good.”
“Did your master and mistress quarrel much?” Constance asked.
The maid’s lips tightened once more. “No, ma’am.”
“Did she quarrel with anyone that you know of?”
Mary shrugged. “A few disagreements in the theatre, nothing she could not deal with. She was the prima donna, after all.”
“Did you ever come across unexplained cuts or bruises on her body?” Constance asked. “As if a quarrel had turned violent?”
