Mary stared. “No, ma’am,” she said in outrage.
And that, at least, was truth.
“Thank you,” Solomon said, with clear dismissal.
Constance could hardly wait for her footsteps to fade into the distance. “Kellar?” she said accusingly. “Why ask about him?”
Solomon lifted one apologetic shoulder. “Three reasons, I suppose. First, because I thought you’d want to know, and secondly, why is he so keen for us to investigate a death that everyone else regards as easily explained?”
Constance nodded slowly. “I suspect he always has reasons for what he does, and he’s not exactly open by nature, is he? You said three reasons.”
“He knew the way to her bedchamber. He seemed just a little too familiar there.”
It was as valid as his other points. And yet… “He asked us to investigate in the first place. Why would he do that if he were guilty of any impropriety? Which isn’t to say his feelings aren’t involved.” She paced restlessly toward the window. “No. She was a charming and talented woman with a messy life and a heart condition. There are no marks of foul play on her body, and she does not appear to have taken too much of her medicine. Everyone loved her, flaws and all. There is no case here, Solomon.”
She spun around on the final words, and the roses seemed to glare at her accusingly. She scowled back at them. “Do they even matter?”
“We believe Darrow gave them to her on Tuesday and she took them to the theatre with her. On Wednesday she must have brought them home and somehow smuggled them into the house.” He came and stood beside her, and they both gazed out of the window at the pretty garden below. “Nancy heard her carriage in the street, so I doubt Caterina had time to run round to the back of the house and hide her roses. If she had, the kitchen staff would probably have seen her. So she must have hidden them at the front of the house somewhere, then, when the house was asleep, slipped out and brought them in.”
“That would explain it,” Constance said. “Only, why did she bother? She was always bringing flowers back from the theatre. Montague never needed to know they were from Darrow.”
“Red roses are a very obvious love token.”
“Then why put them on display at all, let alone sneak about to do so?”
Solomon smiled ruefully. “Who is trying to convince whom here? Do we want there to be a case or not?”
“Not,” Constance said emphatically. “I just wish we could explain the roses to Kellar’s satisfaction, charge him a modest fee, and move on to the next case.”
Solomon tilted his head, listening. “That was a key in the front door. I think the master of the house has returned. With luck, one more interview with him will decide the matter.”
Accordingly, they left the dead woman’s bedroom and went downstairs. They found Montague in the drawing room once more. This time he had his back to them, gazing up at the large portrait of his wife that hung above the fireplace.
Solomon tapped on the open door. “Mr. Montague?”
The widower turned almost reluctantly to face them. “Nancy saidyou were here again. I hope you have finished upsetting the servants. It isn’t pleasant for them either, you know. Particularly if they start imagining some kind of foul play.”
“We have found no sign of that,” Constance said truthfully. “May we talk to you for a few moments?”
In answer, he merely gestured to the sofa and, when Constance had sat, took the chair opposite.
“I made the funeral arrangements and went to the office,” he said. “It seemed better than sitting alone in this house, and there is always much to do. The difficulty is making myself care about work. What is the point without her?”
Constance nodded sympathetically.
Solomon said, “You trade in tea, I believe?”
Montague nodded. “A profitable business. For the most part.”
“You have had some bad luck recently?”
“My last cargo went down with its ship. It entails a few…economies, but we can weather the storm. Fortunately, no lives were lost. Do you deal much in tea, Mr. Grey?”
“We ship it. From China and Ceylon and India.”
“Perhaps I should look to you for my transport.”
“Feel free.”
