Montague lapsed into silence, so Constance said, “This is a house of great character and charm. Was it always your home, or did you and your wife choose it together?”
Another spark of animation lit Montague’s face. “It has been my family’s home for generations. Caterina fell in love with it and made many improvements. All the decoration you see is hers—she had a wonderful eye for color.”
“It is beautiful,” Constance agreed.
“And yet I can’t bear to be in it. Can’t bear to be away from it, either, which is why I came home early.”
“You need time,” Constance said.
He nodded, the brief liveliness of his expression fading into bleakness, as though he saw too much time ahead and had no idea what to do with it.
Making an obvious effort, he said, “Have you made enough inquiries to satisfy Mr. Kellar’s view of circumstances?”
“Almost,” Solomon said. “The main thing that puzzles us is the vase of roses in her bedchamber. No one saw them come into the house, and they were not there when Caterina’s maid left her. Did you ever give roses to your wife?”
“Yes, but if you are imagining I made the romantic gesture of slipping them into her room in the middle of the night, I’m afraid I didn’t. She must have had them lying around in her room somewhere and suddenly remembered them.”
“Without Miss Webb’s seeing?” Constance asked doubtfully.
“Webb sees Caterina and clothes,” Montague said with a hint of impatience. “She is not so very observant of anyone or anything else.”
Oddly, that possibility had not struck Constance before. It made sense, too. “According to Miss Webb, Mrs. Montague had locked her door on the night she died. Was that significant in any way?”
“It signified that she did not wish to be disturbed.”
“Some husbands,” Constance said tactfully, “would object to being locked out of their wife’s room.”
Montague gave a twisted little smile. “But I wasn’t locked out. I have a key to that room too.”
“Then why did she bother locking it at all?” Solomon said. “Who else was likely to disturb her?”
A slight pinkness stained Montague’s cheeks. “No one. It was merely a sign to me. We had an agreement. You see, we both wanted to have children, but in Caterina’s case, not just yet. She wanted to further her career first. I respected that.”
So Caterina decided when they were intimate in order to prevent pregnancy… Was she as careful with Darrow? Not that it mattered. With a key, Montague could indeed have put the roses in his wife’s room. There was just no reason for him to deny it.
“Did you have any visitors on Wednesday evening?” Solomon asked.
“No. I completed some work, then read until Caterina came home.”
“Did you ever go to the theatre to hear her sing?”
“Often. But not every night.”
“I suppose her dressing room was full of flowers from admirers.”
Montague smiled. “Yes, it was, whenever I was there. I can see you wondering if I minded. I didn’t. I was proud of her, and it was all part of her being who and what she was. I can see you also wondering why on earth such a vibrant creature chose me, a dull, middle-aged merchant, to be her husband. Believe me, I asked myself the same question many times. Kellar has made no secret of his disapproval. None of us may understand it, but the truth is, she loved me. I was her stability, as necessary to her life as she was to mine.”
His voice cracked just at the end, and Constance propelled herself to her feet. “We are so sorry for your loss,” she said. “And we thank you for your candor. We won’t intrude any further.”
In fact, she was desperate to get out of the house, which suddenly seemed full of Caterina’s ghost and choked with the profound grief of the living.
Annoyingly, when they stepped out of the front door, the carriage was missing.
“John must be walking the horses,” Solomon said.
Constance took his arm, still impelled to put distance between them and the house, and all but dragged him across the road to the gardens in the middle of the square.
“I believe in his grief,” she said intensely. “He had nothing to gain from her death.”
