“Because I arranged to have it removed to England for her.”
“From where?”
“Italy.” Kellar looked from one to the other. “The deceased is Caterina di Ripoli. You may have heard of her.”
Solomon’s brows flew up. “The opera singer?”
Kellar inclined his head.
“We saw her only last week at Covent Garden,” Constance said, awed and appalled. “In Rigoletto. She didn’tsoundas if she had heart difficulties then.”
“No,” Kellar agreed. “She didn’t last night, either.” He stared beyond them, looking indescribably sad. “She would have been wonderful inLa Traviata.”
It was at the opening night of that opera in Venice that Constance had first seen Kellar.
Solomon stirred on his chair. “You call her a friend. How did you know her?”
“We met in Rome several years ago. I knew her parents. They were singers too, famous all over Europe, but they died in 1848. I helped her escape to England.”
“With her money,” Solomon said.
“That took a little longer, but yes.”
“So when exactly did Caterina die?” Constance asked.
“At some point during last night,” Kellar said. “Her maid left her at around midnight, and by half past seven, when the maid returned, Caterina was dead.”
“Peacefully? Were there signs she had died in distress?”
“None,” Kellar said. “Her eyes were closed, her face in repose. The bedding looked quite undisturbed.”
“Then you saw the body yourself?” Solomon asked.
Kellar nodded. It troubled him, Constance saw.
“What about the husband?” she asked.
“Montague? He saw her when she came home from the theatre at about eleven last night.”
“Then they do not share a bedroom?”
“Apparently not.”
“How is he?” Constance asked.
“Shocked. Devastated. If you can trust in outward appearances.”
“Which you don’t,” Solomon said. “Have you involved the police?”
Kellar lifted his shoulders. “With what? Neither her doctor nor her husband believe there was a crime.”
“But you do,” Constance said, “with no evidence except your instinct.”
“Precisely.”
Constance cast a quick glance at Solomon. She knew he was thinking much the same as she was. That Kellar’s grief—which in itself was vaguely troubling—had induced this denial of a natural death. She did not want to know any more about his relationship with the dead woman. And yet they owed him something.
She said, “We can ask a few questions amongst her neighbors, perhaps speak to servants and her colleagues at the theatre, but we have no authority and no reason to intrude on Mr. Montague’s mourning.”
