“Yes, when her husband didn’t come. She lingered more when he was with her.”
“Yousawher leave on Wednesday evening?”
“Yes, I was at the stage door when she stepped into her carriage.”
“Did she have flowers with her? Or a bag?”
“No, not that I saw. Why?”
“She must have had many admirers,” Constance said without answering. “All trying to speak to her as she left, thrusting gifts into her hands…”
“She’d learned to avoid all that. With grace, too. She carried the double role very well.”
“Double role?” Solomon repeated, although he knew perfectly well what she meant. He was trying to make her betray any intense jealousy she might feel, the kind that would surely be necessary if she had harmed Caterina.
“Prima donna and respectable wife.”
“She had everything,” Constance said, echoing Rose’s earlier words.
But Ellen only nodded. “She seemed to.” She shivered. “She was not so much older than me. How is her husband?”
Solomon thought more of her after that. Rose had not asked after Montague.
“As you would expect. Shocked, unable to quite grasp his loss.”
Ellen nodded. “The funeral is tomorrow.”
Montague had not mentioned that. The speed of the burial startled Solomon, though he said only, “Will you go?”
“We shall all go to the memorial service. And to the house afterward, since we are invited. To show our respect.”
“Well, we might see you there,” Constance said, rising to her feet. “Thank you for talking to us.”
Ellen’s brow twitched, as though she still wasn’t sure exactly why she had been summoned, but she nodded politely before she turned to go.
“Oh, Miss Gentle?” Solomon said as she reached for the door. “Where was it she lived?”
“Somewhere off Fleet Street, isn’t it?” She glanced over her shoulder, frowning. “You would know that if you really came from her husband. Who are you?”
“You misunderstand,” Constance said, picking up her leather bag. “Of course we know. The question was to see if you did. Have you ever been there?”
“No,” Ellen said, her nostrils flaring. “None of us have, even Rose. I think Watson had better show you out.”
*
“Do you reallysuspect Ellen Gentle?” Constance asked as they walked back to the office.
Solomon sighed. “No. And if I did, I don’t know what I’d suspect her of. No one seems to have wished Caterina ill. The doctor is convinced she died of natural causes. The roses most likely came from the square, probably picked by Caterina herself, during the night whenshe couldn’t sleep for all the euphoria of her brilliant performance. The idea of murder seems to be all in Kellar’s imagination.”
“Why?” Constance asked.
“I have no idea. I vote he is our first port of call tomorrow morning.”
“We could go tonight,” Constance said.
He caught her gaze. “Or we could stay at home.”
The wicked gleam he loved lit up her eyes. “We could. After office hours.”
“Of course.” He adjusted her hand on his arm, drawing her closer and caressing the skin of her wrist beneath her glove. “How far away is that?”
“Oh, an hour or two.”
Solomon, responsible and conscientious man though he was, began to seriously contemplate how to remove Janey and Hat from the office early. Reluctantly, he decided the only excuses he could come up with were too blatant to be believed. He would just torture himself with anticipation instead. Even that held a strange pleasure, because she was his.
Until he thought of Digby Montague, sitting alone in his house in his bewildered grief, his joy taken from him in one unforeseen instant.
Every moment in this life had to be lived to the full, with no opportunity lost. Perhaps that was what had driven Caterina to follow her every whim.
