Chapter Seven
Constance and Solomonhad just sat down to dine when the front doorbell rang.
Constance liked welcoming visitors to her new home, but in this case, she was conscious of faint annoyance. She couldn’t work out quite what irritated her, though it seemed to be a messy tangle of different things: last night’s argument and its wildly delicious aftermath, Solomon’s eyes, and Caterina’s death. She did not wish to be disturbed.
Neither did Solomon, from his expression, so they carried on eating their soup, which was very good. Constance knew that Bibby—recently taken on from the establishment as cook’s assistant—had made it herself and was waiting anxiously for their verdict.
Lottie the parlor maid scratched at the dining room door. “Sorry, ma’am, sir, but a Mr. Kellar has called. Shall I deny him or ask him to wait?”
Constance met Solomon’s gaze. He gave the faintest of shrugs, but it was enough. Get the matter over with now and the rest of the evening was theirs.
“Show him in here, if you please, and set another place.”
Kellar entered with all his usual urbanity. “Oh, forgive me! The girl did not tell me you were dining.”
“Join us,” Constance said, indicating the chair on her other side. “We have just begun, and there is plenty of soup.”
Kellar let himself be persuaded, while Lottie set the place beforefleeing to warn the kitchen in time for the second course, and Solomon poured another glass of wine.
“The soup is delicious,” Kellar said. “My compliments to your cook.”
“I shall tell her,” Constance said, happier with him already. There had always been something beguiling about Kellar.
He made pleasant small talk until the soup course was removed and the duck brought in. Only when the servants had left again did he say why he had come.
“I only meant to call in for a moment,” he said, “to ask how your investigation progresses.”
Solomon picked up his knife and fork. “We have found no evidence of any cause of death other than the doctor’s opinion, nothing to justify an autopsy. Nor have we met anyone who wished her ill.”
Kellar took a sip of wine and paused, twisting the stem of the glass between his long, shapely fingers. “You don’t believe me about Montague.”
“We’re not even sureyoubelieve it,” Constance said wryly. “Beyond disliking the man, you have no real reason, and you are not a fool.”
Kellar inclined his head in sardonic appreciation and set down the glass. “You may be right. Although do you not find the haste of the funeral somewhat indecent? We have run out of time for any autopsy now.”
“I doubt it matters,” Constance said. “Montague seems to be just filling his days in a slightly desperate manner. You gave us no indication that Caterina was afraid of him.”
“I don’t believe she was,” Kellar replied.
“Then you never heard of them quarreling?”
“No…”
“Did you see any sign that he ever beat her?”
“Good God, no! I would have intervened long before this if I hadever imagined such a thing. What makes you ask that?”
“One person’s hearsay,” Constance said vaguely.
Kellar drummed on the table with the fingers of his left hand. “What about the lover?” he asked abruptly, proving his interest was more than merely dislike of Montague.
“Darrow? He too seems to have been devoted. Caterina, however, may have been at least considering breaking off the relationship, which might have maddened him, theoretically. But there is no evidence he left his own home, let alone entered hers. There is no evidence of any wrongdoing at all. Even the roses seem to have come from the square. The simplest explanation is that she picked them herself during the night.”
“In her nightgown?” Kellar said dubiously. “I’m not sure I believe that.”
Constance shrugged. “Again, there is no evidence one way or another, but everyone we have spoken to said she was excited by her success that evening—”
“With cause,” Kellar agreed. “She was splendid.”
