“Oh, no, notmarried,” Mr. Potter said. “But he was engaged—oh, some ten years ago now—to a charming girl, Sophie Worthington. Of the banking family, you know.”
“She changed her mind?” Constance asked with sympathy.
“No, no, she seemed very devoted. Sadly, she died, a mere few weeks before the wedding. Poor Digby has not been lucky in love. As the vulgar put it.” His gaze flickered to his wife, who was glaring at him from across the room, and he gave Constance a last, wistful smile before he excused himself and went to do his duty by the other guests.
The room had filled up quickly during this conversation, with somber people dressed uniformly in black, speaking in hushed voices. Solomon remembered why he hated funerals. But, as previously agreed, he and Constance now parted ways in order to speak to as many people as possible and learn what they could.
He introduced himself to a group of people who appeared to be Montague’s neighbors in the square, largely a mixture of tradespeople, some highly educated, some not so much. Several had grown up together with Montague and appeared genuinely appalled by the sudden death of his lovely young wife.
When Solomon mentioned how happy the couple had been, everyone nodded in agreement. Because it was expected of them? Or because they genuinely believed it?
Montague himself entered the room inconspicuously, clearly with his emotions well under control, and began to greet people, moving from group to group. Carl Darrow, who had entered with a theatrical group that included Geoffrey Reid, Ellen Gentle, and the dresser Rose Samuels, appeared to offer his quiet condolences along with everyone else, and Montague accepted them with dignified thanks, as he did allothers. Clearly Darrow also had himself well in hand, for Solomon saw no sign of animosity in his posture. He was keeping very much in the background for once.
“Sir?” Mary Webb offered him a choice of drinks from her tray. Although this was hardly part of her job, she was obviously making herself useful, as required. Solomon took a glass of wine from the tray and stepped back from the neighbors to give himself a modicum of privacy with Mary.
“A quick question for you,” he murmured. “Did your mistress go to sleep that night with her window open or closed?”
“Open a crack, as usual,” Mary replied.
“As it is now?”
She didn’t even ask him how he knew. She just nodded and excused herself to move on.
“Are you by any chance Mr. Grey?” asked a well-modulated female voice on his other side.
Inevitably dressed in black but with a certain theatrical flair in the dark lace of her collar and cuffs, she had the kind of stoutness he associated with opera singers, along with a strong-featured, beautiful face. She could have been any age, but Solomon guessed somewhere in the thirties. More than that, she was vaguely familiar, though he could not place her.
He inclined his head. “I am.”
“I’m Marianne Locke. I sing.”
He smiled. “Quite beautifully, in my opinion. I am honored to make your acquaintance. Were you a friend of Mrs. Montague?”
“I was indeed. Carl Darrow told me you have been asking questions about her. As if you think her doctor was wrong.”
“It is as well to be sure,” he said vaguely. “Would you agree with me?”
Her eyes flickered. “I might.” She opened her plain black reticule and extracted a business card, which she handed to him. “This ishardly the time or the place, but perhaps you and your wife would call upon me?”
“Would tomorrow suit?” Solomon said at once. A quick glance at the card was enough to assure him that her house was where Caterina had met Darrow.
“After two o’clock,” she said, inclining her head before she drifted away.
Interesting.She was the first person they had encountered in this case who had sought them out, so presumably she had something important to say.
Turning, he caught sight of Kellar for the first time, on his way out of the room. Constance was casually following him at a distance. Montague, still doing his duty, left one group of people and moved toward some men Solomon thought were musicians—Darrow’s friend Reid was among them. But as though sensing scrutiny, the widower changed direction and approached Solomon instead.
“Thank you for coming,” he said, offering his hand. Solomon took it, and it slid free almost at once. “I didn’t really expect you. I assumed from our last conversation that your questions—or Kellar’s—were satisfied.”
“There are just a few trifling matters that niggle at us,” Solomon said. “Perhaps you can help us clear them up, although this may not be the best time.”
“There is no good time,” Montague said bleakly. “But at least let us walk as we talk. I don’t want her memory sullied.”
Solomon cast him a surprised glance as they strolled to the edge of the room. “Neither do we. Do you think it’s even possible?”
“With words likemurderfloating in the air, yes,” Montague said in an intense murmur. “What is it you want to know?”
“The roses,” Solomon said. “They seem to have come from the garden in the square.”
