Montague did not close the front door tight. Solomon strolled after them, as though also enjoying a moment of fresh air. Among the array of carriages waiting in the street, the grubby old hackney was easily recognized. Two people were already inside—Reid and an unknown young woman.
Solomon slowed, tilting his head toward the sky, although he kept his gaze firmly on the men in front, who halted by the hackney door. As Darrow opened it, Montague inclined his head to the other passengers and offered his hand casually to Darrow.
“I know she thought a great deal of your music,” Montague murmured.
Darrow could do nothing but accept the hand, but there was an almost imperceptible pause before he did. And then he twisted round to put his foot on the step.
It would have been easy to miss, but Solomon was watching minutely. With perfect timing and lightning speed, Montague kicked one leg from under the younger man, who fell sprawling face first onto the hackney floor.
Montague, already turned away, didn’t appear to notice either the fall or the exclamations within the carriage. He merely walked calmly back in the direction of his house. Certainly, he did not glance at Solomon nor appear to see him.
And yet the moment changed everything. It meant Montague knew very well that Darrow had been his wife’s lover. And revenge, however petty, even on such a day as this, was sweet.
*
“He knows,” Solomonsaid abruptly, when their carriage had picked up Janey around the corner from the square. “He knows about Darrow.”
“Montague?” Constance said, frowning. “What makes you think so?”
Solomon told them about the incident by the hackney.
Constance, staring at him, seemed as stunned as he. “This gives him a motive of passion… Not only that, we have misunderstood him from the first.”
“And if he led us to that misunderstanding,” Solomon said grimly, “then he is far subtler and a far better actor than we have given him credit for. Kellar could be right about him.”
From the back-facing seat, Janey was scowling at them. “He ain’t evil just ’cause he thumps a man who’s touched his wife.”
“But he didn’t thump him,” Constance said. “He tripped him in such a way that only he and Darrow should know who was responsible, while causing the man maximum embarrassment in front of his friends and the waiting coachmen. It was humiliation for Darrow while keeping Montague’s own, and his wife’s, reputation unsullied.”
Janey grimaced, clearly finding the attack tame and trivial. In her world, her old world, it was. But not in Montague’s.
“Did you speak more to Kellar?” Solomon asked Constance.
She sighed. “Yes. But he said nothing about Montague—he couldn’t really, in those surroundings. I tried to make him talk more about Caterina and her parents, and he seemed to—up to a point—but the man isimpenetrable. From everyone else, I really just confirmed my view of Caterina as a charismatic, vital woman who drew people to her like moths to a candle but was close to very few. Even Montague’s sister had nothing bad to say about her personally. Did you learn anything from the neighbors, Janey?”
“They’re respectable people,” Janey said with a cheeky grin, “though not top of the trees like us. Their servants ain’t so snooty neither, and most were happy enough to talk. The Montagues are well thought of, and she much admired. Some of the mistresses try to copy her style of hair and dress, with sometimes hilarious results. About the roses, I only picked up one clue—don’t know how useful it is.”
“Go on,” Solomon said.
“One of the maids at number twelve heard her master grumbling about someone stealing flowers from the garden in the middle of the night. He’s got a bee in his bonnet about it, so she didn’t pay much attention, but she thinks it was Wednesday night he saw someone inthere, and Thursday morning at breakfast he was complaining about it.”
“Did he see who it was?” Constance asked eagerly.
“The maid didn’t believe he did. But he blames it on someone called Arthur Wainright at number two. They’ve been feuding for years, according to her, so she don’t believe it. Says Wainright’s an amiable old codger and would only do it to wind Mr. Jones up—Mr. Jones being the master at number twelve.”
“But it is definitely a man this Jones claims to have seen?”
“So his maid says.”
Constance looked at Solomon. “Then it wasn’t Caterina who took the roses to her room.”
“If Jones is right and didn’t just dream the whole thing,” Janey said.
“I don’t suppose,” Solomon said, “that you managed to speak to anyone at the Wainright house?”
“There was a manservant there found the whole thing amusing, said Wainright and Jones had grown up together and never agreed on anything. I tried to get him to say whether it was him or his master, but he only laughed, claims his lady friend would wallop him for bringing her a dozen red roses because she’d assume he was making up for some guilt and had stolen them besides.”
“We’ll call at number two tomorrow,” Constance said with the kind of vagueness that meant she was thinking of several things at once. “They all bear more investigation.”
“Who?” Janey asked.
“Montague,” Solomon said. “Darrow. And Kellar.”
