“The cause will not be your questions.”
Solomon inclined his head. “When was the last time you saw your wife alive?”
“Last night,” Montague said dully. “She came home from the theatre around eleven. We had a glass of sherry together, and then I escorted her upstairs to her room, where Webb, her maid, was waiting for her.”
“Did she seem well?”
“A little tired, but yes, very well. She was delighted with how she had sung, and the audience’s appreciation always lifts her.” His eyelids drooped. “Lifted her.”
“And over the past few weeks, did she complain of any symptoms of her heart problem?” Solomon asked. “Did you notice any?”
Montague shook his head. “None. It was more than a year ago that she first noticed it—it interfered with her singing, as you mightimagine, and that frightened her more than anything. She could not imagine life without singing. She consulted our doctor, and his prescription worked almost like magic. It was as if she had never been ill.”
“Digitalis,” Solomon said. “Was Mrs. Montague aware of the dangers of varying her dose?”
“Of course. It was the first thing Dr. Sorenson impressed upon us. Each dose was carefully measured out in powdered form.”
“So she would not have taken an extra dose, even secretly? Perhaps to deal with a return of her symptoms?”
Montague frowned. “No. She was not so foolish. And in any case, Webb—her personal maid—is very careful and observant.”
Solomon nodded, as though this was what he had expected to hear.
Constance leaned forward. “Mr. Montague, you said your wife was well and happy last night when she came home. Was this happy state normal for her?”
“Well…yes. Like everyone, she had her moments of gloom or irritability, and certainly she was very cast down when she was ill. But in general, she was contented.”
“No recent worries or concerns that troubled her spirit?” Constance pressed.
Montague’s eyes flickered. “Nothing that was lasting. Such troubles were quickly solved.”
They generally were between compatible married couples, as Constance had discovered over recent months. She knew exactly what Montague meant, and yet that flickering gaze bothered her. He was hiding something. But then, he was a bereaved husband and they were strangers. There was a limit to how far they could pry without cruelty.
So she gave an understanding nod and asked gently, “How long were you married, sir?”
“Almost three years,” he said, a catch in his voice.
A pitifully short time that made her want to physically hold on to Solomon. “How did you meet?”
In the chair opposite, Kellar’s brow twitched in impatience, but Montague did not mind the question.
“At a private concert. She had not long arrived in this country from Italy, and she was not yet well known. But as soon as I saw her, I knew…” His lips twisted. “You will think me foolish.”
Constance, who had felt that sudden blaze on her first contact with Solomon—although she’d denied it for a long time—merely shook her head.
“Everything about her,” Montague said, “overwhelmed me—her beauty, her laughter, her voice… The whole woman. Of course, she had that effect on everyone. I didn’t really expect her to notice me.”
From Kellar’s expression, which he didn’t trouble to hide, neither had anyone else.
“But she did,” Montague said. “She felt it too, you see.”
Again, Constance flicked a glance at Kellar. Was that pity she glimpsed before his usual veils came down? Again, she realized how shaken the man was. Normally, his emotions would have been kept so much better hidden.
“Would you mind if we paid our respects now?” Solomon asked. Which was, of course, a polite way of asking to examine the dead woman and her surroundings.
“I can take them up,” Kellar said, rising to his feet, “if you like.”
Montague nodded. “Thank you, Kellar.”
