Chapter Twelve
On Monday morning,Solomon and Constance left the house together in the carriage, and went first to a building near the river, where he dropped off the powders they had purloined from Caterina’s bedroom. Even so, they still arrived early at the office, armed with Constance’s updated notes—and a plan.
Over tea in Solomon’s room with Janey, and with Lenny Knox, who had turned up on the off chance of a day’s work, Solomon outlined the campaign.
“The aim is to find out as much as we possibly can about Caterina’s movements between Monday the twenty-eighth of June and the night of Wednesday the sixth of July, when she died. We need to know everywhere she went, everyone she spoke to, who visited her, what her state of mind appeared to be after every encounter.”
Janey’s jaw dropped. “Get away, guv’nor. You need a whole army of peelers for that, and even then you’d never geteverything.”
“We’re hoping we’ll get everything that stands out,” Constance said. “And it’s not as daunting a task as you think. She led a busy life, but mostly in predictable places. Her home, the theatre for both rehearsals and performances, the house of a particular friend. She was not a great socialite, except in her own immediate circle.”
“Start at the theatre in Covent Garden,” Solomon instructed them. “We’ve already spoken to her dresser, Rose Samuels, and to her understudy, Ellen Gentle, but not in such detail. Bother everyone you can think of, from stagehands and doormen to singers and dancers,even passing hackney drivers.”
He passed a letter across the desk to each of them. “To vouch that you are asking on our behalf, if it proves necessary.”
“And what are you going to be doing?” Janey asked cheekily. “Writing reports?”
“No, much the same as you, only in Eagle Square,” Constance replied. “Starting with your rose thief at number two.”
*
In fact, itwas Solomon’s privilege to approach the accused rose thief at number two, while Constance went straight to Montague’s house.
The house was newer and probably a little smaller than Montague’s, its owner, Arthur Wainright, a small, cheerful man of few pretensions and a pronounced East London accent. He was dressed in well-made clothes of decent quality but old-fashioned cut that somehow suited him. Solomon had seen him at the funeral on Saturday, but wasn’t sure the man remembered him.
“Mr. Grey?” Wainright said as though in surprise as he ushered Solomon into what was clearly his office. A cluttered desk strewn with papers and ledgers took pride of place, and the chairs were not built for comfort. “What can I do for you?”
Since Wainright appeared to be a plain, open man, Solomon opted for the same approach. “I have come on what might seem a trivial and impudent quest. Understand, I have no authority to ask, let alone act upon what you might tell me. The matter bears on another that is more important.”
Wainright looked intrigued, and gestured Solomon to sit on the visitor’s side of the desk before taking his own chair. “Ask.”
“Did you, by any chance, pick some roses from the square during the hours of darkness on the night of last Wednesday to Thursday morning?”
Wainright’s eyes gleamed. “Old Jonesy at number twelve complaining again? He blames everything on me, from dogs fouling the gardens to his own leaky roof. I don’t have any dogs and I keep my own roof in good repair.”
“But do you pick the roses?”
“I have done, largely to annoy him, so always when he’s at home and watching.”
A faint hope flickered in Solomon’s mind, but even if Wainright was the rose thief, it didn’t explain how his or anyone else’s flowers had got into Caterina’s bedroom. “Was he watching on Wednesday evening?”
“I don’t know. I like my own comforts too much to go out in the middle of the night. I rise early. Work, you know.”
“What is it you do, Mr. Wainright?”
“Carter. Rent ’em out nowadays, with or without drivers. Does very well for me.”
“I’m glad to hear it. To be clear, my informant did not definitively accuse you. He just said he saw the figure of a man picking roses at about two in the morning. If it wasn’t you, I don’t suppose you saw who did do it?”
“Didn’t see anyone at all. I was sound asleep at two in the morning. Who wouldn’t be? Except a gentleman of leisure like yourself.”
Solomon smiled. “You would be surprised. Do you have much to do with your neighbors the Montagues?”
“We say good morning and good evening. We don’t dine together. Though I was over there on Saturday to pay my respects. You know that. You were there too.” Wainright sighed. “Such a tragedy. Poor lady.”
“Did you see Mrs. Montague out and about much?”
“Can’t say I did. Occasionally, of an evening, I’d see her going out or coming in. Heard her more often—practicing, I suppose. Voice like an angel. I saw her once in the theatre…”
