She put her notebook away and stood up.
“Thank you, Collins,” she said calmly. “Where will I find Miss Webb?”
“In the mistress’s room.”
*
The maid waspacking her mistress’s clothes into a trunk. The theatre trunk was no longer in the room.
“A sad task,” Constance remarked.
Mary cast her unfriendly glance. “You again. Can’t you let the poor lady be? She’s dead.”
“If she wasn’t, I’d have no cause for these questions, would I?”
“You’ve no cause for them now,” Mary retorted. “All you’re doing is upsetting the master.”
“Do you think so?” Constance asked. “Don’t you think he’d be equally upset whether we asked questions or not? He did give us permission, after all.”
Mary sniffed and lovingly laid another folded gown in the trunk.
“Were you and your mistress aware that Mr. Montague had been engaged to be married about ten years ago?”
“Of course,” Mary said indifferently. “Some people just have bad luck.”
And others make their own.“Did it concern your mistress?”
“Concern her?” Mary turned from the wardrobe to face Constance. “What do you mean?”
“Someone told us that Mrs. Montague was afraid of her husband. Since it was not an impression we had gained before, I thought you would be the best person to ask.”
“Afraid of him? Of course she wasn’t.” Mary stared at Constance, derision slowly fading from her expression until she didn’t look quite so certain. “Afraid of losing him, maybe.”
“Then fear wasn’t why she locked him out of her bedroom?” Constance asked.
“I told you, that was no more than a sign of her wishes. He had a key to get in if he chose, and she was happy with that. They trusted each other.”
All the same, Mary was thinking about it, perhaps considering certain events in the light of such a possibility.
“Did you ever see unexplained cuts or bruises on your mistress’s body?”
Mary stared at her, affronted. “Of course not! What are you trying to imply?”
“I am trying to find out the truth. Were you aware that Mr.Montague knew about her liaison with Carl Darrow?”
“Oh no,” Mary said, her hand flying to her mouth in clear distress. “She would have hated that!”
“But she knew that he knew. Or so she told her friend Mrs. Locke, to whom you took Mrs. Montague’s note for Mr. Darrow. Look, I need your help. Come and sit down with me. Tell me about Mrs. Montague’s mood on Monday the twenty-seventh of June.”
Mary blinked. “How am I supposed to remember that?” All the same, she sat down, watching as Constance consulted her notes.
“It was a day she left the house early, as though she were going shopping or calling on friends. She won’t have taken you with her because she was going to Mrs. Locke’s home.”
Mary frowned with the effort in remembering. “There was one morning that week—it might have been the Monday—when she was quiet. Thoughtful, I’d say. And the same evening, she seemed much…grimmer.”
“As though she’d done something she hadn’t liked? Was she angry? Worried? Sad?”
Mary shook her head impatiently. “I don’t think so. More…determined.”
