“Then she seemed happy?”
“Nothappy,” he said consideringly. “But contented enough. As though she knew she had done the right thing. But she was not a machine. She could not turn her affections off with a lever. She had to adjust to his absence.”
“And did she?”
He nodded. “I believe so. Gradually through the next week she seemed happier and happier until, by the last Wednesday, she was positively euphoric, and it went deeper than her brilliant performance at the opera. I think she found an unexpected new fulfilment in fidelity, in the new closeness it had brought us.”
Or in her new resolve to run away with Darrow?
“I was enough for her,” he said. “I shall always be glad of that.”
“Thank you for your honesty,” Constance said, although she was far from certain it was genuine. “Tell me, did Caterina know about your previous betrothal?”
His eyes widened. “Of course.”
“Did she know how Miss Worthington died?”
“Hardly. Even the doctors didn’t know that.”
“Did she ask about it? Did she ever seem frightened of you?”
His brow smoothed, his lips curling into a bitter little smile. “You mean, did she suspect me of murdering poor Sophie, and did she fear she was my next victim? Hardly. I believe I would like you to leave now.”
This fitted so perfectly with Constance’s wishes that relief flooded her. All the same, she gave his chair a wide berth and her bag-wielding hand remained poised. As she placed her fingers on the door latch, he spoke once more.
“Mrs. Grey? You will not be admitted again.”
She opened the door and went out, crossed the hall to the front door, and walked into the sunshine. Her legs were shaking.
Where are you, Solomon?
Instinctively, she walked in the direction they had left the carriage. It waited under the shady branches of a chestnut tree at the corner of the square, the coachmen leaning on the trunk and chatting to a couple of other men. He straightened as soon as he saw Constance coming and walked toward her.
“Where is Mr. Grey?” she asked.
He nodded behind her. “Just coming, ma’am.”
Spinning around, she saw Solomon crossing the garden and forced herself not to run to him. But he knew her, and her disquiet must have shown, because he instantly took her hand, threading it through his arm and drawing her with him along the path, their bodies very close together.
Constance soaked up the comfort of his nearness like a sponge. “It’s Montague,” she blurted, and poured out everything she had learned about the unexplained death of Sophie Worthington, her discovery of the letters, and being caught by Montague, who had at least answered her questions before forbidding her his house.
Solomon listened carefully, as he always did, then said, “But you don’t believe him?”
“I couldn’t shake off the feeling that he wasacting.”
He nodded. “People do act, of course, when they have something difficult to say. Sometimes it’s easier to say as someone else. If you see what I mean. Especially for someone as private as Montague.”
“True,” she said doubtfully. “Then you don’t think I’m right?”
“About his killing Caterina and possibly Sophie too? We still have no real evidence that a murder took place, but if it did, Montague would certainly be top of my list now.”
Just telling him seemed to have calmed her nerves. Her discoveries and her fright slipped back into proportion.
“What have you learned?” she asked.
“Frustratingly little. Our alleged rose thief denies the charge, saysMr. Jones at number twelve blames him for everything. Apparently, Wainright does cut flowers from the square simply to annoy Jones, but he did not do so in the middle of Wednesday night—Thursday morning. I have a few sightings of Caterina’s comings and goings to add to her schedule, but nothing more. Most people were more interested in discovering the reasons behind my questions than in bothering to cover anything up. They’re curious but not maliciously so. As far as I can tell.”
“Are you finished here? Shall we call on Kellar?”
