Chapter Fourteen
The address inKensington from which Sophie Worthington had written her love letters was not a modest one. A detached house, it was the largest in the leafy street. Constance was glad she had worn something more decorative than her severe office gown. It was quite possible, of course, that Sophie’s parents had moved in the decade since she had died.
A butler opened the door to Constance’s ring, and she presented her business card, asking for Mrs. Worthington. To her relief, he invited her to wait in a comfortable reception room while he established whether or not the lady of the house was at home.
Constance looked out of the window and wished she had used her personal card rather than the Silver and Grey one. Many people found “inquiries” to be both repugnant and impertinent. If she was denied, she supposed she could always write, although there were no guarantees of an answer, and she would be reduced to the time-consuming process of meeting the lady or her husband “by accident.”
A rustling at the door caused her to turn just before it opened and a modestly but fashionably dressed lady in dove gray walked in. The woman was somewhere in her fifties, with neatly pinned, almost-white hair. Her posture was erect, her manner curious rather than outraged. Her eyes bore that sad, faded look of the bereaved, even when they smiled.
“Mrs. Silver?” she said. “I am Mrs. Worthington. What can I possibly do for you?”
She didn’t invite Constance to sit, which was quite understandable.
“First, please forgive my intrusion,” Constance said pleasantly. “I am investigating a lady’s recent death and hoped you could provide me with some answers.”
Mrs. Worthington’s eyebrows flew up. “Why? Am I acquainted with this lady?”
“I would be surprised. You have probably heard her name, Caterina di Ripoli, otherwise known as Mrs.—”
“Montague,” Mrs. Worthington interrupted. “Digby’s wife. I could not attend the funeral, but I sent flowers.”
“Then you and Mr. Montague are still close?”
“No, not really. Just a card at Christmas, and we notify each other of weddings and funerals. I was glad when he married, though the lady was a curious choice from a worldly point of view.”
“Did you attend the wedding?” Constance asked.
She shook her head. “I didn’t think that would be appropriate.”
“Did he notify you of Mrs. Montague’s death? Or did you learn about it in the newspapers?”
“He wrote to me. Mrs. Silver, I am at a loss. What is it about the poor young lady’s death that you areinvestigating?” There was a very slight emphasis on the last word that may have signified contempt for the work or for Constance herself. “She died of a weak heart, did she not?”
“Is that what Mr. Montague told you?”
“Yes. It was in the papers, too. Are you saying it is not true?”
“She did have a heart irregularity,” Constance said carefully, “successfully controlled by her physician’s treatment. She was healthy enough to sing the main part in an opera six nights a week and to practice rigorously every day. To all intents and purposes, she was a healthy and active young woman. And yet she apparently died in her sleep.”
Mrs. Worthington’s eyes fell.
“It was like that with your daughter too, was it not?” Constance said gently.
The lady raised her eyes again, and this time they were outraged. “What are you trying to imply?”
“The similarities are on the bare surface. I am trying to find out if they go deeper. Let me tell you the circumstances of Mrs. Montague’s—”
“I don’t wish to hear about them!” Mrs. Worthington snapped. “Are you some kind of ghoul? A reporter for some disgusting scandal rag?”
“No, ma’am. I am rather desperately trying to find the truth about one young woman’s inexplicable death.”
Mrs. Worthington waved one dismissive hand, swinging away from Constance. “Sometimes death is not explained. God just takes his own and we are left to cope with it, to make sense of it.”
“That is what I am trying to do,” Constance said at once. “Make sense of it. And, if possible, prevent it from happening again.”
“You are not a doctor!”
“No, I am not. But I can observe, and I can think. So can you. Mrs. Montague went to sleep one night, apparently happy with her whole life. She was found dead by her maid in the morning. There were no marks on her body, no obvious signs of bodily distress or poisoning. But her pillows had been moved into a position in which she never slept. Somehow, a vase of roses had made their way into her bedchamber during the night, probably cut from the garden in the square opposite the house. Does any of that sound remotely familiar to you?”
