“To my knowledge,” Kellar said, “a violinist. And I suspect there was someone before him, but I was not in the country then to observe. Either way, does a woman take a lover when she is happily married?”
“You are sure this went onafterher marriage?” Solomon asked, while Constance went back to looking under drawers and rummaging in cupboards.
“Until her death, as far as I know,” Kellar replied.
“And you made it your business to know?” Solomon said.
“I felt responsible for her. I brought her here.”
“Then you were not,” Solomon said with deliberation, “one of her lovers?”
Kellar blinked. “Good God, no, she could be my daughter!”
“Is she?” Constance asked, straightening once more from the wardrobe.
“No.”
It might have been the truth. It might not. With Kellar, it was hard to tell.
Solomon wandered to the fireplace. In the middle of summer, it was empty and had clearly not been used for some weeks. However, a charred flake caught in the grate made him crouch down to look beneath. There were no coal ashes, just a little pile of what he was sure was burned paper.
“What is it?” Constance asked.
“Something was burned here recently. Letters, perhaps.”
Kellar strode toward him. “Perhaps Montague had found out about Darrow.”
“And perhaps she was just tidying her desk,” Solomon said. “She was clearly a tidy person. Did you find anything out of place, Constance?”
She shook her head. “I’ll ring for the maid.”
The maid appeared with unexpected speed, as though she had bolted upstairs. She was a statuesque woman with a stern, pale face and fierce eyes that were red-rimmed. Throwing open the door, she halted in her tracks to find so many people in the room.
Kellar addressed her kindly. “Webb, this is Mr. and Mrs. Grey, who are paying their last respects to your mistress. They have a few questions for you, since you were the last person to see her.”
“She never said she was ill,” Webb said. “She never looked ill. Even now, you’d think she were only sleeping.”
“She is at peace,” Constance said as the maid tore her eyes from Caterina’s dead face. “What is your name?”
“Mary Webb, ma’am.”
“And how long were you Mrs. Montague’s maid?”
“Since before she was married. Four years? Almost since she came to England.”
“Was she happy when you last saw her?” Constance asked.
“Oh yes, ma’am.” A frown marred Mary’s brow. “At least, shewashappy, ebullient, like, when she came into the room. More thoughtful while we got her ready for bed. Expect she was tired. She is, after a performance.”
“I can imagine. Did she confide her thoughts to you?”
“No. And I didn’t ask. I knew she would tell me if she wanted me to do anything for her. But she just lay down and went to sleep.”
“Like that?” Solomon asked, indicating the bed. Mary looked, frowned again, and shook her head emphatically.
“Not quite like that. She never slept with her pillows like that.”
Constance took a step nearer her. “Didn’t she? You know that because you arranged them for her?”
