“So has poor Digby,” Mrs. Worthington said. “He did not harm my daughter, and I very much doubt he harmed his wife. If that iswhat you are thinking.”
It was. It still was. “Where is the back door? To the kitchen?”
“At the side also.”
“So there is no kitchen window at the back of the house?”
“No.”
“And what time of day did this happen? In the afternoon?”
“I found her at half past two o’clock.”
When the servants would have finished their housework and were preparing for tea and dinner, and showing any callers into the parlor or the drawing room Constance had glimpsed at the front of the house.
“What time did you expect Mr. Montague to call?”
“He came most days, around three, earlier if he and Sophie had planned some excursion.”
“Then he was not hard at work at the office every day?”
“I think he played truant sometimes. But he had begun to look a little tired and drawn. I suspect he began early and returned to the office in the evenings, even after concerts and parties.”
“He was a devoted suitor?”
“He was.”
“And Sophie, was she equally devoted?”
“It was a love match. My husband would have preferred her to marry a banker like himself, of course, but he bowed to her wishes. We both liked Digby.”
“Did she ever give you any indication that he frightened her in any way?”
“You mean was he over-amorous?” Mrs. Worthington said wryly. “If he was, she never told me.”
“In any way at all,” Constance repeated.
“No,” Mrs. Worthington said. “She was eager to marry him.”
“Did they ever quarrel?” Constance asked.
“Occasionally. Little squalls, quickly over on both sides.”
“In the week before she died,” Constance said, “did she seemdifferent in any way? Worried? Distracted? Euphoric, even?”
Mrs. Worthington shook her head. “No. She was an even-tempered girl, in love, and looking forward to her wedding.”
Yet there was a motive somewhere, Constance thought grimly. However, she would not find it here.
*
Montague had neverset foot in a police establishment before. He had no real idea what went on there. But he had once met a superintendent of police whose place of employment was at Scotland Yard, and he remembered the man’s name. He had definitely been a gentleman.
“Mr. Galsworth, if you please,” he said, presenting his card to the rough fellow in uniform who had just batted a crowd of grubby urchins out of the way to get to him.
The name worked like a charm. Galsworth must indeed be a senior figure, for the rough fellow straightened even further and snapped across the room, “Mr. Galsworth in his office?”
“Yes, sergeant. No further appointments this afternoon.”
