At the first four doors approached, they encountered only blank headshakes. On the fifth, they were shouted at by the grumpy master of the house for wasting his time. The seventh door, nobody answeredat all, so Solomon noted the number in his head to come back to later.
Number twenty-one was opened by a stooped old gentleman with wild white hair and a gray mustache. His expression, though distracted, was amiable enough. There was a speck of egg yolk on his lapel.
“Mrs. Montague?” he repeated in clear surprise at Solomon’s request. “But my dear sir, have you not heard?”
At last!“Heard what?” Solomon asked, just to be sure.
“Why, that the poor lady is dead. It is a great grief to me.” And indeed, there was profound sadness in his fading old eyes.
“We’re so sorry,” Constance said quickly. “In fact, we did know that she had passed away. But we understand she visited you several times in the week or so before she died. Could we possibly talk to you about her?”
The old gentleman looked from one to the other, his gaze sharper than had first been apparent. Then he opened the door wide. “Come in.”
Constance and Solomon followed him into the house and into a pleasant but fading sitting room crowded with books and newspapers and sheets of music. A clarinet lay on the table; a guitar was propped against the wall. The connection to Caterina was obvious.
“My name is Grey,” Solomon said, offering his card. “This is my wife and partner.”
His bushy old eyebrows lifted as their host took the card, though he said only, “I’m George Martin. Some people call me ‘professor,’ though I’m not one. I just look the part.”
“Wait,” Constance said, recognizing the name. “Were you not Mrs. Montague’s singing teacher?”
Martin wheezed out a laugh. “Nothing so grand. My talents are limited. My opinions are not! Fortunately, she valued those opinions. What are you investigating and what has poor Mrs. Montague to do with it? Please, Mrs. Grey, sit down.”
“Thank you.” Constance sat on the sofa, so Solomon sat beside herwhile their host lowered himself into the chair opposite, which, judging by its threadbare state, was his favorite.
“We are investigating Mrs. Montague’s death, at the request of a family friend,” Solomon began. “Perhaps you are acquainted with Mr. Kellar?”
“No. But I have heard his name. Was he not the one who brought her to this country?”
Solomon nodded. “He was. I imagine that is why he felt so responsible for her.”
“The newspapers said it was her heart. Was that not the case?”
“We don’t actually know. There are a number of oddities that we cannot explain. Pillows moved to positions she would not have chosen, a vase of roses that appeared as if by magic during the night. And, of course, the suddenness when she had appeared so well even the evening before. According to her doctor, her heart condition was well under control.”
Martin narrowed his eyes. “What is it you think I can tell you?”
“You were not at the funeral?” Constance intervened.
Martin shrugged. “At my age, there are too many of those. And she was too young to die. Plus, it takes me all day to walk the length of the street.”
They were all valid reasons to stay away.
“She visited you often?” Constance asked.
“Before she was married, yes. Or we went to concerts together. I often went to hear her sing, at various theatres all over the country. But my health is not so good these days.”
“Our information,” Solomon said mildly, “is that she called on you three times in the week before she died. That sounds quiteoftento me.”
“It was unusual,” Martin allowed, “for recent years.”
“Was she alone?”
Martin nodded, lifting his brows in faint surprise at the question.
“On each visit?” Solomon pursued.
“Yes. What—”
