“Not that I ever heard. Papa was much too well mannered and tolerant to quarrel with anyone.”
Constance went to the desk drawer and drew out the purloined invoices from Veronique. “Has Madame Veronique always made your clothes?”
“Only since I came out. But I believe she’s dressed Mama for about ten years. Why?”
“Because even by the standards of fashionable modistes,” Constance said, “she charges a formidable amount of money.”
“It is expected,” Bella said with a little shrug, glancing at the accounts Constance laid before her on the table. Her eyes widened. “Whose—?” She broke off the question as she took in the name and address at the top of each. She swallowed. “That does seem an awful lot of money.”
After a blank moment, she suddenly frowned and snatched one bill off the table. “Blue silk evening gown… We never bought such a gown. The color does not suit me or my mother. And the date…” She straightened the other account and cast her gaze over it too. “There’s a mistake. These are someone else’s accounts. The last of my trousseau was delivered two weeks before this date. And there is not a blue evening gown nor a coral walking dress amongst them. Why would Papa have paid for them?”
She lifted her gaze to Constance and then to Solomon. “Did you find these in my father’s study?”
Constance nodded.
“Perhaps he just paid everything without consulting Mama.”
“Veronique always sends accounts directly to your father?”
“I suppose she must have. I never thought of it. But such an exorbitant sum he would surely have queried… Oh, I have it! Mama must have bought these dresses for herself.”
“Can you find out?” Constance asked.
“Yes. Why does it matter?”
“No particular reason. It just seemed odd to us.”
Solomon asked, “How did your mother come to patronize Veronique? Was she recommended to her?”
“I really don’t know. Does it matter?”
“I’m not sure,” Solomon said. “Have you ordered anything else from her?”
“Only black mourning gowns. They were delivered this morning.”
“Could you intercept the bill when it arrives? Or at least take note of it?”
“Yes, if you think it’s important. What is it you suspect?”
“We’re not sure yet,” Constance said. “We’re just following oddities that have anything to do with your father.”
“You said your mother had locked the study and couldn’t yet face sorting your father’s papers,” Solomon said. “Is that still the case?”
“Yes, I think so. Why?”
“There was a bundle of letters in his desk—personal letters, mostly those sent by you and your brother when you were children, and a few from old friends. But the bundle seemed to be thinner than at one time, as though someone had removed a few letters.”
“It must have been my father. No one else goes in there when he is not present.” Bella’s voice wobbled and she swallowed.
“Do you remember anyone visiting him in the study in the week or so before he died?”
“Only Anthony and me.”
“Not an old friend—like Mr. Granger, perhaps?”
“Not that I can recall, but sometimes he stayed at home when Mama and I were out, so it is possible. But Mr. Granger would never poke into Papa’s possessions! He is a gentleman.”
“Of course not,” Solomon soothed her. “Tell me, would your father have any reason to be worried about Anthony?”
