Chapter Six
Until he saw the rosebushes with the cut stems, Solomon had been ready to throw in the towel, in the parlance of the prize fighter.
There had seemed to be no other clues to collect and no threads of inquiry worth following.
For reasons of his own, Kellar found it hard to accept Caterina’s death, but there was no evidence pointing to anything other than the heart failure diagnosed by her doctor.
During their quick luncheon at the Silver and Grey offices, Constance argued, “It makes no real difference. We already decided Caterina herself had slipped out of the house at night to collect the roses. She could just as easily have crossed the road and picked them herself.”
“She could have,” Solomon agreed. “But if she was as careful of her rest, as Mary said, then why would she?”
“It would give us two bouquets of red roses,” Constance said. “Is that not too great a coincidence?”
“Not for someone like Caterina. And in any case, we only have Darrow’s word that he gave them to her and that she took them to the theatre.”
“Why would he lie?” Constance demanded.
“I have no idea,” Solomon admitted. “But I don’t think we’ve solved the mystery of the roses yet. We can at least go to the theatre this afternoon and see if someone there can make sense of it.”
She sighed. “I suppose so.”
Solomon watched her eat in silence for a few minutes before he said lightly, “Tired of mysteries, Constance? Do you want to retire?”
She opened her mouth to deny it, then thought about it a moment longer. “No. I’m just not afraid of stopping anymore.”
He raised his brows. “You were afraid to stop?”
“I thought if we did, I wouldn’t see you anymore.”
He reached across the desk and threaded his fingers through hers. “I thought up the partnership in the first place as a means of keeping you with me.”
She smiled. “And a means of distracting me from the establishment.”
“That too, though it didn’t work out quite so well, did it? I didn’t understand, then, what you were doing. Or even what I was feeling for you. I just wanted more.”
To his delight, color seeped into her face. “So did I. I didn’t trust the emotions, but I always seemed to trust you. We don’t need the mysteries anymore.”
“But do we want them?”
She searched his eyes, her soft, slender fingers caressing his palm. “I do. Just not this one. Do you?”
“In general, yes. And in the case of this one, I wouldn’t feel right if we left it as it stands.”
She sighed. “Neither would I,” she admitted. “Though I don’t have to like it.” She rose and dragged his hand to her lips before collecting his plate and putting it with her own for Hat to wash when they were gone. “Then let’s get it over with.”
“In a moment,” Sol said, standing and taking her into his arms.
In fact, it was about ten minutes before they emerged from the office and walked arm in arm to the opera house.
The front door of the theatre was closed, the notices outside still proclaiming that last night’s performance of Rigoletto had been canceled, presumably out of respect for the dead. The date had not been changed to today, so perhaps Caterina’s understudy was due to perform instead.
All of which sparked another suspicion in his mind. Was there not a huge amount of backbiting and jealousy amongst theatrical people? If foul play was involved in Caterina’s death, was it not more likely to come from here than from the people who loved her at home?
The stage door, when they eventually found it and Solomon had battered at it for some time, was opened by a glowering porter who demanded belligerently, “What?”
Only then did he look Solomon up and down and take in Constance’s presence.
“Are you leaving flowers for Mrs. di Ripoli?” he asked with greater civility.
“We have already paid our respects to her husband,” Constance said. “On his behalf, we were hoping to speak to Mrs. di Ripoli’s dresser.”
“And her understudy,” Solomon added.
The porter’s frown returned, as though he suspected them of being journalists. However, it must have been a fleeting notion, assuaged once more by their appearance, for he opened the door wide for them to enter.
“Don’t know if Miss Gentle is free—she’s got a lot to do if she’s to go on tonight, but Rose is in the dressing room…”
He led them into the bowels of the building, along a passage of many doors.
Pieces of muffled music and several different voices drifted to Solomon’s ears.
He wondered if Darrow was here, too, rehearsing with the orchestra, or if he were no longer needed.
In any case, without the attraction of Caterina, he probably preferred solo performances.
He was too ambitious—and perhaps too good—to enjoy being lost in an orchestra.
The porter halted at a door with Caterina’s name still upon it and opened it.
A woman stood by an open trunk, cradling an elaborate gown to her cheek.
The large dressing table appeared to have been cleared of everything except a vase of wilted flowers.
Other posies, in similar conditions, some shedding petals, some almost dried, were scattered all over the room on every available surface.
The woman lowered the dress, blinking at the visitors as though adjusting to present reality.
“They’re from Mrs. di Ripoli’s husband,” the porter said to her gruffly. “Give me a shout if you need me.”
The woman nodded vaguely and quickly addressed Solomon. “I haven’t finished packing up all her things yet, but we’ll send them to the house later this afternoon—unless you want to wait?”
“We haven’t come for her things,” Solomon said. “We just wanted to talk to you about Mrs. di Ripoli. My name is Solomon Grey. This is my wife.”
“Rose Samuels,” the woman said, dropping a slight, unexpectedly graceful curtsey.
“Your name is familiar,” Constance said. “Don’t you sing, too?”
“I used to,” the dresser said. “Until I was ill. My voice never recovered. Now I dress the prima donna.” She dropped the gown on top of the things already in the trunk and gestured toward the sofa by the window. “Won’t you sit down?”
“Thank you. Did you know Mrs. di Ripoli well?”
“Since she came to England. My voice had already gone by then, and she understood how difficult that was. More than a mere loss of income, although God knows that matters too. She helped me accept and live with it. Especially after she was ill herself and thought her career too might be over.”
“Then you were her friend as well as her dresser?”
“Yes.”
Constance smiled. “Good. Then you will understand how the suddenness of her death might…disturb those closest to her. You were with her for the performance on Wednesday evening?”
Rose inclined her head. “Of course.”
“Did she seem well to you?”
“Very well. She was excited and confident, as she usually was before and during a performance. And she was brilliant as Gilda… But she was also happy.”
Constance seized on that. “Had she been unhappy before Wednesday evening?”
The dresser waved that aside as though it was of little account. Or perhaps she regretted the words. “A little. Her life was complicated.”
“In what way?”
Rose shrugged, now definitely uncomfortable. “Oh, juggling her professional life and her marriage. She naturally wanted to give her all to each, but that wasn’t always possible.”
She definitely knows about Darrow, Solomon thought.
Constance had obviously guessed the same, for she said, “Especially when added to another, less public relationship.”
Rose flushed. “There is nothing in that. Foolish rumor.”
“We have already spoken to Mr. Darrow,” Constance said.
The dresser started toward them, then halted, clenching and unclenching her hands.
“Oh. Mr. Montague doesn’t know, does he?
She never wanted him to know. That was why she broke it off.
Or, at least, she was going to. I thought that was why she was happier on Wednesday, because she had finally done so. ”
“He played with the orchestra here on Wednesday evening,” Solomon said. “Did he visit Mrs. di Ripoli here in her dressing room?”
“Oh, no, she never allowed that. She told me he just liked to be part of her performance.”
“Did she say such things to other people?” Solomon asked.
“No, no, she was very discreet.”
Except with Mary Webb and Rose Samuels. “Did he send flowers to her dressing room?”
“If he did, it was anonymously.”
“On Monday evening, when she arrived at the theatre, did she bring flowers with her?”
“Monday? Yes, I think it was Monday she arrived with a dozen red roses. I put them in water for her.”
Solomon looked around the room again. There were droopy white roses and a multitude of other species, but nothing that resembled a dozen red roses in any condition. “When did she take them home with her?”
Rose raised her eyebrows in clear surprise. “She didn’t. She asked me to throw them out on Wednesday evening because they were smelling bad—I’d forgotten to change the water, and roses don’t really thrive in here. Not enough sun…”
Solomon exchanged a glance with Constance.
“Where did you put them?” she asked pleasantly.
“I squashed them into the dustbin outside.”
The roses in Caterina’s bedroom had certainly never been squashed. If she had brought them into her house, they had not been Darrow’s.
“When you helped Mrs. di Ripoli to dress,” Constance said, “did you ever notice marks on her person?”
Rose frowned. “What sort of marks?”
“Any sort—bruises, cuts, swellings…”
“No.” Rose looked more bewildered than outraged. “Never that I can recall.”
“Did you ever get the impression she was afraid of anyone?”
Rose smiled. “Caterina? Lord, no. She wasn’t frightened of anyone or anything.”
“Not even her husband?”
Rose paused, her lips already parted to reply. After an instant, she said, “Well, she was afraid of his not thinking well of her.”
“You mean if he found out about Mr. Darrow?”
“Exactly.”
“What about Mr. Darrow?” Solomon said. “Did she ever seem afraid of him?”
Rose shook her head emphatically. “Oh, no.”