Chapter Ten #2
At precisely two o’clock that afternoon, Solomon and Constance knocked on Marianne Locke’s front door.
She had rooms with their own separate entrance in a larger building.
It would, Solomon reflected, make a discreet meeting place for lovers.
If Caterina had been seen entering the building, she was obviously calling on her friend.
If anyone had noticed Darrow, well, he could have been visiting any number of other people.
The singer opened the door herself. Interestingly, she wore black again, although it was a different gown from yesterday, more modest and comfortable.
“My wife,” Solomon said with the usual tingle of pride. When he had first met Constance, he could never have imagined saying those words, let alone being proud of them. What foolish assumptions and prejudices misdirected the brain…
“How do you, Mrs. Grey?” Marianne led the way into a cozy parlor. A piano occupied one corner of the room, which was decorated in pleasant autumnal shades of green and brown and gold. “Do sit down. I’ll fetch us some tea.”
She must have had everything prepared, because she returned only moments later bearing a tea tray. A sliced cake already sat on the low table conveniently placed between a sofa and two armchairs. Whatever the singer had to say to them, she had not invited them for a scolding.
While the tea was infusing, she said, “Carl—Mr. Darrow said you called on him with questions about Caterina, at Mr. Montague’s request.”
“With Mr. Montague’s permission,” Solomon corrected her. “Our questions were inspired by the concerns of another friend of Caterina’s.”
“Mr. Kellar,” Constance said. “Perhaps you know him?”
“We have met. Caterina was very fond of him. I believe he was a family friend who helped her escape from Italy during the late revolutions.”
“Then you understand his concerns about her death?” Constance said.
“I understand his grief. I’m not sure I understand what his concerns actually are. Darrow seemed to think you doubted her death was of natural causes. Which naturally troubles both of us.”
“Is Mr. Darrow angry with us for these questions?” Solomon asked. The violinist had certainly avoided both of them quite adeptly yesterday.
“No, he is angry with Mr. Montague,” Marianne said ruefully, “having tried and convicted him in his own head. If indeed that much thought was actually involved.”
“Do you believe Mr. Montague could have harmed his wife?”
“He doted on her. He is a gentle man.”
Not so gentle that he could resist tripping the man who had cuckolded him. Plus, Marianne hadn’t actually answered the question.
“Mrs. Locke, was Caterina afraid of her husband?” he asked bluntly.
“Oh, no. I’m sure she had no cause to be.”
“Not even if he knew about her relationship with Darrow?”
Marianne’s lips parted and closed again. She had made up her mind to tell them something—why else would she have invited them here?—but it was not easy for her to say. No doubt loyalty and past promises made it so.
She sighed and picked up the teapot. “He did know.”
“What makes you think so?” Constance asked.
“Because Caterina told me. That was why she decided to end the affair with Darrow.”
“Was Montague threatening her?” Solomon leaned across the table to take the cup and saucer from her and passed it to Constance.
“I don’t believe so.” Marianne concentrated on pouring a second cup. “He is not that kind of man. It was her own decision. She could not bear to hurt him.”
Constance frowned. “Then why did she begin the affair in the first place?”
Marianne gave Solomon his tea and poured some for herself. “Impulse. The same reason she did most things. And attraction. Carl is a handsome young man, and she loved his music. A slice of cake, Mrs. Grey?”
“Thank you.” Constance accepted the plate and helped herself. “Then in her mind, at least, if her husband didn’t know, she wasn’t hurting him?”
“Something like that,” Marianne said.
“You disapprove,” Constance remarked, “and yet you allowed them to meet here.”
Marianne stirred sugar into her tea. “I was her friend and I knew her. She would have met Carl anyway, one way or another, no doubt recklessly and causing massive scandal as well as a public breach with her husband. Here, they were as safe as they could be until the affair had run its course.”
“You assumed it would end?” Solomon said. “Was there no chance that Caterina would come to prefer Darrow?”
“No, I don’t believe so. Her husband was her rock. If it came to a choice, she would always choose him. Carl knew that.”
Solomon sipped his tea. “When did Montague find out?”
“About a fortnight ago. Or, at least, that’s when Caterina learned that he knew.”
“How did she find that out?” Constance asked. “Did he tell her in so many words? Or did she confess to him?”
“No, I think he told her that he knew. According to Caterina, she assured him passionately of her love and promised to end the affair.”
“When?” Solomon asked. “When exactly did she do that?”
“That,” Marianne said carefully, “is really what is bothering me, and why I wanted to talk to you. She told me a couple of weeks ago that she would end it that very day when she met Carl—which I had already helped her arrange for Monday the twenty-seventh of June. I offered to stay here for moral support while she delivered his congé, but she insisted she would be better alone, so I went out. And then, only a couple of days later, she asked me to arrange another meeting, for Tuesday, the fifth of July.”
Solomon set down his cup. “Then she didn’t end it after all?”
“I don’t know. She told me she had, but that there was some ‘difficulty’ she needed to resolve.”
“And she met him again on that Tuesday?”
“I assume so. I went out as usual to give them privacy, but I never saw her again.”
“Were there no signs that they had been here?” Constance asked.
Marianne met her gaze frankly. “The spare bed had not been used. Nor was it on the previous occasion. She was keeping her word.”
“And did you discover what the ‘difficulty’ was that meant she had to see Darrow in private again?”
“No. But by all accounts and my own observation, her performance at the opera was spectacular on Tuesday evening, and especially so on Wednesday. She was happy. I would say she had somehow solved the difficulty.”
Constance leaned back against the cushions. “Or,” she said slowly, “she had arranged to run away with Darrow.”
*
The Covent Garden shop bearing the sign Curiosities and Antiques, prop. J. Silver was closed.
Kellar was not surprised. It was Sunday, after all.
Since he had never in his passing surveillance seen Juliet leave the premises after the shop was locked up for the night, he presumed she lived in the rooms above it.
He had seen lights up there yesterday evening, but it had not been the right time to call.
Daylight was less threatening. She was more likely to open the door. And then…
Keeping his mind on the current steps in his plan, he halted decisively outside the solid wooden gate that he suspected led to some kind of service lane. It didn’t.
Opening it, he found himself in a small yard behind the shop.
It was paved and well swept, and all around it were pots of beautifully scented flowers and herbs, contrasting vividly with the usually rank London air.
Memory tried to distract him: a much younger Juliet kneeling by a flower bed, the sun on her golden hair, as she weeded the soil and cut chosen stems to brighten a house that was not hers.
The scents of hyacinths and roses came back to him, mingling with rosemary and sage.
The plan, Kellar.
He knocked on the door, not so loudly that he would startle her, but not too timidly either. He wanted her to hear. Then he stepped politely back, so as not to loom. He had the feeling she would shut the door in his face if he loomed, and then where would the plan be?
The downstairs window showed him a little kitchen with a table and a couple of chairs—probably the back of the shop.
He heard movement beyond the door and caught his breath. A key was inserted into the lock and turned. Two bolts were drawn back. None of it was hurried, not even the opening of the door.
Juliet Silver wore a bright floral-print gown whose principal color was orange. She hadn’t painted her eyebrows or any other parts of her face, which betrayed more than her years. Life had not been kind to Juliet. But a trace of the young woman and her bold courage echoed in that direct, open gaze.
She didn’t even look surprised. “Sebastian. I thought it would be you.”
He took off his hat. “May I come in?”
Everything depended on her answer. Well, not everything. He still had an alternative.
Her eyes remained on his. He had to make an effort not to flex his fingers, ready to push open the door if he had to.
She moved the door suddenly, pulling it wide. “Well, don’t just stand there. I have five minutes before I need to go out.”
No, you don’t. Smiling, he stepped inside and closed the door.