Chapter Eighteen #2
Only, of course, Montague would surely have known about the arrangement of her pillows. Darrow and Kellar would not.
Did Martin’s records give away some terrible secret about one of them?
Or all of them?
Solomon dragged himself back to the present. He dropped the thorn and petal into his handkerchief and pocketed them, before bundling the old coat up and shoving it back in the corner of the wardrobe.
Darrow had some other questions to answer. How best to play this vital scene?
Solomon had to tell Darrow he knew the roses came from him. After that, surely, he would be able to tell whether or not the man was lying?
Where the devil was Darrow? How long did it take to make a cup of tea?
Suddenly wary, Solomon strode from the room and into the piano-dominated parlor at the front of the house. He went straight to the windows, already sure what he would find. His hackney had gone.
Perhaps the jarvey had got tired waiting, or…
Darrow was a professional performer. Just like Caterina. An actor.
And I told him about Martin and Theobalds Street. Oh, dear God…
Solomon delayed only long enough to snatch up his hat from Darrow’s room, then flew down the stairs, running Mrs. Philpot to earth in her kitchen, where she stood rolling pastry at the table with smudges of flour on her face and powerful arms.
“Where is Darrow?” he demanded before she could speak.
Her mouth dropped open. “He went out the back way. I thought you’d gone.”
Solomon bolted from the house.
*
Hat was surprised to open the front door of Silver and Grey’s offices and find Mr. Kellar there yet again.
“I’m sorry, sir, they’re both out. If you’d care to leave a message, I’ll see they get it as soon as they return.”
“Very well, I’ll do that,” the gentleman said amiably.
Hat showed him into the waiting room, where writing materials were provided. “Just hand it to me before you go,” she said cheerfully. “I’m in the tiny office at the end of the hall.”
Only a couple of minutes later, his shadow fell over her. He didn’t half walk quietly. He placed a folded piece of paper on her desk. It was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Grey.
He smiled at her. “Thank you. I don’t suppose you know where I might find them? Just to save time?”
Hat knew not to divulge such information to anyone. Confidentiality depended on such discretion. “I couldn’t say, sir.”
His gaze remained fixed at a point on her desk. Unease wound through her, but she continued to look at his face, not at the desk.
He smiled again, even touched the brim of his hat. “Of course you couldn’t. Thank you, miss.”
Hat conducted him to the front door, her heart beating stupidly.
Only when she had shut and locked it behind him did she run back to her desk and risk looking for what he might have seen.
She found it at once—a carelessly left scrap of paper with the addresses of the morning’s visits scribbled in her own hand.
Surely it didn’t matter? Mr. Kellar was a client and friend.
Why, then, did she feel so anxious? As if whatever was to unfold was her fault…?
She wished Janey would come home. With Lenny.
*
Constance did not hesitate. She went straight to the drawer labelled A-D. She noted files for both di Ripoli and Darrow—which briefly distracted her into searching out Montague and Kellar too. Intriguingly, she found them.
As a young man, Montague had indeed played the violin in amateur concerts in London and in India. And Kellar had apparently sung in private charity concerts in New York and Italy.
She left them for later, since it was apparently Charles Derrick she needed to know about.
Derrick’s file was not fat, like Caterina’s, so she took the whole folder and spread the contents across the narrow desk at the window.
The heading on his file was Tenor, Clarinet, Violin, All string and wind instruments. So, a man of multiple talents. The earliest mention of him was a note by hand, presumably by Martin himself, praising the marvelous new talent at the Reid Festival in Scotland in 1847.
A mere boy with a prodigious talent of voice—outstanding performance in Mendelsohn’s Elijah. The following night played clarinet in the Philharmonic…
There was a program for a later Scottish Philharmonic concert in early 1849 that named him among the wind instrument players.
And a newspaper cutting from York praising his solo performance later the same year.
The most recent cutting was from 1850. Although she did come across one dated later that year, it had obviously been misplaced, for it was about a charity concert in York played by an Irish flautist.
She shoved everything back in the folder and stood somewhat impatiently. What was Derrick to do with Caterina or any of their suspects? Was he someone else in Caterina’s life that they had never heard of before?
She tutted as the contents slipped through the folder and landed back on the desk.
Beginning to pick them up, she saw that one of the cuttings—the piece about the York flautist—had turned itself over.
On the other side was part of a news story about a fraudster who had swindled a wealthy lady out of a considerable amount of money before strangling her and fleeing.
A hue and cry was out for one Charles Derrick, a talented young musician much lauded in Scotland and the north of England, the fraudster who was suspected of the murder.
Constance sat down again, staring at the cutting, which was clearly not in the wrong place after all, although Martin had obviously made the cutting for the flautist in the first place. He must have seen the reference to Derrick by accident.
A swindler and a murderer. Why would Caterina and Martin have been talking about him unless they knew him? Had he come to London? Why was that discovery so important that it had made her happy rather than frightened?
Because with the information, she could fight back. Win her freedom from either her lover or her husband…or the man constantly in the background of her life. Kellar.
A swindler. Why was the word nagging at her?
Montague in India, according to Solomon’s friend Halliwell.
Abruptly, she set the file aside and pushed back her chair. She went to the index cards and carried all the boxes over to the desk. Then, still standing, she rifled through them until she came to Derrick’s name.
The card directed her to several Scottish and northern English choirs and orchestras, to the cities of Glasgow, Edinburgh, Manchester, and York, to the years 1847 to 1850. And to the name of another musician.
Got you…
She found herself gazing blindly out of the window. She blinked, trying to force her brain to work. That was when the movement in the garden below caught her eye. In quick alarm, she leaned over the desk, pressing her face to the glass.
A man carrying a tall hat, dressed in a good black suit, striding to the kitchen door. She even heard it open below. Her heart dived dizzyingly, for it was Digby Montague.
Constance seized her bag and flew out of the room.
“Mr. Martin!” she cried. “You have an intruder! Where are you, sir?”
There was no answer, except some faint bump from the stairs—hopefully Martin climbing up to her.
Could they barricade themselves in one of the front rooms while they yelled through a window for help?
Trapped in the house, there was nowhere to run, and she could not hold off a man of Montague’s strength for long.
She rushed along the passage to the stairs and suddenly lost what was left of her breath.
Martin lay on the stairs. She recognized his wild white hair and his baggy trousers, though his face was hidden by one of his own parlor cushions, which a second, younger man was holding firmly over his nose and mouth with both hands.
Martin’s legs were twitching, his fingers scrabbling futilely at the cushion that was killing him.
The holder of the cushion glanced up at her with a gleam of hatred but absolutely no fear, let alone remorse. It was not Montague.