Chapter Nineteen
The hackney that Solomon had commandeered from under the nose of an outraged city gentleman galloped into Theobalds Street.
Solomon, all but hanging out of the door, saw at once that there were no other hackneys in the street.
He hoped that was a good sign, for his own carriage stood like a badge outside number twenty-one.
Solomon flung himself into the street before the horses had even halted and hurled some coins in the direction of the jarvey.
“Is she in the house?” he called to his own coachman.
“Still there, sir.”
“Did anyone else go in?”
“One out, one in, from what I saw, but I did walk the horses around…”
Solomon did not wait for more.
“If I shout, come at once,” he commanded over his shoulder as he strode up the path and knocked furiously at the door.
Hearing a faint bump and rustling inside, he even threw himself at it, shoulder first, though it didn’t budge.
He bolted around the path to the back of the house and took a run at the kitchen door.
It flew open and he catapulted inside so quickly that he barely had time to register the other presence before a fist hit him in the chest. With the force of his own charge, the blow knocked him to the ground, winded.
His vision swam sickeningly, while all he could think, desperately, was Constance.
He had come to save her and was failing.
Kellar’s face came into blurry focus, and Solomon forced his limbs to move, kicking out and bringing the older man down on top of him. With a sudden gasp of air, Solomon rolled, pinning Kellar with his weight, and raised his arm, fist clenched.
Kellar bucked, blocking the punch on one arm and shoving hard with the other. Unbalanced, Solomon leapt to his feet. So did Kellar, with impressive agility for a man of his years. No wonder he had been able to climb up to Caterina’s window…
Solomon lunged, crashing Kellar into the kitchen door, and again drew back his fist.
Then Constance screamed.
Solomon barely heard her words. It sounded like “Get off, get off!” But her voice acted like a switch on both the kitchen combatants. Solomon froze for the slightest instant, which handed the advantage to Kellar.
Kellar didn’t take it.
He stared at Solomon, frowning, panting.
Solomon wrenched him aside by the coat and flung open the door.
He heard Kellar pounding after him into the hall, but somewhere, he already realized that the diplomat was not the real threat.
They had taken each other by surprise, that was all, and lashed out like stupid schoolboys in the playground.
Solomon skidded to a halt on the hall rug, almost crashing into Digby Montague, who stood at the foot of the staircase, clutching his hair in horror.
No wonder. George Martin was lying, twisted, on the stairs, while with one hand, Carl Darrow tried to hold a cushion over the old man’s face. The violinist held his other arm up, to protect his head from Constance, who was belaboring him with blows from her bag.
And those blows could be vicious. Solomon had known her to carry heavy stones in that bag for defensive purposes.
“It was you, Charles Derrick!” she was yelling in rhythm with her blows. “You couldn’t bear to be rejected, so you blackmailed her to keep her. You drove her to fight back, to find your own secret. And that was why she had to die.”
Appalled, clearly physically unable to intervene, Montague only gaped at the scene before him—a man who could be angered and roused to passion, but definitely not a man of violence. Even when he’d tripped Darrow after the funeral, he hadn’t waited to see the blood.
Solomon shoved him out of the way, leapt up two stairs, and, grasping Darrow by the arm, dragged him off Martin. Darrow made a last-second attempt to shove the cushion in Solomon’s face, but Solomon ripped it from his grasp and threw it over the banister.
Still lying on the stairs, Martin made a horrible, rasping noise in his throat, but at least he was still breathing. Constance had managed to weaken Darrow’s hold by forcing him to defend himself.
She sat down abruptly on the top step, her bag slipping from her grip.
“Solomon,” she whispered.
For an instant their eyes met. There was time only to touch her cheek, to feel the comfort of her skin, her vitality. And then he swung away, because Darrow, whom he had left to Kellar, was trying to barge past the older man to the front door.
With impressive speed, Kellar shoved him face first into the wall, his arm wrenched too far up his back. Montague scrambled further into the corner.
“Not my bowing arm!” Darrow screamed. “Not my hands!”
“You can always sing,” Constance said contemptuously, as Solomon jumped to the foot of the stairs to help hold Darrow. “It might cheer the other prisoners. Before you go to the scaffold.”
“It was him?” Kellar said quickly. “Have you proof?”
“There’s proof he brought the roses to her room,” Solomon said, dragging the useful string he’d found in Darrow’s coat from his own pocket and beginning to bind Darrow’s wrists. The violinist made an ugly whining noise until Kellar elegantly popped a balled handkerchief into his mouth.
Solomon continued, “I found a red rose petal and a thorn caught in an old coat of his. The back of it is all roughened by thorns. I believe he tied them to his back with this very string, then climbed up to her room, hoping to bribe his way in if he had to. I suppose she was asleep?”
Solomon flung the last question at Darrow, who could only nod. The wild look was vanishing from his eyes.
“He has a past,” Constance said from the stairs.
She was helping poor Martin into a sitting position against the wall, placing the offending cushion behind his head.
“He swindled and murdered an heiress in York. He strangled her. I suppose the smothering was a refinement—he had plenty of time to think about it while he fled from the authorities in York, and changed his name, and concentrated exclusively on the violin, which he hadn’t been particularly known for previously. No one made the connection.”
“Apart from me,” Martin wheezed. “I saw a sketch of Darrow in a London newspaper, couldn’t think why he was so familiar, since I’d never heard him play, until Caterina came to talk to me and I realized what—and whom—she was looking for.”
“Why didn’t you tell us this yesterday?” Solomon demanded.
“The honor of discretion,” Constance said. She looked directly at Montague, who was standing perfectly still in the corner, dazed and troubled. “I’m sorry. I thought it was you.”
Montague licked his lips. “It was me, in a way,” he said hoarsely. “She should have been able to come to me with this. I was not the right husband for her.”
“You were,” Constance said. “Don’t you see? She did all this, risked all this, for you.”
Tears sprang into Montague’s eyes.
Kellar said, “Mrs. Grey is right. I can see that now. She didn’t come to me either, and I was her oldest friend in this country. I believe I was lashing out at you, Montague, as well as playing my own game. I’m sorry.”
Solomon caught his gaze. “Maybe it’s time you stopped playing games. If you expect trust, you have to show a little.”
Kellar sighed. “I preferred the days when the old were the wise.” He jerked his head at Darrow. “What do we do with him? Drop him in the Thames?”
“No,” Constance said severely. “We summon a policeman.”
“Several policemen,” Solomon corrected her. “He’s a slippery little brute.”
“Pity,” Constance said. “He plays like an angel.”
“You should have heard him sing,” Martin said sadly. “What a waste of so many lives. His own. Caterina’s. The poor lady in York…”
“What on earth did you mean to do here?” Solomon asked, staring at Darrow. “Smother Constance after Mr. Martin was dead? And then me? That’s a lot of smothered people. Supposing you had succeeded, don’t you think the police might have caught on?”
Darrow made a brief noise, and Solomon gingerly removed the handkerchief from the man’s mouth, using his thumb and one finger.
“There’s more than one way to kill,” Darrow said contemptuously.
“An old man collapsed on his stairs. A young woman hurrying to his aid falls and breaks her neck. A grieving husband commits suicide.” He glanced venomously at Montague.
“Two grieving husbands. Who’d miss any of them?
A third-rate musician with a house full of paper.
A whore and her slave. A merchant with nothing to sell and no passion in his soul. ”
“But we are still alive,” Constance said, standing up. “And loved. As was Caterina. Who will grieve for you, Mr. Derrick?”
Somehow, it was painful to see the smug derision drain from Darrow’s face. He was a performer and had fooled so many for so long. Now it was as if the performance no longer worked. As if, finally, he saw that even the soul of his music was a pretense, and the rest was emptiness.
Suddenly cold, Solomon tugged the murderer toward the front door. He was anxious to be rid of him.
*
When Constance entered the Silver and Grey office, Hat almost fell on her neck, full of apologies for carelessness and neglect.
“I would’ve come to find you myself, only I didn’t want to leave the office unattended, and I thought Mr. Kellar was your friend…”
“Wotcher, ma’am,” Janey said cheerfully, ambling along the hall and looking rather pleased with herself. “She means he read some scrap of paper on her desk that said where you and himself was off to.”
“Ah, that’s why he showed up,” Constance said. “I think he and Mr. Grey gave each other black eyes before they discovered they were indeed friends. It’s a lesson, Hat, but no harm done. Mr. Kellar was, in fact, quite useful.” Apart from the black eyes. “When did you get back, Janey?”
“Just now. Found no trace of you lovebirds.”