“If he is, I don’t think they are his own,” Constance replied. “But he was very reluctant to speak of Montague.”
“Montague is still his patient,” Solomon pointed out. “It may have been a flat denial caused by his own ethics, or…”
“It wouldn’t have given much away to tell us Montaguewashealthy in mind and body,” Constance said. “So perhaps he is not.”
“Or perhaps Sorenson is suspicious of Montague, too,” Solomon said.
“Then why protect him?”
Solomon shrugged. “Lack of evidence? Reluctance to lose another patient? Or simply that we have no authority to question him and he doesn’t like us—or at least me.”
“Hmm…”
“How should we approach Darrow? Honestly?”
Constance considered and nodded. “I think so. After all, we might want to engage him again.”
Solomon could not prevent his quick glance at her, but she had turned her head to gaze out of the window. He didn’t know if she referred to engaging the violinist again for the establishment or for the party he wanted to hold at home. And he didn’t like the feeling that he would be stepping on eggshells to ask. He let it go.
Darrow lived in the upper rooms of what seemed to be a respectable house. As soon as Solomon stepped down from the carriage, he could hear the strains of the violin floating from the house, a phrase repeated over and over. At first it seemed like exact reproduction, and certainly the notes were the same. Yet by the time the front door opened to his knock, he had recognized the minute changes of touch and delicacy. The music moved on, flowing seamlessly. He did not recognize the piece.
“Yes?” said the woman at the door impatiently, and he realized he had not spoken.
“Mr. Darrow, if you please,” Constance said, presenting theirInquiriescard. “Our name is Grey.”
The woman, a stout being of stern expression, looked as if she had no idea what to do with the card. She sniffed and handed it back before opening the door wide. “Top of the stairs and turn right. He won’t thank you for the interruption.”
In fact, Darrow didn’t seem to notice the interruption, despite repeated knocks. It was the door directly facing the stairs that opened to reveal a tousle-headed young man in a hurry.
“He won’t answer,” the man said cheerfully, brushing past Solomon to throw open the door. “Just go in. Carl!”
The young man clattered off down the stairs, and Solomon entered the room first, just in case Darrow was playing in his underclothes.
The violin had cut off abruptly. Carl Darrow, a good-looking young man with raven-black hair and eyebrows, stood in the middle of the cluttered floor, glowering, violin and bow dangling at his side. He was in his shirt sleeves, but at least he was dressed.
His frown smoothed in recognition. “Mrs. Silver!”
Constance moved toward him with impeccable grace, stepping over discarded clothes and books as though they weren’t there, and offering her hand. “Mr. Darrow. You remember my husband, Mr. Grey?”
“Yes, of course,” Darrow said, though he gave Solomon an extra peer as though to be sure. “How do you do? Um…sorry for the mess. There’s a sitting room that might be better…if Reid’s not in it. He’s a pianist.”
“I think he might have gone out,” Solomon said, as Darrow laid his violin and bow in an open case on his unmade bed, then led the way into a parlor that was a good deal tidier and dominated by a slightly battered grand piano.
Darrow gestured politely for them to sit on the sofa. “How can I help you?”
Constance sat while Solomon kept his gaze on Darrow’s face. “It is about the death of Mrs. Digby Montague, otherwise Caterina di Ripoli.”
Darrow’s expression changed at once. It wasn’t that he hadn’t known, Solomon thought, or even that he was acting, but that he remembered. There was a definite flash of agony in his eyes, an involuntary, tragic grimace before he swung away from them.
“She is a terrible loss,” he said, his voice uneven. “But why do you come to me?” He turned back on the last word, a hint of defiance, even challenge, in his manner.
“Because you knew her,” Constance said. “And her death was so sudden.”
Darrow’s eyes widened and then narrowed. “Are you saying it wasnother heart?”
“What makes you think it was?” Solomon asked.
The dark, pain-filled eyes turned on him. “It was in the newspaper. And shedidsuffer from an irregularity…”
