“Did she tell you that?” Constance asked.
“Yes.” The defiance was back. “We were friends. I don’t understand—why does this concern you?”
“We have been asked to look into the circumstances of Mrs. Montague’s death,” Solomon said.
Darrow glanced at Constance, looking confused.
“It is another business of ours,” she said, holding out the business card that his landlady had rejected. “Inquiries.”
“Hesent you,” Darrow said with loathing.
“Who?” Constance asked.
“Montague.”
“He has given us leave to speak to those concerned,” Constance said carefully.
“And so you come straight to me when you should be looking closer to home. If anyone caused her death,hedid.”
“What makes you say that?” Solomon asked. “Was theirs not a happy marriage?”
“How could it be?” Darrow all but snapped, ramming his fingers through his hair to drag it back from his forehead.
“Because he is a little older than his wife?” Constance asked with deceptive innocence. “Or because he is a mere merchant and not a musician?”
Darrow paused, blinking at her. “Both,” he said at last.
“Or,” Solomon suggested, “because she was susceptible to your own charms?”
Darrow looked at him, then at Constance. “You know,” he said. “You know we were lovers.”
There was pride as well as defiance in his thrown-back head, his flashing eyes.
“Did her husband know?” Solomon asked.
Darrow let out a bitter laugh, full of savage contempt. “That dullard could not see what was under his nose. He hasn’t got the imagination.”
“Was she taking medicine for her heart trouble?” Constance asked.
Darrow nodded.
“Do you think she forgot to take it that day?”
“It’s more likely he gave her too much!”
Then he knew how digitalis worked, the lethal importance of the correct dosage.Interesting.
Constance leaned back against the sofa cushions. “How did you meet Caterina?”
“At a charity concert. I was one of a trio playing Mozart. She noticed me and asked me to accompany her when she sang. We worked wonderfully together. It was more than her beauty, you know. More even than her voice. She was…captivating.”
“In what way?”
“In every way! Her laughter, her understanding, her interpretation of the music and the sheer emotion… She was sweet, and funny, and vital…” His voice broke and he dashed the back of his hand across his eyes. Moisture still glistened.
“When was this?” Constance asked. “When you first met?”
Darrow shrugged. “A year ago? Just before she became ill. It was months before we met again. That was when we knew.”
