“When you became lovers?” Constance asked.
Darrow nodded curtly.
“Where did you meet for your assignations?” Solomon asked.
“At the house of a friend from the theatre. She arranged to be out on the afternoons we met.”
Constance rummaged in her bag and passed him a pencil and a piece of paper. “Will you write down her name and address?”
Darrow did not hesitate.
While he wrote, Solomon said, “When did you last see Caterina?”
“To speak to? Just a couple of days ago. Tuesday afternoon.”
The day before she died…“At this friend’s house?” Solomon asked.
Darrow nodded.
“How did she seem to you?” Constance asked. “Well? Happy?”
“Yes,” Darrow said. “Just as she always was.”
“Did you send her flowers?” Constance asked.
He smiled as he passed the paper and pencil back to Constance. “I gave them to her often. At our meetings. She took them with her to performances and then took them home, telling her husband they had been left at the stage door for her by admirers in the audience.”
“Did you give her flowers on Tuesday?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Roses. Red roses.”
Solomon did not look at Constance, though they seemed to have solved that mystery. “Where did she go when she left you on Tuesday afternoon?” he asked.
“To Covent Garden.”
“Directly?”
“So far as I know.”
“Taking the roses with her?”
“Yes.”
He left it to Constance to ask the last question. She would appear less threatening.
“Where were you on Wednesday night, Mr. Darrow?”
“At Covent Garden. Thanks to Caterina, I stand in when any of the violinists are absent.”
“So you did see her after Tuesday. Did you speak to her at the theatre?” Solomon asked.
“No. She insisted on discretion. She didn’t want Montague to find out about us. I didn’t care whether he did or not, but I did as she askedto please her.”
“Did she sing well?”
