“Gloriously,” Darrow said with complete sincerity.
“And when she left the stage, did she seem physically well? No signs of illness that you could see?”
Darrow frowned and shook his head. “None. Perhaps Ishouldhave noticed something. Perhaps I only saw what I wished to, dazzled like everyone else…”
“And when the performance was over,” Solomon said, “where did you go?”
“Home,” Darrow said in surprise. “Here.”
“Alone or with friends?”
Darrow regarded him thoughtfully. He knew what the question meant, but it did not appear to upset him. “Alone. Mrs. Philpot—the dragon downstairs—saw me, if you’re looking for witnesses. Reid, who shares these rooms with me, is another. If you suspect someone killed Caterina, look at Montague. She was afraid of him.”
“What makes you say that?” Constance asked quickly.
“I told you, she spoke to me. But if you had seen her morbid fear of Montague finding out, you would not doubt me.”
“Did he beat her?” Solomon asked steadily.
Darrow shrugged impatiently. “Not that I could ever prove. There are other ways to frighten people. If you really believe her death was not natural, know that I’ll help in any way I can. It has to have beenhim.”
His young face was earnest, tortured, difficult to look at.
Constance rose to her feet. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Darrow. You’ve been most helpful.”
Darrow nodded. It did not appear to enter his head to show them out. He just bade them goodbye. As Solomon closed the door of the sitting room behind them, Darrow sank onto the piano stool, watching them as though in a daze. The tragic look was back in his eyes,making him seem both younger and more vulnerable, almost like a lost child.
As they descended the stairs, the woman who had let them in waddled up the hall from the depths of the house—presumably Mrs. Philpot, “the dragon downstairs.”
“Well, at least you made him stop for five minutes,” she said with some satisfaction. “Goes on for hours most days, you know, all that screeching. And when he stops, the other one starts. Gawd knows how the neighbors put up with it. If I didn’t make it a rule that there’s to be no noise after ten, they’d make their racket all night too.”
“You don’t care for music?” Solomon asked.
“Not the same few notes over and over! Drive a person to drink, it would.”
“It can’t be easy,” Constance said sympathetically, “having two lively young men in your house.”
Mrs. Philpot sniffed. “They’re not so bad. Leastways, not at night. They don’t try to hold parties, or bring people—or women!—round late.”
Solomon felt his lip twitch. Covering it, he said, “I gather Mr. Darrow came home about eleven on Wednesday—the night before last.”
“That he did. And the other came in shortly after—tripped on the stairs, so I reckon he weren’t exactly sober.”
“You reckon?” Solomon repeated. “Then you didn’t actually see them?”
“They use their own keys, and I can tell each of their steps. They’re quite distinctive. Carl’s is quieter, more careful. Geoffrey races around, jaunty, always in a hurry. Mind you, I did see Carl—Mr. Darrow—that night. He called goodnight when he heard me in the kitchen and I stuck my head round the door. I put the lights out, and five minutes later, I heard Geoffrey—Mr. Reid—clattering about and falling up the stairs.”
“I don’t suppose you heard either of them go out again that night?”Constance asked.
“Lord, no,” Mrs. Philpot said with unexpected indulgence. “They’re good boys really, and very good about getting up early—especially Carl, who practices in the mornings.”
“So on Thursday morning, Mr. Darrow was practicing his violin as usual?” Solomon asked.
“Oh yes, every day without fail.”
Solomon inclined his head and thanked her, and she opened the door for them. The violin remained silent.
