The porter’s frown returned, as though he suspected them of being journalists. However, it must have been a fleeting notion, assuaged once more by their appearance, for he opened the door wide for them to enter.
“Don’t know if Miss Gentle is free—she’s got a lot to do if she’s to go on tonight, but Rose is in the dressing room…”
He led them into the bowels of the building, along a passage of many doors. Pieces of muffled music and several different voices drifted to Solomon’s ears. He wondered if Darrow was here, too, rehearsing with the orchestra, or if he were no longer needed. In any case, without the attraction of Caterina, he probably preferred solo performances. He was too ambitious—and perhaps too good—to enjoy being lost in an orchestra.
The porter halted at a door with Caterina’s name still upon it and opened it.
A woman stood by an open trunk, cradling an elaborate gown to her cheek. The large dressing table appeared to have been cleared of everything except a vase of wilted flowers. Other posies, in similar conditions, some shedding petals, some almost dried, were scattered all over the room on every available surface.
The woman lowered the dress, blinking at the visitors as though adjusting to present reality.
“They’re from Mrs. di Ripoli’s husband,” the porter said to her gruffly. “Give me a shout if you need me.”
The woman nodded vaguely and quickly addressed Solomon. “I haven’t finished packing up all her things yet, but we’ll send them to the house later this afternoon—unless you want to wait?”
“We haven’t come for her things,” Solomon said. “We just wanted to talk to you about Mrs. di Ripoli. My name is Solomon Grey. This is my wife.”
“Rose Samuels,” the woman said, dropping a slight, unexpectedly graceful curtsey.
“Your name is familiar,” Constance said. “Don’t you sing, too?”
“I used to,” the dresser said. “Until I was ill. My voice never recovered. Now I dress the prima donna.” She dropped the gown on top of the things already in the trunk and gestured toward the sofa by the window. “Won’t you sit down?”
“Thank you. Did you know Mrs. di Ripoli well?”
“Since she came to England. My voice had already gone by then, and she understood how difficult that was. More than a mere loss of income, although God knows that matters too. She helped me accept and live with it. Especially after she was ill herself and thought her career too might be over.”
“Then you were her friend as well as her dresser?”
“Yes.”
Constance smiled. “Good. Then you will understand how the suddenness of her death might…disturb those closest to her. You were with her for the performance on Wednesday evening?”
Rose inclined her head. “Of course.”
“Did she seem well to you?”
“Very well. She was excited and confident, as she usually was before and during a performance. And she was brilliant as Gilda… But she was also happy.”
Constance seized on that. “Had she beenunhappy before Wednesday evening?”
The dresser waved that aside as though it was of little account. Or perhaps she regretted the words. “A little. Her life was complicated.”
“In what way?”
Rose shrugged, now definitely uncomfortable. “Oh, juggling her professional life and her marriage. She naturally wanted to give her all to each, but that wasn’t always possible.”
She definitely knows about Darrow, Solomon thought.
Constance had obviously guessed the same, for she said, “Especially when added to another, less public relationship.”
Rose flushed. “There is nothing in that. Foolish rumor.”
“We have already spoken to Mr. Darrow,” Constance said.
The dresser started toward them, then halted, clenching and unclenching her hands. “Oh. Mr. Montague doesn’t know, does he? She never wanted him to know. That was why she broke it off. Or, at least, she was going to. I thought that was why she was happier on Wednesday, because she had finally done so.”
“He played with the orchestra here on Wednesday evening,” Solomon said. “Did he visit Mrs. di Ripoli here in her dressing room?”
