Determined to do what? To keep her word to her husband and give up Darrow? Or to leave her husband and bolt to Europe with her lover?
“Did she ever say or do anything that implied she might go away for a time? A holiday? Or a visit to a friend some distance away?”
“No, I don’t think so. We didn’t know how long the opera would run.”
But then, it seemed Caterina confided different things to different people. Her reticence might have been because she had no intention of leaving. Or because she wasn’t taking Mary with her when she went—afraid, perhaps, that Mary, by accident or design, would betray her to Montague?
Constance met the maid’s doubtful gaze. “Help me build a picture of her last days. Collins and Nancy say she left the house a little after midday on that Monday, the twenty-seventh. Is that your recollection?”
Mary nodded.
“What time did she return to the house?”
“After her performance. Just after eleven, I think, and she came up to bed shortly after.”
“Did she lock her door after you left her?”
Mary thought about it. “Yes. Yes, I think she did.”
Constance wrote it down. “Good. Now, what about Tuesday the twenty-eighth? How was she then?”
“Brisk,” Mary said. “She went out after luncheon and took me with her. She intended to buy a birthday present, she said, after calling on a friend. In the end, the visit took too long and we went straight to the theatre. The carriage took me home and returned for her later.”
“Whom did she visit?” Constance asked. “Mrs. Locke?”
“No. It was an old music teacher, George Martin.”
“For another lesson?”
“Not that I heard. Besides, she wouldn’t want to strain her voice before the evening’s performance. She has a better teacher now, but she regards Mr. Martin as a friend, values his opinion. He’s a pleasant old bird, sharp as a tack. I expect they just got talking.”
“Where does he live?” Constance asked.
“Theobalds Street.”
“And when did she come home from the theatre that night?”
“At the usual time, give or take a few minutes.”
“Did she lock her door?”
“I think… Actually, I’m not sure. I can’t remember.”
“Very well, let’s move on to Wednesday the twenty-ninth, a week before she died…”
*
By the timeshe left Mary, Constance had a fairly full account of Caterina’s movements to and from home. It was nowhere clear enough to offer an explanation, but she was satisfied with the beginning.
It seemed that on Monday the twenty-seventh of June, the day Caterina was supposed to end her relationship with Darrow, she had instead locked her husband out of her bedchamber. And she had been grim and determined. Was she planning her escape because she suspected Montague of murdering his betrothed ten years before?
Descending the stairs, Constance intended to go out into the square and wait for Solomon to emerge from whichever house he was currently in. Only the hall was empty, and the door to what looked like Montague’s study was open.
Montague was out at his office. None of the servants would see her.
She would never get a better chance.
She darted into the room and straight to the big mahogany desk.
