Chapter Eighteen
Martin was clearlysurprised to see Constance on his doorstep once more, but he invited her in and asked how he could help her today.
“It’s really something we didn’t think to ask you yesterday,” Constance said, preceding him into the same sitting room. “Do you, by chance, keep any kind of private archive? Commemorating your love of music?”
“Why yes, I do.” He beamed at her. “Would you like to see it?”
“I would,” Constance said, grateful it had been so easy. “Thank you.”
He led her out of the room again and up the narrow staircase to a room at the back of the house. It might once have been a bedroom but it now contained only a narrow table, a chair, and many cabinets, each labeled with a range of letters, A-D, E-H, and so on.
He indicated a large box of cards on top of the first cabinet. “Everything is cross-referenced,” he said proudly. “The main files here are under the names of individual composers and musicians. These ones are by the year of each performance. But with the card index, you can easily find concert halls, theatres and music festivals, and you can even search by city too.”
“This is a massive undertaking,” Constance said in genuine awe. “Are these all concerts and performances you attended personally?”
“Sadly not, though that’s how I began. Friends began to send me programs and notices in local newspapers, from here and abroad. Ihave many papers delivered, too.”
“Do you keep the whole newspaper?” Constance asked. “Or just make cuttings of the pieces that relate to music?”
“I try to make cuttings where possible, but where it cuts through interesting articles on the other side of the sheet, I keep the whole thing. And index everything, of course.”
“Of course.” Constance met his proud gaze. “Is this what you meant when you said Caterina was going over old times?”
He smiled slightly but did not answer.
“Why didn’t you say so directly?” Constance asked.
He gave an apologetic shrug. “It was what she wished. She didn’t want people knowing what she was looking for.”
Constance’s heart was beating fast. “And what was she looking for?”
“My dear, I cannot break that confidence. It is all I have left of her.”
Constance fought to hide her frustration. After all, she admired his honor. “I understand,” she managed. “But will you tell me at least who it was she feared would find out?”
“No one. She just wanted to be the only one who knew. Though we made the connection together.”
“What connection?” She knew he wouldn’t answer that either, and he didn’t, not directly.
He said, “You spoke his name to me already.”
Which didn’t really narrow it down. She had spoken the names of all three of her suspects to him. Or Solomon had. “Mr. Martin, I believe someone murdered Caterina. Surely you don’t want her killer to go unpunished?”
He dropped his gaze, then immediately returned it to hers. “You truly believe that?”
“I do. What name was she looking for?”Montague? Darrow? Kellar?She found she was holding her breath.
“Charles Derrick,” Martin said in a rush.
Constance blinked. “Who the devil is Charles Derrick?”
Martin turned and went out.
Which Constance took as permission.
*
Digby Montague wasannoyed when he observed the couple going separate ways. Now he had to choose which to follow. He picked the woman, because she had already proved she had no scruples about prying. And she would be easier to deal with. Without her, Grey would be broken like him. And useful.
