Or did Caterina tell him what she had learned to his discredit? Was that why she’d had to die?
Or…had Montague entered the room with his own key, even found them together, and murdered his wife? Was that why Darrow was so certain in apportioning blame? Keeping quiet about his own presence in order to keep himself as free from suspicion as possible.
No, solving the mystery of the roses did not quite solve the murder. Someone else could still have come into the bedroomafterDarrow did. Kellar could have made the climb. Montague could have entered with his key.
Only, of course, Montague would surely have known about the arrangement of her pillows. Darrow and Kellar would not.
Did Martin’s records give away some terrible secret about one of them?
Or all of them?
Solomon dragged himself back to the present. He dropped the thorn and petal into his handkerchief and pocketed them, before bundling the old coat up and shoving it back in the corner of the wardrobe.
Darrow had some other questions to answer. How best to play this vital scene?
Solomon had to tell Darrow he knew the roses came from him. After that, surely, he would be able to tell whether or not the man was lying?
Where the devilwasDarrow? How long did it take to make a cup of tea?
Suddenly wary, Solomon strode from the room and into the piano-dominated parlor at the front of the house. He went straight to the windows, already sure what he would find. His hackney had gone.
Perhaps the jarvey had got tired waiting, or…
Darrow was a professional performer. Just like Caterina. An actor.
And I told him about Martin and Theobalds Street. Oh, dear God…
Solomon delayed only long enough to snatch up his hat from Darrow’s room, then flew down the stairs, running Mrs. Philpot to earth in her kitchen, where she stood rolling pastry at the table with smudges of flour on her face and powerful arms.
“Where is Darrow?” he demanded before she could speak.
Her mouth dropped open. “He went out the back way. I thought you’d gone.”
Solomon bolted from the house.
*
Hat was surprisedto open the front door of Silver and Grey’s offices and find Mr. Kellar there yet again.
“I’m sorry, sir, they’re both out. If you’d care to leave a message,I’ll see they get it as soon as they return.”
“Very well, I’ll do that,” the gentleman said amiably.
Hat showed him into the waiting room, where writing materials were provided. “Just hand it to me before you go,” she said cheerfully. “I’m in the tiny office at the end of the hall.”
Only a couple of minutes later, his shadow fell over her. He didn’t half walk quietly. He placed a folded piece of paper on her desk. It was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Grey.
He smiled at her. “Thank you. I don’t suppose you know where I might find them? Just to save time?”
Hat knew not to divulge such information to anyone. Confidentiality depended on such discretion. “I couldn’t say, sir.”
His gaze remained fixed at a point on her desk. Unease wound through her, but she continued to look at his face, not at the desk.
He smiled again, even touched the brim of his hat. “Of course you couldn’t. Thank you, miss.”
Hat conducted him to the front door, her heart beating stupidly. Only when she had shut and locked it behind him did she run back to her desk and risk looking for what he might have seen. She found it at once—a carelessly left scrap of paper with the addresses of the morning’s visits scribbled in her own hand.
Surely it didn’t matter? Mr. Kellar was a client and friend.
