Why, then, did she feel so anxious? As if whatever was to unfold was her fault…?
She wished Janey would come home. With Lenny.
*
Constance did nothesitate. She went straight to the drawer labelled A-D. She noted files for both di Ripoli and Darrow—which briefly distracted her into searching out Montague and Kellar too. Intriguingly, she found them.
As a young man, Montague had indeed played the violin in amateur concerts in London and in India. And Kellar had apparently sung in private charity concerts in New York and Italy.
She left them for later, since it was apparently Charles Derrick she needed to know about.
Derrick’s file was not fat, like Caterina’s, so she took the whole folder and spread the contents across the narrow desk at the window.
The heading on his file wasTenor, Clarinet, Violin, All string and wind instruments. So, a man of multiple talents. The earliest mention of him was a note by hand, presumably by Martin himself, praising the marvelous new talent at the Reid Festival in Scotland in 1847.
A mere boy with a prodigious talent of voice—outstanding performance in Mendelsohn’sElijah. The following night played clarinet in the Philharmonic…
There was a program for a later Scottish Philharmonic concert in early 1849 that named him among the wind instrument players. And a newspaper cutting from York praising his solo performance later the same year. The most recent cutting was from 1850. Although she did come across one dated later that year, it had obviously been misplaced, for it was about a charity concert in York played by an Irish flautist.
She shoved everything back in the folder and stood somewhat impatiently. What was Derrick to do with Caterina or any of their suspects? Was he someone else in Caterina’s life that they had never heard of before?
She tutted as the contents slipped through the folder and landed back on the desk. Beginning to pick them up, she saw that one of the cuttings—the piece about the York flautist—had turned itself over. On the other side was part of a news story about a fraudster who had swindled a wealthy lady out of a considerable amount of money before strangling her and fleeing. A hue and cry was out for one Charles Derrick, a talented young musician much lauded in Scotland and the north of England, the fraudster who was suspected of the murder.
Constance sat down again, staring at the cutting, which was clearly not in the wrong place after all, although Martin had obviously made the cutting for the flautist in the first place. He must have seen the reference to Derrick by accident.
A swindler and a murderer. Why would Caterina and Martin have been talking about him unless they knew him? Had he come to London? Why was that discovery so important that it had made her happy rather than frightened?
Because with the information, she could fight back. Win her freedom from either her lover or her husband…or the man constantly in the background of her life. Kellar.
A swindler. Why was the word nagging at her?
Montague in India, according to Solomon’s friend Halliwell.
Abruptly, she set the file aside and pushed back her chair. She went to the index cards and carried all the boxes over to the desk. Then, still standing, she rifled through them until she came to Derrick’s name.
The card directed her to several Scottish and northern English choirs and orchestras, to the cities of Glasgow, Edinburgh, Manchester, and York, to the years 1847 to 1850. And to the name of another musician.
Got you…
She found herself gazing blindly out of the window. She blinked, trying to force her brain to work. That was when the movement in the garden below caught her eye. In quick alarm, she leaned over the desk, pressing her face to the glass.
A man carrying a tall hat, dressed in a good black suit, striding to the kitchen door. She even heard it open below. Her heart dived dizzyingly, for it was Digby Montague.
Constance seized her bag and flew out of the room.
“Mr. Martin!” she cried. “You have an intruder! Where are you, sir?”
There was no answer, except some faint bump from the stairs—hopefully Martin climbing up to her. Could they barricade themselves in one of the front rooms while they yelled through a window for help? Trapped in the house, there was nowhere to run, and she could not hold off a man of Montague’s strength for long.
She rushed along the passage to the stairs and suddenly lost what was left of her breath.
Martin lay on the stairs. She recognized his wild white hair and his baggy trousers, though his face was hidden by one of his own parlor cushions, which a second, younger man was holding firmly over his nose and mouth with both hands.
Martin’s legs were twitching, his fingers scrabbling futilely at the cushion that was killing him.
The holder of the cushion glanced up at her with a gleam of hatred but absolutely no fear, let alone remorse. It was not Montague.
