With impressive speed, Kellar shoved him face first into the wall, his arm wrenched too far up his back. Montague scrambled further into the corner.
“Not my bowing arm!” Darrow screamed. “Not my hands!”
“You can always sing,” Constance said contemptuously, as Solomon jumped to the foot of the stairs to help hold Darrow. “It might cheer the other prisoners. Before you go to the scaffold.”
“It was him?” Kellar said quickly. “Have you proof?”
“There’s proof he brought the roses to her room,” Solomon said, dragging the useful string he’d found in Darrow’s coat from his own pocket and beginning to bind Darrow’s wrists. The violinist made an ugly whining noise until Kellar elegantly popped a balled handkerchief into his mouth.
Solomon continued, “I found a red rose petal and a thorn caught in an old coat of his. The back of it is all roughened by thorns. I believe he tied them to his back with this very string, then climbed up to her room, hoping to bribe his way in if he had to. I suppose she was asleep?”
Solomon flung the last question at Darrow, who could only nod. The wild look was vanishing from his eyes.
“He has a past,” Constance said from the stairs. She was helping poor Martin into a sitting position against the wall, placing the offending cushion behind his head. “He swindled and murdered an heiress in York. He strangled her. I suppose the smothering was a refinement—he had plenty of time to think about it while he fled from the authorities in York, and changed his name, and concentrated exclusively on the violin, which he hadn’t been particularly known for previously. No one made the connection.”
“Apart from me,” Martin wheezed. “I saw a sketch of Darrow in a London newspaper, couldn’t think why he was so familiar, since I’d never heard him play, until Caterina came to talk to me and I realized what—and whom—she was looking for.”
“Why didn’t you tell us this yesterday?” Solomon demanded.
“The honor of discretion,” Constance said. She looked directly at Montague, who was standing perfectly still in the corner, dazed and troubled. “I’m sorry. I thought it was you.”
Montague licked his lips. “Itwasme, in a way,” he said hoarsely. “She should have been able to come tomewith this. I was not the right husband for her.”
“You were,” Constance said. “Don’t you see? She did all this, riskedall this, for you.”
Tears sprang into Montague’s eyes.
Kellar said, “Mrs. Grey is right. I can see that now. She didn’t come to me either, and I was her oldest friend in this country. I believe I was lashing out at you, Montague, as well as playing my own game. I’m sorry.”
Solomon caught his gaze. “Maybe it’s time you stopped playing games. If you expect trust, you have to show a little.”
Kellar sighed. “I preferred the days when the old were the wise.” He jerked his head at Darrow. “What do we do with him? Drop him in the Thames?”
“No,” Constance said severely. “We summon a policeman.”
“Several policemen,” Solomon corrected her. “He’s a slippery little brute.”
“Pity,” Constance said. “He plays like an angel.”
“You should have heard him sing,” Martin said sadly. “What a waste of so many lives. His own. Caterina’s. The poor lady in York…”
“What on earth did you mean to do here?” Solomon asked, staring at Darrow. “Smother Constance after Mr. Martin was dead? And then me? That’s a lot of smothered people. Supposing you had succeeded, don’t you think the police might have caught on?”
Darrow made a brief noise, and Solomon gingerly removed the handkerchief from the man’s mouth, using his thumb and one finger.
“There’s more than one way to kill,” Darrow said contemptuously. “An old man collapsed on his stairs. A young woman hurrying to his aid falls and breaks her neck. A grieving husband commits suicide.” He glanced venomously at Montague. “Twogrieving husbands. Who’d miss any of them? A third-rate musician with a house full of paper. A whore and her slave. A merchant with nothing to sell and no passion in his soul.”
“But we are still alive,” Constance said, standing up. “And loved. As was Caterina. Who will grieve for you, Mr. Derrick?”
Somehow, it was painful to see the smug derision drain from Darrow’s face. He was a performer and had fooled so many for so long. Now it was as if the performance no longer worked. As if, finally, he saw that even the soul of his music was a pretense, and the rest was emptiness.
Suddenly cold, Solomon tugged the murderer toward the front door. He was anxious to be rid of him.
*
When Constance enteredthe Silver and Grey office, Hat almost fell on her neck, full of apologies for carelessness and neglect.
“I would’ve come to find you myself, only I didn’t want to leave the office unattended, and I thought Mr. Kellar was your friend…”
