Remembering what Kincaid had told her, Gemma said, “Her name is Sharon Doyle, and she has a four-year-old daughter. Apparently it was a fairly serious relationship, and he… um, entertained her quite often at the flat.”
“A child?” Caroline returned her gaze to Gemma. Her dark eyes had dilated and Gemma saw the fire reflected in their liquid and luminous surface.
The afternoon had drawn in as they talked, and now the fire and the lamps cast a noticeable glow in the quiet room. Gemma could imagine serene hours spent here with music and conversation, or time whiled away on the comfortably worn chintz sofa with a book, but never voices raised in anger. “What if Julia found out about Sharon? Would they have argued over it? Would Julia have liked Connor having another woman in her flat?”
After a long moment, Caroline said, “Julia is often a law unto herself, Sergeant. I can’t begin to guess how she would react to a given situation. And why does it matter anyway?” she added wearily. “Surely you don’t think Julia had anything to do with Con’s death?”
“We’re trying to find an explanation for Connor’s behavior that last afternoon and evening. He made an unexpected visit to the theater. He also met someone later that evening, after he’d returned to Henley, but we don’t yet know who it was.”
“What do you know?” Caroline straightened her back and regarded Gemma directly.
“The results of the autopsy didn’t tell us much. We’re still waiting on some of the forensic reports—all we can do until then is gather information.”
“Sergeant, I think you’re being deliberately vague,” said Caroline, teasing her a little.
Unwilling to be drawn any further, Gemma focused on the first thing that came to mind. She’d been absently examining the paintings Kincaid and Julia had talked about—what had Julia said the painter was called? Flynn? No, Flint. That was it. The rosy bare-breasted women were voluptuous, somehow innocent and slightly decadent at the same time, and the sheen of their satin gowns made Gemma think of the costume fabrics she’d seen that morning at LB House. “I met an old friend of yours today, Dame Caroline. Tommy Godwin.”
“Tommy? Good God, what on earth could you possibly want with Tommy?”
“He’s very clever, isn’t he?” Gemma settled back more comfortably on the sofa and tucked her notebook into her bag. “He told me a lot about the early days, when you were all starting out with the Opera. It must have been terribly exciting.”
Caroline’s expression softened. She gazed absently into the fire, and after a moment said, “It was glorious. But, of course, I didn’t realize quite how special it was, because I had nothing to compare it to. I thought that life could only get better, that everything I touched would turn to gold.” She met Gemma’s eyes again. “Well, that’s the way of it, isn’t it, Sergeant? You learn that the charmed times can’t last.”
The words held an echo of such sorrow that Gemma felt their weight upon her chest. The photographs on the piano pulled at her insistently, but she kept her eyes on Caroline’s face. She had no need to look at them—Matthew Asherton’s smiling image had burned itself upon her memory. Taking a breath, she said with a daring born out of her own fear, “How do you manage to go on?”
“You protect what you have.” Caroline said quietly, vehemently. Then she laughed, breaking the spell. “Tommy wasn’t quite so elegant in those days, though you wouldn’t think it to look at him now. He shed his background like a snake sloughing off its skin, but he hadn’t completed the process. There were still a few rough edges.”
Gemma said, “I can’t imagine,” and they both laughed.
“Tommy was never less than amusing, even at his least polished. We did have some lovely times… and we had such vision. Gerald and Tommy and I—we were going to change the face of opera.” Caroline smiled fondly.
Caroline folded her arms loosely under her breasts and stretched her dainty feet toward the fire. “It is, isn’t it? I’ve always loved singing Verdi. His heroines have a spiritual quality that you don’t find in Puccini, and they allow you more room for interpretation. Puccini you must sing exactly as it’s written or it becomes vulgar—with Verdi you must find the heroine’s heart.”
“That’s what I felt when I listened to Violetta,” Gemma said with delight. Caroline had given definition to her own vaguely formed impressions.
“Do you know the history of
“And Verdi adapted the play as
“You’ve been swotting,” said Caroline in mock disappointment.
“Not really, just reading the liner notes. And I didn’t know that Violetta was based on a real person.”
“Little Marie is buried in the cemetery at Montmartre, just below the church of Sacre Coeur. You can visit her grave.”
Gemma found herself unable to ask if Caroline herself had made such a pilgrimage—it came too near the forbidden territory of Matthew’s death. She shivered a little at the thought of such waste. Marie Duplessis must have held on to her life with all the passion Verdi wrote into Violetta’s music.
A bell rang, echoing in the passage outside the sitting room. The front door—Plummy had said Caroline had another student coming. “I’m sorry, Dame Caroline. I’ve kept you too long.” Gemma slid the strap of her handbag over her shoulder and stood up. “Thank you for your time. You’ve been very patient.”
Caroline rose and once again offered Gemma her hand. “Good-bye, Sergeant.”
As Gemma neared the sitting room door, Plummy opened it and said, “Cecily’s here, Caro.”
As Gemma passed the girl in the hall, she had a brief impression of dark skin and eyes and a flashing shy smile, then Plummy ushered her gently out into the dusk. The door closed and Gemma stood breathing the cool, damp air. She shook her head to clear it, but that made the dawning realization no less uncomfortable.
