Chapter 6 #2
Charles then climbed out of the carriage and handed me down.
As I waited on the pavement, I noticed he and Delia exchange a few quiet words before she joined me.
My sister’s cheeks were flushed, though I couldn’t say whether that was from the cold or something she had said.
I shot her a questioning look, but she only gave me a bright smile.
“Good night, ladies,” Charles called to us with a wave.
“Sleep well!” Then he climbed back into the carriage, and we ascended the front steps of the town house.
The footman opened the door, and as he took our coats, the grandfather clock in the entryway chimed the hour.
It was one o’clock in the morning. I pressed the back of my hand to my mouth and failed to stifle a yawn.
“Come on. To bed with you,” Delia said, as she looped her arm through mine and led me up the staircase. “Mother had your old room made up.”
“Did she?” I was much too tired to properly ruminate on this, as I had assumed I would stay in one of the guest rooms kept perpetually at the ready for such a purpose.
“You needn’t sound so shocked. You must know how thrilled she is that you’ve finally come home.”
Normally, I was able to contain my sarcasm, but a hearty snort slipped out. “Our mother thrilled? I think not.”
Delia turned to me with a weary smile. “You would be surprised. Here we are,” she added as we reached my door.
She pushed it open and entered, while I lingered in the doorway for a moment.
A small fire glowed in the hearth, and the coverlet on my old canopy bed was turned down, ready and waiting for me.
The familiar scent of dried rose petals tickled my nose, and I inhaled.
It smelled like home. Like childhood. I blinked rapidly and stepped into the room.
Delia helped me unbutton the dress and loosened the corset.
“Shall I do the same for you?” I asked as I stepped out of the gown, but she shook her head.
“No need. I manage quite well on my own. Here,” she said briskly as she picked up a nightgown that had been laid out on the bed. “Get some sleep. I will see you in the morning.”
She was acting a bit odd, but the need to sleep was pressing down on me so heavily that it was difficult to think clearly. “All right,” I relented and took the nightgown.
Delia moved to the door as I finished unlacing the corset. Then she paused and looked back. “Mother isn’t the only one who is thrilled you’ve returned,” she said quietly.
I tilted my head and smiled. “I’m glad to hear that.”
Delia smiled back, then slipped from the room. Finally alone, I let out a sigh and finished preparing for bed. Then I climbed onto the mattress and pulled the covers over me. My head had barely touched the pillow before I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
It felt as though I had only just closed my eyes when someone began shaking my shoulder. Hard.
“Minnie.”
I tried to turn over and escape this bothersome person, but they were very persistent.
“Minnie, wake up.”
It was the note of distress that finally pulled me fully from sleep. I blinked and looked up to find a shadow hovering over me. It was my sister.
“Delia? What’s going on?” Then I sat up as alarm bolted through me. “Is it Tommy?”
Her face looked ghostly pale in the low light, but she shook her head. “No. He’s fine,” she croaked. “It’s Charlie. I think—I think he is dead.”
I reared back a little, confused. “What? But he was just here,” I said groggily, vaguely aware that I wasn’t making much sense.
Delia fell against me then. “I found him in his flat,” she sobbed. “There was blood and—oh, it was so awful!”
I began to rub her back and made a soothing sound, while my muddled mind slowly whirred to life. “What did the police say?”
Delia stilled in my arms. “The police?”
“Yes. When they arrived.”
“I didn’t—that is, I haven’t—I came straight here. To you.”
I pulled back and frowned. “You mean you just left him there?”
Delia’s eyes were wide with fright, and she nodded. “Yes,” she whispered. “I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. Then I thought I heard something, and I left.”
“But, Delia, what if he isn’t dead?”
“He is,” she said quickly. “I’m certain. No one could survive … that.”
I turned away and pressed my hands to my eyes as my thoughts swirled. “We must go back there,” I said, once I was able to better focus. “Now. You might have left the scene of a murder.”
She looked bewildered. “Murder?”
“You said there was blood. And that you heard something,” I pressed, nearly shouting now. “Is there any chance it could have been an accident?”
Delia shook her head. “I … I don’t know.”
“My God,” I muttered as another thought occurred to me. “What time is it?”
“A little after two, I think?”
Then she must have left immediately after I went to bed. I threw back the covers. “We need to go to the flat and alert the authorities.”
Delia gripped my hand. “I can’t,” she begged. “I can’t go back there.”
“You must,” I insisted as I placed my other hand on top of hers. “It is the right thing to do. Besides, someone might have seen you there already,” I pointed out. “And then you will have much more to worry about.”
She swallowed hard as understanding dawned and released me. “Right. I see.”
“They will need to establish the timeline,” I explained as I began to dress.
Unfortunately, the only gown readily available was the one I had just worn.
“That will help to prove your innocence. You have an alibi in me and the footman. I suppose no one else saw you leave?” She shook her head, and I tugged the gown over my head, not bothering with a corset.
The shape wasn’t as nice as before, but that was of no concern at the moment. “Did you walk?”
“Yes. His flat is just a few blocks away in Marylebone. It doesn’t take more than ten minutes.”
I gave her my back, and she began to button me up. “Why did you go there?” I asked softly, though the answer was perfectly obvious. Young ladies did not visit the homes of bachelor gentlemen in the dark of night for purely innocent reasons.
Her hands stilled on the last button. “I know what you must be thinking, but it wasn’t like that.”
I glanced back. “Then enlighten me. Please.”
Delia let out a sigh. “I love him. I won’t deny it. And tonight wasn’t the first time I’ve been to his flat.” Then she paused as she finished the last button. “But we are—that is, we were to be married,” she said thickly.
I took a moment to choose my words as I turned to face her. “You were engaged?”
Delia’s cheeks turned red, and she looked away. “Not yet. Not properly, anyway. But we talked about it, quite often.”
“I see.”
Delia wiped her cheeks and let out a strangled laugh. “You could at least try to sound like you believe me.”
I huffed. “Well, if it wasn’t like that, then why were you really there?”
She was quiet for a moment. “It started with my reading with Madame Fontaine.”
I recalled the look on Delia’s face back at the baron’s mansion. She had been so distraught before she hid it all behind a smile. “She said something to you about Charles?”
She nodded. “That he couldn’t marry me because he was already married. I went there to confront him. And instead I found him like … like that.”
Delia looked absolutely wretched, and my heart tugged in my chest. But we couldn’t waste any more time. “I’m truly sorry, my dear. I can’t imagine how awful it was, but right now we need to alert the police and return to the flat.”
“All right,” she said, then paused as she appeared to remember something. “Charlie has a telephone.”
“He does?” This was surprising and seemed the height of excess to me. I certainly didn’t know anyone who had a telephone in their home.
Delia nodded. “He said he used it for work.”
I frowned at this explanation, given that earlier she had described his work as little more than a lark, but the sooner we made the call, the better it would be for Delia.
My hair was a fright, but I fixed it in a semblance of a Psyche knot, then took her hand and led her from the room.
No one would be awake now, and it was easy enough to retrieve my coat and slip out the back entrance.
Delia led the way through Portman Square.
It was as silent as a graveyard at this hour, and I pulled my coat closer to me.
We slunk through Portman Close as Delia led us to George Street in Marylebone.
“His flat is over there. On the third floor,” she said and pointed to an elegant brick building. “There’s a servant’s entrance around the back. He made sure it was unlocked so I could …”
I hid my disapproval behind a short nod. “Fine. Let’s go.”
Delia lowered her eyes and we crossed the street.
The servant’s entrance was still unlocked, and she led the way up the darkened staircase to the third floor.
The hall was empty, the only sound the low hiss of gas from the wall sconces.
Delia stopped in front of the door closest to the servants’ stairwell, marked with the number eight, and looked at me over her shoulder.
“This is it,” she rasped, clearly hesitant to enter.
“It’s all right,” I murmured with a hand on her shoulder. “I’m here.”
She took a breath and opened the door. The gaslight was still on, and as we entered, I was immediately struck by how handsomely decorated the entryway was.
The walls were lined with framed pictures of all shapes and sizes, while a cabinet displayed a variety of artifacts.
Under any other circumstances, I would have loved to pore over everything. But, of course, now was not the time.
“The telephone is just over there,” she said, pointing to a contraption on top of a small table.
It reminded me of a candlestick standing on a wooden base. I gingerly removed the black conical piece, which I supposed one spoke into, then hesitated. “Do you know how to use it?”
Delia took it from me. She held up the cone to her ear and pressed a button at the top of the candlestick, waited a moment, and began to speak into it. “Scotland Yard, please. Thank you.”
Well, I had gotten that all wrong.
Delia then held out the contraption to me with a pleading look. “Can you speak to them?” she asked, pressing the earpiece into my hand before I could respond. “Just hold it like this,” she explained, drawing my hand up to my ear. “And speak here.”
I gingerly pressed the earpiece to my ear, but all I could here was a dull crackling sound. “It will take a moment,” she added when she saw my look of confusion.
Then I heard a tinny voice that sounded like someone whispering down the end of a long hallway. “Scotland Yard. What is the purpose of your call?”
“Hello, yes,” I began. “I need to report a murder. Well, a body,” I added with a wince. “I’m not sure if they were murdered or not.”
The voice on the other end then asked something. I could barely understand them, but I assumed they wanted to know the location.
“I’m at The Carleton on George Street in Marylebone,” I replied, nearly shouting now. “Flat number eight on the third floor.”
A muffled response came, and then the line went dead. I frowned in confusion at the earpiece and then handed the blasted thing back to Delia. “They are on their way, I think.”
She nodded and put the telephone back in its place. “Now what?”
“We wait,” I said. Then hesitated. “Where is he?”
Delia looked past me down the hall. “The study. But I … I can’t.”
“Understood,” I replied. “I’ll just be a moment.”
I didn’t exactly relish the thought of seeing a dead body once again and was suddenly flooded with memories of Daphne Costas, the maid I found murdered on Corfu.
I forced my gaze ahead and crept down the hallway.
The first room on my right was a cozy little parlor with a Persian-style rug on the floor and two wingback chairs before the hearth.
Like the entryway, the walls and shelves were lined with treasures of one sort or another.
The door on my left was closed, possibly a bedroom.
But up ahead, the door to the study stood open, and warm lamplight spilled out onto the hallway.
As I grew closer, I could make out shelves of books and another fine rug.
I held my breath as I reached the doorway and had to take a moment to settle my rattled nerves before I peered inside.
A massive oak desk took up a corner. And there, right in front of it, was the body of Charles Pearson in a puddle of blood. Delia was right. No one could have survived that, as it seemed someone had bashed his head in quite thoroughly.