Chapter 7
I forced myself to enter the room and bent down beside the body, taking care not to disturb the scene. The metallic scent of freshly spilled blood hung in the air, so I took shallow breaths. Charles Pearson’s head was turned towards me, and his blue eyes were frozen open, as if in surprise.
“Poor chap,” I murmured and rose.
I glanced around the study, but there didn’t appear to be any sign of the weapon used to bludgeon him. In fact, the space looked remarkably undisturbed, apart from the body on the floor. I backed out of the room with a frown and rejoined Delia in the entryway.
“He is dead, then?”
I glanced up, distracted by my thoughts. “Yes,” I said softly. “I’m so sorry, Delia.”
Her eyes welled with tears. “I had hoped that I was mistaken,” she choked out. “That it had all been some horrible dream.” Then she brought a hand to her mouth.
I understood that impulse all too well and pulled her into my arms. “There now,” I hushed, as she cried against my shoulder, and wished for all the world that I could bring her some comfort. But, unfortunately, this was a road she would have to tread mostly on her own.
After she had quite thoroughly soaked my shoulder, I pulled back. “Why don’t we wait in the parlor,” I suggested, taking her by the arm. “I’ve no idea how long it will take the police to arrive.”
Delia nodded and wordlessly allowed me to lead her into the room.
I was more convinced than ever that she could not have been involved in Charles Pearson’s death—and that it was not an accident.
No, this had been caused by a horrific act of violence, and I would do whatever I could to keep my sister safe.
As I sat her down on a dark green velvet sofa, her long coat parted, revealing the front of her dress along with a smear of rust-colored blood.
Based on the placement, she must have knelt by his body when she found him—an understandable impulse.
I swallowed and turned away to set about building up the fire in the hearth.
From what I could tell, it had been banked for hours.
I used the poker to dig through the coals just in case someone had burned any potential evidence, but there was no sign of that.
While I rustled the coals back to life, the image of the body burned in my mind.
It seemed most likely that Charles Pearson had gone straight to his study—and hadn’t left.
But what was he doing in there? Had his killer been lying in wait, or did Charles welcome him inside?
With the fire now giving off a good bit of heat, I turned back to Delia. She was staring blankly off into the distance. I sat down beside her and took her hand in mine. It felt far too cold.
“I know it is difficult, but I think you should tell me everything you can remember. Even the smallest detail may prove to be important.”
She gave a slow nod. “All right. I left the house as soon as you went to bed and walked over here.”
“Did you see anyone on the way?”
“I passed a few people. Strangers. But I kept to the shadows and wore my veiled hat.” Then she shot me an arch look. “I know enough to be discreet.”
“Good. Then what?”
“Like I said, I came up the servants’ staircase. And I didn’t see anyone there either,” she added before I could ask. “The hallway was empty too, which isn’t unusual. This building is full of bachelors, and they keep late hours.”
I pursed my lips at this description. “I see.”
Delia’s mouth curved in the barest hint of a smile at my obvious disapproval. “I didn’t make it a habit of coming here, you know. It was only a few times. And I never saw anyone else.”
“That’s a relief,” I said dryly.
Delia let out a mournful little sigh. “Anyway, I opened the door and—”
“It was unlocked?”
“Yes. Charlie always left the door unlocked if he knew I was coming. That way I could slip in as quickly as possible.”
“And avoid being seen,” I added. Delia glanced away with a sheepish nod. It also would have made things exceptionally easier for the killer. “Sorry. I don’t mean to sound so judgemental. Only I … I’m worried for you.”
“I understand,” she said after a moment, then met my eyes. “I’ve been a bit reckless lately. And I know Mother is upset with me. I’m sure she gave you an earful last night.”
“She did,” I admitted. Had that only been last night? It seemed like an age ago. “But given what’s now happened, I can’t say I blame her.” Delia grimaced in response. “What did you do after you entered?”
“I don’t know. It all happened so quickly.”
“Give it a think,” I said gently.
Delia sighed and shut her eyes for a moment. “I called out to him while I took off my coat and hat. I assumed he was in his study. That’s where he spent most of his time. I noticed the light on, so I walked towards the room. And then …”
“You found him,” I finished. Delia choked back a sob and nodded.
“I knelt down beside him. I tried to help, but the blood—”
“I know. It’s all right,” I soothed. “There was nothing anyone could have done for him, Delia. You must believe me.” Her glistening eyes were full of pain, and she managed a nod. “Back at home, you told me you were frightened,” I continued. “That you may have heard something.”
She cleared her throat. “Yes. It sounded like someone was in the flat moving around, but I was in such a panic, I could have misheard.”
“Or not. The killer may have still been here when you entered, then left while you were in the study.”
Which meant that, if she had been just a few minutes earlier, Delia would have interrupted the murder—and possibly become a victim herself.
Delia seemed to share my thoughts and shuddered. “My God.”
Suddenly, there was a loud knock on the door, and we both jumped.
“That must be the police,” I said, trying to sound calm, even while my heart pounded in my chest. “You wait here. Let me do the talking.” Delia made no argument as I headed for the entryway.
I opened the door and was surprised to find a single, rather bored-looking constable. “Hello.”
“Good evening, ma’am,” he said with a tip of his hat. “We received a call about a body.”
“Yes, that was me. Do come in.”
The constable entered the flat, but seemed far more interested in the treasures on display.
“It is our friend,” I said. “He’s just back there in the study.”
The constable looked dubious. “You’re sure he’s dead? You know, ma’am, sometimes a fellow has too much to drink and just needs a bit of sleep.”
“Yes. I’m quite certain,” I gritted out. Of all the possible scenarios, I had never imagined the police would actually question the very existence of a dead body.
Yet, the constable did not appear convinced, but proceeded down the hall while I waited. After a few moments, I heard a low whistle, which I assume meant he had seen Charles for himself. Then he returned clicking his tongue.
“Terrible business,” he muttered. “And you say you found him like that?”
“Yes,” I said tersely.
“All right. I’ll have to contact the Yard and have them send the detective over,” he replied, as if this was a great inconvenience and not his job. “Do you mind if I use your telephone?”
“Not at all. I will wait in the parlor with my sister.”
He waved me off, entirely unconcerned to learn of the presence of another person in the flat.
Once again, I was struck by the lackadaisical manner of a law enforcement officer.
It was what had spurred me to involve myself in the death of Daphne Costas, and clearly I would need to do the same here in England.
I rolled my eyes as I entered the parlor.
Delia was still huddled on the sofa and looked up at me with an anxious expression.
“He’s calling for reinforcements,” I explained. “Apparently, he needed to confirm first that someone was actually dead.”
But Delia didn’t share my annoyance. She only looked more worried. “Are you sure about this?”
“Absolutely,” I replied, with as much confidence as I could muster. I had decided that cooperating with the police was better than attempting to hide her from the crime, but only time would tell if this gamble would pay off.
While we waited for the detective to arrive, the constable introduced himself as Officer Byrne and took down our names and information.
“Shall we tell you what happened?” I asked, but the constable shook his head.
“Better save it all for the detective inspector, ma’am,” he said. “He will want to have the story fresh from you. I’ve learned that the hard way,” he added with a chuckle that did nothing to quell my uncertainty. “This chap was a collector then?” he asked me, but I turned to Delia.
“Yes,” she answered quietly. “He bought and sold art and antiques.”
The constable hummed in response and began inspecting the shelves. “Quite the little museum he has here, ain’t it?”
Delia shrugged, either uninterested or unable to keep up the conversation. He continued to peruse the contents of a large cabinet in the corner, but had the irritating habit of whistling while he did so.
“Would it be all right if I made us some tea?” I asked after a moment.
The constable paused to think. “I don’t see why not,” he answered. “Let me make sure nothing is amiss in there first.” That at least spared us a few blissful moments of peace while he left the room.
Once he was out of earshot, I turned to Delia. “How long was Charles in the business of selling things?”
“I’m not sure,” she replied. “A good while, though, I think. He had an inheritance from his father, but I believe most of his income came from his sales.”
“I see,” I said, casting a look around the room and wondering about the true nature of his finances.
He seemed successful enough, what with the flat in this neighborhood and the undoubtably expensive telephone, but he would hardly be the first person to hide money troubles behind a veneer of wealth.
“Do you think his murder was connected to his business?”