Chapter 12
Upon returning to my aunt’s flat, I found Mrs. Ford in the kitchen preparing our evening meal and Tommy playing with some toy soldiers in his room.
He was so occupied by the scenario he had created that he barely acknowledged my greeting, which was just as well because I had work to do.
I disappeared into my room, pulled out a notebook, and began to record my encounter with Madame Fontaine.
I had started this practice during my last investigation, and it proved particularly helpful in keeping track of details.
After nearly an hour, I had dutifully recorded our exchange as well as everything I could remember from the night of Charles Pearson’s murder.
I had been remiss in not writing down those details earlier and promised myself I would not be so careless in the future.
By that point, the sky had darkened considerably, and I could smell something delicious coming from the kitchen.
The rest of the evening passed quickly. Over a delectable supper of roast chicken and vegetables, Tommy told me about how he had spent his day while I was out.
And I was grateful that he had not yet reached the age where he was particularly curious about how I had spent my time away from him.
For instance, if Cleo had been here, she would not have been satisfied by my brief explanation that I had visited my sister.
In fact, I was certain she would have already learned about my reunion with Mr. Dorian, if not the murder itself.
As much as I was relieved that I had been able to keep that information to myself, my chest still twinged at the thought of my absent daughter and her insatiable, insistent curiosity.
Though she was only a carriage ride away in Hampstead, it often felt like a much greater distance.
Or perhaps it was the knowledge that she was on the cusp of womanhood now, and soon enough she would have a life of her own entirely independent from mine.
“Mama? May we?” Tommy’s voice cut through my maudlin thoughts, and from his tone, I knew this was not the first time he had asked.
“Sorry, darling,” I said. “May we what?”
“May we go to the Museum of Natural History tomorrow? You promised we would,” he added with a knowing little look that reminded me more of an adult than an eight-year-old boy.
I couldn’t help my smile. “You’re right. I did promise. And yes.”
His eyes lit with excitement. “First thing?”
“First thing,” I agreed.
Naturally, this was all Tommy wanted to talk about as we finished our supper and I put him to bed.
Rather than reading another chapter from Treasure Island, he insisted on the entry for the museum in the Baedeker guidebook, and I’m certain he must have fallen asleep to images of animal skeletons and ammonites.
The next morning, Tommy was up with the sunrise, even though, as we had learned last night, the museum didn’t open until ten.
He passed the time by reading the guide again, then searched my aunt’s shelves for any book remotely connected to the subject of natural history.
While he made a mess of her shelves, a thought occurred to me: I didn’t know where Mr. Dorian lived, but perhaps I could send a message through his publisher, Mr. Howard.
He owned the villa next to ours on Corfu and had given his star client the run of the property last spring.
I didn’t know Mr. Howard very well, as he rarely spent time in Corfu, but I felt certain that he would pass on a message to Mr. Dorian for me.
What I would relate in said message was another matter I still needed to think on.
At least, it should be something more substantial than the accusations currently swirling around my mind.
At half-past nine, Tommy practically pushed me out the door, and we descended down the front steps. He wanted to be there right when the doors opened. That seemed rather unnecessary to me, but as Tommy was a ball of excitement, it was better to get him out of the house.
“I think we should start with the Mammalian Collection first,” he began. “Then the Geological and Paleontological Collection. That’s the fossils, Mama.”
“Oh, yes. Good idea,” I replied rather absently.
He continued to happily dictate our itinerary while my thoughts wandered, which was why I failed to take notice of the man walking towards us until I felt Tommy stop short at my side.
“Mr. Dorian?”
I frowned down at my son, entirely confused for a moment. Had I somehow spoken my thoughts aloud? But before I could question him, his face lit with joy, and he broke into a run.
“Tommy!” I called after him as he raced down the pavement towards someone.
Only then did I realize that it was, in fact, Mr. Dorian. He grinned as Tommy approached, and I could barely make out their muffled greetings. After a few moments, they both looked back at me, and I realized I hadn’t moved from my spot. It was as if I was frozen in place.
“Mama, look! It’s Mr. Dorian,” Tommy said, as if I was very dense and hadn’t recognized him.
I blinked and gave a stiff nod as I willed my legs to move. “Yes. Yes, of course. Hello,” I said, once I joined them.
“Mrs. Harper,” Mr. Dorian said, returning my nod before addressing Tommy. “I heard you were in London and came to pay the two of you a visit.”
“Is that so?” I said flatly at the lie. “I’m amazed to see you conscious at this hour,” I added in a low voice.
Unfortunately, my barb did not have the desired effect, given that the corner of the man’s mouth curved up. “I hoped to catch you before you started your day.”
“We are going to the Natural History Museum,” Tommy chimed in.
“Are you, now?” Mr. Dorian replied before shooting me a smug smile. “A wonderful place.”
“You should come with us then,” Tommy said eagerly.
“Tommy,” I began, “I’m sure Mr. Dorian is very busy—”
“Not really,” he interrupted. “I’d be happy to join you. If you’ll have me, that is,” he added with an innocent little look that did not fool me at all.
I narrowed my eyes at him. The odious man very well knew he had put me in an impossible position. “Fine.”
“We can take my carriage,” he said. “It’s just round the corner.”
Tommy let out a whoop of delight and took each of us by the hand. “Let’s go!”
I could feel Mr. Dorian’s gaze on me as we were tugged towards the direction of the carriage, but I refused to look at him. The cool morning air had a bite to it, and I instinctively curled inward. Tommy, of course, seemed completely unaffected and practically skipped down the pavement.
Suddenly, I felt a heavy hand at the small of my back and nearly jumped from the unexpected sensation. “Come, Mrs. Harper,” Mr. Dorian murmured by my ear. “The coach is warm.”
“Thank you,” I rasped, then stepped quickly ahead until his hand fell away from me. The place where he had touched me still prickled from the sensation.
If Mr. Dorian noticed this rejection, he did not comment on it. “Here we are,” he said once we reached his coach. The driver had climbed down from his perch and opened the door for us. Tommy moved to climb in, but Mr. Dorian placed a hand on his shoulder.
“Ah, ah. Ladies first, Tommy,” he said, and my son immediately fell back.
I raised an eyebrow at Mr. Dorian, reluctantly impressed. “Thank you,” I said, as I picked up my skirt and allowed the driver to hand me in.
Mr. Dorian was right. His coach was warm and cozy.
Far more so than I had noticed on the night of the murder.
As I settled into the plush seat, Tommy clambered onto the bench across from me.
Mr. Dorian was right behind him, and I was surprised when he slid next to me.
Then he pulled out a soft cashmere blanket that had been tucked in a corner by the door and wordlessly spread it over my lap.
It was only when he tilted his head and gave me a questioning look that I realized I had been staring at him in openmouthed surprise.
“Thank you,” I muttered, then quickly turned away as the coach rocked to a start.
But since Tommy was eagerly staring out the window, he could not provide the distraction I sought. Luckily, the trip should not be terribly long, so I settled for staring out the window as well.
“Aren’t you going to ask why I came to see you?” Mr. Dorian murmured once we had been traveling for some minutes.
I kept my gaze fixed firmly on the passing street outside. “No.”
He hummed, as if giving my short answer great consideration. “Because you don’t care or because you have already deduced the reason?”
I pursed my lips and resisted the urge to roll my eyes, lest Tommy see such an obvious display of contempt. “A little of both.”
Mr. Dorian let out a soft chuckle. “Indulge me then, Mrs. Harper.”
That elicited a scoff from me, and I whipped my head to face him.
Of course, unlike me with my stiff posture, the man was practically lounging beside me, one arm slung across the back of the seat, his hand dangerously close to my person.
“I assume you came to scold me,” I whispered as I darted a glance to Tommy, who seemed blissfully unaware of our exchange.
“Which is neither your place nor your concern.”
Mr. Dorian said nothing for a long moment as he stared back at me intently with that dark gaze of his. This silence was nearly as maddening as his presumption, and I was on the verge of saying so when he finally spoke: “You are wrong,” he said smoothly. “On both accounts.”
I frowned and sat back. “You overreach, sir.”
Anger sparked in his eyes then, and he leaned towards me, just a little. “Well, someone needs to protect you from yourself,” he hissed.