Chapter 13 #2
“I’m not telling you,” I said, like a petulant child.
He gave me a rather smug smile. “That’s a no, then.”
I rolled my eyes, but was secretly glad we were back on safer ground. It was far better to be annoying each other than attempting to broach the past. At least now I could lay that last delusion to rest and put it all behind me.
“I was thinking of speaking to Mrs. Pearson,” he said after a moment. “If she is in town, of course.”
“And how exactly do you intend to find her?”
“Well, I expect she will make an appearance at her own husband’s funeral,” he said easily.
I arched a brow. “You’re going?”
He mirrored my expression. “Aren’t you?”
I turned away with a scowl. It felt as though the man had a copy of my diary. “Yes,” I said with a reluctant nod. “But that isn’t until the end of the week.”
“I’m open to your suggestions in the meantime,” he said, spreading his arms. I snorted in response. “You may as well tell me what you’re planning, Mrs. Harper. I’ll find out anyway.”
I bristled at his confidence. This man really did think he had me all figured out. “I haven’t decided yet,” I said loftily.
He watched me for a moment. “Very well. But do let me know who you land on.”
I did not respond to this and instead moved ahead. Tommy was now on the bank of the river, poking at something with a stick, and I needed to intervene.
“You can’t do this alone,” he called out.
I did not look back and simply raised my hand. I did not agree, of course, and Mr. Dorian would never think such a thing about himself. I felt more determined than ever to seek out the truth, now with the added benefit of proving him wrong.
Once I shepherded my son away from the water, we did not speak of the murder again.
Instead, I let Tommy lead the discussion, which naturally revolved around all the creatures we had seen at the museum.
Mr. Dorian walked us all the way to Hyde Park Street, but just as I was about to bid him good-bye, Tommy spoke up.
“You must call on us again next week, Mr. Dorian,” he said eagerly.
“Only if your mother allows it,” the fiend replied, shooting me a questioning look.
I bit back a sigh. “Of course. If you can find the time, that is. I know you are very busy,” I added.
Mr. Dorian smiled. “I am. But I can always make time for the Harpers.”
It took everything in me not to narrow my eyes at this pronouncement, while Tommy cheered in delight. We then mercifully parted ways.
“Did you not tell Mr. Dorian we were coming to London?” Tommy asked as we headed back to my aunt’s flat.
“No, I did not,” I admitted and held my breath, as I truly did not want to explain that Mr. Dorian and I hadn’t been on speaking terms these last few months, or the events that had precipitated that.
But luckily, this answer seemed to satisfy Tommy, and I let out a breath of relief.
If Cleo had been with us, for example, she would have been relentless in her pursuit of the truth.
We arrived back at the flat around three in the afternoon, and I decided to pay a visit to Delia and see how she was faring.
I asked Tommy if he wanted to come with me, but he was more interested in reading through more of my late uncle’s reference books.
After Mrs. Ford assured me she didn’t mind keeping an eye on Tommy, I set out for Portman Square.
I was ushered inside by Cartwright, the footman. “Hello. I’ve come to see my sister.”
He nodded as he took my coat. “I believe she is in the parlor with a visitor.”
Well, this was encouraging news. Not only was Delia up, she was receiving guests.
“Good. And is my mother in?”
“No, Mrs. Harper. She has gone out.”
I was just about to reply to this when a young woman came down the hall. She wore a long, dark blue coat that matched her eyes and a hat I recognized as being a few years out of fashion, as mine was quite similar. Her light brown hair was tucked neatly, if plainly, under her hat.
“Hello there,” I said as the footman took my coat. “I’m Mrs. Harper. Delia’s sister.”
Her eyes lit with recognition. “Yes, of course. I’m Mrs. Braithwaite. I came to call on your sister.”
This was the woman who had acted as a chaperone during Delia’s outings with Charles—though given my sister’s current state, I assumed she hadn’t taken her role very seriously.
But perhaps that was unfair of me. Even a diligent chaperone couldn’t watch their charge all the time.
In any case, this was someone I very much wished to speak to.
And better still, someone Mr. Dorian had no idea existed.
“That is very good of you. I came to do the same.”
“She’s just gone upstairs for a lie-down,” Mrs. Braithwaite said, then leaned in towards me. “Poor dear. I think the grief is taking a toll on her,” she murmured.
I gave a sober nod even while I was relieved that the woman must not know of the pregnancy, as that was the more likely explanation for Delia’s late-afternoon nap.
“Do you have a moment?” I asked, flicking a glance towards Cartwright, who was still manning his post by the door.
Mrs. Braithwaite followed the movement and gave a hesitant nod. “Certainly.”
“I will be in the parlor with Mrs. Braithwaite,” I said to the footman before ushering the woman down the hall.
She and Delia must have only recently vacated the room because a healthy fire still roared in the hearth and the tea service still remained.
“Shall I ring for more?” I asked, gesturing to the teapot.
“Only if you wish,” she said. “I’m very well.”
As I moved to tug on the bellpull, I took a moment to look over Mrs. Braithwaite.
Admittedly, I had assumed she was older than Delia, given her marital status, but with her round, angelic face and nervous expression, she seemed younger.
I took the seat across from her and noted that the cuffs of her coat were worn and several buttons on the front had been replaced by ones that did not exactly match.
Delia had mentioned that her husband was a relation of Earl Drummond, but I knew very well that being related to an aristocrat was no guarantee of wealth.
“My sister said you met at Slade,” I began after I asked for a fresh pot of tea from the maid who answered my ring.
“Yes,” she said with a quick nod. “We were in all the same classes, Delia and I. She sat next to me on our very first day and introduced herself. She was so friendly. Some of the other girls were not as welcoming.” She hesitated.
“I was there on scholarship, you see. But Delia never made me feel like I didn’t belong because of it. We’ve been friends ever since.”
I smiled. “I’m glad to hear that. And have you been married long?” I couldn’t help wondering how a scholarship student crossed paths with the relation of an earl.
“No. Just under a year,” she said, dipping her chin shyly. “We met at the Royal Exhibition, actually.”
“How lovely.”
“My husband is a barrister, but he always wanted to be an artist,” she explained with an indulgent smile.
“He’s been so supportive of me. I feel like the luckiest woman in the world.
” Then her expression clouded. “What an awful thing to say with poor Delia upstairs. I was so sorry to hear about Mr. Pearson, and even sorrier that she found him. I can’t imagine … ”
I let the silence stretch for a moment before I continued my questioning.
“I understand you were the one who introduced them.”
She gave a solemn nod. “Charlie—that is, Mr. Pearson—was a friend of my husband’s. Back in the spring Delia, myself, and a few other girls we knew from Slade put on a little art show and Charlie came by one night with my husband.”
I narrowed my eyes. “And that is when they began courting?”
Mrs. Braithwaite’s cheeks flushed prettily, and she looked away. “More or less, I believe.”
The woman might be married, but Delia seemed far more worldly than this shy creature.
“She said you often acted as their chaperone.”
Mrs. Braithwaite cleared her throat and kept her gaze on the rug. “I did. Yes.”
“I’m not here to chastise you. I know that my sister and Mr. Pearson were not exactly following all the rules of courtship.”
She glanced up in surprise. “You do?”
I nearly laughed at her expression. “Yes. Though I trust that you will keep any indiscretions on their part to yourself.”
“Of course,” she said with a fierce nod. “Yes. Delia is my very best friend, and I would never do anything that could hurt her.”
God help me, I believed her. “Then you must understand the gravity of the situation and how important it is that we find the murderer.”
She cocked her head in confusion. “Is … is Delia in trouble?”
I leaned forward. “You must tell me everything you know about Charles Pearson. For Delia’s sake.”
Mrs. Braithwaite reared back a little and blinked rapidly. “I … I don’t know much. At least, not anything that would be helpful.”
“You would be surprised,” I said with a gentle smile. “Do you know anything about his work involving antiques?”
“Only that he was mad about them,” she said. “But I don’t know if he did anything I would classify as work. He was a gentleman.” Then she paused, as if remembering something and flushed again.
“What is it?” I coaxed.
She shot me a hesitant look. “Benjamin, that’s my husband, complained about him once, even though they really were great friends,” she added hastily.
I nodded for her to continue. “He had come back from a night out and was grumbling because Charlie never paid for anyone else’s drinks even though he inherited a fortune from his father. ”
I raised an eyebrow. “When was this?”
Mrs. Braithwaite shook her head. “I’m not sure. Months ago. The summer, at least.”
“Did your husband think he was having money troubles?”
She snorted a laugh. “Not at all. He thought he was tightfisted. But I really don’t know.
” Then she paused again. “Charlie was very keen on ancient artifacts, though. Especially these peculiar little marble statues from Greece. Very crude-looking things. Large heads with no defining features to speak of. Smooth bodies. I don’t know what he saw in them. ”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood. I knew the statues she spoke of. They were called Cycladic figurines. While Oliver had still been working at the embassy in Athens, the pieces were quite popular with collectors abroad and were often smuggled out of the country. “Are you sure?”
“Oh yes. He loved to talk about his collection and was always adding new pieces. Perhaps you saw some of them in his flat?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t look very closely,” I admitted.
“Right. Of course. I think he might have sold pieces to people as well, but I’m not sure.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Mrs. Braithwaite, these pieces are illegally sold on the black market.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“I lived in the country for many years, and it was an ongoing problem. Dealers would claim they were duplicates or worthless in value in order to circumvent the current law.”
She shook her head. “I had no idea.”
“I’m sure that is true, but a collector like Mr. Pearson would absolutely have known.” And likely priced such items accordingly. Now I very much regretted I hadn’t taken the chance to look around more carefully while I had been in his flat.
“How awful,” Mrs. Braithwaite said. Then her gaze shot to mine. “You don’t think his murder had something to do with it?”
I shrugged. “People have certainly killed for less.”
My flippant answer seemed to horrify the young woman, but before I could attempt to mollify her, a maid entered the room with the fresh pot of tea.
Once we were alone again, I began to pour myself a cup. “My apologies if I’ve upset you. But, unfortunately, this is not the first time I have encountered a murder.”
She gave a slow nod, though her face remained pale. “It’s just a shocking thing.”
“Can you think of anyone I could speak to who might know more about his collection?”
Mrs. Braithwaite thought for a moment. “I suppose Mr. Henshaw might know something. He runs the Elysium Gallery.”
I took a bracing sip and set down my cup. “Excellent. Thank you.”
She looked confused. “But aren’t the police conducting an investigation?”
“They are,” I admitted. “However, in my experience, it is still a good idea for one to pursue all possible avenues of inquiry.”
“You mean … you don’t trust them,” she said meekly.
For a brief moment, I regretted that I was about to shatter her illusion. “No, Mrs. Braithwaite,” I said gently. “I’m afraid I don’t. And I must do everything I can to protect my sister.”
She sucked in a sharp breath as understanding dawned. “Oh, dear lord. They think she might have done it?”
“I believe she is a suspect, yes. But she did not kill Charles. I am absolutely certain of that.”
“No. No, of course, she didn’t,” Mrs. Braithwaite said, then her face fell. “But, oh. She could go to prison—she could hang!”
“Calm yourself, Mrs. Braithwaite. We are a ways off from that, at least at the moment. That is why you must tell me anything that may be of use.”
She nodded. “I will. I promise. And I’ll ask Benjamin anything too.”
“That would be very helpful,” I said with genuine gratitude.