Chapter 14
Mrs. Braithwaite left a short time later, as she needed to be home to greet her husband. But she promised to ask him everything he knew about Charles and write when she had more information.
I then remained in the parlor alone, mulling over all I had learned.
I was determined to speak to Mr. Henshaw next and felt confident he would know more about Charles Pearson’s dealings.
But it was the mention of the figurines that spurred another memory long forgotten.
While working at the embassy, Oliver had often lamented the Greek government’s poor laws on the antiquities trade, which allowed for the export of artifacts if they were labeled as duplicates or considered superfluous.
Unsurprisingly, these labels were often applied with abandon and with the full knowledge of the superintendent of antiquities.
Oliver’s attitude seemed at odds with Mr. Dorian’s accusations about him trading on the black market.
But perhaps it had all been some kind of misunderstanding and my husband had actually been rescuing these artifacts?
I let out a sigh and pressed my hands to my face.
Was I just being hopelessly na?ve again or was this something I could actually prove?
As I didn’t have time at the moment to embark on yet another investigation, I decided to focus on a task I could actually complete. I had just resolved to go upstairs and check on Delia when the door to the parlor swung open and my mother entered.
“Morris told me you were in here,” she said by way of greeting.
I rose as she approached. “Hello, Mother.” Then I bussed her cheek, and we both sat down.
“Did you speak with that Mrs. Braithwaite?” she asked.
“Yes. She was very helpful.”
My mother tsked. “I should hope so, given that she is the reason your sister is in this mess in the first place.”
“That is quite a leap, Mother. The woman merely introduced her to Charles. She isn’t responsible for Delia’s actions afterwards.”
She waved a hand in frustration. “I know all that,” she said crossly. “Still, she should have known better.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask who should have known better, but it felt fruitless. We weren’t going to agree on this, so I decided to change the subject. “You were out making calls today?”
She perked up a little. “Yes. I’ve just come from Lady Asquith’s. I thought it best to pay my calls as usual, so as not to create any suspicion,” she added.
I raised an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine any of that set know of Delia’s connection to Mr. Pearson.”
My mother wrinkled her nose. “Of course not. People spoke of the murder, of course. But no one said anything about Delia and we must do everything in our power to keep it that way.” I relaxed a little.
Her reputation was still safe, for now. “I did meet an old school friend of yours while I was there. Mrs. Wentworth. She is Lady Asquith’s niece.
You probably remember her as Miss Cecelia Morton. ”
I perked up. “Yes, we were at Girton together.”
We hadn’t kept in touch after I left England, but I had always liked Cecelia.
My mother nodded. “A very amiable young woman. Her husband works at the Home Office, and she has two boys and a girl.”
I couldn’t help bristling at the approval in her voice. “How nice.”
“I believe her husband was also friends with Oliver at Cambridge.”
The name didn’t sound familiar to me, so I shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”
My mother narrowed her eyes, and only then did I recall her intense dislike of shrugging.
Use your words, was her frequent refrain. You aren’t a common bricklayer.
I almost smiled at the memory, but doubted she would find that quite so amusing.
“She was very keen for you to call on her,” my mother continued. “I believe she is at home on Wednesday afternoons, which is convenient. I told her you would be there tomorrow.”
“I’m a bit occupied at the moment, Mother,” I gritted out, irritated by her high-handedness.
She actually had the gall to look confused. “With what?”
“I am trying to solve a murder,” I said, making no attempt to hide my exasperation.
“But surely you can do both,” she insisted. “And besides. It is more important than ever for us to keep up appearances right now.”
That sounded just like something Jack would say. I bit back a sigh. “I won’t have time this week. I’ll have to go next Wednesday.”
My mother clearly didn’t like this, but I would not be moved. “Then at least send her a note. Her card is in the hall.”
“I will.” That was something I could manage.
“Good,” she said with a nod. Then her eyes widened. “Oh! I nearly forgot.” She pulled something out of her pocket and handed it to me. “This came for you. From Lord Linden.”
I ignored the knowing look she shot me as I took the envelope. “It’s about Mr. Pearson’s funeral, I’m sure,” I said as I opened it.
My mother balked. “You can’t go to that. Think of how it will look.” Then she leaned forward and lowered her voice, even though we were very much alone. “There are rumors going around that he was married to an actress.”
I pursed my lips. “Mother, if you were so concerned with Delia’s friendship with Mr. Pearson, whyever did you let her associate with him in the first place?
“I didn’t know about that,” she insisted. “Otherwise, I never would have let her go near him!”
“Surely it can’t be that scandalous for a gentleman to be connected to an actress,” I said drolly. “He’s hardly the first.”
My mother did not look amused by my cavalier tone. “Associating is one thing,” she said crisply. “Marrying is another.”
“Well, regardless, I am going to this funeral.” Especially now that I knew Mr. Dorian would be there. I couldn’t let him find out anything before I did.
My mother sighed, as though I was being quite tedious. “Fine. Just don’t tell Delia. When is it anyway?”
I scanned the note. “Friday at eleven at St. Mark’s.”
She nodded. “I’ll make sure she has something to keep her occupied.”
“Surely that isn’t necessary.”
“Let me take care of your sister, Minnie,” she said with a frown. “And I will leave you to this murder business.”
Fair enough.
I decided then that it was time for me to leave as this conversation had left me in need of a nap.
“Tell Delia I stopped by. When I arrived, she had already gone upstairs to have a lie-down.”
My mother frowned again. This time in concern. “She’s been napping every afternoon. That’s not like her.”
“She probably isn’t sleeping well at night,” I said, praying that was enough to convince my mother.
She slowly nodded. “Yes. You’re probably right.”
“I will come to see Delia tomorrow,” I said, hoping to further distract her.
“As you wish.”
We then said our good-byes, as stiff and formal as they were, and I left.
I set out for the Elysium Gallery the next afternoon, after spending most of the morning helping Tommy research whales, which he had become particularly fascinated by.
Unfortunately, most of my late uncle’s books on the subject were several decades out of date, so I promised to take him to the British Museum’s reading room as soon as possible in order to leave the house.
Much like my last visit to this area, the gallery looked a bit shabbier in the daytime, especially now that it was not filled to the brim with glamorous guests. As I entered, a young man immediately greeted me, and I asked if I could speak with the owner.
His expression dimmed a little as it became clear he would not make a sale with me today. “Mr. Henshaw is in his office, but indisposed at the moment. May I ask what this refers to?”
I hesitated, not wanting to mention Charles Pearson to this fellow, but I had the feeling I wouldn’t be able to speak with Mr. Henshaw today if I didn’t make my intentions clear.
“Tell him Mrs. Harper is here to discuss Mr. Pearson. He will know what it is about,” I added in the lofty tone I had often witnessed my aunt and mother use on everyone, from store clerks to particularly strident butlers, with great success.
The young man’s eyes flashed, and he nodded. “Of course. I’ll be right back.”
I smiled at his retreating back and took a turn around the empty gallery while I waited.
Most of the same paintings that were on display the night of the opening were still here.
I then moved towards the back room, where Delia’s painting had been, but the place where it had once hung was now empty.
Disappointment sank through me. I was glad the painting had been sold, for my sister’s sake, but I would have loved to see it one last time.
As I stared at the blank spot, I became aware of the tread of heavy footsteps behind me.
“The painting was delivered yesterday,” a smooth voice said over my shoulder, and I whirled around.
A man I assumed was Mr. Henshaw stood a few feet away.
He looked about my age, perhaps a little older, and was of average height and build.
He wore his auburn hair in a severe side part that only drew more attention to his receding hairline.
“The buyer was very eager to have it in their possession. Not that I blame them,” he added with a coy smile as he moved closer and cast an assessing glance over me.
I already didn’t like him. There was a slickness to the way he spoke and moved that got my hackles up, but, of course, I couldn’t betray that. I needed information from this man, so I gave him a smile of my own. “It is a beautiful painting. I’m Miss Everly’s sister, actually.”
His dark eyes gleamed with interest, and I fought against the urge to step back and put more distance between us. “Ah. I had wondered who this mysterious Mrs. Harper was demanding my attention.”
I forced out a light laugh. “I don’t think I demanded your attention, sir. But I do have some questions about our mutual acquaintance, Mr. Pearson.”