Chapter 16
As I ascended the stairs to my sister’s room, the rain began to fall harder, and I couldn’t help noticing the house’s eerie silence.
It had never been like this when I lived here.
One of us was always shouting about something or running on the stairs or down the hall.
Or, on very rare occasions when no one was looking, sliding down the banister.
A smile touched my lips as I remembered the afternoon Jack showed me what to do and how proud he was when I mastered it.
For a moment, my heart ached for those lost years, even though I had often felt hopelessly misunderstood by my own family.
But I could see now that it hadn’t been as bad as all that.
We had all tried to love each other in our own misguided ways, and no matter how much we had clashed, it had certainly been better than this.
No wonder Delia had felt abandoned. The house was like a tomb.
I stopped in front of her bedroom door. No light shone underneath, yet I knocked anyway.
“Delia? It’s me,” I said softly as I tried the knob.
The door creaked open, and I poked my head into the room.
Her bed was empty. I frowned and opened the door all the way.
She wasn’t here. I turned around and shut the door behind me.
Where on earth was she? I continued down the corridor and checked the other bedrooms, but they were empty as well.
Then I remembered. I moved faster down the hall to the back staircase that led to the top floor.
At dinner last week, Mother had said her studio was up there.
I opened the door to the staircase and could see a faint glimmer of light from the very top.
By the time I reached the top, I was panting for breath.
Some of the servants’ bedrooms were in this part of the house, but at the other end of the hall, I could see light peeking out from under a shut door. I hurried towards it and knocked.
“Delia? Are you in there?”
There was a beat of silence, and I heard some rustling.
“The door’s open,” she finally said, though her voice was heavily muffled.
I opened the door and found her standing with her back to me in front of a large canvas.
“Hello, darling. I’ve come to check on you.”
She didn’t answer at first and instead began swiping the canvas with long, bold strokes. “Mother said you were here yesterday,” she replied without turning around.
“Yes, but you were asleep.” I moved slowly, as if I were approaching a wild animal.
She hummed in response, a flat, joyless sound, and continued her work.
I craned my neck to peer at the canvas and came to a halt.
Like A Woman Unbound, this piece immediately caught my attention, but the emotions it evoked could not have been more different.
It depicted the shadowy figure of a woman painted against a background of muted shades of brown, green, and grey, like the sky before a terrible storm.
The woman’s hair was loose and wild, as if a great wind was whipping all around her.
And right in the center of her chest was a gaping black hole.
I felt that sorrow like a lance through my chest.
I must have let out a gasp, because Delia glanced back at me. “What do you think?”
“I … I don’t know,” I answered honestly—and yet I couldn’t look away. It felt like a painfully accurate depiction of grief.
Delia’s mouth curved up in a mirthless smile, and she turned back to the canvas. “Is Jack still here?” she asked after a moment.
I had to blink and give myself a shake. “No. He just left.”
Her shoulders relaxed a little. “Good. I can’t face him right now.”
“That is understandable,” I said on a sigh. “He saw his solicitor earlier. It’s good news. Well, good enough for now,” I amended.
Delia stopped for a moment, as if considering something, then set down her brush and palette. Then she wiped her hands on her apron and faced me. “What is it?”
I frowned in concern. Her eyes were red, as if she had been crying, and the dark smudges under them indicated she had not been sleeping well, despite her afternoon naps. “Darling …” I began gently, but Delia shook off my concern.
“Just tell me, Minnie.”
“The solicitor thinks that you won’t end up being charged based on the evidence at hand. Apparently, whoever killed Charles needed a great deal of strength based on the murder weapon.”
Delia was silent as she absorbed my words then let out a tsk of disbelief. “So they think it was a man, then?”
“Nothing has been decided just yet, but it seems likely, yes.”
Her eyes turned glassy, and she sat down hard on a stool beside her. “I really thought they would accuse me,” she murmured.
“I know,” I said as my throat tightened with emotion. “But I think you are safe.”
She let out a breath, then met my gaze, her eyes full of sorrow. “Then who did it, Minnie? I’ve been racking my brain for the last few days, and I truly can’t think of who would do such a horrible thing.”
I think a lot of people had a reason to kill Charles Pearson.
As Madame Fontaine’s ominous words echoed in my head, I wondered how well my sister had really known this man. Or had she simply ignored the parts she didn’t wish to see?
“Try not to upset yourself,” I said as I rubbed her shoulder, knowing full well my words were cold comfort. “I am looking into it, and based on what I’ve learned so far, I don’t think it was anyone you would have known.”
She frowned in confusion. “What does that mean?”
“Do you know anything about an antiques auction in Belgravia that Charles attended?”
Delia considered the question and shook her head. “I know he attended auctions on occasion, but I don’t know about anything specific. Why?”
“I think his murder is somehow connected to his antiques business.”
Delia screwed up her face. “But … that was just a little hobby for him. It wasn’t anything that someone would kill him over.”
I wondered if that was her own observation of his work or the way Charles had explained it to her. It was certainly in his interest to portray it as more of a lark, so he wouldn’t look like a fortune hunter. “I’m not sure. As I understand it, he was quite serious about it.”
Delia chewed her lip, then let out a harsh breath and pressed her palms against her eyes. “God, I feel like such a fool. I didn’t know him at all, did I?”
I wrapped my arms around her in a fierce hug. “He showed you the parts of him he wanted you to see. How could you know what he was willfully hiding?”
As I said the words, I realized I wasn’t only speaking of her and Charles, but of myself and Oliver.
He had been hiding something from me on Corfu.
I could accept that now. And while I still held out a sliver of hope that his intentions had been noble, I was deeply hurt that he had kept anything from me in the first place.
Now I was forced to question the motivations of the man I had loved for so long.
It felt like trying to put together the pieces of a puzzle I couldn’t quite see and was afraid to complete.
Delia sniffled against my shoulder. “I suppose you’re right,” she said glumly.
“I am,” I insisted, possibly for my benefit as much as her own. “Now, let’s go downstairs.”
She nodded and allowed me to lead her towards the door.
But just before we left, I cast one last look at the painting.
How strange that one could feel such sustained grief over the loss of another, even after learning of their deception.
It was not just the loss of a person, though, but of an idea.
An image you both had a hand in creating.
Perhaps that was why it hurt so much, and was so difficult to leave behind.
I tucked Delia into bed and promised to have a tray sent up for her.
I briefly considered searching for my mother, but decided against it, as my nerves already felt frayed and I had no wish to fall into a quarrel with her.
So, instead, I slipped away from the house.
But before I could head home, I needed to stop off at one of those ghastly shops that catered to mourning clothing.
I couldn’t borrow anything from Delia without revealing my intention to attend the funeral, and as the black gowns I did own had been made for the Grecian climate, I hadn’t bothered to pack any.
So off I went to Regent Street, where I purchased a ready-made black cashmere gown, as it was warm and I absolutely abhorred crepe.
The saleswoman then tried to sell me an extravagant hat decorated with black silk roses and a long black veil, but I opted for a simple but elegant black velvet toque.
I didn’t really need another hat, but the crowd tomorrow would be well-heeled, and this would help me blend in.
That the hat also happened to be very flattering was merely a happy coincidence.
With my purchases in hand, I returned to the flat just as Mrs. Ford was setting the table for our supper.
I spent the rest of the evening in Tommy’s entertaining company and let him lead the conversation.
He had found another book on the natural sciences in my late uncle’s collection, though he insisted a trip to the reading room was still necessary, and he regaled me with a number of facts about reptiles, both interesting and horrifying.
After we finished Mrs. Ford’s delicious bread pudding, I helped Tommy wash and dress for bed before reading three chapters from Treasure Island.
By the time I reached the part where Long John Silver confronts Captain Smollett over who should get the buried treasure on Skeleton Island, I could barely hide my yawns.
“Mama,” Tommy said, “perhaps you should go to bed.”
“Yes. Thank you, my dear. It has been a long day.”
Tommy’s eyes were heavy-lidded as well, and he nodded in agreement. “You’re always away,” he murmured sleepily as he sank down onto the pillow.