Chapter 18 #3
“Actors,” Mr. Dorian said by way of explanation.
I sniffed as I recalled the various gossip columns about him in the company of several different actresses. And that was only the ones that were written about. “Well, you know more about that than I would,” I muttered without thinking.
Mr. Dorian shot me a curious look that I blatantly ignored. “In any case,” he continued, “it would possibly explain why Mrs. Pearson never sought a divorce herself.” Then he frowned, considering something. “Or perhaps she refused to sign the divorce papers unless she got something in return.”
I balked. “You think she was extorting him?”
“She had been here for over a week before his murder, yet they were still trying to arrange a meeting. Why would it take that long if it was something they both wanted?”
“But she said he had no money, and she mentioned that she was doing well.”
Mr. Dorian shrugged, unconcerned. “Yes, but perhaps not well enough to walk away from a payout, especially if she felt it was owed to her. And I’m sure Charles was perfectly capable of scrounging up some funds, when necessary,” he pointed out, then pursed his lips.
“But even if that was the case, I’m not sure how that helps us solve this murder. ”
The elevator finally arrived then, and the attendant pushed open the gate. Mr. Dorian and I shuffled once more into the cramped space, and I leaned back against the wrought-iron bars, mulling over this scenario.
Then I straightened as something came to me. “Maybe that’s it,” I said. Mr. Dorian raised an eyebrow in question. “Perhaps he was trying to make a quick sale to pay her off,” I continued, now warming to the idea. “Only something went wrong. Or he was swindling someone, and they noticed.”
Mr. Dorian nodded slowly. “Yes. I like that idea.”
Meanwhile, the attendant looked back and forth at us with blatant curiosity.
“He’s a writer,” I explained. “We’re coming up with ideas. Sometimes inspiration strikes when you least expect it.”
Mr. Dorian rolled his eyes, but the attendant immediately perked up. “Really? Have you written anything I would know?”
Just as I was about to say the name of his first book, Mr. Dorian said no and shot me a warning look.
The attendant frowned as he considered this. “I don’t think I’ve heard of that, but I’ve got an idea for you. A story you wouldn’t believe.”
“Is that right?” Mr. Dorian said flatly, making no attempt to hide his disinterest.
But the young man didn’t appear to notice. “It happened to a friend of my uncle’s. Or was it his cousin? Anyway, that’s not important …”
We spent the rest of the ride being subjected to a very long and convoluted story about a man losing his change purse in a pub and then having it returned to him by his long-lost brother, who happened to pass through not an hour after him.
“Now wouldn’t that make an excellent story?” the young man said as the elevator bobbed to a stop.
Mr. Dorian eyed the door, which remained closed, and quickly nodded. “I will take it into consideration.”
The young man looked thrilled. “Really? I can’t wait to tell him!”
“Now, please, open the door,” Mr. Dorian said tightly, and I noticed the panicked look in his eyes.
“Oh, right. My apologies, sir,” the young man said with a laugh and pushed open the door.
Mr. Dorian practically hurled himself out of the elevator, while I gave the attendant an apologetic smile as I exited.
“I’ve had that exact nightmare before,” Mr. Dorian muttered once I was by his side.
“I didn’t know you had an aversion to small spaces,” I replied as we made our way back through the lobby.
“I have an aversion to being trapped with a dullard and forced to listen to his inane suggestions,” he snapped.
“It wasn’t all that bad. Why, I’m sure Arthur Conan Doyle could turn that into an excellent Sherlock Holmes story.”
A weaker person may have been cowed by the withering look he cast me then, but I could only smile back. I hadn’t had the chance to annoy him like this in a very long time, and I confess, I rather missed it.
Once we were back outside on the pavement, Mr. Dorian turned to me. “What next? Shall we meet tomorrow to prepare for our visit to the auction house?”
I shook my head. “I’m visiting Cleo at her school.” I went every Saturday and would continue to do so as long as my daughter welcomed me. “And I’m sure if you will come to my aunt’s flat an hour beforehand, we can discuss the details. No need for this to take up more time than necessary.”
Something flashed in Mr. Dorian’s eyes too quickly for me to name it, but if pressed, I would have been tempted to call it disappointment. “Right. And how is Cleo faring?”
“Good. Wonderful, actually,” I amended.
“Glad to hear that,” he replied, looking anything but. “Well, I’m happy to take you home—”
“No need. Tommy is at my brother’s house in Kensington, and I wouldn’t want you to go so far out of your way.” I then forced a cheery smile in a desperate attempt to stop the awkward feeling that seemed to stretch between us.
But Mr. Dorian was immune to the gesture. “As you wish,” he said with a stiff nod.
I cleared my throat. “Come to my aunt’s home at eight. I’m sure it won’t take us very long to prepare.”
“All right. Until then,” he replied, without meeting my gaze before he turned on his heel.
I watched his retreating figure as he stalked over to his waiting carriage, broad shoulders thrown back and head held high.
A trio of finely dressed women passed by him on their way into the hotel, and they made no attempt to conceal their interest, but Mr. Dorian either didn’t notice or didn’t care enough to acknowledge them.
It was terribly petty of me, but I couldn’t help feeling rather pleased.
Then I turned around and headed in the opposite direction to hail a hansom cab, unable to keep from smiling.