The voice on the other end then asked something. I could barely understand them, but I assumed they wanted to know the location.
“I’m at The Carleton on George Street in Marylebone,” I replied, nearly shouting now. “Flat number eight on the third floor.”
A muffled response came, and then the line went dead. I frowned in confusion at the earpiece and then handed the blasted thing back to Delia. “They are on their way, I think.”
She nodded and put the telephone back in its place. “Now what?”
“We wait,” I said. Then hesitated. “Where is he?”
Delia looked past me down the hall. “The study. But I … I can’t.”
“Understood,” I replied. “I’ll just be a moment.”
I didn’t exactly relish the thought of seeing a dead body once again and was suddenly flooded with memories of Daphne Costas, the maid I found murdered on Corfu. I forced my gaze ahead and crept down the hallway. The first room on my right was a cozy little parlor with a Persian-style rug on the floor and two wingback chairs before the hearth. Like the entryway, the walls and shelves were lined with treasures of one sort or another. The door on my left was closed, possibly a bedroom. But up ahead, the door to the study stood open, and warm lamplight spilled out onto the hallway. As I grew closer, I could make out shelves of books and another fine rug. I held my breath as I reached thedoorway and had to take a moment to settle my rattled nerves before I peered inside.
A massive oak desk took up a corner. And there, right in front of it, was the body of Charles Pearson in a puddle of blood. Delia was right. No one could have survived that, as it seemed someone had bashed his head in quite thoroughly.
Chapter 7
Iforced myself to enter the room and bent down beside the body, taking care not to disturb the scene. The metallic scent of freshly spilled blood hung in the air, so I took shallow breaths. Charles Pearson’s head was turned towards me, and his blue eyes were frozen open, as if in surprise.
“Poor chap,” I murmured and rose.
I glanced around the study, but there didn’t appear to be any sign of the weapon used to bludgeon him. In fact, the space looked remarkably undisturbed, apart from the body on the floor. I backed out of the room with a frown and rejoined Delia in the entryway.
“He is dead, then?”
I glanced up, distracted by my thoughts. “Yes,” I said softly. “I’m so sorry, Delia.”
Her eyes welled with tears. “I had hoped that I was mistaken,” she choked out. “That it had all been some horrible dream.” Then she brought a hand to her mouth.
I understood that impulse all too well and pulled her into my arms. “There now,” I hushed, as she cried against my shoulder, and wished for all the world that I could bring hersome comfort. But, unfortunately, this was a road she would have to tread mostly on her own.
After she had quite thoroughly soaked my shoulder, I pulled back. “Why don’t we wait in the parlor,” I suggested, taking her by the arm. “I’ve no idea how long it will take the police to arrive.”
Delia nodded and wordlessly allowed me to lead her into the room. I was more convinced than ever that she could not have been involved in Charles Pearson’s death—and that it was not an accident. No, this had been caused by a horrific act of violence, and I would do whatever I could to keep my sister safe.
As I sat her down on a dark green velvet sofa, her long coat parted, revealing the front of her dress along with a smear of rust-colored blood. Based on the placement, she must have knelt by his body when she found him—an understandable impulse. I swallowed and turned away to set about building up the fire in the hearth. From what I could tell, it had been banked for hours. I used the poker to dig through the coals just in case someone had burned any potential evidence, but there was no sign of that. While I rustled the coals back to life, the image of the body burned in my mind. It seemed most likely that Charles Pearson had gone straight to his study—and hadn’t left. But what was he doing in there? Had his killer been lying in wait, or did Charles welcome him inside?
With the fire now giving off a good bit of heat, I turned back to Delia. She was staring blankly off into the distance. I sat down beside her and took her hand in mine. It felt far too cold.
“I know it is difficult, but I think you should tell me everything you can remember. Even the smallest detail may prove to be important.”
She gave a slow nod. “All right. I left the house as soon as you went to bed and walked over here.”
“Did you see anyone on the way?”
“I passed a few people. Strangers. But I kept to the shadows and wore my veiled hat.” Then she shot me an arch look. “I know enough to be discreet.”
“Good. Then what?”
“Like I said, I came up the servants’ staircase. And I didn’t see anyone there either,” she added before I could ask. “The hallway was empty too, which isn’t unusual. This building is full of bachelors, and they keep late hours.”
I pursed my lips at this description. “I see.”
Delia’s mouth curved in the barest hint of a smile at my obvious disapproval. “I didn’t make it a habit of coming here, you know. It was only a few times. And I never saw anyone else.”
“That’s a relief,” I said dryly.
