He waved me off, entirely unconcerned to learn of the presence of another person in the flat. Once again, I was struck by the lackadaisical manner of a law enforcement officer. It was what had spurred me to involve myself in the death of Daphne Costas, and clearly I would need to do the same here in England. I rolled my eyes as I entered the parlor. Delia was still huddled on the sofa and looked up at me with an anxious expression.
“He’s calling for reinforcements,” I explained. “Apparently, he needed to confirm first that someone wasactuallydead.”
But Delia didn’t share my annoyance. She only looked more worried. “Are you sure about this?”
“Absolutely,” I replied, with as much confidence as I could muster. I had decided that cooperating with the police was better than attempting to hide her from the crime, but only time would tell if this gamble would pay off.
While we waited for the detective to arrive, the constable introduced himself as Officer Byrne and took down our names and information.
“Shall we tell you what happened?” I asked, but the constable shook his head.
“Better save it all for the detective inspector, ma’am,” he said. “He will want to have the story fresh from you. I’ve learned that the hard way,” he added with a chuckle that did nothing to quell my uncertainty. “This chap was a collector then?” he asked me, but I turned to Delia.
“Yes,” she answered quietly. “He bought and sold art and antiques.”
The constable hummed in response and began inspecting the shelves. “Quite the little museum he has here, ain’t it?”
Delia shrugged, either uninterested or unable to keep up the conversation. He continued to peruse the contents of a large cabinet in the corner, but had the irritating habit of whistling while he did so.
“Would it be all right if I made us some tea?” I asked after a moment.
The constable paused to think. “I don’t see why not,” he answered. “Let me make sure nothing is amiss in there first.” That at least spared us a few blissful moments of peace while he left the room.
Once he was out of earshot, I turned to Delia. “How long was Charles in the business of selling things?”
“I’m not sure,” she replied. “A good while, though, I think. He had an inheritance from his father, but I believe most of his income came from his sales.”
“I see,” I said, casting a look around the room and wondering about the true nature of his finances. He seemed successful enough, what with the flat in this neighborhood and the undoubtably expensive telephone, but he would hardlybe the first person to hide money troubles behind a veneer of wealth.
“Do you think his murder was connected to his business?”
“I don’t think anything yet,” I said carefully. “But it is certainly a possibility. We cannot assume. Only theorize.” As soon as the words were out, I realized what I had done.
Delia raised a questioning brow. “Nowyousound like a detective.”
Inspector Dumond, in fact. Mr. Dorian’s most famous creation.
I let out a huff, as I was exceedingly cross with myself, just as the constable returned. “I think it’s fine for you to put the kettle on, ma’am.”
“Excellent,” I said, practically leaping to my feet. It was good to stay busy at a time like this. If nothing else, it would help keep my mind off thoughts of arrogant inspectors, dead bodies, and, most of all, irritating mystery writers.
I had just finished pouring our cups of tea when there was a loud pounding at the door.
Officer Byrne let out a weary sigh as he set down his cup and moved to answer it. “Prepare yourselves, ladies,” he said ominously.
Delia and I exchanged a look. There was the low murmur of voices in the entryway and the shuffle of feet. The detective had not arrived alone. Officer Byrne returned to the parlor, while three other men walked past down the hall.
He gave us a smile. “They’re taking a look around first. Then the detective will come speak with you.”
“Anything we can do to help,” I said genially, then took a sip.
The murmur of voices and the sound of footsteps continued as the men moved methodically around the flat.
Eventually, a young man with dark hair and a strangely familiar stern expression entered the parlor.
“Good evening,” he said, radiating a kind of smooth, self-satisfied air that caused me to dislike him immediately. “I am Detective Inspector Dorian.”
Out the corner of my eye, I could see Delia glance over at me, but I could not meet her gaze. I was simply too stunned to look away from the detective.
