Mr. Dorian had mentioned his younger brother once during our investigation on Corfu. It had taken us to the island of Paxos and, after the man we had hired to ferry us there had gotten extremely drunk, we were forced to spend the night. It was over dinner that Mr. Dorian revealed that he had a younger brother who followed in their late father’s footsteps by joining Scotland Yard. I also recalled that this man did not think very highly of Mr. Dorian’s literary pursuits.
“Please give me your names,” Detective Inspector Dorian prompted before turning to me.
“I am Mrs. Minerva Harper,” I began. “And this is my sister, Delia Everly.”
With a frown, he turned to her. “Is that true?”
Delia nodded sheepishly. “Yes.”
He looked between us for a moment, considering something. Then the front door opened once more, and a large man with a shock of red hair and a beard to match entered the parlor. “Inspector Donnelly. Excellent timing. You will take Miss Everly into the kitchen for questioning.” Then his dark gaze narrowed on me. “While Mrs. Harper will remain here with me.”
Delia inhaled sharply, and I reached for her hand. “Might we not stay together, Detective Inspector?” I asked in a cloying tone of voice I only used when trying to charm a man, which, frankly, did not happen very often. But my attempt to appeal to the man’s emotions utterly failed.
“No, you may not,” he said flatly.
“It will be all right,” I murmured to Delia. She shot me a dubious look, but squeezed my hand and stood.
Inspector Donnelly held out his arm. “Right this way, Miss Everly.”
He seemed genial enough, which was a relief. Better that I was to be questioned by Inspector Dorian than my sister. She cast me one last look before exiting the room. After a moment, I heard the door to the kitchen shut soundly behind her.
Detective Inspector Dorian then walked to the armchair the constable had set in front of the sofa for our tea and took a seat. “Alone at last,” he said as he steepled his hands. “Now then, Mrs. Harper. Would you be so good as to tell me about your evening and how you came to find Mr. Pearson’s body?”
A part of me whispered caution. That I shouldn’t tell this man a thing. But this was also an opportunity to guide his investigation. It was clear to me that, at the very least, Delia and I were both now suspects. And that this might be my only chance to plant the seeds of doubt in his mind.
I shifted in my chair and cleared my throat. “Certainly. I agreed to attend an opening at the Elysium Gallery in Soho with Delia. She is an artist and had a painting on display. I met her at our parents’ house in Portman Square at approximately eight o’ clock, and we left for the gallery around nine. There we met Mr. Pearson, who is a friend of Delia’s. We stayed at the gallery for about an hour, I suppose, before we headed to the home of Lord Linden, who was hosting a gathering.”
The inspector had been taking notes, but at the mention of the baron, he raised an eyebrow and glanced up at me. I surmised that the baron’s parties were well-known enough to reach the ears of Scotland Yard. Interesting, though perhaps not surprising.
“I see. Go on,” the inspector prompted.
“We stayed there for another hour or so before we left at my request—”
“Why?”
The sharp question startled me. “Because I wastired,” I shot back.
The inspector sat back in his chair and gave me another one of those considering looks. “By my estimation, it was just after midnight. That is considered quite early for a guest to depart from a society function.”
“Well, I am not most guests, Inspector Dorian,” I said crossly. I was being rather impertinent and expected to be chastised, but to my surprise, the man only smiled a bit and took up his pen once more.
“All right. Please, continue.”
“As my sister, Mr. Pearson, and I were making to leave, another guest offered the use of his carriage to take us home, which we accepted.”
“His name?” he asked, without looking up from his scribblings.
Admittedly, I am not proud of how I behaved in this moment. But given the series of events I had endured over the course of the evening, coupled with a lack of sleep, I could not help but engage in a bit of pettiness. I paused until the inspector glanced up at me in question. Then I pretended to think, as if the name had escaped me. “Stephen Dorian,” I finally said. “The author.”
An outright scowl clouded his expression. “And you did not think to mention this sooner?”
I widened my eyes. “Oh! Is he a relation of yours?”
He scoffed, clearly not believing my reaction. “He is my brother.”
“Well, I would never assume,” I explained.
He narrowed his eyes at me. “And was tonight the first time you met?”
