I hesitated. I had underestimated his interest in his brother. For a very brief moment, I considered lying, but that could only lead to more complications. “I don’t see how that is relevant to this matter, but no, it was not,” I replied with as much disinterest as I could muster, as if the subject bored me.
But instead of responding, the inspector began to study the paper before him. “Minerva Harper,” he drawled. I felt an uneasy prickling at the base of my neck, as though this man knew far more about me than he was letting on. Then he shot me a challenging look, as if he had heard my thoughts. “And I suppose it’s only a coincidence that your initials happen to match the dedication in his latest book?”
Somehow I managed to keep my composure and simply tilted my head in question. “You’ve read it?”
The inspector’s look of surprise was most gratifying. He had not meant to admit that. He began to say something, then seemed to think better of it and shook his head. “Never mind. As you said, it bears no relevance to this case.” Then he straightened his spine and resumed his questioning. “What time did you arrive at your parents’ house?”
“One in the morning,” I replied, somewhat relieved that we had moved on from discussing Stephen Dorian. “I remember because the grandfather clock chimed just after we entered. Then Delia and I went upstairs and talked for a bit before we went to bed. I fell asleep, and she woke me up a short while later in great distress as she had found Mr. Pearson’s body. We then returned here and called the police.”
He raised an eyebrow. “So your sister first came to the flat alone, encountered the body and left, and then you both returned here.”
“That is correct.”
“And how did you enter?”
“The servant’s staircase.”
“Ah. Naturally.”
I lifted my chin at his sarcastic tone. “I will not pretend that I was not scandalized by her actions, Inspector,” I began. “But my sister had an understanding with Mr. Pearson and only came here to discuss a related matter. I would thankyounot to insinuate anything that would damage her reputation,” I added.
“I am not at all concerned with the reputation of young ladies, Mrs. Harper,” he said hotly. “A man was murdered in his own home. Violently, I might add.”
The image of Charles Pearson’s lifeless body lying in a dark, glistening pool of his own blood flashed through my mind.
“I know,” I murmured as my throat went dry. “I did … I did see him.”
He softened ever so slightly. “Right. I am sorry for that.”
“I realize how all this must sound to you. But you must admit that we could just as easily have not informed Scotland Yard.”
He looked incredulous. “And do you expect me to thank you for that?”
“No. I expect you to conduct a thorough investigation. And it seems perfectly obvious to me that my sister does not possess the strength needed to bash a man’s head in.”
His eyes glittered with purpose. “It is my job not to make assumptions about anyone, Mrs. Harper. And let me assure you that I only seek the truth. If your sister is innocent—andyou, for that matter—I will prove it.”
Though I knew perfectly well that I was innocent, I felt a shiver race down my spine nonetheless. Clearly, this was not a man to be trifled with. I tried to find some comfort in that knowledge, but couldn’t shake the feeling of uncertainty. This situation had become far more complicated than I expected. But I couldn’t lose my nerve. Not now. Not when my sister’s life, and possibly my own, was at stake.
“We arrived home just before one,” I began in a measured tone. “And it was only a little past two when Delia returned and woke me. We then placed the call to Scotland Yard here. I’m sure there is a record of it for you to confirm.”
“And I will. But if you are suggesting that it clears the two of you of suspicion, then—”
The detective was cut off by a loud bang from the entryway as someone slammed the door open.
“All right! That’s enough,” cried a highly irritated voice I hadn’t heard in years—and not a moment too soon.
“Oh God,” I muttered before glowering at the detective. “Who calledhim?”
Inspector Dorian frowned in confusion at my question, but I was already getting to my feet.
I swung open the sitting room door and found my brother Jack in the middle of haranguing Officer Byrne.
“I am John Francis Everly, the MP for Kensington,” he said, with the kind of inherent self-importance I had only found in men who had accomplished the dizzying feat of being born into wealth and privilege. “And you cannot detain people without charge. This is my solicitor,” he continued, gesturing to a tall, thin man in spectacles who stood just behind him. “And he excels in investigating police corruption. Or shall I form a committee and drag you down to parliament and make you answer for your crimes?”
Oh, but he was in a full-on bluster now. Officer Byrne shot me a panicked look over his shoulder.
“Jack, that is quite enough,” I said as calmly as I could manage. “We are not being detained against our will.”
