“Does he have any siblings?”
My mother frowned in thought. “A sister, I believe. But I don’t think she lives in London, though she’ll probably come down for the funeral.”
Funeral.
I would have to attend, of course. Funerals could be very informative in these kinds of situations. The murderer might even be in attendance themselves, if only to make sure they were not under suspicion.
“Do you know about his work?” I asked, trying to distract myself from the shiver running through me. “Delia said he dealt in art and antiques.”
My mother let out a scoff. “Lots of gentlemen dabble in such things. I can’t imagine he made much money off of it. And I’m sure he knewallabout Delia’s dowry,” she added with a glower.
Barely two days ago, she had considered Charles Pearson to be a perfectly fine match for Delia, but I decided to hold my tongue. Besides, if he really was married, Delia’s dowry was of little consequence to him. Unless the man intended to commit bigamy. And I was still stuck on the telephone in his flat. It seemed like an unnecessary expense for a man who was merely dabbling in art and antiques.
“What are you thinking about?” My mother’s voice cut through my thoughts.
“Nothing,” I answered automatically. “I’m just trying toform a picture of Charles Pearson in order to decide whom I should speak to next.”
Apprehension flashed in her face. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be involved in this, after all. I didn’t think—”
“Mother,” I said gently, “I’ll be fine.”
She gave me a long look. “You must take care.”
“I will. Of course.” I gave her my most reassuring smile, but she didn’t return it, only sighed in response. “I should go and get Tommy,” I said as I rose. “But I’ll come see Delia tomorrow.”
“Good,” she said with a distracted nod as she also stood.
We then exited the room and headed for the staircase, only to find Morris waiting on the landing.
“Madame, Mrs. Harper,” he began with a little bow. “There is a gentleman downstairs—”
“I told you we aren’t receiving callers today,” my mother said with a huff.
“Yes, madame,” Morris continued smoothly, ever the professional. “I told the man, but he was very insistent. He said it concerned Mrs. Harper and Miss Delia.”
My mother froze beside me, but my heart lifted. Perhaps it was the inspector calling because he had caught the perpetrator. Then this could all be over.
“Who is it, Morris?”
The butler turned to me with a barely veiled look of interest. “Mr. Dorian, madame. And he asked specifically for you.”
Chapter 9
Iblinked at Morris, certain I had misheard and he meant the inspector. “You mean the detective?”
The butler shook his head. “No, madame. Stephen Dorian. He is an author of some renown. Mysteries, in fact. I’ve read a few myself. Very diverting,” he added, with the barest hint of a smile, and I was so shocked to learn that Morris liked Mr. Dorian’s books that for a moment I forgot all about my distress over his unexpected arrival.
However, my mother did not look the least bit impressed. “Well, you must tell him to go away. We don’t want somewriterhere snooping about looking for ideas for his next book.”
“No,” I sighed. “It’s nothing like that. We saw him last night,” I murmured by my mother’s ear.
Understanding dawned. “I see.”
Then I turned to Morris. “I will speak to him.”
“Very good. Shall I show him into the drawing room and call for refreshments?”
“That’s fine,” I said with a distracted wave, and Morris descended back down the stairs.
