“Of course,” she said with a fierce nod. “Yes. Delia is my very best friend, and I would never do anything that could hurt her.”
God help me, I believed her. “Then you must understand the gravity of the situation and how important it is that we find the murderer.”
She cocked her head in confusion. “Is … is Delia in trouble?”
I leaned forward. “You must tell me everything you know about Charles Pearson. For Delia’s sake.”
Mrs. Braithwaite reared back a little and blinked rapidly. “I … I don’t know much. At least, not anything that would be helpful.”
“You would be surprised,” I said with a gentle smile. “Do you know anything about his work involving antiques?”
“Only that he was mad about them,” she said. “But I don’t know if he did anything I would classify as work. He was a gentleman.” Then she paused, as if remembering something and flushed again.
“What is it?” I coaxed.
She shot me a hesitant look. “Benjamin, that’s my husband, complained about him once, even though they really were great friends,” she added hastily. I nodded for her to continue. “He had come back from a night out and was grumbling because Charlie never paid for anyone else’s drinks even though he inherited a fortune from his father.”
I raised an eyebrow. “When was this?”
Mrs. Braithwaite shook her head. “I’m not sure. Months ago. The summer, at least.”
“Did your husband think he was having money troubles?”
She snorted a laugh. “Not at all. He thought he was tightfisted. But I really don’t know.” Then she paused again. “Charlie was very keen on ancient artifacts, though. Especially these peculiar little marble statues from Greece. Very crude-looking things. Large heads with no defining features to speak of. Smooth bodies. I don’t know what he saw in them.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stood. I knew the statues she spoke of. They were called Cycladic figurines. While Oliver had still been working at the embassy in Athens, the pieces were quite popular with collectors abroad and were often smuggled out of the country. “Are you sure?”
“Oh yes. He loved to talk about his collection and was always adding new pieces. Perhaps you saw some of them in his flat?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t look very closely,” I admitted.
“Right. Of course. I think he might have sold pieces to people as well, but I’m not sure.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Mrs. Braithwaite, these pieces are illegally sold on the black market.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“I lived in the country for many years, and it was an ongoing problem. Dealers would claim they were duplicates or worthless in value in order to circumvent the current law.”
She shook her head. “I had no idea.”
“I’m sure that is true, but a collector like Mr. Pearson would absolutely have known.” And likely priced such items accordingly. Now I very much regretted I hadn’t taken the chance to look around more carefully while I had been in his flat.
“How awful,” Mrs. Braithwaite said. Then her gaze shot to mine. “You don’t think his murder had something to do with it?”
I shrugged. “People have certainly killed for less.”
My flippant answer seemed to horrify the young woman, but before I could attempt to mollify her, a maid entered the room with the fresh pot of tea.
Once we were alone again, I began to pour myself a cup. “My apologies if I’ve upset you. But, unfortunately, this is not the first time I have encountered a murder.”
She gave a slow nod, though her face remained pale. “It’s just a shocking thing.”
“Can you think of anyone I could speak to who might know more about his collection?”
Mrs. Braithwaite thought for a moment. “I suppose Mr. Henshaw might know something. He runs the Elysium Gallery.”
I took a bracing sip and set down my cup. “Excellent. Thank you.”
