She slowly nodded. “Yes. You’re probably right.”
“I will come to see Delia tomorrow,” I said, hoping to further distract her.
“As you wish.”
We then said our good-byes, as stiff and formal as they were, and I left.
I set out for the Elysium Gallery the next afternoon, after spending most of the morning helping Tommy research whales, which he had become particularly fascinated by. Unfortunately, most of my late uncle’s books on the subject were several decades out of date, so I promised to take him to the British Museum’s reading room as soon as possible in order to leave the house.
Much like my last visit to this area, the gallery looked a bit shabbier in the daytime, especially now that it was not filled to the brim with glamorous guests. As I entered, a young man immediately greeted me, and I asked if I could speak with the owner.
His expression dimmed a little as it became clear he would not make a sale with me today. “Mr. Henshaw is in his office, but indisposed at the moment. May I ask what this refers to?”
I hesitated, not wanting to mention Charles Pearson to this fellow, but I had the feeling I wouldn’t be able to speak with Mr. Henshaw today if I didn’t make my intentions clear. “Tell him Mrs. Harper is here to discuss Mr. Pearson. He will know what it is about,” I added in the lofty tone I had often witnessed my aunt and mother use on everyone, from store clerks to particularly strident butlers, with great success.
The young man’s eyes flashed, and he nodded. “Of course. I’ll be right back.”
I smiled at his retreating back and took a turn around the empty gallery while I waited. Most of the same paintings that were on display the night of the opening were still here. I then moved towards the back room, where Delia’s painting had been, but the place where it had once hung was now empty. Disappointment sank through me. I was glad the painting had been sold, for my sister’s sake, but I would have loved to see it one last time. As I stared at the blank spot, I became aware of the tread of heavy footsteps behind me.
“The painting was delivered yesterday,” a smooth voice said over my shoulder, and I whirled around. A man I assumed was Mr. Henshaw stood a few feet away. He looked about my age, perhaps a little older, and was of average height and build. He wore his auburn hair in a severe side part that only drew more attention to his receding hairline.
“The buyer was very eager to have it in their possession. Not that I blame them,” he added with a coy smile as he moved closer and cast an assessing glance over me.
I already didn’t like him. There was a slickness to the way he spoke and moved that got my hackles up, but, of course, I couldn’t betray that. I needed information from this man, so I gave him a smile of my own. “It is a beautiful painting. I’m Miss Everly’s sister, actually.”
His dark eyes gleamed with interest, and I fought againstthe urge to step back and put more distance between us. “Ah. I had wondered who this mysterious Mrs. Harper was demanding my attention.”
I forced out a light laugh. “I don’t think I demanded your attention, sir. But I do have some questions about our mutual acquaintance, Mr. Pearson.”
The man had the decency to look upset. “Poor Charles. I heard about his death. A terrible tragedy.” He paused for a moment and gave me an assessing look. “I suppose you know that he and your sister were particularly … close?”
I cleared my throat. “I know that there was an understanding between them.”
“An understanding,” he repeated, dark eyes gleaming once more. “Yes.”
“I don’t like what you are implying, Mr. Henshaw,” I said crossly. Though I may need information from him, that didn’t mean I had to put up with his vile behavior.
He chuckled, as if I had made some great joke. “I think I like you, Mrs. Harper. Why don’t we go to my office, away from prying ears.”
I looked back towards the doorway and noticed the young man I spoke with earlier hovering nearby. “Fine.”
Mr. Henshaw extended his arm towards another doorway to my right and placed his hand on the small of my back. “Come this way.”
I moved quickly towards the doorway to avoid his touch.
“Just up there,” Mr. Henshaw said as we stepped into a short hallway with a single open door at the end.
I entered the room and then stopped with a halt, surprised by the vibrant display before me.
While the gallery itself was rather sparse, the walls of Mr. Henshaw’s office were lined with all kinds of artwork. “My goodness,” I breathed, as my gaze wandered over the array of images in all manner of styles, shapes, and sizes.
A desk in dark walnut took up most of the space, and behindit was an eye-catching painting of what appeared to be a lush meadow in spring. A sense of calm washed over me as I stared at the shades of green and blue. It was so vivid that I could almost feel the sun on my face. A lone figure stood in the center, just out of focus.
“Isn’t it marvelous?” Mr. Henshaw said beside me. “Painted by a Frenchman named Renoir. One of the Impressionists. Have you heard of them?”
“Only a little,” I said as I turned to him. “The brushwork is one of the defining features, correct?”
He looked surprised. “Yes, it is. Among others.” Then he gave me another one of those oily smiles. “Are you sure your sister isn’t the only artist in the family?”
