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Her salt-and-pepper brows had arched up after perusing his card.

“I take it…he is not expecting your visit,” she said haltingly.

“He is not, but I’m investigating a matter of some urgency and must speak to him.”

“Oh, dear,” the housekeeper said, “this must be about that poor missing girl.”

“It is,” Gideon affirmed.

“Then you must come in.” She ushered them inside and led them down a narrow hall next to the stairwell, reaching out to straighten a knickknack on a cluttered side table as she went. “I’ll put you in the sitting room. If the cats come in, don’t mind them. They have been acting up all day.”

Electra scanned the room for felines and spotted none.

“I can offer you tea.” The housekeeper gripped the front of her apron.

“We’re quite all right, but thank you,” Electra told her.

“I’ll just let the master know you’re here.” The woman ducked out, leaving the door open, and could be heard ascending the stairs.

The sitting room was spacious, yet it had the feel of one that wasn’t often used. A thin layer of dust had settled on the side tables, and the pillows on the couch were perfectly arranged. The fire was unlit, despite the cool weather, and the entire room felt chilly and uninviting.

Unlike the hall they’d traversed, which had been cluttered with objects and art on the walls, these pale papered walls held only a couple of paintings. Some were watercolors, and Electra stepped closer, wondering if any of them were Iris’s work. Though they looked less vivid, the colors washed out, unlike the ones she’d seen at the Delacourts’.

Electra shed her gloves and stuffed them into her reticule. As Gideon made a circuit around the room, as if looking for anything of interest, Electra approached a drinks cart with two crystal decanters atop it. She laid her fingers against the stopper and closed her eyes.

Nothing came. She tried again with the second decanter, but it sparked no images in her mind.

Through the open door, voices drifted down from upstairs.

She and Gideon both moved toward the doorway.

“I don’t see visitors in the evening.” The deep male voice sounded more exasperated than angry. “You know that, Mrs. Crawley.”

“It’s not any visitor, sir. It’s an inspector from Scotland Yard.”

“Oh, heavens. Why didn’t you say? It must be about Iris. Do bring them up to the library.”

Gideon retreated from the doorway, and Electra did the same. A moment later, the housekeeper, Mrs. Crawley, apparently, descended the stairs and collected them.

Rather than bring them up, as Kerrigan had directed, she pointed to the staircase. “One flight up and the first door on your left.”

“Thank you.” Electra preceded Gideon up the stairs, and they found the library door standing open. The scent of wood smoke and spices wafted out into the hall, and when they stepped inside, Electra couldn’t help but notice how the room was far different than the large, chilled sitting room. It was far narrower, almost like a very wide hallway. And the heat of the fire in the smaller space made the room feel comfortingly warm. Dark wood furnishings and bookcases added to the feeling of walking into an intimate space, sheltered from the chill in the autumn air outside the townhouse’s windows.

“Come in,” Kerrigan urged.

He stood wearing a crimson velvet housecoat atop a waistcoat, shirt, and tie. His spectacles had slipped down his nose, and he peered at them above the rim. “I take it this is about Miss Delacourt.”

“It is indeed,” Gideon said.

Kerrigan ushered them in toward two chairs near the fireplace, then turned to draw another over to form a semicircle.

Electra marveled at the room and how it was a feast for the eyes compared to the simplicity of the sitting room. One wall was entirely lined with bookshelves, and a few suits of armor stood near the back wall, disturbingly watchful. The room’s other wall was completely covered by framed art in mismatched frames, though one dominated. An enormous, almost ceiling-to-floor portrait of a beautiful, delicate-looking blond woman painted in a dreamy style. The painting’s hazy quality made it seem almost otherworldly, and the lady’s heart-shaped face and clear blue eyes drew Electra closer. She had the strangest urge to touch the portrait.

“My late wife,” Kerrigan said in a low, reverent tone.

“She was very beautiful,” Electra murmured.

Kerrigan pushed his glasses up and nodded. “More than even the artist could capture.”