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A moment later, a short, stout gray-haired housekeeper admitted them with a pained look in her eyes. And once they stepped inside, somberness seemed to hang in the very air around them.

It reminded Electra of a home in mourning, though there was no black crepe draped on furnishings or mirrors or the front door. She could not blame the family for fearing the worst.

The housekeeper collected their coats and then led them to a room down a long gaslit hallway.

“If you will wait here in the sitting room,” the housekeeper instructed, “I will let Mr. Delacourt know you have arrived.”

“Thank you,” Gideon told her.

Once she’d closed the door, it seemed neither of them felt much like sitting. Gideon examined the books stacked on an end table, the art on the walls, then a collection of framed photographs on the mantel.

Electra came to stand beside him, appreciating the warmth of the flames flickering in the fireplace.

“Twins,” she said, studying one photograph of two pretty young women with nearly identical features. Even their hairstyles and dresses were similar. They looked younger than twenty-five. “Do you think one of them is Iris Delacourt?”

“Possibly.”

“Did you know she had a twin?”

“I did not, only that she had a sister.”

In the photograph, the two young ladies stood side by side behind a woman in a wheeled chair, as if perhaps the lady in it could no longer walk on her own. That woman looked sick and gaunt, her skin drawn. Even in the black-and-white photograph, she appeared paler than the two young ladies.

“The mother, perhaps,” Electra said softly.

“Seems likely,” Gideon agreed.

At that moment, the sitting room door was opened by the housekeeper, and they turned.

“Detective Inspector Pierce. Miss Poole. I am Roger Delacourt. Thank you for coming.” A man came striding into the room, tall and striking, with dark hair and sharp blue eyes. He had a commanding air about him as he approached to greet them. He gave Electra a curt but respectful nod, then briefly shook Gideon’s hand.

“This is my daughter, Violet,” he said with a brief glance at the young woman who’d glided into the room with a quiet poise and stood just past his shoulder.

She was even prettier in the flesh than in the photograph on the mantel, with chestnut-brown hair and clear blue-gray eyes, both set off by the dark-gray, high-necked gown she wore. The gown was simple, with a row of jet beads along the bodice.

And then the realization came, almost as if Violet Delacourt had spoken the words to her, that she was in mourning for her mother. The woman, Electra realized, in the photograph.

“Let us all sit,” Roger Delacourt said, pointing to two chairs arranged before a settee. The words emerged as more command than invitation.

Electra sat, but Gideon waited until Miss Delacourt took a spot on the settee. Her father joined her soon after, but he didn’t settle back onto the cushions. He sat on the edge, elbows atop his thighs, hands clasped.

For a moment, he merely assessed the two of them as a muscle jumped at the edge of his jaw.

“Let us get straight to the matter at hand. There’s no time to waste.” Delacourt pressed his hands together. “I will tell you that we have reached out to my sister here in London and my late wife’s brother, who resides in the country, about whether they have heard from Iris. They have not. We have also written to or spoken directly to a few of her acquaintances, all of whom claim they have heard nothing from her.”

“Could you provide me with a list⁠—”

“Yes, of course.” Before Gideon could fully get the question out, Roger Delacourt pulled a folded document out of his suit coat pocket and handed it to Gideon. “Everyone is listed there, as well as their address. I’ve also noted a tea shop Iris sometimes visited.”

“Thank you,” Gideon said, then slipped the paper under his notepad.

“We’ve spoken to the shop’s proprietor, and he has not seen Iris since last week.” Roger Delacourt clapped his hands together again, as if in frustration. “My daughter left our home and seemingly vanished into thin air. Since I do not partake of fanciful notions”—he glanced quickly at Electra and then focused on Gideon again—“I know that is impossible. Someone saw her or spoke to her or lured her away. You must find her, Inspector.”

“I will devote myself to that purpose, sir,” Gideon agreed. “Can you begin by telling me about the last day you saw your daughter?”

Delacourt swallowed thickly, then notched up his chin. “Iris left home two mornings ago, on Monday, presumably setting out for the British Museum. If you cannot locate her today, tonight will mark our third evening without her.”

Mr. Delacourt drew in a sharp breath and seemed overcome. Miss Delacourt laid her fingers lightly against her father’s sleeve.