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“You said presumably,” Gideon said. “Are you uncertain of where she was headed that morning?”

“Father was not yet downstairs, but I heard her depart. I assumed that is where she intended to go. She is employed at the museum,” Violet Delacourt told them quietly.

“Not technically employed,” her father corrected. “There was no compensation. That would have been crude. The work was voluntary,” Mr. Delacourt added a bit curtly. “Initially, she was asked to go two days during the week in the afternoons, but recently she has begun going in more often, and earlier too. The days varied. I disliked the unpredictable schedule. She was often out the door before I’d taken breakfast.”

“There is a new collection she is documenting,” Miss Delacourt added. “Iris is an accomplished watercolorist.” She gestured to a few gilt-framed landscapes on the wall, their colors vibrant, the brushstrokes neat and precise. One teacup in a still-life arrangement looked as realistic as the one sitting on the side table next to Violet Delacourt.

“Always had a flair for art,” Mr. Delacourt added almost wistfully. “Always sketching something or other.”

“So she was documenting part of the museum’s collection in watercolors?” Gideon clarified.

Violet Delacourt nodded. “Yes. They do have a photographer to catalog their collection, but the plates cannot capture color. Since Mr. Kerrigan works with textiles, color is essential, and he wanted someone to document them accurately.”

“Mr. Kerrigan is her employer at the museum?” Gideon asked.

“Archibald Kerrigan. One of a dozen Keepers at the museum and a longtime friend of the family. He had visited for dinner one evening and took note of Iris’s paintings. Asked her to come paint for him that very same night.”

“How long has she been working there?” Electra asked.

“About four months,” Violet replied, then dipped her head once before meeting Electra’s gaze again. “She was hesitant to accept. We were not yet in half mourning.”

Delacourt cleared his throat. “My daughters are dutiful, respectful, and they wished to honor their mother, but they had cared for her in her illness for half a decade.” He glanced at Violet and nodded. “Iris had never considered occupying her time in such a way, but I was quite proud that Kerrigan recognized her talent.”

“Miss Delacourt, you said you heard her depart. At what time?” Gideon asked.

“On that day, about eight in the morning,” Violet answered.

“Was that her normal departure time?”

“It varied. She went in mornings some days and afternoons on others, but it did seem early to me.”

“And she never arrived?”

Violet shook her head, then fixed her gaze on her hands where she’d clasped them in her lap.

“No,” Delacourt said, “though we did not ascertain that until later that evening when Kerrigan sent a letter, inquiring after Iris’s health. He had assumed she did not come into work because she had fallen ill.”

“The first sign that something was amiss came for me around six that evening,” Violet said, her voice quivering a bit. “Iris didn’t return for dinner.” She shook her head. “Iris always returns in time for dinner or sends a note to explain why she cannot.”

Violet’s voice had risen, sounding pained. Tears glistened at the edge of her lashes. “I felt something was terribly wrong immediately. There has always been an odd connection between us. I could sometimes sense Iris’s feelings, or so it seemed. I could predict when she would walk into a room before she appeared.”

“The inspector is interested in facts, my dear,” her father admonished gently. “Not fancies and feelings.”

“Yes, Father,” she whispered.

Electra bristled at the man’s manner toward his daughter, who needed comfort more than chastisement.

“Forgive me for contradicting you, Mr. Delacourt, but I am interested in feelings. And I have heard that twins often have a unique connection.”

Miss Delacourt flashed her a soft, conspiratorial smile. “However one might define it, Iris and I did share a bond, I think.” She glanced almost sheepishly at her father. “But even if I take no account of my feelings, the fact is that my sister did not come home that night.”

“And that is when we both knew something was wrong,” Roger Delacourt said, his tone suddenly grim. “There’s never been a night when Iris did not come home.”

“My sister was dependable, thoughtful.” She seemed to ponder a moment. “I cannot recall a time when she did not return by the end of an evening. We are both homebodies, I suppose. Not much for the social whirl.”

Once more, Violet Delacourt looked slightly abashed. “My sister and I called ourselves spinsters.”

Roger Delacourt let out a grumbling noise of protest. “You were not.”