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As she paced the thick carpet of the Redmayne drawing room, no matter how she tried to dispel it, she couldn’t get that vision of Iris Delacourt stuck inside of a wooden box out of her mind. And she was desperate to get her out.
Chapter Eighteen
Gideon had collected reports from several constables who had been looking into the Delacourts, their associates, as well as Nicholas Frye, Joseph Barclay, and Abraham Seaton. None of the interviews had resulted in any information that would explain where Iris Delacourt had gone and why. But he did leave them with a new charge of focusing their efforts on Tristan Wakefield and any associates they could find, including fellow doctors who had offices near his practice, and any living family members they could trace.
When he and Electra were on their way to Archibald Kerrigan’s, she told him of the Collier family and that they had come to her for help. He could only imagine the weight that must fall upon her shoulders when others came to her seeking answers that she could not provide.
He sensed her frustration as she sat beside him, bristling as she relayed the story of their visit. He understood Electra’s dismay that she couldn’t give the Colliers the answer they wanted.
“You have extraordinary abilities, Electra. But you’re not an all-seeing oracle.”
“Am I not?”
“No, but I feel that many come to you with that expectation.”
She bristled again, pulling away from him as much as she could in the tight confines of the hansom cab.
“They didn’t want advice from an oracle, Gideon. They wanted answers about what happened to their daughter.”
He knew her anger was not at him, but at herself, and that bothered him more.
“I understand,” he said in a soft tone. “I would like those answers as well. And trust me when I tell you that Andrew Hardy is as diligent at his job as your father was.”
She peered over at him. “As diligent as you are?”
Yes. “I don’t wish to speak of my own virtues.”
Electra narrowed her eyes. “Humility doesn’t entirely suit you, Gideon. I know that you’re aware of your many virtues.”
He flashed a smile. “I have a small list, perhaps, that I like to pride myself on. But my point was that anyone who comes to you, asks a question, and expects you to divine the answer is expecting a great deal.”
“Should extraordinary abilities not yield such answers? Why do I possess these gifts if they are not useful?” Her irritation bled into her tone, but if she was looking for him to debate her, he would not give her that satisfaction. Not on this topic.
“Your abilities have assisted with several murder investigations,” he pointed out. “I know you have not forgotten that.”
“You should have seen their faces, Gideon. The sorrow. The anguish.”
He wanted to touch her, hold her hand, soothe her worries. But he knew neither of them would feel wholly at ease until this case was resolved.
“I’m getting better, I think,” she said, in such a small voice that it made something in the center of his chest burn.
Instead, he simply listened.
“I seem to have a bit more control,” she added. “But not enough.”
She said nothing more, and he pondered how best to respond.
“I shall repeat, if you’ll allow it, that you have extraordinary abilities, Electra, on top of your intelligence and other excellent qualities.”
She quirked a dubious look at him that she would probably be irritated to know he found utterly adorable.
He was determined to continue, whatever fetching look she sent his way. “What I mean to say is that you cannot blame yourself. I know that your abilities are sometimes unpredictable.”
“Sometimes unhelpful.”
“Not so,” he insisted. “The books you mentioned when you touched the note that was left at the station. That information is useful. I think you’re right in that it does narrow our search. A man with such books is unlikely to be Nicholas Frye.”
“Agreed.”
