Susan chose not to correct the woman's impression that her grandfather couldn't be involved. Death was always involved, one way or another. It was usually just a matter of how directly he was personally involved. Mrs. Emerson would find that out for herself eventually. Death was, after all, inevitable. For most people.
“Susan Sto Helit,” she returned upon the introduction. “Miss Susan is fine. And given the circumstances, I think a well brewed cup of Klatchian coffee would be very helpful.”
Coffee, in addition to having a strong bitterness that she rather liked (especially when paired with a fine chocolate, like that from Weinrich and Boettcher) had the effect of clearing one's mind to allow for better, more rational thought. Klatchian coffee did it in the extreme. It had been rumored to make the drinker knurd, frequently being mitigated with an orakh chaser. But Susan had only been mildly sarcastic in suggesting the beverage. Deep down, there was a teeny, tiny bit of Susan that longed to walk into a pub and drink enough scumble to fall in a ditch. But that would not solve her predicament, only give her others to contend with. So no alcohol. Coffee.
“And the more you can tell me, the better,” Susan said matter-of-factly. “So perhaps you can begin while we are going to find that cup of coffee. That should save us a little time. Which way shall we walk, Mrs. Emerson?”