Page 10 of A Whisper and a Curse

Hadrian gave her a wry look. “I confess I am interested to see how much literature they have on the subject of spiritualism.”

They walked back into the entrance hall and paused. Tilda meandered toward the staircase. “I hear voices this way.”

Past the staircase, there was a doorway to the left, through which Hadrian glimpsed a few people. “In there, perhaps?”

Tilda preceded him into the room, in which a pair of bookcases stood against the left wall. “I think this must be it. But you were correct in that it isn’t much of a library.”

Hadrian chuckled. The butler was there, and he sent Hadrian a dark look. Sobering, Hadrian turned to Tilda. “Perhaps we should go. They’ve just received bad news about one of their own.”

“Yes, we should.” Tilda again walked before him, and he followed her from the library.

They departed the house and, on the way to the coach, Tilda looked over at him. “Would you mind if we passed along Willow Street on our way to my grandmother’s house?”

“Once again proving your insatiable curiosity,” he said with a faint smile.

She arched a brow. “Aren’t you curious why this man who seemingly had no reason to end his life chose to hang himself?”

“I am.” He glanced back at the headquarters. “The entire society has piqued my curiosity.”

They continued to the coach, and Hadrian instructed Leach to drive them along Willow Street. Leach held the door for Tilda as she climbed inside. She took the forward-facing seat, and Hadrian sat opposite her. Since they’d shared a kiss whilst seated together on the seat she now occupied, and Tilda did not want to repeat that, he thought it best if he took the other seat.

He was glad she didn’t ask why he was sitting there, nor was he surprised that she did not. She regretted the kiss, and he was doing his best to put it from his mind. Though he wished he knew whether her regret stemmed from a lack of attraction to him or her reluctance to act on their attraction due to her views on marriage. Perhaps someday he would ask her. After they’d reestablished their close working friendship.

He sincerely hoped he hadn’t gone too far and behaved in a reprehensible manner. He was not his father, who’d treated women as objects that existed for his amusement—or disdain.

The coach turned onto Willow Street, and Tilda leaned closer to the window, nearly pressing her nose to the glass. “There’s a police wagon. That’s Teague.”

She referred to Detective Inspector Samuel Teague, whom they had worked with on their past two investigations. The man was of average height—indeed, the minimum for the police—with dark-red hair and sharp brown eyes.

Hadrian rapped on the roof of the coach. Leach steered the vehicle over and stopped.

“We’re stopping?” Tilda asked.

“Don’t you want to?”

Her eyes sparked with anticipation. “Well, yes. Thank you.”

Leach opened the door, and Tilda stepped down. She didn’t wait for Hadrian as she strode along the pavement to where Teague stood speaking with a constable.

“Detective Inspector Teague,” she said, drawing the man to turn. The constable returned to the house, moving quickly up the steps and into the open doorway.

Surprise flashed across the inspector’s features. “Miss Wren. Lord Ravenhurst.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Don’t tell me you are investigating this murder too?”

Murder? Hadrian wasn’t standing particularly close to Tilda, but he could sense the change in her. Her spine straightened, and she notched her chin up. Eager anticipation for investigating a murder was written across her attractive features—from the top of her heart-shaped face to the edge of her gently clefted chin.

“We’d heard the medium had hanged himself,” Tilda said. “But he’s been murdered?”

Teague arched a brow at her. “You heard someone had killed themselves and thought that required investigation?”

“We were with Mr. Mallory—the head of the London Spiritualism Society—when he received the news about the victim. Mr. Mallory was surprised to hear the man had killed himself. He said it was most uncharacteristic. I confess my curiosity was stirred.” Tilda revealed the last without a hint of irony. “However, the man did not hang himself after all but was instead murdered?”

Teague frowned. “I misspoke. The coroner must determine if this was a murder.”

“Why doyouthink it was murder?” Tilda asked.

Teague glanced around and answered in a low voice, “Ward was found hanging from the staircase. The rope had been painted to match the stone of the baluster. At first glance, it looked as though the man was … floating in the air.” Teague shook his head. “There’s something off about it.”

“As though he were levitating, as some mediums do?” Tilda asked.