Page 27 of A Whisper and a Curse

“I hope she will find something soon.” Tilda set her reticule on her lap. “Let us discuss our visit with Mrs. Frost. Do you have a plan for investigating her séance table?”

“Not entirely. I hope to find a moment to slip away.”

“And if we meet in the drawing room where the table is located?” Tilda asked.

“I’ll walk near the table and drop something that I must search for.” Hadrian was pleased to come up with a solution so quickly. “I’m confident we’ll find a way—you taught me that.”

Tilda felt a surge of pride. She hadn’t intended to train him as an investigator nor expected that he’d take to it so eagerly and successfully.

When they arrived in Rathbone Place, Hadrian helped Tilda from the coach and escorted her to the door. It was ajar.

“How peculiar,” Hadrian said, glancing at Tilda. He pushed the door open. “Good afternoon?” The entrance hall was empty.

“Is someone sobbing?” Tilda asked.

Hadrian listened, and he too heard someone crying. “I think so.”

Tilda moved past him into the house. Hadrian followed, his senses on edge.

“I think the crying is coming from the back of the house.” Tilda walked into the staircase hall and froze. “Hadrian!”

He rushed forward, moving to her side. Dread pooled in his belly as a chill swept through him.

Hanging from the staircase above them was Mrs. Frost.

“Oh no,” Tilda breathed beside him. She put her hand to her mouth as she stared up at the body.

Hadrian swallowed, his heart pounding. “Let’s find who’s crying.”

“Yes.” Tilda shook herself and moved quickly toward the stairs.

They ascended to the first floor, where a maid was sitting against the wall, her knees drawn to her chest. She lifted her head and looked toward Hadrian and Tilda. Her eyes rounded with fear.

“Don’t be afraid,” Hadrian said kindly. “I’m Lord Ravenhurst. We had an appointment with Mrs. Frost. I’m so sorry for what’s happened.”

“We only arrived about an hour ago,” the maid said with a sniff. “It was our morning off.”

Tilda moved closer to her, but Hadrian remained where he was. “Who is ‘we’?” Tilda asked.

“My brother and me.” The maid took a stuttering breath. “He went to fetch the police, but he’s been gone an awfully long time. I didn’t want to stay here by myself, but he said I should—to guard Mrs. Frost.” She flicked a glance toward the hanging body and shivered.

“You say you just arrived, and it was your morning off,” Tilda said. “Where did you go?”

“We don’t reside here,” the maid said, sniffing. “We come to work in the morning and go home at night.”

Hadrian looked toward Tilda, and she gave him a subtle nod. This was the same arrangement as Cyril Ward’s servants.

“Where do you lodge?” Tilda asked the maid.

Before she could respond, the sound of masculine voices carried up the stairs. The maid’s gaze darted in that direction, and she rose. Tilda offered her assistance, gently clasping the maid’s arm.

Hadrian moved toward the railing and looked down. There were two men accompanied by several constables. Hadrian recognized one of them as Mrs. Frost’s butler from the night of the séance. His name was Henry, if Hadrian recalled correctly. Presumably, he was the maid’s brother. The men stopped and tilted their heads upward.

“Who’s there?” asked the other man who wasn’t in uniform.

“Lord Ravenhurst,” Hadrian called down. “I had an appointment with Mrs. Frost. Her maid is most distressed.”

“Ellen.” Henry’s expression was lined with great agitation as he hurried up the stairs.