Page 51 of A Whisper and a Curse

“How did your grandmother know the duchess was in mourning?”

“She read it in the newspaper. There are countless stories pertaining to the Levitation Killer, and the duchess has been identified as a patron of the spiritualism society.”

Hadrian frowned. “These murders and everything associated with them are the talk of London.”

They arrived at Hawkins’s house, where a constable stood outside. He stopped Tilda and Hadrian before they could approach the front door.

“Are you here for the séance?” the constable asked.

Tilda didn’t recognize the young man. “We are. I am Miss Wren, and this is Lord Ravenhurst. May I ask your name? My father was with the Metropolitan Police.”

The constable’s expression lit up. “Thomas Wren?”

Nodding, Tilda asked, “You’ve heard of him?”

“I have indeed. My father worked with him. I’m Phillip Gibbs.”

Tilda thought the name Gibbs sounded vaguely familiar but didn’t recall the man specifically. “Is your father still with the police?”

“He’s a sergeant in F Division. I’m in G, which is why I’m stationed here.”

“Aren’t there supposed to be two of you?” Hadrian asked.

Gibbs nodded. “The other constable is at the door at the back of the house. We’ll make sure no one is allowed inside who isn’t supposed to be.” He gave them a firm look that showed his intent to keep everyone safe.

“I feel secure knowing you are here,” Tilda said warmly.

They continued to the door and were greeted by a familiar face—Michael Crocker.

“Good evening, my lord, Miss Wren.” Crocker welcomed them inside.

“Evening, Crocker. How pleasant to see you here.” Hadrian escorted Tilda into the entrance hall.

“Have you been promoted to butler in this household?” Tilda asked.

“I have.” Crocker gave them a proud smile. “This way.” He led them to the parlor where they’d met with Hawkins the other day.

Several other people were already there, but no one Tilda recognized. Their host approached them. “Welcome, my lord, Miss Wren. I’m grateful you could come this evening.”

He offered his hand first to Tilda and then to Hadrian who’d already removed his gloves. Tilda’s breath snagged as she wondered if Hadrian was seeing a vision. Upon releasing Hawkins, Hadrian looked at her and shook his head subtly. She took that to mean he hadn’t seen anything. Perhaps because the touch had been brief.

Tilda noticed a woman standing on the other side of the table. She wore black, including a heavy veil that obscured her features. “Is that Her Grace?” she asked quietly.

Hawkins glanced toward the woman. “No, that is Miss Sullivan. Her Grace is not yet here. Indeed, I don’t expect her for a short while. She prefers to be the last to arrive. Please excuse me whilst I greet the next guest.”

Hadrian guided Tilda farther into the parlor, but not too far from the door. “I want to be close when the duchess arrives.”

“Is that so we can pounce?” Tilda asked wryly as she also removed her gloves and tucked them into her reticule.

A smile flitted across his mouth. “I want to introduce you, and yes, I thought that would give you an opportunity—however brief—to perhaps ask one question.”

“I appreciate your forward thinking.” Tilda looked toward the doorway, where Hawkins was greeting an older gentleman with thick, round spectacles.

“Miss Sullivan is coming this way,” Hadrian murmured.

Tilda pivoted as the veiled lady approached them. She was slightly hunched, but still tall for a woman.

“Good evening,” the woman rasped, her scratchy voice revealing advanced age or perhaps the ravages of respiratory damage. “I am Miss Cordelia Sullivan. I belong to the London Spiritualism Society and often participate in séances.” She offered her hand to Tilda.