Page 11 of A Whisper and a Curse (Raven & Wren #3)

“You are so adept at coming up with believable lies to cover our investigations.” His gaze was warm with admiration.

“I am absolutely concerned about public safety, and you’ve accompanied me because you were moved by Mrs. Frost’s grief over her friend’s death.

” He grimaced. “That is not nearly as good as what you came up with.”

“I’ll come up with something,” she said with a laugh.

The coach stopped in front of the Boasting Goat. Leach opened the door and as Tilda stepped out, she noticed a few journalists loitering near the entrance of the pub. “Some of the press has already arrived. I recognize them from the last inquest we attended.”

“As do I,” Hadrian said.

Tilda narrowed her eyes at one of them in particular. “The gentleman in the plaid trousers was most assertive in his quest for information.”

“Shall we try to find another way in?” Hadrian suggested.

“I don’t think so. I can’t imagine they’ll be troubling us as they did last time.”

Because last time Hadrian had been a suspect in the murder. The press had been ravenous for details about an earl’s involvement in the death of a man who’d stolen that earl’s fiancée.

“I appreciated your efforts in blocking them from pursuing me,” Hadrian said softly. She’d urged him into his coach after the last inquest and faced the press on her own to keep them from bothering him.

Leach said he would move the coach to the corner and await them there. Tilda took Hadrian’s arm, and they made their way to the entrance.

The plaid-trousered gentleman approached them, his shrewd brown eyes assessing. “If it isn’t the intrepid Miss Wren and her surprising companion, Lord Ravenhurst. Are you courting now?” he asked with a smirk.

“We are business associates,” Tilda replied coolly.

The reporter turned his attention to Hadrian. “Ravenhurst, surely you have more important things to do than squire this … private investigator about to inquests?”

“I beg your pardon, who are you?” Hadrian asked the question with a condescending boredom only an earl could affect. Tilda quashed a smile.

“Ezra Clement, reporter for the Daily News .”

Hadrian offered his own smirk. “You report on romantic matters, such as courtships and marriages?”

The reporter pursed his thin lips. “I report on whatever may interest our readers.”

“I daresay the most interesting thing here will be the inquest,” Hadrian said. “Or perhaps your trousers.” His gaze dipped to the man’s brightly colored, blue-and-yellow, plaid garment.

“Why are you here for the inquest?” the reporter asked, lifting his notebook and pencil.

“I don’t believe your readers would care,” Tilda said blithely as she tugged on Hadrian’s arm.

Hadrian looked over at her. “Agreed.” He escorted her into the pub.

“What an annoying man,” Tilda said. “But I suppose that is a requirement for his occupation. Some would likely find me annoying in the same way—because we both ask questions and persist with our curiosity.”

“You are far more polite,” Hadrian noted.

Tilda scanned the interior and saw Mallory as well as Mrs. Frost and several other people standing together.

Tilda positioned herself so that Hadrian stood between her and them.

Though perhaps it didn’t really matter. Her presence here didn’t reveal that she was a private investigator. Perhaps Hadrian was the investigator.

“There’s Teague,” Hadrian said.

The inspector stood near the head of a long table, upon which lay a body draped with a cloth. It would be the deceased, Cyril Ward.

Teague was not alone. He stood with the coroner who’d overseen the last inquest they’d attended, Julius Graythorpe.

“Let us speak with them a moment,” Tilda murmured.

They moved toward the inspector and coroner, who both made eye contact. “I am not surprised to see you here,” Teague said with a faint smile directed at Tilda.

“Why is that?” Graythorpe asked. He narrowed his blue eyes at Hadrian. “Are you involved with this murder too?”

“Not at all,” Hadrian said. “I wasn’t involved with Chambers’ murder either.” He referred to the last inquest, which was to determine whether Louis Chambers had been murdered.

“You knew the deceased and were a suspect,” Graythorpe said. “That seems fairly involved.” He turned his attention to Tilda. “Are you investigating this matter, Miss Wren?”

“Not specifically, no,” she replied, glancing in the direction of the mediums, who were thankfully blocked from view by Hadrian. “I am making inquiries about another medium. She was acquainted with Mr. Ward, so I wanted to attend today.”

The coroner inclined his head. “You will want to sit as we will be starting soon. I’ve decided to allow the press inside as this case will likely be of great interest to the public. It’s rather terrible, I must say.” His expression had darkened.

There were several chairs set into two rows near them. A few constables were seated in the front row, but the back was empty.

“If we sit there, the constables in the front may prevent the mediums from seeing you,” Hadrian said.

“Splendid idea.” Tilda moved quickly to sit behind one of the constables.

The jurors were seated in chairs set into two rows along the opposite side, whilst those who’d been called to testify, spectators, and the press were either seated or standing at the foot of the table.

Lysander Mallory sat in the first row, and Mrs. Frost was next to him.

Mallory cocked his head toward the man on his other side and spoke to him.

“Do you recognize anyone?” Tilda whispered to Hadrian.

“The man seated, with whom Mallory is speaking, was in my vision.”

“Was he the one who levitated?”

“No, he was watching, as were two of the women in the back row. They are seated behind Mallory and the other man.” Hadrian turned his head toward Tilda. “Hopefully, we’ll learn who they are through the course of the inquest.”

“Provided they are called to testify by Mr. Graythorpe.” Tilda frowned. “If not, perhaps we should speak with Mr. Mallory and Mrs. Frost afterward and obtain introductions to the others.”

“You would expose yourself after all the trouble I’ve gone to hide you?”

She heard the sarcasm in his tone and rolled her eyes with a smile. “You’ve convinced me that I can come up with a believable ruse for my presence.”

The door opened, and Clement entered, along with a few other apparent reporters. They stood at the back of the room, their pencils poised above their notebooks. Graythorpe called the inquest to order and stated the matter plainly. The jury was to determine Cyril Ward’s cause of death.

Graythorpe began by stating when and how Ward had been found. He paused and looked over everyone assembled. “We will expose the body now. Please avert your attention if that will distress you.”

The coroner and a constable removed the covering to expose Ward’s nude body. A cloth was draped over his groin. The man’s neck was damaged and discolored.

“You may think the man died of hanging, however, he was dead before he was strung up from the staircase, which was done in such a manner as to suggest he was levitating. His death was caused by poisoning from prussic acid.”

Tilda sucked in a breath. Her curiosity leapt.

Leaning close to Tilda, Hadrian said, “That’s the man in my vision. The one who levitated.” Though he whispered, his tone was rife with excitement.

The coroner said it appeared as if someone had poisoned Ward, then positioned him on the stairs as if he’d hung himself.

“I would say that whomever moved the body and strung it up had to have been very strong. Or multiple people worked together.” He glanced toward the jurors.

“I shall leave it up to these gentlemen to decide what happened. First, however, we shall hear from several witnesses, starting with Detective Inspector Teague.”

Teague answered the coroner’s questions regarding what he’d seen when he’d arrived at Ward’s house, including how the rope had been painted and that the arrangement of the victim made it look as though he was levitating. The journalists’ pencils moved quickly across their notebooks.

Next, the coroner spoke to Ward’s manservant, who acted as a butler, and to the housekeeper, who was also his cook.

Interestingly, neither of them lived at Ward’s home.

They left his house after dinner each night, and Ward had been alive when they’d departed the night before his death.

When the manservant—a man in his late twenties called Nicholls—had returned in the morning, he’d found Ward hanging from the staircase.

The housekeeper had arrived shortly thereafter and fainted. Mrs. Radley was probably in her early thirties and appeared pale. She kept her back to Ward’s body as she answered the coroner’s questions—haltingly. As soon as he finished with her, she left the pub.

Next, Graythorpe addressed Lysander Mallory, who stood to respond. “Mr. Mallory, you are the head of the London Spiritualism Society of which Mr. Ward was a member?”

Mallory removed his hat and held it in his hand. He appeared earnest, his expression smooth and open. “I am. Cyril was one of our founding members and a skilled medium.” He pressed his rather full lips into a tight line.

The coroner fixed him with an expectant stare. “Have you any idea who might benefit from his death?”

“I do not. Cyril was well liked.” Mallory frowned sadly. “This is a great loss.”

“Are you aware that Her Grace, the Duchess of Chester, had recently bestowed an allowance upon Mr. Ward and that she had added him to her will?”

Tilda leaned forward, her curiosity once again strenuously piqued.

Murmurs and whispers erupted about the room, prompting the coroner to lift his hand. “Silence, please. I must hear Mr. Mallory’s response.”

Mallory nodded. “Yes. Her Grace is a great patron of the society and considered Cyril her personal medium and confidante. She is devastated by his death,” he added softly.

Graythorpe’s bushy brows rose briefly. “You’ve spoken with Her Grace since Mr. Ward died?”