Page 13 of A Whisper and a Curse (Raven & Wren #3)

T he following day, Hadrian fetched Tilda for their appointment with Mrs. Frost. He once again exchanged pleasantries with Mrs. Wren, as well as the housekeeper and butler.

As he escorted Tilda to the coach, he noted how lovely she looked.

She wore one of her new gowns—the gray one—and her hair was more intricately styled since she now had a lady’s maid.

At least temporarily. He decided not to say anything, however.

They had settled into their familiar routine of investigating as a team, and he didn’t wish to introduce any awkwardness.

“How are things with Clara?” Hadrian asked once they were in the coach and began moving.

“Very well,” Tilda replied. “It is still a temporary situation. My need for a maid remains nonexistent.”

“And yet she has kept busy, has she not?” he asked mildly.

Tilda gave him a light scowl. “You sound like my grandmother.”

Hadrian hid a smile. “She wants Clara to stay on permanently?”

“Yes, but Grandmama does not understand our financial situation. Clara is hoping to find employment as a lady’s maid, but her experience is rather limited. It may be that she must take a position as a maid.”

“I’m still happy to provide a reference for her,” Hadrian offered.

“Whilst that is helpful, not even the recommendation of an earl can overcome a lack of extensive experience, particularly when her only experience was working for the wife of a murdered gentleman.”

Hadrian grimaced. “I can’t imagine that helps her plight.”

“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.

Hadrian quickly removed his glove and touched the railing.

The vision didn’t immediately come, but when it did, a sharp pain exploded behind his eyes.

The memory he saw was distinct and terrifying—the person whose memory he was experiencing carefully lifted Mrs. Frost’s body over the railing and lowered her.

Her neck was already encircled with rope and her face was deathly pale, her eyes closed.

“You must be Ellen’s brother.” Tilda’s voice interrupted Hadrian’s vision, and the memory slipped away.

Hadrian touched his forehead briefly before drawing his glove back on. He turned away from the railing.

The butler walked to his sister and embraced her.

Tilda watched with a sad expression, then stepped around them to join Hadrian.

Her gaze met his, then flicked to his brow.

The small lines around her mouth told him she was concerned.

She’d likely noted he’d touched his head and assumed he’d had a vision.

She was particularly attuned to his reactions.

The police came up the stairs, led by the man who was not in uniform. Hadrian presumed he was an inspector.

The man, who wore a most impressive mustache, stopped in front of Hadrian. His amber eyes surveyed his surroundings before he settled his gaze on Hadrian. “Ravenhurst?”

“Yes, and my associate, Miss Wren.” He gestured to Tilda.

“I am Inspector Farrar from E Division. You had an appointment with the woman hanging from the staircase?”

“We did,” Hadrian replied. “She is—was—a medium and had conducted a séance we attended here this past Monday evening.”

Inspector Farrar’s light brown brows rose. “Indeed? I imagine the detective inspector will want to speak with you when he arrives. I sent someone to Scotland Yard to fetch him.”

“Can’t you take her down?” Henry asked. “Mrs. Frost, I mean.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Henry, but we cannot do that until the detective inspector arrives,” Inspector Farrar replied.

Tilda looked at the man and his sister with sympathy. “Perhaps we should go to the kitchen and have some tea.”

Ellen wiped a handkerchief across her nose. “There’s a pot steeping already. I did that as soon as I arrived. Before I came upstairs to see Mrs. Frost. I think I would prefer to go to the kitchen.” She looked at her brother. “Jacob, will you come with me?”

Jacob Henry sent an uncertain glance toward the inspector. “May we go to the kitchen?”

“Of course,” Farrar said with a nod. “I’ll have one of the constables escort you if that would be a comfort.”

Ellen’s features lost a small bit of tension. “Thank you.”

Farrar motioned for one of the uniformed men to accompany the siblings downstairs. They moved toward the back of the house, presumably to the servants’ stairs.

Tilda walked to the railing and looked down at Mrs. Frost. Hadrian joined Tilda, his attention on Tilda, not the dead medium. Tilda’s focus was now on the railing.

“See how the rope has been painted to match the wood of the staircase?” she noted. “And it’s been twisted around the baluster. This matches what Teague described about Ward’s death. It’s clear to me that this was made to look as though she was levitating.”

“Bloody chilling to think someone went to that much effort,” Farrar said with a twitch of his shoulder as he moved toward the railing.

A figure appeared in the hall below. The man removed his hat and tilted his head up. It was Teague, and he was accompanied by two constables.

“Ravenhurst and Miss Wren?” Teague called up.

“We had an appointment with the victim,” Tilda said. “I’d say she was likely killed by the same person who murdered Mr. Ward. Unless someone is trying to copy his murder.”

“If so, they’ve done a damn good job.” Teague’s mouth pressed into a grim line. “Coming up.” He turned and said something to the constables, which Hadrian couldn’t hear. A moment later, one of them left the hall to return the way they’d come, and Teague strode toward the staircase.

The detective inspector eyed Tilda as he approached them. “For someone who is not investigating the murder of Cyril Ward, you are quite involved in this investigation.”

Tilda’s mouth quirked, but the expression was not quite a smile. “As I was investigating Mrs. Frost and she has been murdered, I must consider whether my investigation now includes her death.”

“The press is going to make a meal of this,” Teague said darkly. “In fact, one of their number has been loitering about Scotland Yard since the inquest. I think he may have followed me here. I’ve sent one of my constables outside to ensure he doesn’t get in.”

“I don’t suppose he’s wearing rather garish pants?” Tilda asked.

Teague’s brows arched. “How did you know?”

Tilda exhaled. “He seems the most persistent of the lot. His name is Ezra Clement. He works for the Daily News .”

“I can send one of my constables out,” Farrar offered. “You likely need yours to conduct your investigation.”