Page 14 of A Whisper and a Curse (Raven & Wren #3)

Teague turned toward the inspector. “That would be most helpful. You’re Farrar?”

The inspector inclined his head. “I am.” He looked toward one of the constables and directed him to relieve Teague’s constable outside.

Returning his attention to Teague, Farrar said, “There’s a manservant and a housekeeper—Jacob and Ellen Henry, they are siblings—in the kitchen with another of my constables. You will want to speak with them.”

“I will, thank you.” Teague pivoted toward his remaining constable, who’d followed him up the stairs. “Go down to the kitchen and start their interviews. I want to know everything that happened today. And last night.”

Nodding, the constable turned on his heel and went back down the main staircase. Hadrian assumed the man would find where he needed to go.

Teague moved closer to the railing, and Tilda edged out of his way so he could look directly down at Mrs. Frost.

“Looks damn near the same as Ward,” Teague said as he bent over the railing. “I’d say it’s the same person who committed both murders.” He straightened. “I’ll need Graythorpe to see if prussic acid has been used again.”

“Shouldn’t you be able to tell, given how that poison affects people?” Farrar asked.

“The killer cleaned the last victim up well enough that Graythorpe didn’t know about the prussic acid until he looked inside.” Teague turned toward Tilda. “We haven’t yet determined a motive for Ward’s death. Now we must consider why the killer also wanted Mrs. Frost dead.”

Hadrian thought of what he and Tilda had discussed following the inquest, that someone was angry about being cheated by Ward.

Now that two mediums from the society were dead, perhaps the killer blamed the society rather than the individuals.

He wondered if Tilda would mention that to Teague and if the detective inspector would follow her lead.

“I’m sure you’ve looked into Ward’s finances,” Tilda said. “Does anyone benefit from his death?”

“Not that we can find so far. His house is leased by Her Grace, the Duchess of Chester. He’d just moved in at the beginning of March.

And the duchess started giving him a quarterly allowance at the beginning of the year.

From what we can discern, Ward directed nearly all of it to the spiritualism society. ”

“Does he have any family?” Tilda asked.

“A sister who lives in Margate, but they weren’t close. We haven’t found anyone else. His closest relationships were with the other members of the society.” Teague looked at Tilda expectantly. “What do you know of Mrs. Frost?”

“Not much,” Tilda said.

Teague appeared befuddled. “I thought you were investigating her.”

“Only for a few days and only as it pertains to her work as a medium,” Tilda explained. She flicked a glance at Hadrian. “To determine if she was authentic in her ability to speak with the dead.”

“Didn’t you attend a séance she conducted the other night?” Teague asked.

“We did.” Hadrian glanced at Tilda. He didn’t want to say too much.

For whatever reason, he didn’t want to share that his mother had wanted to speak with his dead brother.

“I found it all very suspect. The table pitched about, and there were raps in response to questions the medium posed.” He wished he could tell Teague about the fake levitating.

Teague’s brows drew together. “Raps?”

“The medium asked questions that could be answered with yes, no, or I don’t know,” Tilda explained. “One rap for no, two for I don’t know, and three for yes.”

“And who does this rapping?” Teague asked. “Supposedly.”

“The spirits.” Hadrian kept from rolling his eyes.

“I wanted to take a closer look at the table in the drawing room where the séance was held the other night. I suspect it contains some sort of mechanism that is controlled by the medium or someone else.” He thought of the butler, Henry, who’d been present at the séance and wondered if he might play a role beyond greeting guests and serving wine.

Teague glanced toward his constable before lowering his voice. “I don’t have a problem with you looking at the table now, but I shouldn’t let you poke around too much. Go investigate the table and be on your way.”

Tilda’s expression tightened. “I was hoping to speak with the Henry siblings. Do you mind if we go downstairs for a few minutes to conduct a brief interview?”

“I suppose not, since you’ve been hired to investigate Mrs. Frost. But don’t loiter. My constables won’t mention your presence, but I don’t know Farrar or his men.” He gave her an apologetic look.

“Thank you, Detective Inspector.” Tilda’s gaze dipped to the floor. She removed her glove and bent to pick something up. Rising, she placed a pearl earring on the gloved palm of her other hand. Her gaze darted to Teague. “It probably belongs to Mrs. Frost, but you’ll want to make certain.”

The detective inspector took the piece of jewelry. “I will.”

Tilda moved to where Mrs. Frost was hanging and crouched down for a brief moment. “She is not wearing earrings, so if she lost this one, it wasn’t today. Unless she lost the other one too, which seems unlikely. I should note that I don’t recall her wearing earrings the night of the séance either.”

“We’ll determine who it belonged to,” Teague said. “If you’ll excuse me now.”

“Of course.” Tilda pulled her glove back on and moved away from the railing.

Hadrian joined her. “To the drawing room?”

She nodded, and they moved into the room where the séance had been held the other evening. It looked quite different in the daylight. The curtains were open, and light spilled across the round table in the center of the room.

Tilda paused and touched his elbow, prompting him to turn. “What did you see when you touched the railing? And are you well?”

The pain in his head had diminished, but a dull ache persisted. “I’m fine. I saw the killer’s memory. He—or she, I suppose—was lowering Mrs. Frost over the railing. The rope was already around her neck.”

“What did you see of the killer’s hands?”

Hadrian had learned to gather as many details as he could when he had a vision, but sometimes they didn’t last long enough for him to be as thorough as he would like.

“I think he—or she—was wearing gloves, but I can’t be certain.

The vision didn’t linger.” He concentrated, trying to recall what he’d seen, but he couldn’t say more.

Removing his glove again, Hadrian started toward the table.

“Careful,” Tilda said. “You don’t want to overdo it.”

Hadrian appreciated her concern. “I will make this my last attempt whilst we’re here.”

Going to the table, he dragged his fingertips across the top.

Nothing came to him, so he put more of his hand on the wood.

A vision flitted through his mind, like the wings of a bird taking flight.

He pressed his hand more firmly, and a room came into view.

Not a room but a workspace—a cabinetry shop.

The memory was of a man building this table.

He took in the space. High ceilings, a few dusty windows. The scent of cut wood.

Hadrian froze. He’d never smelled anything in a vision before.

Inhaling, he let the aroma settle into him. He closed his eyes, and the vision disappeared. He’d always had to keep his eyes open to “see” the memories.

“Hadrian?”

He blinked his eyes open and turned toward Tilda. “I saw the memory of the man who crafted this table. I was in his workshop.” He edged closer to her. “Tilda, I could smell it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I smelled the cut wood as if I were there. I have never smelled anything in a vision before.” He’d always wanted to hear what was being said but had yet to experience that.

“How astonishing.” Her lips parted briefly.

For the barest moment, Hadrian was enchanted by her mouth. The memory of their kiss blazed through him. He could not think of that event or of Tilda in such a manner. Annoyed with himself, he pushed the recollection away.

“I want to look under the table.” Hadrian knelt and crawled under the table, the fingers of his bare hand pressing into the carpet.

“What do you see?”

“There’s a large pedestal in the center, which I suppose is necessary, given the size of the table.

” Hadrian ran his fingers along the wood of the underside of the tabletop.

It was smooth with nothing notable or out of the ordinary.

He tried not to expect anything, recalling what Tilda had once told him about investigating—it was better not to anticipate.

That way your mind was open to whatever it may encounter. Even if that was nothing at all.

He didn’t see another vision, which he supposed he appreciated. His head still ached from before, and he preferred it didn’t worsen. “A light would be helpful.”

“Let me see if I can find something,” Tilda called.

He reached the pedestal, which had four large clawed feet. They were beautifully carved. The carpenter who’d made this table had done a fine job, even on parts that wouldn’t be seen. Except by people crawling around.

Light shone under the table, and Hadrian glanced to his right to see Tilda on her knees holding a lantern. “How’s this?” she asked.

“Good, thank you.” Hadrian turned his head back to the pedestal. There was a word carved into the wood at the top. He ran his fingertip over it, feeling the letters as he read them. “Clifton. That’s carved into the pedestal. Must be the carpenter.”

“What are you doing?” A man voiced the question that carried to Hadrian beneath the table.

The light disappeared, and Hadrian looked to see that Tilda had risen. He heard her set the lantern on the table.

“I thought I lost a bracelet here the other night. Detective Inspector Teague said I could look for it.”

Hadrian smiled. Tilda was so good at providing fabrications without almost no thought.

“Time to go,” the man said. “We’re conducting a murder investigation.”

“Yes, we know,” she replied drily.