Page 16 of A Whisper and a Curse (Raven & Wren #3)

O nce they were on their way to Victor Hawkins’s house in Clerkenwell, Tilda pulled her notebook from her reticule and made notes about what they’d just learned, including the names of the ladies who regularly had tea with Mrs. Frost.

“I wondered why you weren’t taking notes during the interview,” Hadrian said.

She glanced toward him and paused in writing. “Since the constable was recording their answers, I didn’t want to do the same. I suppose I hoped I would appear more sympathetic, and that they might be more open to sharing with me.”

“Clever. And probably helpful.”

Tilda finished making notes as she thought back over their conversation with the Henry siblings. She tucked her notebook and pencil back into her reticule. “Did you find Jacob’s demeanor nervous?”

“At times.”

“It could just be that he is sensitive to his sister’s obvious distress, and the fact that their employer was murdered,” Tilda noted.

“However, I do wonder if there is more that they could have told us and chose not to. They—Jacob in particular —seemed hesitant to disclose the names of the ladies who attended tea. And they did not offer the location of their lodging.”

“Does that matter?” Hadrian asked.

“It is if we want to find them to ask more questions.” Tilda would trust that Teague would be able to locate them. “I found it odd that Ellen and Jacob did not live in her house, just as Mr. Ward’s retainers did not.”

“I did as well,” Hadrian said.

“I wonder if Mr. Hawkins will also have retainers who do not live with him,” Tilda mused.

Hadrian scooted to the side of his seat and stretched his legs out. The tips of his boots almost met her seat. “Hawkins will likely not have heard about Mrs. Frost’s death.”

Though Hadrian hadn’t moved closer to her, the proximity of even his feet made her temperature rise.

It had already spiked earlier when he’d touched her back.

It had been the barest graze of his fingertips, but she’d still reacted.

Thankfully, she’d hidden that reaction. He didn’t need to know how he affected her, not when she was working to ensure nothing romantic happened between them.

“You’re right. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but we’ll need to inform him. Let me consider how to do that.”

Hadrian gave her a brief smile. “I trust you will handle it adeptly.”

They arrived on Woodbridge Street a short while later. The neighborhood wasn’t at all grand, but it was friendly enough, and it didn’t take them long to find Hawkins’s house, a double-fronted terrace of brick.

They went to the door where Hadrian rapped on the wood. A few moments later, an older woman answered. Short with deep-set blue eyes and wearing a white cap that seemed a bit large for her head, she surveyed Hadrian in particular. Nostrils flaring, she looked at them expectantly.

“I am Lord Ravenhurst,” Hadrian said pleasantly. “This is Miss Wren. We’d like to speak with Mr. Hawkins if he is available.”

“Come in, I suppose.” The woman opened the door wider and admitted them into the entrance hall. “You can wait in the parlor there.” She gestured to the left.

The woman started to turn, but Tilda stopped her. “Are you the housekeeper?”

“Yes. I’m Mrs. Wilson.”

Tilda summoned an enthusiastic smile. “It must be exciting to work for a medium, particularly during the séances.”

The housekeeper’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I wouldn’t call it exciting. It’s a household, just like any other. I only work during the mornings and afternoons. I leave after I prepare dinner for Mr. Hawkins, which suits me fine as I only live down Sekforde Street with my son and his family.”

“You aren’t interested in spiritualism?” Tilda asked, pleased the woman had been so forthcoming.

Mrs. Wilson pursed her lips. “It’s not my place to say.” Her tone was crisp and, to Tilda, indicated her disdain. The housekeeper turned and disappeared into the bowels of the house.

“That was informative,” Hadrian said.

“Quite. I was hoping to learn something, and she exceeded my expectations. As with the other mediums’ households, she does not live here.”

“However, unlike with the others, she does not work at the séances,” Hadrian noted. “We know the Henry siblings were working during the séance we attended.”

Tilda moved into the parlor, where an arched window faced the street. A large round table that looked almost exactly like the one at Mrs. Frost’s dominated the room.

“Is this table identical to Mrs. Frost’s?” Hadrian asked, echoing Tilda’s thoughts.

“It appears to be. Should you investigate underneath to see if it looks the same there too?”

Hadrian crouched down. “The pedestal appears the same. I see the clawed feet.” He removed his glove.

“Careful,” Tilda warned. “Perhaps you shouldn’t touch anything else today.”

“I need to. We’re here. Besides, my headache is almost gone.”

“But you’ll get another,” Tilda said. “I hate that this useful skill causes you pain.”

“I can manage.” He touched the table.

Tilda watched anxiously as he fell silent, his gaze fixed somewhere beneath the table. A moment later, he blinked.

“I saw a séance. Whoever’s memory I saw was seated at the table.”

“Do you have any clue whose memory it was?” Tilda asked.

“I looked down to see the hands, and they definitely belonged to a man. There was an onyx ring on the left hand, which held a woman’s hand. But his right hand clasped another man—Montrose.”

The man who’d sat on Mrs. Frost’s right the other night. “I thought the séances worked best when they sat everyone by sex—man, woman, man woman, and so on. You’re sure the memory was that of a man?”

Hadrian nodded. “Completely.”

Hawkins appeared in the doorway to the entrance hall. Tilda gestured for Hadrian to stand up.

“Lord Ravenhurst and Miss Wren, what a surprise.” Hawkins’s purple-and-brown striped trousers looked as though they’d been procured from the same shop as Ezra Clement’s garments.

The medium’s dark hair was slicked back from his forehead, and his shockingly light-blue eyes fixed them with an eerie curiosity.

Looking at the unearthly glimmer in his gaze, Tilda believed he could commune with the dead.

She noted he wore an onyx ring on the little finger of his left hand.

“Did you drop something?” Hawkins asked.

Hadrian had risen. “My handkerchief. I was also admiring your table. It’s a beautiful piece. Might I inquire where you obtained it?”

“I don’t recall,” Hawkins said blithely. “How can I help you?”

Tilda took a step toward the medium. “We’ve come to speak with you about Mrs. Frost and the London Spiritualism Society. I’m afraid we have distressing news”

Hawkins’s eyes shuttered, and his expression took on a guarded state. “What is that?”

“We had an appointment to speak with Mrs. Frost today, but she was, most unfortunately, murdered.”

Eyes rounding, Hawkins gasped. He clapped his hand to his mouth. “How can that be?” He shook his head. “Please don’t tell me she was killed in the same manner as Ward.”

“She was, in fact,” Hadrian replied. “Why would you assume so?”

Hawkins looked to Tilda. “You said she was murdered. I instantly thought of Ward. That was only two days ago.”

“Of course it makes sense you would think of that.” Tilda appreciated that Hadrian had asked for clarification. She sent him a quick glance of gratitude before returning her gaze to Hawkins. “Would you like to sit?”

Nodding, Hawkins walked stiffly to a small seating area near the hearth. He fell into a chair there without waiting for Tilda and Hadrian to take their seats.

Tilda perched on a settee, and Hadrian sat beside her. “I’m so sorry to deliver this terrible news.”

Hawkins stared past them, his eyes glazed. “She was a friend of mine, of course.”

“You were both members of the London Spiritualism Society,” Tilda said.

“Yes. Founding members.” He blinked, then focused on them. “My apologies, this is a great shock. Ward’s death was awful enough, but to think it happened again—and to a fine woman such as Deborah.” His brow formed deep creases. “The police must catch this dastardly killer.”

“They are working on doing so,” Tilda assured him. “Can you think of anyone who would want to kill Mrs. Frost and Mr. Ward?”

Hawkins opened his mouth, then snapped it closed.

He was quiet a moment as his jaw quivered.

Looking down at his lap, he brushed at his knee.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. “This is most terrible.” When he lifted his gaze once more, there was moisture in his eyes.

“It seems someone is killing mediums. I am a medium. This is incredibly distressing.”

“Of course it is,” Tilda said softly. “Since both Mrs. Frost and Mr. Ward were members of the society, I wondered if someone might have a quarrel with the group.”

“Then why wouldn’t they kill Lysander?” Hawkins snapped. He seemed almost angry, but Tilda understood his emotions were high. “I don’t know anyone who would seek to harm the society or anyone in it.”

“Do you know of anyone who was unhappy with how a séance went?” Hadrian asked. “Perhaps they weren’t able to speak with their deceased loved one and were upset about that.”

“That has never happened in my experience,” Hawkins replied fiercely. “It may take a few séances to reach the desired person, but I always find them in the spirit realm.”

If the man didn’t actually speak to the dead, everything he’d just said was a lie. And if he lied about that, would he lie about someone being upset? Tilda could understand that the medium would not want to share that someone had believed him to be a fraud.

“Forgive me, Mr. Hawkins, but I must ask a question that may annoy you,” Tilda said cautiously. “Did you or any of the other mediums ever have a client who accused you or anyone in the society of trickery or fraud?”

Hawkins pressed his lips together and looked away. At length, he said, “I suppose that has happened once or twice, but those people came to the society looking to create a scandal.”