Page 32 of A Whisper and a Curse (Raven & Wren #3)

T ilda was glad—and relieved—when Hadrian reported that he had not received a threatening note.

She was curious as to why the author had only sent one to her when she and Hadrian clearly worked together.

They’d decided the person who’d sent the letter probably didn’t want to threaten a peer.

He, or she, likely hoped that threatening Tilda would be enough.

That conclusion had only served to make Hadrian more upset.

He didn’t like Tilda being targeted at all, but especially not on behalf of both of them.

His reaction to the threat had been visceral.

Tilda could see how deeply it bothered him.

She was flattered but also aware that there continued to be an undercurrent between them.

Whilst they’d returned to their strong working relationship, and their friendship was intact, the kiss had stirred something that was not easily ignored.

Because when she considered that Hadrian might also be in danger, she didn’t like it one bit. In fact, it made her furious.

And it made her want to protect him.

The primary result of that horrible letter was that they were both eager to find the killer. She hoped today’s trip to Swindon would prove fruitful.

They arrived at the railway station in Swindon at midday.

Hadrian managed to hail a hack, for which Tilda was grateful as they were traveling uphill to the older part of Swindon.

They’d decided that was the best place to start and made their way to the High Street. The hack took them to an alehouse.

Refreshment sounded most agreeable, plus they could ask where to find Roger Grenville.

“Let us go directly to the bar,” Hadrian said.

Tilda nodded in agreement. They were greeted by the barman. Hadrian first ordered two ales.

As the barman set the beer atop the bar, Hadrian asked, “We are looking for a man called Roger Grenville. We believe he’s a spiritualist.”

The barman shrugged. “Don’t know what that is. Don’t know Grenville either.”

Tilda felt a stab of disappointment, even as she knew it wasn’t likely to have been that easy to find him. The presence of the Great Western Railway Works had transformed Swindon into a bustling town.

“Thank you.” Hadrian picked up the glasses of ale and carried them to a table.

They sat and sipped their ale. Tilda contemplated where to go next.

“Shall we start knocking on doors?” Hadrian asked with a smile.

“I will hope we won’t need to do that. We only have a few hours before we must return to London.” Hadrian had purchased their tickets to and from Swindon. Tilda hadn’t quibbled about it, but she didn’t like him paying her way. It was, however, necessary, as train journeys were not in her budget.

She realized this was now the farthest she’d been from London.

Her last trip via train with Hadrian had taken them to Brighton, and that had been her farthest journey.

Now, it was Swindon. She had enjoyed watching the countryside as they’d traveled west. The sprawling fields and spring flowers were beautiful.

She could see why some preferred to live outside the city, but Tilda could not imagine living anywhere but London.

A man approached their table. He was older, likely in his late sixties if Tilda had to guess. His dark gaze flicked over them with uncertainty.

“Good afternoon,” Tilda said pleasantly.

“I heard what ye asked about Grenville. I know ’im. Lives just down the mews there.” The man gestured toward the side of the alehouse. “Walk along the street and take the third left. There’s a sign what says ‘Spiritualist.’”

“Thank you very much,” Tilda said.

The man gave a nod, then set his hat atop his head before leaving the alehouse.

Tilda took another drink of ale, then looked at Hadrian expectantly. “Ready?”

Hadrian chuckled. “You are eager.” He took a long pull on his beer.

She arched a brow at him. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes, let’s go.” After one more drink, he set his glass down and stood.

A few minutes later, they walked to the mews the man had indicated. Toward the end, they saw the worn sign that read “Spiritualist” hanging over a door to a narrow terrace.

Hadrian knocked, and Tilda worked to temper her excitement. There was never any guarantee that they would learn something useful, but she had great hope that Mr. Grenville would be able to reveal some of Lysander Mallory’s secrets.

The door opened and a tall, reedy gentleman greeted them.

“Mr. Grenville?” Hadrian asked. “I am Lord Ravenhurst and this is Miss Wren. We’ve come to seek your … spiritual advice.”

Tilda was surprised Hadrian had phrased it that way but glad. If they stated their objective outright, Grenville might slam the door in their faces.

“Come in,” Grenville invited, holding the door wide.

They stepped into the small, dim entrance hall. A narrow staircase marched up the right side. Grenville gestured to the left toward a compact parlor where a small, rectangular table sat in the center. There were chairs in the corners, as well as a piano against one wall.

Tilda preceded Hadrian into the room. She eyed the table, wondering how Grenville conducted his séances.

“How may I help you?” Grenville asked. He looked to be in his mid-forties. His light brown hair showed no gray, but his neatly trimmed beard had a few strands of white.

“We’re from London,” Tilda said.

“I surmised that,” Grenville said with a faint smile, his gaze lingering on Hadrian.

“I can’t imagine what has brought you here to seek spiritual advice when there are plenty of spiritualists in London.

Indeed, I can only think you heard my name from someone in London.

” He didn’t ask a question, but Tilda recognized curiosity when she heard it.

“Shall we sit?” Tilda asked, glancing toward the table. There was a chair on each side.

“That is where I conduct spiritual inquiries,” Grenville explained.

“I am curious how you hold séances at such a small table,” Tilda said as she moved toward one of the chairs.

Grenville moved a second chair next to the one she’d gravitated to, then stepped to the other side of the table. “Please, sit.”

They took their seats, Hadrian sitting next to Tilda.

“I do not hold séances,” Grenville said. “I meet with individuals or families. I suppose it is like a séance, but it is not an elaborate event.” There was a tinge of scorn in his tone.

“Do you not care for séances, Mr. Grenville?” Tilda asked.

“I have had my fill of them.”

“We did, in fact, hear of you from someone in London,” Tilda said. “Mr. Victor Hawkins told us about you. He said you used to work with the head of the London Spiritualism Society, Lysander Mallory.”

Grenville’s dark eyes glinted. He wiped a hand over his wide chin and gave his head a gentle shake. “I haven’t heard that name in some time. Are you here for spiritual advice or information?” His gaze turned wary.

Tilda didn’t see the need to prevaricate since he’d welcomed them inside. “You are astute—I imagine that serves you well as a spiritualist. You undoubtedly possess some level of sensitivity to others as well. We are here seeking information about the London Spiritualism Society.”

“I do have some sensitivity,” Grenville said with a nod. “What is it you wish to know?”

“Forgive me if I cause any offense, since you are a practicing spiritualist,” Tilda began. “We have been investigating the society. You may have read about the murders of two of the mediums.”

Grenville’s forehead creased as sadness passed over his features. “I did. I knew Deborah Frost quite well, and I am deeply saddened by her death. I had met Ward, but I was not well acquainted with him.”

“You knew Mrs. Frost?” Tilda asked. “I wondered if that may be the case, since she was from near here.”

“She was married to a friend of mine, but he died a few years ago,” Grenville explained.

“She came to see me to try to contact him. I was working with Thaddeus by then, and she was dazzled by him. They had a love affair for a time, and he convinced her to come to London with him and train as a medium. He said she had a sensitivity with people, and he was right. She was very kindhearted and possessed an exceptional gift for listening to others. I think that is why Thaddeus found her appealing. She never failed to make him feel like the most important person in the world. He liked that.”

“Who is Thaddeus?” Hadrian asked, echoing Tilda’s thoughts. She had a strong suspicion but needed to hear Grenville confirm it.

“Apologies,” Grenville said with a faint chuckle.

“Thaddeus Vale is Lysander Mallory’s real name.

He changed it when we went to London to start the society.

He thought a memorable, somewhat bold name would help our cause.

” There was disdain buried beneath Grenville’s affability.

Tilda had the impression he was glad to share whatever he could about Thaddeus Vale.

“Lysander is Thaddeus’s favorite Shakespearean character. ”

Tilda’s pulse quickened at the connection of the name to the captain who had leased the society headquarters in London. However, she wanted to return to Mrs. Frost for a moment. “Did Vale and Mrs. Frost remain lovers?” She hadn’t perceived that sort of grief in Mallory following her death.

“They did not. I exchanged letters with Deborah occasionally, and Thaddeus moved on to another woman, someone he’d also recruited to train as a medium. Thaddeus has never maintained his romantic relationships for long.”

Tilda wondered if that woman was still with the society—Mrs. Griswold or Miss Dryden, perhaps.

One thing seemed obvious, however: there was a connection between Lysander Mallory and the man who’d leased the society headquarters in Cadogan Place.

She exchanged a look with Hadrian before asking, “Is Thaddeus related to Captain Owen Vale?”