Page 97 of A Whisper at Midnight

The vision faded, and Hadrian hastily pulled on the other glove, his head throbbing. He wanted to see what happened next.

But what he saw next was not that. He was now at the lodging house, the veil making his vision hazy. Though he could still make out Martha. She held something that she thrust toward Joanna. The item lay in her palm—it was the brooch they’d found in Martha’s bedroom at the lodging house.

Joanna knocked the brooch from Martha’s hand. Then she stepped forward, putting her hands out toward Martha.

Hadrian felt the connection of Joanna’s fingertips with Martha’s shoulders, then her palms as Joanna shoved the poor maid. Martha stumbled backward and hit the railing. She tried to grasp the wood, but it gave, just as it had when Tilda had touched it. Wobbling the barest moment, Martha’s mouth opened in a silent—because Hadrian couldn’t hear her—cry as she fell over the railing.

Hadrian had never felt such agony in his head. He put his hand to his temple as the vision disappeared, leaving him with a sense of diminishing rage and escalating fear.

“Are you all right, Lord Ravenhurst?”

The question sounded as if it were coming from far away. Hadrian blinked hard, which made pain shoot through his forehead. “I’m fine,” he managed, taking a deep breath. Or trying to. The effort made his head hurt more if that was possible.

He’d never had so many visions in rapid succession. In truth, he felt queasy in addition to his head aching.

“You look a bit pale, if I may say,” Pollard said. “Would you like to sit down?”

He would, in fact, but what he’d seen in the visions came back to him. “I would like to find Miss Wren, actually.”Immediately.

She was with a killer.

CHAPTER 20

Tilda climbed the staircase at the center of the drapery shop. It ascended in a circular fashion and on the first floor, a gilt railing ran around the edge where one could look down onto the ground floor. It was incredibly elegant and gave the store a sense of sophistication.

Joanna Pollard was busy near the top of the staircase where a wooden figure stood. Crouched down, she was pinning the hem of a gown that was draped over the form. She glanced at Tilda as she approached.

“Good morning, Mrs. Pollard. I am sorry to disturb you when you are so hard at work.”

Mrs. Pollard’s small blue eyes darted toward Tilda but didn’t linger. “I am indeed. I can’t imagine why you’ve come to bother us when Beryl Chambers has been arrested for killing her husband. Surely your investigation is concluded.”

“I’m not here about that,” Tilda said with a careless wave of her hand. “When you offered to make a gown for Beryl yesterday, I wondered if you might be interested in making one for me. I realize the shop isn’t open yet, and I suppose I could wait. Still, I couldn’t resist coming to ask.” She flashed a smile. “I confess I was also hoping to see more of the shop. Mr. Pollardsaid you’d be able to open in a fortnight since Oliver has joined as an investor.”

Rising to stand, Joanna rolled her shoulders back. Her gaze was wary, as if she wasn’t sure she trusted Tilda. “You want a gown?” Her gaze dipped over Tilda’s garment. “I can see why.”

“My wardrobe is rather outdated.” Tilda bristled slightly at the woman’s judgment. She’d liked how she looked yesterday—and how it made her feel. It hadn’t occurred to her that the right garments could instill confidence and pride. That didn’t mean Tilda ought to purchase another gown. This was nothing more than a ruse.

Joanna gave her a dubious look. “The frock you wore yesterday was from this year, I’d say.”

Tilda nodded. “It was, and after seeing myself in it, I decided I ought to have another.”

“You would look lovely in burgundy, I think, with an ivory sash.” Mrs. Pollard wrinkled her nose. “You really must dispose of the wide crinoline. It’s almost vulgar, if I am honest.”

Though Tilda wasn’t at all interested in debating the amount or shape of the crinoline in her petticoat, she resented Mrs. Pollard calling it vulgar. Did Tilda really look that bad? She was suddenly very self-conscious about how she might appear when she was out with Hadrian. She would not want to reflect poorly on him.

“I would hate to be vulgar,” Tilda said tightly. “Can you help me?”

The faintest smile passed over Joanna’s thin lips. “I can. I’ve just the wool in a lovely shade of burgundy that would look splendid on you. I will need to take your measurements. Would you like to do that today so I may get started?”

“Certainly,” Tilda said. “But first, tell me about this wooden figure and what you’re doing.”

“These figures are quite dear,” Mrs. Pollard replied. “We only have two for now. One will be downstairs in the main window, and I wanted this one up here so people coming up the stairs or looking up from the ground floor would see it straightaway. I’m adjusting this gown to its best effect, which is more difficult than I’d anticipated. The wooden figure isn’t as close an approximation to a woman’s body as I would have liked.”

“I see.” Tilda searched for a way to turn the conversation to her purpose. “Forgive me for saying so, but looking down over this railing reminds me of the death of the Chambers’ maid, Martha Farrow.” She met Joanna’s gaze, keeping her expression serene. “You knew her, didn’t you?”

Joanna’s left eye twitched, and her nostrils flared slightly. She turned and fidgeted with the sleeve of the gown on the wooden figure. “I did not.”

“Really? When Ravenhurst and I visited her lodging house in Spitalfields to investigate her tragic death, one of the occupants said you visited her.”