Page 110 of A Whisper in the Shadows

Draper extended his hand. “May I?”

“Of course.” Hadrian gave the diary to him and idly realized he hadn’t ever shaken the man’s hand.

Draper sat and opened the ledger to peruse it. Hadrian glanced about the room whilst Draper reviewed Eaton’s accounting. There was a photograph on the mantel of Mrs. and Mr. Draper on their wedding day. A pair of painted candlesticks framed the photograph, one on either side. Hadrian noticed the half-burned candles didn’t match. One was tallow and the other spermaceti—it looked like the one he’d had seen at Phelps’s house in the remaining brass candlestick.

Hadrian moved closer. It didn’t just looksimilar… Curious, Hadrian removed the candle from the holder. He was suddenly in Phelps’s parlor, where he seemed to spend so many of his visions of late.

He was holding the candle in his left hand, and he was bent over. As he straightened, he pivoted. He saw Phelps’s body in exactly the same position he’d viewed it the morning he and Tilda had happened by his house.

Phelps’s head was bashed in, but the blood had not settled. It was still oozing from the wound, spreading on the floor beneath Phelps’s head. Hadrian realized that in his right hand, he held the missing brass candlestick. His heart began to pound.He couldn’t see whose memory this was, but he could certainly guess.

Perhaps the man would move in such a way that his reflection would be visible in the mirror that hung in Phelps’s dining room. Unfortunately, he did not. The man stood over Phelps’s body, breathing heavily and then swearing under his breath.

“What have I done?”

The man didn’t speak the words aloud, but Hadrian heard them in his mind as if he’d thought them. He also felt an overwhelming sense of shock and horror mingled with fury.

“Mr. Beck?”

Hadrian blinked and the vision faded. A terrible pain blistered through his head. He took a deep breath before turning to face Draper. He still held the candle in his hand.

“What are you doing?” Draper asked.

“I just noticed your candles didn’t match.” Hadrian shrugged, then returned the candle to its holder. Ice coated his skin as he realized he was in the presence of Phelps’s murderer.

“When did you start taking money at the society meetings?” Hadrian asked, his heart continuing to race. He worked to keep his tone even.

“I don’t recall exactly, but sometime after the new year,” Draper replied as he continued to flip through the diary.

“And how did that come about?” Hadrian moved toward the doorway to the small entry hall, which took him past where Draper was sitting. “Were you recruited for the position?”

Draper looked up from the ledger. “They asked at a meeting if anyone would volunteer to help collect money. I raised my hand. I’ve always been keen to help the society.”

“I see. All this turmoil must be very upsetting for you.” But was it disturbing enough for him to kill?

It seemed to have been—Hadrian was convinced the man was a murderer. But what could Hadrian do about it right now? He had no proof beyond what he’d seen when he touched the candle. He’d have to coax a confession out of Draper, as they’d done with Nevill. Hadrian tried to think of how to do that, but he wanted someone else present to hear the confession. Hopefully, Furnier would arrive soon.

“What do you think of the ledger?” Hadrian asked.

Draper frowned. “There are a great many members listed here who should not have been admitted due to illness. They appear to have paid inflated entrance fees, as well as weekly dues.” He closed the book with a snap. “I don’t know how we can repay all that. But where has the money gone? Shouldn’t the police have recovered it from Eaton or Phelps?”

Hadrian thought of the notion that Eaton’s killer had stolen whatever money Eaton may have had. Since they knew Phelps had killed him, it seemed plausible that Phelps would have had all the ill-gotten money. Perhaps the entire sum had been beneath the floorboards and was indeed in police custody. Hadrian would confer with Inspector Chisholm and hopefully match up the amount of those funds with Phelps’s ledger.

It occurred to Hadrian that money was not Draper’s motive. What was it then? The only thing that made sense was Draper’s passion for and dedication to the society. If he’d learned of Phelps’s corruption, he could have been angry enough to kill him. Hadrian had felt the man’s rage in the vision along with his surprise. Perhaps he’d confronted Phelps and killing him had been triggered by emotion.

“We should speak with the police about the money,” Hadrian said. “And we should prepare ourselves for the possibility that we won’t recover all that was stolen.”

Draper’s eyes flashed with anger. “It’s not fair. People work hard, and every shilling counts.”

Hadrian wondered if he could provoke Draper into confessing something. “It’s good that Phelps and Eaton are dead.”

“I confess I’m shocked by Eaton’s behavior,” Draper said. “I’ve known him for some time and never would have believed he was corrupt—at least not on purpose. It seems likely to me that Phelps told him to admit members who were ill and to overcharge them.”

“Eaton’s colleague from the Prudential Assurance Company confirmed that he had a history of stealing.” Hadrian realized he shouldn’t have shared that. Why would he know such information?

Draper blinked in surprise. “How do you know that?”

Hadrian shrugged. “I don’t recall where I heard it. Perhaps I’m wrong.” He wanted to deflect Draper’s attention. “You knew Eaton to be a good man?”