Page 23 of A Whisper in the Shadows
Pivoting toward Phelps’s house, Tilda’s brow creased.
Hadrian narrowed his gaze at her. “I recognize that pensive expression. You’re trying to think of a way we can gain access to Mr. Phelps’s house.”
“Of course.” She glanced at him. “Don’t you want to view the scene of the murder?” She didn’t wait for him to answer, because the answer was yes, and she likely knew that. “I can’t think of a reason that an employee at a gentlemen’s club and a matchbook maker would need to stick their noses in this situation.” She pouted faintly. “Unfortunately.”
“Perhaps we could be helpful to the police,” Hadrian suggested. “We did see Phelps last night. Furthermore, don’t the police know Maxwell has infiltrated the society?”
Tilda’s eyes lit. “That’s true. We should definitely speak with them.”
They walked up to Phelps’s house, and the constable at the door turned to greet them. His expression was wary but curious.
“Move along now. There’s nothing to see here,” the constable said.
“We heard Mr. Phelps has been murdered,” Tilda said. “We are working with Inspector Maxwell on the investigation into theColeman Street Ward Amicable Society. Perhaps you’re familiar with that?”
The constable nodded. “A little. I know we’re supposed to act as though we don’t know him if we encounter him in the ward.”
“We were at the society meeting with him last night,” Tilda explained. “We saw Phelps. Might we go inside? We’d like to see if there’s anything pertinent to our investigation. Inspector Maxwell would appreciate that.”
“I don’t see why not,” the constable said. “There’s another constable inside speaking with the housekeeper. Tell him who you are but be quick about your business.”
Tilda smiled at him. “Thank you. We will.”
The constable opened the door to let them inside. Tilda preceded Hadrian into the entrance hall. To the right was a parlor, and right away, Hadrian saw Phelps. He lay face-down on the floor, his head turned toward the hearth and split open. The wood floor beneath him was stained dark brown-red.
Hadrian escorted Tilda into the parlor. To the left, a doorway opened into a dining room. Another constable sat at the table, his back to them, with a woman who blew her nose into a handkerchief.
“Phelps is wearing the same clothing as last night,” Tilda noted softly, her gaze darting toward the dining room, as if she were trying not to draw the constable’s attention. “That would seem to indicate he was killed before he retired for the evening. His body does appear as though he’s been dead several hours.”
“How can you tell?” Hadrian asked as they moved closer to Phelps.
“He looks very stiff,” Tilda whispered. “Rigor mortis has set in.” She bent to look more closely at his head. “I wonder if they’ve found the murder weapon.”
Hadrian glanced about. “I don’t see anything that looks like the weapon—no blunt objects covered in blood. Perhaps the police moved it.”
“Or the killer may have taken it.” Tilda met his gaze. “Should you touch something? The question is what.” Her brow creased. “I don’t want to provoke several visions when they are so very taxing for you.”
There was no use in trying to touch Phelps, for Hadrian almost never saw the memories of the dead. Instead, he would hope to see the memory of the murderer, if he could. He’d done that on several occasions, though he often didn’t realize that was whose memory he was seeing until later. It was one clue amongst many that he and Tilda collected to solve the crime.
Hadrian surveyed the room. “There’s a desk in the corner. Shall I touch that?”
“Why not? Perhaps you’ll find something to do with the society.”
As Hadrian moved toward the desk, he transferred the valise to his left hand. The constable came from the dining room and asked Tilda what she was doing. Hadrian took advantage of her explanation to press his bare right palm against the desk.
The parlor fell away, and he saw Phelps. His expression was deeply furrowed with concern or perhaps irritation. Whoever’s memory Hadrian was seeing was agitated in this moment. The man—not Phelps—reached for an open diary atop the desk. Focusing on the writing in the diary, Hadrian saw names and payments. The man’s flesh was pale, his fingers thick. The sleeve of his coat was the color of claret. Hadrian had seen that color just last night.
“Hadrian.” Tilda’s voice broke into his vision.
He blinked, which ended what he was seeing. A dull ache spread through his temples.
She touched his sleeve. “We have to go.”
Hadrian noticed the constable was still in the parlor and was frowning at them. “I take it he doesn’t think we should be here, despite our involvement in the fraud investigation?” he whispered.
“Apparently not. He said InspectorChisholmwouldn’t care for our presence.”
Tilda had stressed the inspector’s name to convey something, but Hadrian would have realized it without the clue: they’d met Chisholm during the first case he’d worked on with Tilda. Chisholm had become involved when the man who’d attacked Hadrian had been found murdered in the City. Inspector Chisholm had likely acted improperly, ensuring another man was initially arrested for the murder. However, Chisholm hadn’t been prosecuted, nor had he even lost his position with the police, apparently.