Page 32 of A Whisper in the Shadows

The man shook his head again. “Might ’ave had dark ’air. Can’t recall.” He narrowed his eyes at Hadrian. “Why are you asking all these questions ’bout Eaton and ’is friends? ’E must owe you a decent sum.”

Hadrian shrugged. “Aside from the wager, I’m only concerned about him is all. His former landlady said he moved out in a hurry. If I can talk to one of his friends, mayhap I can find out where he is.”

The barman nodded. “The man from the assurance company is called Rippon, I think. ’E wears glasses.”

“That’s helpful to know. Thank you,” Hadrian said.

“Pardon me,” Tilda said in a somewhat small voice that didn’t sound at all like her. “Can you think of anything else about the man Mr. Eaton saw on Saturday? Do you recall where they sat?”

The man narrowed his eyes again, this time at Tilda.

“This is my sister,” Hadrian hastened to say.

His features smooth, the barman nodded vaguely. “Eaton always sits in the same place—that table in the corner over by the window.” The man pointed to the opposite corner of the common room before locking his gaze on Hadrian. “You drinking anything?”

“I’ll have a pint,” Hadrian replied with a faint smile. “Nothing for my sister.” He put a coin on the bar—more than the pint would cost—as the man pulled a pint of ale.

Dark beer dribbled down the side of the glass as the man set it atop the bar. He plucked up the coin. “Eaton’ll turn up, or mayhap ’e’s moved on. Wouldn’t be the first bloke who ’ad to strike a new path for ’imself.”

Hadrian inclined his head in agreement as he picked up the ale. He turned from the bar, and Tilda accompanied him toward the center of the common room.

“I wasn’t sure if we should go straight to Eaton’s table,” Hadrian said softly.

Tilda sent him a faint nod. “You have good instincts. We’ve already drawn enough attention with our questioning. We’ll still make our way in that direction. I know you want to touch the table.”

“I do.” Hadrian sipped the ale. It wasn’t bad.

A pair of men came in and went toward the bar. Their arrival was just the distraction Hadrian and Tilda needed to investigate Eaton’s table.

Tilda turned her head toward the bar. “He’s busy now. Let’s go.”

They moved quickly to the corner with the table. “Shall we sit?” Hadrian asked.

“I think for a few minutes, yes.” Tilda slid into a chair while Hadrian sat opposite her.

He set his ale on the table, then pressed his bare palms against the scarred wood. Dressed as Nigel Beck, he wasn’t wearing gloves.

Immediately, he saw a series of images. But they weren’t very clear—just flashes of faces and an overall sensation of conviviality.

Frustrated, Hadrian sought to focus on Eaton, in the hope he would see something related to the man. During their last investigation, Hadrian had met another gentleman who possessed the same ability to see others’ memories. Captain Vale had been helpful in explaining how the gift—or affliction, depending on one’s perspective—was passed within families and could affect people differently. It seemed everyone with the ability suffered headaches of varying degrees, and they maydiminish over time. Others struggled a great deal with being overwhelmed by the power.

Hadrian didn’t always have a vision when he touched something or someone, and there was no way to know if and when it would happen. He had absolutely no control over the ability. The visions could also be different for each person with the power. Hadrian did not ever hear anything, but some others did. He’d begun to smell things from time to time, which wasn’t universal.

Vale had also told Hadrian how he might begin to try to steer his visions. If Hadrian focused on someone, he may be able to see their memory—if it was possible. Hadrian did not see the memories of those closest to him, such as his mother, his valet, or Tilda.

Resisting the urge to close his eyes in order to focus on Eaton—because the visions always stopped when he closed his eyes—Hadrian tried to conjure what the man looked like based on Mrs. Vickers’s description. He pressed his hands into the wood and repeated Eaton’s name in his mind.

Eaton had sat here with the man from the assurance company. What was his name? Rippon.

Hadrian began to see a face. The man sat across the table from him. He had blond hair and a blond mustache and a rather deep cleft in his chin. He talked animatedly, and Hadrian wished he could hear what was being said. The man laughed. He seemed to match what Hadrian had learned about Eaton from Mrs. Vickers.

From past experience, Hadrian knew it was best if he could detect every possible detail about the vision. He looked at the man’s hands—he was missing almost half of the little finger of his left hand. Hadrian was certain he was seeing Timothy Eaton. But whose memory was he seeing?

The vision faded, and Hadrian was once again in the pub on a Tuesday afternoon, sitting across from Tilda. She watched him anxiously.

“I think I just saw Eaton,” he said, wincing faintly as pain shot through his temple. “He was sitting where you are.”

“What made you think it was him?”