Page 8 of A Whisper in the Shadows

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” Tilda said.

Draper indicated the dark-blonde woman beside him. “This is Mrs. Draper.”

She met Tilda’s gaze with a slight nod. Tilda perceived an edge of nervousness in her.

“Are we to be allowed into the meeting?” Tilda asked her.

Mrs. Draper’s pretty cornflower-blue eyes rounded briefly. “Goodness, no. They would never include us. They’ll close the doors to the private dining room, and we’ll sit out here and wait. There will be at least a half dozen of us, I should think.” She held up a basket. “I brought some mending to do. Did you bring anything?”

“I did not. We are just settling into our new house, and I’m afraid I’m not entirely sure where I put my mending,” Tilda lied with a laugh.

Mrs. Draper nodded in commiseration.

“The meeting won’t start for a little while yet,” Mr. Draper said. “Why don’t you come meet the society’s leadership council.”

“I should like that,” Maxwell said.

The four of them walked into the adjoining private dining room. It was set with rows of chairs and a table at one end with three chairs behind it. A dark purple cloth covered the table, and two branches of candles sat on either end. There was a gavel upon which was carved a cock and a snake, as well as a largeleather-bound book which also bore a cock and snake. A pen and inkpot were situated beside the book. Finally, there was a Bible.

Tilda understood that these sorts of societies often had some kind of ceremonial aspect, but it seemed she would not be allowed to witness it. She would have to settle for hearing Inspector Maxwell’s description.

Several gentlemen mingled about the room, but Mr. Draper led them to the table where three men stood in front of it.

“Evening, Draper,” one of the men said. He had dark hair and long side whiskers. His small brown eyes regarded Mrs. Draper and then Tilda. She didn’t particularly care for the way his gaze lingered on her. He had a somewhat heavy paunch, and his nose bore the reddish hue of someone who enjoyed more than the occasional glass of wine.

“Good evening, Mr. Phelps,” Draper replied. “This is my colleague, Mr. Harwood.”

“Ah, yes,” Mr. Phelps replied with a placid smile. “Welcome.” He glanced toward Draper. “We’re delighted you brought someone to join our membership.”

“Not just yet,” the man next to Phelps said with a hearty laugh. He appeared a few years older and had a thick head of gray hair and round brown eyes. His nose was rather bulbous, and he had a cheerful smile. Tilda noted that of all the men in the room, he dressed the smartest. He wore an exceptionally well-tailored coat made of fine claret wool. She wondered at his occupation.

“I’m Harvey Nevill,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.” His gaze flicked to Tilda. “Have you brought Mrs. Harwood with you?”

“I have,” Maxwell replied. “This is my lovely wife.”

“She is lovely indeed,” Mr. Nevill said affably. He looked to Maxwell with a more serious expression. “I meant no offense when I said that you were not a member yet, but the truth is you are not until you’ve taken your oath.”

“An oath isn’t absolutely required, but you’re getting ahead of things, Nevill,” the third man said, sounding almost cross. He had sable hair and an equally dark mustache. His coffee-brown eyes were sharp and perhaps a trifle cold, or perhaps they only seemed that way after Nevill’s open charm. He snapped his gaze to Draper. “Shouldn’t you set up the collection table?”

“Of course.” Draper looked toward Maxwell. “If you recall, I assist with collecting the weekly dues.” He took himself off, and Mrs. Draper followed behind him as if she too had been dismissed.

The terse gentleman cleared his throat. “As I was saying, Harwood must meet the requirements of membership first.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Nevill said with a wave of his hand. He looked back to Tilda and Maxwell. “This is Ernest Furnier. He is the bursar, and what he means by meeting the standards of membership is that he wants to know you can afford it.”

“I would not have come if I could not,” Maxwell assured them. “Draper said it was six farthings a week.”

“The cost depends on your age,” Furnier said with a frown. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven,” the inspector replied.

“Then yes, six farthings a week. Plus the entrance fee, which is two shillings, six pence—ifyou are accepted,” Furnier said sharply. “Are you prepared to pay that?”

“I am. When will I—or my wife—be eligible to collect benefits?”

“In one year. What is your occupation?” Furnier demanded.

Nevill gave the treasurer an exasperated look. “He’s a clerk like Draper, isn’t that right?”