Page 93 of A Whisper in the Shadows

The constable sat her on a bench on the wall opposite the door and stood close beside her. Did they think she was violent?

“Mrs. Walters took a swipe at one of our constables when she was brought in,” Chisholm explained. “She’s lucky we don’t put her in handcuffs.”

The woman surveyed Tilda and Hadrian with interest, her gaze sweeping over them. “You look different.”

Tilda offered a mild smile. She had no intention of explaining anything to her or identifying who they were. “You look much the same. It is our hope that you will be more forthcoming with your testimony today when we ask you questions. However, we do expect you may lie, as you did about when you arrived in London. We will discover what else you’ve lied about as we have agents visiting Reading, Maidstone, and Guildford to discover the heart of your and your husband’s crimes.”

Mrs. Walters’s eyes rounded slightly, and she swallowed visibly. Her gaze darted to the inspector.

Chisholm crossed his arms over his chest. “We know you had dinner with your husband on Sunday and lied about when you arrived. It appears you were the woman who visited him late Monday—right around when he was killed. Looks as though you’ll be facing a charge of murder and likely hanging.”

The color drained from Mrs. Walters’s face. “I told you I didn’t kill him! I wasn’t lying! Not about that,” she added in a lower tone.

“Why should we believe you?” Tilda asked. “Perhaps you could demonstrate your newfound honesty by telling us about the friendly societies your husband started. What was his objective?”

Mrs. Walters’s jaw clenched, and her knee moved up and down, making her appear incredibly nervous.

“How you behave now could determine your punishment,” Chisholm warned.

“We saw there was money to be made from burial societies,” Mrs. Walters said. “My sister’s son died, and they’d belonged to a burial club. It paid for my nephew’s funeral.”

Tilda wondered if the vision Hadrian had seen of Mrs. Walters and her husband with a deceased person had to do with her nephew.

Mrs. Walters continued. “We pretended to have children and joined the club—that was in Salisbury, where we lived originally. We said the children died, and we collected the death benefits. We did this a few times in different places. Philip had the idea to start a club, which is what we did. That was in Maidstone.”

She went on to explain how Philip Walters had founded that first burial club with another gentleman. Just before they reached the end of the first year when members could begin to collect benefits, he’d left town with all the club’s funds. He’d done this two more times—in Guildford and Reading. Then he’d come to London to do the same in the Coleman Street Ward. He’d started the Amicable Society with the intent to fleece its members and flee London.

“It was to be the last time.” Mrs. Walters wrung her hands. “We were going to settle in Cornwall. We would have had enough money to live comfortably.”

“What happened?” Tilda asked gently, sensing Mrs. Walters’s agitation didn’t just stem from being caught. “Why didn’t you come to London with your husband?”

“He didn’t want me to. He thought he could gain more sympathy if he was a widower.” She looked down at the floor. “But then he stopped writing to me. That’s when I came here to see him.”

“When did you actually arrive?” Chisholm asked.

“Last Sunday,” she replied. “I did stay at a boarding house because I knew I couldn’t go to his house. I had a boy deliver a note, asking Philip to meet me at the Black Anchor.”

“And that’s where you were seen together,” Tilda said with a nod. “What did he tell you?”

Mrs. Walters sniffed. “He said he had to move on sooner than he expected and was angry that I’d come.” She lifted her gaze finally and her eyes were wet with tears. “He didn’t want to go to Cornwall—he said he wasn’t going to fetch enough from this society. He’d decided to go to Bath next to start a new society. I told him I didn’t want to continue with these schemes. We had enough money. He disagreed.” Her features stiffened, and she looked angry. “I threatened to expose him to the Amicable Society. I was there at the meeting on Monday—in the common room at the Swan and Hoop. He saw me and told me to come to his house later that night.”

“So it was you who called on him?” Chisholm asked sharply.

“Yes, but I didn’t kill him.” Her voice broke, and she brushed her hand against her cheek. “Why would I? I loved him. I wanted him to come with me to Cornwall like we’d planned.” Her lip quivered. “He was already dead when I arrived.”

Chisholm uncrossed his arms. “What time was that?”

“Just after one o’clock.”

“Describe what you saw,” Chisholm instructed.

“He was in the parlor on the floor. His head was bashed in, and there was blood and other…” Mrs. Walters squeezed her amber eyes shut and shook her head. “I was very upset. I ran out and didn’t return until Thursday.”

“That was to find the money?” Tilda asked.

Mrs. Walters nodded. “What will happen now?”

“You’ll be prosecuted for fraud and for pushing Miss Wren down the stairs, at least,” Chisholm said tersely.