Page 97 of A Whisper in the Shadows

Tilda gave him a pleasant nod. “May we see your cart?”

The man looked to Hadrian, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to, because Hadrian knew he wanted more money.

Withdrawing another few coins, Hadrian pressed them into the man’s hand, which had shot out the moment Hadrian reached into his coat pocket. “Where’s your cart?”

Oldham took them around the end of the terrace to a small yard with a privy and the night soil cart. Though the cart was empty, the stench of offal was pungent. Hadrian resisted the urge to reach for his handkerchief to cover his nose. He glanced at Tilda and saw her nose wrinkle.

They moved close to the cart, and Tilda peered inside. It was empty, but there was soil embedded in the corners. She reached inside and plucked a piece of fabric a few inches in size from a splinter of the wood.

She held it between her gloved fingers and lifted it to peruse it more closely. It appeared to be broadcloth and was dark blue with a very subtle and simple plaid pattern. She turned it about. There was a white mark on the other side, like chalk.

“This seems as though it’s from a piece of clothing,” she observed. She looked to Oldham. “I imagine you pick up any number of things in your nightly collection.”

“I do,” Oldham said with a nod. He scrutinized the fabric a moment. “That was from the night those blokes borrowed the cart.”

“How do you know?” Tilda asked.

Oldham looked at Hadrian again expectantly.

Hadrian handed the man a few more coins.

“When the blokes brought the cart back, there was a large piece of that fabric—enough to spread over the cart a few timesover.” Oldham made a face. “But it was soaked with pig’s blood, and they asked me to burn it. Paid me extra.”

Hadrian exchanged an excited look with Tilda.

“Did they dispose of a pig?” Tilda asked.

“Assume so.” Oldham shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”

Tilda handed the scrap of fabric to Hadrian, who’d removed his glove. Right away, he was inside Nevill’s shop. He saw the fabric spread out over a table with a pattern marked out in chalk. Nevill—Hadrian assumed it was his memory he was seeing—swept it up and walked to the front part of the shop. Phelps stood there, waiting with a small lantern in his hand. It was night.

Blinking, Hadrian met Tilda’s gaze and nodded. He didn’t want to give the scrap back to her yet in case he might see something else.

Tilda looked to the night soil man. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Oldham.” She turned and started toward the street.

Hadrian joined her and focused on the fabric in his hand as they walked. He tried to think of what the fabric had been used for.

There! He was back in Phelps’s house. Nevill and Phelps lifted Eaton onto the fabric, which had been laid out over the floor of the parlor. Then they rolled him inside it.

“Hadrian!” Tilda gripped his arm, startling him from the vision.

He realized he was falling. She tried to keep him upright, but gravity would not be denied. He managed to put his arms in front of himself to break his fall and landed on his knees.

“Are you all right?” Tilda’s tone was fraught with concern as she crouched beside him.

“I’m fine. I don’t know what happened. One moment, I was in Phelps’s parlor, and the next I was pitching forward.” He took a breath to try to slow his pulse and pushed himself up.

Tilda clasped his arm and helped him as best she could. “I know what happened. You were seeing a vision and trying to walk at the same time. I’m not sure you’ve ever done that before. I would advise you not to try it again.”

He saw that she was frowning at him. No, not frowning, just regarding him with grave concern. “I’m fine, but your counsel is well received. You’re right—I haven’t ever done that before. I’m not sure why I did. Honestly, I didn’t think about it. I had the fabric, and I focused on trying to see what Nevill did with it.”

Realizing he no longer had the fabric piece in his hand, he glanced at the cobblestones and saw that he’d dropped it. Tilda bent and retrieved the swatch. “I’ll keep this for now.” She tucked it into her pocket.

“You sure you want to put something that has spent a week in a night soil cart in your pocket?” Hadrian asked wryly.

She lifted a shoulder. “What choice is there? Are you ready to continue walking?”

“Yes, though my head is throbbing.” He winced as he touched his temple.