Page 12 of A Whisper in the Shadows (Raven & Wren #4)

“Do you think the administrators argued about what happened with Cardy being admitted against the society’s policy?” Tilda asked.

“I don’t know for sure, but that’s my guess. I had the impression from Mrs. Furnier that her husband was quite angry when he learned that Cardy had been ill.”

“Wouldn’t everyone have noticed his illness?” Hadrian asked.

“Mr. Cardy didn’t attend meetings.” Mrs. Burley cocked her head. “In fact, I’m not sure how his weekly dues were collected.”

“It’s my understanding that a member can send their dues with someone else,” Hadrian said, citing what he’d learned last night. “Perhaps someone was doing that for Mr. Cardy.”

“That makes sense,” Mrs. Burley said. “I wonder who…” she added in a murmur, and Hadrian surmised that she wanted to gather this information.

It seemed as though they’d met someone whose curiosity would rival Tilda’s.

Though their curiosity did not appear to be borne of the same purpose.

Tilda liked to learn things and uncover the truth.

Perhaps Mrs. Burley enjoyed collecting information and details that would make her feel important.

Mrs. Burley sniffed. “I must be on my way. I need to inform the other neighbors what’s happened. They’ll want to hear of this tragedy.” She frowned sadly.

“How lucky they are to have you to inform them,” Tilda said, with a gentle smile and just the barest hint of sarcasm, which Hadrian caught.

“Indeed.” Mrs. Burley nodded sagely, appearing oblivious to the irony. She walked across the street and went to the house next to hers, where she knocked on the door.

Tilda blinked as she watched Mrs. Burley. “She was serious about telling everyone.”

“I didn’t doubt it,” Hadrian said.

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 the Coleman 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 Inspector Chisholm wouldn’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.

“Let us depart,” Hadrian said, thinking it was best if they didn’t encounter Chisholm like this and perceiving Tilda felt the same.

“Quickly.” Tilda was already moving toward the entrance hall.

However, it was too late, as Chisholm was just closing the front door. His small, dark eyes rounded before narrowing slightly as he regarded Tilda and Hadrian.

“Lord Ravenhurst, isn’t it?” Chisholm asked, his square jaw clenching the barest amount. He was tall but did not reach Hadrian’s height.

“Yes, though I am in disguise under the name Nigel Beck as a new member of the Coleman Street Ward Amicable Society. This is my ‘sister,’ Mrs. Harwood.”

Chisholm scrutinized Tilda. “I thought she might be the female private investigator you were with at Fitch’s inquest, but she’s not blonde.”

“I am her,” Tilda said tersely. “I’m also in disguise and working with Inspector Maxwell on the fraud investigation of the Amicable Society. Ravenhurst is not my sibling.”

“I see. Well, you shouldn’t be here.” He glowered at them.

“We were looking for clues that may relate to our investigation,” Tilda said. “Maxwell would have done so if he were with us.”

Chisholm peered past them toward the parlor. “And why isn’t he?”

“We were just returning to the ward this morning when we happened by,” Tilda replied. “Maxwell is at our house in White Alley, preparing to go to his fake job with other members of the society.”

“That’s right.” Chisholm gave them a condescending nod. “I would tell Maxwell the same I’ll tell you—if we find anything pertinent to your investigation, we’ll let you know.”

Hadrian cast Tilda a sideways glance and could tell she was gritting her teeth as she forced a smile. “Thank you, Inspector. Did you find a murder weapon?”

“I think it’s best if that information remains with the police for now,” Chisholm replied with an irritating smile of his own. “If I have time, I’ll seek Maxwell out. Or he can come to me at the police station. If he can take time away from his fake job .”

“I’ll tell him that,” Tilda said icily. She started toward the door, and Hadrian hastened to open it for her.

They walked past the constable outside and made their way toward the London Wall.

Hadrian glanced back at Phelps’s house. “What a patronizing clod. He clearly remembered us and, given his demeanor, I wonder if he knows I asked the superintendent about his behavior during that investigation. I still believe he was behind the dodgy evidence that saw John Prince wrongly arrested.”

“I agree, but we didn’t have proof. I’m just glad Prince went free.” She looked over at Hadrian. “I didn’t realize you’d spoken to the superintendent.”

“I wrote a letter,” Hadrian said. “I indicated my strong recommendation that Chisholm ought to be investigated, though I don’t know if he was.”

“Regardless, he’s still an inspector,” Tilda said with disdain. “And we must work with him.”

“Should we tell Maxwell about our past interaction with Chisholm?” Hadrian thought they should. He worried about whether they could trust the man.

Tilda nodded. “I think we must, particularly since it seems he may be disinclined to share information with us. I hope he will not allow his opinion of us to affect his communication with Maxwell. That would be most unprofessional.”

They turned from London Wall to Coleman Street. “What did you see when you touched the desk?” Tilda asked.

Hadrian detailed the vision. “You saw who was wearing a claret-colored coat last night?”

Her gaze met his briefly. “Mr. Nevill. You think it was his memory? Because you wouldn’t have seen Phelps’s since he is dead.”

“Correct. I do believe it was Nevill’s.” Hadrian thought through his vision once more. “I didn’t see anyone else, though I suppose there could have been another person—or people—present.”

Tilda glanced at him as they turned down Coleman Street. “I wonder why Nevill was upset.”

Hadrian often gleaned a sense of what the memory-holder was feeling, but it wasn’t always clear. In this case, he had at least an inkling. “I think it may have been an argument, particularly with Phelps’s expression.”

“I would very much like to question Nevill about what happened last night after the meeting,” Tilda said. “But we are not assigned to solve Phelps’s murder.”

“Has that ever deterred us?” Hadrian asked wryly.

Tilda smiled, then shook her head. “Why is it our investigations always somehow lead to murder?”

They turned into White Alley. “I was wondering the same thing, and I’ve no answer.” Hadrian looked over at her, and her eyes shone with anticipation.

“It’s fortunate we’ve a knack for solving such crimes.”