Page 16 of A Whisper in the Shadows (Raven & Wren #4)

A fter returning to White Alley so Tilda could change her clothing back to that of Mrs. Harwood, Tilda and Hadrian made their way to the Wolf and Dove public house on Gresham Street.

They passed St. Stephen’s Church on Coleman Street. A gate stood partially open to the small graveyard. Hadrian admired the building. “Is it strange to think your ancestor designed that?” Hadrian referred to Tilda’s many times great-grandfather, Christopher Wren, the famous architect.

“Not strange exactly. I do enjoy stepping into his buildings. He rebuilt all the churches that were destroyed by the fire. Is it odd that while I don’t consider myself an overly religious person, I appreciate the architectural beauty of the structures?”

“Not at all,” Hadrian replied. “One might say it’s in your blood.”

Tilda laughed softly. “I suppose that’s true.”

They continued toward Gresham Street. “I presume we’ll be speaking with either the owner of the pub or an employee,” Hadrian said. “Since I’m pretending to be Eaton’s friend, shall I begin the conversation?”

“Yes. As we are in our disguises now, I should probably defer to my brother.” Tilda rolled her eyes with a faint smirk.

Hadrian chuckled softly. “I know it bothers you not to take the lead. Have you struggled with that while working with Maxwell, since it’s his investigation?”

“It’s only been a day, so I can’t say. I was rather disappointed to be left out of the Amicable Society meeting last night.”

“I hope it was satisfying to be an investigator, at least for a short while, earlier today.”

She nodded. “It was, thank you.”

They turned onto Gresham Street, and Tilda pointed out that the pub was just ahead. “We ought to have a reason for asking questions about Eaton. Since he’s moved out of the lodging house, you—as his friend—can simply be trying to find where he’s gone.”

“That seems reasonable.” Hadrian opened the door to the pub for Tilda, and she preceded him inside.

“You must also do whatever you can to make your speech sound less cultured,” Tilda advised.

Hadrian grimaced briefly. “I’ve been working at that. I’ve been trying to think of words I oughtn’t say.”

“Such as ‘oughtn’t’?” Tilda flashed a smile.

Hadrian swallowed a laugh.

The common room was spacious but not well lit. As it was early afternoon, there weren’t many patrons. A man in his forties worked behind a bar in the back left corner. He was barrel-chested with dark hair that came to a widow’s peak at the top of his forehead.

Hadrian escorted Tilda to the bar and inclined his head at the man. “Afternoon,” he said genially. “I’m looking for a friend of mine, Timothy Eaton. He’s moved out of his lodgings, and I don’t know where he’s gone.”

“I know Eaton,” the barman replied in a deep voice, then narrowed his eyes. “’Ow do you know ’im?”

“We met a couple months ago,” Hadrian replied.

“He convinced me to join the Coleman Street Ward Amicable Society. I wanted to thank him, as well as collect a wager. He bet me that I wouldn’t actually do it.

” Hadrian glanced at Tilda to see her reaction to the lie he’d just concocted.

Her gaze held a sheen of approval. “Did he try to recruit you too?” Hadrian asked the man.

The barman let out a short laugh. “My pub is just outside Coleman Street Ward, so Eaton doesn’t solicit members for that friendly society ’ere.

It was different when ’e worked for that assurance company.

Eaton is one of the friendliest blokes I know.

’As a smile fer everyone. ’E’ll talk yer ear off if you give ’im ’alf a chance. ”

“Have you seen him recently?” Hadrian asked.

The man braced his hands on the bar, his features pensive for a moment. “Not for a few days. Saturday, I think.” He nodded as if he were agreeing with himself. “’E was in ’ere Saturday night.”

Tilda and Hadrian exchanged a glance. That was fairly recently. Perhaps he was still in the area.

“That’s good to hear,” Hadrian said, trying to sound relieved. “Do you know where he’s lodging now?”

The barman shook his head.

“Any idea when he might be in again?” Hadrian asked.

“’Ard to say.” The man frowned. “Now that I think about it, it’s strange ’e ’asn’t been in since Saturday. ’E’s usually in ’ere every couple days, sometimes every day.”

“Is there anyone who spent time with him here and may know his whereabouts?” Hadrian glanced about, though there were only a handful of people present.

“There’s a fellow from the assurance company. They meet ’ere most Saturday nights.”

“Is that who he saw last Saturday?” Hadrian asked.

The barman’s brow furrowed. “Come to think of it, no. It was another man, older.”

“Did you know him?”

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 may diminish 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?”

“Blond hair and mustache, cleft chin. And he seemed…cheerful, which is, I think, how Mrs. Vickers and the barman described him. He also has an abnormality that could verify his identity. He’s missing nearly half the little finger on his left hand.”

Her gaze shone with admiration. “Excellent detail.”

“What I don’t know is whose memory I was seeing. I wonder if it might have been Rippon, since we know he met Eaton here on Saturdays. Also, the image came when I thought of his name.”

Tilda drew in a breath. “That is fascinating . Perhaps you’re learning how to control what you see.”

“It does seem so, as I was able to guide things just now. We’ll see if that continues.” Hadrian was not yet ready to declare his efforts a success. He took another sip of ale.

“I shall remain cautiously optimistic.” Tilda smiled. “Did you glean anything else from what you saw?”

“No. It appeared to just be a conversation. Eaton spoke animatedly and appeared in high spirits. I would say whoever he was speaking to is a friend.”

“This was a successful inquiry.” Tilda glanced back toward the bar.

“We have a name for someone to speak with at the assurance company—Rippon. I’d like to take an omnibus to Fleet Street to speak with Mr. Clement, but I should speak with Inspector Maxwell first to ensure he supports asking for Clement’s assistance.

” She let out a soft exhale of disappointment.

“I’ll escort you back to White Alley, then I should probably return home, since it will be time for me to go to work at the gentlemen’s club.” Hadrian scowled briefly with disappointment. “I would much rather remain with you to continue the investigation, particularly given Phelps’s murder.”

Her gaze was sympathetic. “I understand. I wouldn’t want to leave either.”

“Perhaps I should lose my job and try to obtain employment as a canvasser at the Amicable Society,” Hadrian suggested. “With Eaton gone and now Phelps murdered, it would seem they are in need of help.”

“That is an intriguing thought.” Tilda fell silent for a moment, her expression pensive. “We shall have to propose it to Maxwell.”

“I would hope he’d support it. Working for the society would give us a great deal of access to its function.”

Tilda’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. “It would indeed. I shall speak to Maxwell about this scheme this evening.”

How Hadrian disliked having to gain Maxwell’s approval during this investigation. He was used to making the decisions with Tilda and them guiding their own inquiries. “I’m sure you’ll convince him of the benefits. After all, he was clever enough to hire you.”

“I should like to persuade him to allow me to make inquiries without discussing them with him first. I will try. Shall we go?” She started to rise.

Hadrian took a long drink of his ale as he stood. “Ready.”

He hoped Tilda would find success with Maxwell. They had established an excellent and effective investigative process. It wasn’t helpful for them to have to seek the inspector’s approval at every turn.

Hadrian missed when it was just the two of them.