Page 20 of A Whisper in the Shadows (Raven & Wren #4)

“Miss Wren and I will be sure to apprise you of all that transpires at the inquest, since you will be working.” A small— and perhaps petty—part of Hadrian was glad that he and Tilda would be together without the inspector.

“Oh, I will be at the inquest,” Maxwell said rather fervently. “I must report to the mercantile house this morning, but those of us who are members of the Amicable Society will attend.”

“Well, that’s certainly helpful,” Hadrian said, tamping down his disappointment. “I’m sure you would have been frustrated to miss it.”

Maxwell’s lips pressed into a grim line. “Most certainly. I should be off now. I look forward to hearing about your interview with Mrs. Cardy and what this journalist says.”

“I’m sure Mr. Clement will want to attend the inquest,” Tilda said. “You can at least observe him there, if not meet him.”

The inspector stood. “I’ll see you there.” He inclined his head, then left the dining room.

Hadrian sipped his tea and did not speak until he heard the front door of the house close. “Perhaps I should have not brought the sugar.”

Tilda grimaced. “I had not considered that Inspector Maxwell may not have had much opportunity to consume it. I hope he did not take offense.”

“I don’t think so. I confess I feel a trifle awkward bringing what is, I suppose, extravagance into the household. Mrs. Kilgore was somewhat flabbergasted by some of the items in the basket my cook sent.”

“I think that was nice of your cook, and I’m sure Mrs. Kilgore is grateful.”

“Assuredly, but, like you, I don’t mean to cause any upset.”

“I understand how they may feel,” Tilda said. “I am sometimes too aware of our class and economic difference. I think of the evening you took me to Northumberland House, and it seems as though it was a dream.”

“A nice one, I hope?” Hadrian had enjoyed that evening with her, and not just because it had provided a turning point in their case. Tilda had looked incomparably beautiful in her finery, and he’d been proud to have her on his arm.

“It was shockingly different from what I’m used to,” she said with a light chuckle. “This household is probably closer to my reality.”

Hadrian took that to mean that she would have more in common with Maxwell, or a man like him. That pricked at Hadrian quite sharply.

Tilda took another drink of tea. “That really is delicious. I would not be opposed to drinking that every day.” She flashed him a smile as she stood.

It was silly, but Hadrian’s chest puffed, and a sense of triumph stole through him. Because she liked his fancy tea.

“Let us prepare to visit Mrs. Cardy,” she said. “It’s early yet, so perhaps you’d like to settle in first.”

Hadrian rose. “I’ll take my things up to the garret.” He hadn’t spent much time considering that he would be sharing the small space with Maxwell. There were two beds and a dressing screen, so he could count on at least a small measure of privacy.

“Will you manage without a valet?” Tilda asked with a half-smile.

He couldn’t tell if she was teasing or genuinely curious. “I do not require my valet’s assistance. Not even for shaving,” he added.

Though now, he wondered how he would accomplish that. He supposed he’d have to bring water up from the kitchen. Or would he just shave downstairs? He’d have to ask Maxwell. Better yet, he’d observe what Maxwell did and copy him.

“I’m impressed,” Tilda said. “And pleased. This investigation will speed up a little, I believe, with you here full time.”

Whilst Hadrian loved to see her enthusiasm, one thing he never wished was for his time with Tilda to be short.

L ater that morning, Tilda and Hadrian took an omnibus to Fleet Street, where they found Ezra Clement at his favorite coffee house.

He’d been eager to help with their investigation, particularly when it meant he could report on a fraud and a murder.

He’d understood they were working under different identities and that, if their paths should cross, he was to pretend he didn’t know them.

They would certainly encounter one another that afternoon, since he planned to attend the inquest at the Swan and Hoop.

After fetching the basket of food from White Alley, Tilda and Hadrian had made their way to Mrs. Cardy’s house at the end of Nuns Court.

The tenement was terribly shabby, and Tilda felt even worse about the fact that Mrs. Cardy’s husband had given money to the Amicable Society and not received a benefit when he died.

As they approached the door, Hadrian briefly touched Tilda’s arm, and they paused. She pivoted to face him.

“Inspector Chisholm said Mrs. Cardy is small and slight,” Hadrian said. “He doesn’t think she has the strength to have killed Phelps, given the blow to his head.”

Tilda didn’t like to make assumptions. “Perhaps, but one should never underestimate another’s anger, particularly when that person’s family’s livelihood is at stake.”

“You make a valid point.” Hadrian inclined his head toward the tenement, and they continued to the door.

He carried the basket containing items his cook had sent. Tilda had been surprised to see it also included beeswax candles. Hadrian insisted on giving all of them to Mrs. Cardy, for which Mrs. Kilgore had thanked him profusely.

Tilda glanced at Hadrian. “You knock.” She eyed his fake blond hair and long side whiskers. He just didn’t look like the Hadrian she knew, and she didn’t particularly care for it.

Hadrian knocked. After a few moments, there came the sound of running feet, and the door opened.

A young girl, whom Tilda took to be the nine-year-old Chisholm had mentioned, blinked at them. Her dark brown hair hung to her shoulders. The locks needed a good washing.

Tilda gave her a warm smile. “Good morning. You must be Miss Cardy. I am Mrs. Harwood, and this is my brother, Mr. Beck. We wish to convey our condolences about your father, and we brought something for your family. May we come in and speak with your mother?”

Normally, Tilda would not call on a widow, but customs were different amongst the working classes. They could not afford to sequester themselves and adhere to strict mourning rituals. There was work to be done and mouths to feed.

The girl’s round, dark eyes fixed on the basket in Hadrian’s hand. She backed up slightly and pulled the door open wider.

Tilda stepped into the room, which seemed to be both a parlor and a bedroom. Two younger girls sat cross-legged on a pallet and played with what looked to be dolls made of clothespins. Tilda gave them a warm smile, and the smaller of the two smiled back.

“I’ll fetch Mama,” the girl who answered the door said. She moved through a doorway into another room.

Tilda glanced at Hadrian, but his features were nonreactive. He maintained a pleasant expression.

The girl returned with her mother, who was only a few inches taller.

She had the same dark hair and round brown eyes as her daughter, but her face was thinner and her chin square.

She wiped her hands on her apron. It was white, though somewhat dingy, but the rest of her clothing was black and ill-fitting. Tilda wondered if it had been borrowed.

“Good morning, Mrs. Cardy,” Tilda said. “We were sorry to hear of your family’s loss and have brought you some things to help in this sad time.”

Mrs. Cardy regarded them with caution. “’Oo are ye?”

“I’m Mrs. Harwood,” Tilda said. “And this is my brother, Mr. Beck. He and my husband are members of the Amicable Society.”

Mrs. Cardy’s eyes narrowed, and her nostrils flared. “We don’t speak o’ them in this ’ouse.”

“I do understand,” Tilda said quickly. “I don’t mean to cause any upset. We do not support what happened to your husband and your family. The society should not have taken his money if he wasn’t eligible.”

“That’s right,” Mrs. Cardy said sternly. “But Gil insisted they didn’t care if ’e was ill. The man what recruited him said the purpose of the society was to ’elp people. ’E saw Gil was poorly and said the Society could ’elp ’im and us—’is family. We thought it was a boon.”

Sadness lined Mrs. Cardy’s thin features, and Tilda tamped down her anger at the injustice of this poor woman’s situation. “The man who sold him the membership was Mr. Eaton?” Tilda asked.

Mrs. Cardy nodded. “Friendly fellow. Called ’ere one Sunday.

We liked ’im very much, which makes what ’appened even worse.

After Gil died, I asked the doctor what signed the death notice why they took my ’usband’s money and told ’im I could ’ave the death benefit if Gil could just last six months.

’E wouldn’t answer. Said it was Eaton’s fault.

” Her dark gaze filled with anguish. “Do ye know ’ow ’ard Gil tried to stay alive?

’E died six months and one day after paying ’is entrance fee. ”

Tilda hadn’t known that. Somehow, it made the situation even sadder. “I’m truly sorry.”

Hadrian held the basket toward Mrs. Cardy. “We have some things for you.”

Mrs. Cardy reached for the handle, and Hadrian deftly moved his hand so that he touched her.

Then he acted as if he lost his grip and brought his other hand to clasp the handle so that it also touched her hand.

This allowed him to prolong their connection.

Tilda hoped he was seeing one—or more—of her memories and knew that was his intent.

“My apologies, the basket’s a bit heavy,” Hadrian said. “Shall I set it down for you?”

Taking her hand from the basket, she pivoted toward the doorway from which she’d come. “Yes, in ’ere.”

She led them into the back room that appeared to be a kitchen, dining room, and also a bedchamber.

It contained a rickety table cluttered with garments in various states of assembly or repair, and there was a cradle near the hearth where a babe was sleeping.

Mrs. Cardy’s fifth child, a small boy who was barely more than a babe himself, sat at the table, gnawing on what looked to be a piece of cloth.