Page 22 of A Whisper in the Shadows (Raven & Wren #4)

H adrian saw Tilda’s nostrils flare at the news of Eaton’s body being discovered, just as he felt his own jolt of surprise.

“You’re only ‘fairly certain?’” Tilda asked.

“The body is not in the best condition,” Chisholm said with a grimace. “The coroner estimates he’s been dead a few days. He did not drown, however. He was stabbed several times.”

Tilda’s brows arched briefly. “Stabbing is convenient, otherwise the gases in his body may have built up too much and then, well, he might have been unidentifiable. Why do you think it’s Eaton?”

“Blond hair and mustache, as well as a cleft chin, but his face is distorted and…damaged.” Chisholm’s features briefly flashed with disgust. “I won’t go into details. He’s missing the end of the little finger of his left hand, which apparently Eaton was as well.”

Hadrian met Tilda’s gaze. Silent communication passed between them: this was most certainly Eaton. “Since he was stabbed, this is another murder,” Tilda said.

Chisholm nodded. “Still, there’s to be an inquest. The coroner examined the remains earlier this morning, but he had to shift his attention to Phelps, since that inquest is this afternoon.

In fact, I must be on my way. I came in through the back and will depart the same way.

I didn’t think it wise to call at the front door a second time.

” He left the parlor, heading toward the back of the house and the stairs to the kitchen.

“This is a shocking development,” Hadrian said.

“Indeed,” Tilda agreed. “We should leave for the inquest so we can hopefully catch Maxwell before it starts and inform him of Eaton’s death. I think we both know the man they found near the river is Eaton.”

Hadrian nodded as he went to the door and held it open for Tilda. “Do you think whoever killed Phelps also killed Eaton?”

“If they were working together to defraud the society, it’s probable,” Tilda said. “But we don’t know Phelps’s role, nor are we even entirely sure of Eaton’s. I’m curious to see who attends the inquest today and what information we may learn.”

“I do hope to speak with Nevill and Furnier about the canvasser position after the inquest. I will try to gather more information about how the society operated, particularly with regard to Eaton’s recruitment process and those membership certificates that weren’t given to me or Maxwell.”

Tilda pursed her lips. “I would love to join you, but they may not wish to speak about society details with a non-member present. Perhaps Maxwell should accompany you when you approach them.”

Hadrian bristled. “Why? Am I not capable of questioning them on my own?”

Tilda’s eyes flashed with surprise. “Of course. I was just thinking that Maxwell’s presence might be reason enough for me to come too.”

“It would be preferable—or easier, at least—if you were pretending to be my wife,” Hadrian said.

A pulse of excitement ran through him. The sensation was akin to joy or pleasure.

The thought of Tilda as his wife, of spending every day with her, investigation or not, was shockingly appealing.

Pretending, he supposed, would be the next best thing.

He slid her a glance, wondering at her reaction to what he’d said.

Her features didn’t reveal anything beyond an expression of contemplation. And perhaps mild irritation.

Well, damn. He didn’t care for that.

“I’m not sure it matters whose wife I’m pretending to be,” she said. “I dislike not being an investigator—outwardly, I mean.”

Perhaps that explained her annoyance, and it wasn’t due to what he’d said. He would hope so.

They arrived at the Swan and Hoop a few minutes later and walked into the common room. Inspector Chisholm stood near the doors to the room where Hadrian had attended the Amicable Society meeting.

Before Hadrian and Tilda could make their way in that direction, Mrs. Burley blocked their path. “I’m so pleased to see another wife here today,” she said to Tilda. “But where is Mr. Harwood?”

“He should be here shortly,” Tilda replied.

“Mr. Burley was also given leave from his employer to attend.” Mrs. Burley inclined her head to a man standing in the corner sipping an ale. He did not look in their direction. Indeed, he seemed quite intent on his beer.

“What do you think will happen with the Amicable Society?” Mrs. Burley asked, her gaze moving from Tilda to Hadrian.

“Why should something happen to it?” Tilda asked. “Mr. Nevill and Mr. Furnier are capable of managing it, aren’t they?”

“I suppose, but Phelps’s murder is a scandal.

” Mrs. Burley spoke rather breathlessly.

“Between that and the admitting of members who are ill and perhaps misrepresenting when they are eligible for benefits, it may be best if the society folded. And refunded everyone’s money, of course.

They need to call a meeting as soon as possible.

No one wants to wait until Monday to discuss these matters.

” She looked at Hadrian expectantly. “Don’t you agree? ”

“I do think a meeting should be called.” Hadrian wasn’t going to agree with anything else she said.

“We should go in and sit before there are no seats remaining,” Tilda said to Hadrian. “We need to save one for Mr. Harwood.”

“Certainly.” Hadrian looked toward Mrs. Burley. “We’ll see you later.”

Mrs. Burley nodded. “I need to fetch Mr. Burley. We must obtain seats as well.”

The room was crowded with chairs in addition to the table on which Phelps’s body lay covered with a cloth. A man of small stature with gray hair stood at the head of the table speaking with a sergeant.

Hadrian leaned toward Tilda again. “That’s the coroner from the inquest we attended here in the City a few months ago. Do you suppose that’s Sergeant Kilgore with him?” he asked quietly.

“Perhaps,” Tilda murmured.

A group of men who had to be the jury gathered on the other side of the table away from the door. There were chairs set out for them, and some sat, whilst others stood.

She led Hadrian to the end of the table opposite the coroner and sergeant. There were a few rows of chairs for spectators, and she moved to the end of the first one to sit. She left the chair on the end vacant, presumably for Maxwell. Hadrian sat on her left.

“There’s Clement,” Tilda said softly.

Ezra Clement, garbed in bright orange and purple trousers—Hadrian had concluded that loud pants were the reporter’s signature—entered.

He looked over the assembly, his gaze moving past Hadrian and Tilda without recognition.

Rather than take a seat, he assumed a position in the corner. He pulled his notebook from his pocket.

Nevill entered next. Chisholm came in right behind him and motioned for him to sit in a row of chairs against the wall.

Over the course of the next few minutes, several other people joined him in those chairs, including Mr. Furnier, Dr. Giles, a man Hadrian didn’t recognize, and Mr. and Mrs. Burley.

A well-dressed woman swept in, a short, somewhat opaque veil partially covering her face. When she turned her head to survey the room, Hadrian could see enough of her features to assess her to be around sixty or so. She wore dove-gray, perhaps indicating she was a widow.

“I wonder who that is,” he whispered to Tilda. “She doesn’t look as though she belongs here.” Her clothing and stature were not working class.

“I’ve no idea, and you’re right.”

Chisholm also guided the mystery woman to sit along the wall.

“I’ve been thinking those people are the witnesses who will be questioned today,” Tilda said. “This inquest will be quite intriguing.”

Another man entered and loitered in the doorway. He removed his hat to reveal brown wavy hair. And he wore glasses.

“I wonder if that’s Rippon,” Tilda whispered to Hadrian.

“Eaton’s friend from the Prudential Assurance Company?” Hadrian glanced at her. “Seems a logical assumption.”

Chisholm greeted the man—perhaps Rippon—and directed him to sit in the witness chairs. He then ushered a woman wearing black from head to toe, including a thick veil, to the same area. Despite her face being covered, Hadrian recognized her to be Mrs. Cardy.

The coroner inclined his head toward Chisholm, who moved toward the door.

Just when Hadrian thought Maxwell would be shut out of the inquest, the inspector slipped into the room, along with Draper and a few other men, who were likely the society members from the mercantile house.

The inspector glanced about, and as soon as his gaze settled on Hadrian and Tilda, he made his way toward them. The other men sat elsewhere.

Chisholm closed the door, and the coroner addressed the room. They would have to inform Maxwell about Eaton later.

The coroner wore a sober expression, his gaze dark and assessing.

“I am the coroner, Abraham Thetford.” He glanced toward a clerk seated behind a small table in the corner at that end of the room.

“We’re here to conduct an inquest into the death of Mr. Walter Phelps, who died mysteriously.

If you are not here for that purpose, you may wish to leave.

If you are upset by discussions of death and do not care to see the body of a dead man, I invite you to depart. ”

Thetford paused as he scanned the room once more, but no one left. He took a deep breath, then looked to his left, where the jury was now seated in the row of chairs. “I thank you, gentlemen, for your service today.”

The coroner then explained when and how Phelps had died.

“The murder weapon has not been found, but Mr. Phelps was killed by a blow to his head from a heavy object that cracked his skull. In reviewing items present in the house, the police found a single brass candlestick, the size and shape of which indicate it could have been used to kill Phelps. However, if it was indeed used in the murder, it has been cleaned meticulously. We have a great many witnesses to speak with today. We will begin with Inspector Chisholm, who has been assigned the oversight of this case.”