Page 25 of A Whisper in the Shadows (Raven & Wren #4)

A faint scowl marred Jarret’s high forehead.

“I took issue with Phelps about more than just his penchant for drink. He was not from this area, and I found it strange that he’d come to this ward to start a friendly society.

” Jarret crossed his arms over his chest. “He said his grandfather was born in the ward and that he wanted to reestablish roots here.”

Thetford nodded. “Do you know where Phelps originated from?”

“Somewhere in Kent. He was always vague about it, just as he was concerning his wife. She died year before last, and that’s what prompted him to come to London.”

“Phelps does not seem to have been employed,” Thetford said. “Do you know how he came to have money?”

“He said it was from his wife’s family. Though he seemed to live modestly, he had a few nice things at his house—decent table linens and a fancy pair of brass candlesticks—and he dressed well enough.” Jarret unfolded his arms. “He had plenty of liquor too.” He made this comment with derision.

“You argued with Phelps about whether the society should be teetotal?” Thetford asked.

“We disagreed. I didn’t really argue with him,” Jarret said with a shrug. “There wouldn’t have been any point. I withdrew my involvement.”

The coroner shifted his attention to Mrs. Burley. “Ma’am, did you witness Mr. Jarret arguing with Mr. Phelps?”

“I did.” Mrs. Burley pursed her lips briefly as she glanced toward Jarret.

“That was last autumn,” Jarret interjected, his brows pitching into a V as he glared at Mrs. Burley. “And it was more of a disagreement.”

The coroner leveled a cool stare on Jarret. “I’m speaking with Mrs. Burley just now.” He returned his gaze to her. “Have you seen Mr. Jarret at Mr. Phelps’s house recently?”

Mrs. Burley nodded. “He called on Mr. Phelps on Sunday evening. He wasn’t there long, and when he left, he stalked away from the house with an angry expression.”

Thetford inclined his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Burley.” He clasped his hands behind his back as he addressed Jarret. “Why did you call on Phelps on Sunday?”

Jarret crossed his arms again. “I’d heard about Gilbert Cardy being admitted to the society whilst ill and that he’d been told he’d be eligible for benefits after six months. I went to Phelps to ask him what happened and what could be done to help the Cardys.”

“And what did Phelps say?”

“He said it was the canvasser’s fault—Eaton.

Phelps refused to take any responsibility, nor would he commit to providing any relief.

” Jarret scowled. “What sort of friendly society leaves a widow and her children unprotected? Especially if Phelps truly wished to improve the lives of the residents of Coleman Street Ward.”

Thetford nodded vaguely. “You mentioned a pair of brass candlesticks, however the inventory of the house conducted by the police show a single brass candlestick. You are sure there were two?”

“Completely,” Jarret replied with firm confidence.

The coroner exchanged a look with Chisholm, who then wrote on his notepad.

Tilda felt certain they’d just identified the murder weapon.

Thetford had said the candlestick could have caused Phelps’s wound, but that it had been thoroughly cleaned.

It made more sense that a second candlestick was used and then removed from the house.

“Thank you, Mr. Jarret.” Thetford moved on to the man wearing glasses. “Mr. Amos Rippon?”

Tilda exchanged a glance with Hadrian. Their assumption had been correct.

Rippon was perhaps a few years older than Tilda. He seemed nervous—his jaw was clenched, and his eyes kept darting about. At last, he managed to fix his gaze on the coroner. “Yes.”

“Thank you for coming today, Mr. Rippon. I hope it wasn’t too much trouble. Please tell us what you do for employment.”

“I’m—” His voice scratched, and he cleared his throat. “I’m a clerk at the Prudential Assurance Company.”

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Eaton?” Thetford asked.

“Yes. We worked together for Prudential as canvassers.”

“Were you also friends?”

Rippon hesitated and cast his gaze toward the floor. “Er, yes.”

“Why did Mr. Eaton stop working at the Prudential Assurance Company?”

Again, Rippon didn’t immediately answer. His neck reddened above the collar of his shirt. “He was sacked.”

“You know I’m going to ask why, don’t you?” Thetford regarded Rippon expectantly.

“They accused him of pocketing money he collected from people,” Rippon replied. He looked up at the coroner. “But he didn’t. Tim’s a good sort.”

“You speak of him in the present tense,” Thetford noted. “Are you not aware that Mr. Eaton was found dead on the banks of the Thames yesterday?”

Gasps filled the room, followed by whispers. “Silence, please,” the coroner called out sharply.

Rippon paled. “I didn’t know. Poor Tim.” His entire frame, along with his features, drooped with sorrow.

“Indeed.” Thetford paused briefly before continuing. “After Eaton was sacked by the assurance company, he found employment with the Amicable Society. What do you know of his work there?”

“Only that he enjoyed it. He liked helping people. No one was friendlier than Tim.” Rippon smiled sadly. “I can’t think of anyone better to recruit people for a friendly society.”

“Do you know if he was pocketing any money meant for the society?” Thetford asked.

“He wouldn’t,” Rippon said firmly, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

The coroner’s brows arched briefly. “I was merely asking a question. It’s not my job to form an opinion. Thank you for your testimony, Mr. Rippon.”

Unclasping his hands, Thetford moved to stand before the unknown woman with the half-veil.

“I appreciate you coming today, Mrs. Atkins.” He glanced toward the clerk.

“This is Mrs. Charles Atkins.” He returned his attention to the lady, who tilted her head back to look up at him.

“Will you tell everyone how you knew Mr. Phelps?”

“I met him at church one Sunday.” Mrs. Atkins spoke with a breathy rasp. “We became instant friends. He told me of his plan to start a friendly society, which I found to be a wonderful idea. I was eager to provide financial support to ensure its success.”

“Did he ask you for that support or did you offer it?”

Mrs. Atkins was silent a moment. “I don’t recall.

” She waved her gloved hand. “It doesn’t matter.

I invested in the society because I believed it would provide a much-needed service to the ward.

My husband, God rest his soul, would have wanted to partner with Mr. Phelps.

As a woman, I could not found the society with Mr. Phelps either. I gave him money instead.”

“You gave it to him?” Thetford asked with surprise. “Or you loaned it?”

“It was an investment of sorts,” Mrs. Atkins explained. “Mr. Phelps explained that I would earn a dividend, but not for a year.”

Tilda paid close attention to the reactions of the other witnesses, namely Nevill, Furnier, Giles, and Jarret. The latter seemed genuinely surprised. He turned his body toward Mrs. Atkins and regarded her with open curiosity.

“Were you aware of the accusations regarding members being admitted to the society despite being ill?” the coroner asked.

“I’d heard the rumor, but I can’t believe Mr. Phelps would have allowed such a thing to happen,” she said with a tsk. “I’m sure it was a clerical error.”

Mrs. Cardy, who sat to Mrs. Atkins’s right, turned her head and glared at the other widow.

“Did you speak with Mr. Phelps about the matter?” Thetford asked.

“Perhaps. I don’t exactly recall—we discussed a great many things.” She paused to smile briefly. “We took tea together every Thursday. Last week was the last time I saw him.”

“It seems as though you were close friends,” the coroner observed. “Do you have any ideas as to who may have killed him?”

“I would never comment on such a ghastly act. Indeed, I don’t really wish to be here today, but I’m concerned this entire situation will cast a shadow over the goodness of the Amicable Society. I earnestly believe the society should be preserved.” She added the last with a great deal of fervor.

“Thank you, Mrs. Atkins.” Thetford pivoted to address the final witness, Mrs. Cardy. “We appreciate your presence here today, Mrs. Cardy, so soon after the loss of your husband. How long had he suffered from consumption?”

“Well over a year,” Mrs. Cardy replied. “I can’t say for certain. I think one of my daughters is sick now,” she added sadly.

Tilda’s chest constricted. The poor woman had been through enough.

The coroner’s brow creased. “I’m sorry to hear that. Your husband paid an entrance fee to join the Amicable Society. Do you know how much that was?”

“’E said it was six shillings.”

“The entrance fee for his age is half that,” Furnier said. He glowered toward Mrs. Cardy. “You are mistaken, ma’am.”

“I am not mistaken,” she snapped back. “I know what my ’usband told me!”

“Do you have a receipt for that fee?” Furnier asked crisply.

Mrs. Cardy crossed her arms and squeezed herself into a smaller shape than she already was. “All my ’usband got was a certificate with ’is name on it.”

“Does the certificate include anything about the entrance fee?” Thetford asked.

Mrs. Cardy shook her head, and Thetford’s brow creased. “Can you present this membership certificate?”

Her cheeks flushed. “I burned it.”

Thetford looked toward Nevill. “I’d like to see what this membership certificate looks like.”

Nevill frowned. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. That was something Eaton provided to the members he recruited.”

“I see.” Thetford exhaled, then pressed his lips together.

“There is some discrepancy about the entrance fee charged then, and there is no documentation to determine the truth of the matter.” He returned his attention to Mrs. Cardy.

“What of the weekly dues, Mrs. Cardy? How much did Mr. Cardy pay and to whom?”

“That Eaton fellow came and collected it every Sunday—four pence,” Mrs. Cardy replied. “I took on extra sewing and even some washing to pay for it.”