Page 32 of A Whisper in the Shadows (Raven & Wren #4)

“I suppose we can consider that,” Mr. Nevill said. “I’ll speak with Furnier tonight about all this.” He fixed his gaze on Hadrian. “You’re sure you’re up to the task of reassuring the members, ferreting out the sick, and recruiting new ones?”

“I am,” Hadrian assured him.

Nevill nodded. “You must excuse me, as I’ve clients to attend. After I’ve had a chance to speak with Furnier, I’ll send a message to you, probably in the morning. But I do think you can expect to be our new canvasser.”

“Thank you, Mr. Nevill. I’m very much looking forward to our association.”

Hadrian held out his hand and Nevill shook it. Tilda knew that Hadrian must be seeing a vision and was eager to hear the details.

They left the shop and walked down Moorgate toward White Alley. “Did you see something when you shook his hand?” Tilda asked.

“It was the same vision I saw when I touched the diary on Phelps’s desk. I know now that the memory I saw was Nevill’s.” He glanced toward Tilda. “That is the helpful thing about seeing a vision when touching someone versus an object. I know definitively whose memory I’m seeing.”

“Did you learn anything new?”

“It’s clear to me that Nevill was angry with Phelps.

I felt Nevill’s frustration and ire during the memory.

” He looked over at Tilda as they turned into White Alley.

“I think the cause has something to do with that ledger I saw when I touched Phelps’s desk.

We need to find it. Hopefully, it will help us determine which members require refunds. ”

Tilda smiled. “I suspect you might want to do this canvassing job, in large part, to ensure everyone who was defrauded is restored.”

“I can’t say I trust the current society administration to ensure that happens. They seem…less than committed to that than we are.”

“I agree.” Tilda couldn’t help feeling a surge of warmth toward Hadrian. “The irony is that you are precisely the sort of privileged gentleman Nevill seemed to disdain. And yet, here you have a keener sense of doing what’s right instead of what is profitable or easy.”

“Which is why no one should make assumptions.” Hadrian slid her another glance. “Someone very clever told me that.”

Tilda laughed. As they reached Number Five, Hadrian stopped and faced her, prompting her to pivot toward him expectantly.

“Do you feel a great difference in our positions?” Hadrian asked. “I realize we come from different social and economic backgrounds, but overall, I feel a connection with you that transcends both those things.”

Hesitating, Tilda wasn’t quite sure how to respond. She did feel the differences between them, just as she accepted them. “We are very different in some ways and similar in others. I think that is what makes us such a good investigative team.”

“You have more in common with Maxwell,” Hadrian noted. “Does that make you and him a better team?”

Tilda knew Hadrian was jealous of her working with Maxwell. But he’d started this conversation by asking her about their differences. Was there more to Hadrian’s feelings than he was saying?

Of course not, she told herself. Hadrian liked working with her as much as she did with him.

Today was an excellent example of why their partnership was so beneficial—and satisfying.

“It’s difficult to think of a better team than you and me,” she said with a smile.

“Especially after all we accomplished today.”

He chuckled. “You’re right. I’m off to meet Leach.

” He continued down White Alley toward Coleman Street, and Tilda watched him walk away.

She wondered how she would feel if Hadrian solved crimes with someone else.

The image of him working with another woman made her instantly irritated.

It also prompted her to ask herself an important question.

Would she feel the same if he were conducting investigations with a man?

A fter returning from his meeting with Leach, Hadrian learned they were confirmed to visit Phelps’s house that evening—under Chisholm’s supervision.

He would be careful to conduct his scrutiny without drawing the inspector’s attention.

After what Tilda had noticed during Hadrian’s vision at Mrs. Atkins’s house, he would be on his guard.

After a quick dinner, Hadrian, Tilda, and Maxwell made their way to Phelps’s house. Maxwell led the way into the narrow alley that led to the back of the dwelling, where there was a small yard with a privy. Tilda and Hadrian followed behind.

They’d already updated Maxwell on everything they’d learned from Mrs. Atkins and from their visit to Nevill at his shop.

Maxwell was pleased to hear that Mrs. Atkins was in favor of him becoming a society administrator, and he hoped that Nevill would be able to convince Furnier to accept him, as well as hire Hadrian.

Maxwell had shared that his resignation from the mercantile house had been met with distress. They’d asked him to continue working a few more days whilst they searched for a replacement. He’d consented to working the remainder of the week—Friday and Saturday.

Chisholm was waiting for them at the back door to Phelps’s house with a lantern in his hand. “Evening. Where would you like to begin your search?” His tone was derisive.

“Do you find this to be a waste of time?” Maxwell asked, voicing what Hadrian was thinking.

“Yes. But Sergeant Kilgore insisted you be allowed to search the house— and that I supervise.”

“I suggest we start in the parlor, as that is where Phelps’s desk is located. Anything to do with the Amicable Society is likely in there.” He gave Maxwell a pointed look. “We searched it thoroughly .”

“I deeply appreciate you satisfying my curiosity to investigate Phelps’s house for myself,” Maxwell said. “I’m sure you understand how important it is for me to conduct a thorough inquiry as my position requires.”

Chisholm exhaled. “I suppose I do.” He went into the house and started through the scullery, moving through the kitchen before continuing upstairs to the ground floor. Maxwell trailed directly behind him, and Tilda and Hadrian brought up the rear.

Tilda stopped short on the landing and glanced back at Hadrian. “Did you hear something upstairs?”

They stood silent for a moment. Hadrian detected a slight scraping sound. “I think so.”

“Let’s have a look.” She moved to the stairs leading up to the first floor. Placing a foot on the first step, she turned her head back toward him. “I see light coming from upstairs,” she whispered.

Hadrian nodded in response. It occurred to him that they should alert the inspectors, but he didn’t wish to make any noise that would draw attention. So he remained silent and followed Tilda. They crept upward slowly and quietly.

At the top, Tilda paused, going completely still as she appeared to listen. There came another sound, and this time it was most definitely human—a female voice saying something not quite discernible.

The sound came from the right. Tilda pivoted toward the sound and walked through a doorway.

Hadrian was right on her heels and immediately saw the source. A woman knelt on the floor next to a bed that had been pushed out of alignment from the wall. Light glowed from a lantern on the floor on the other side of her.

She pressed on a board and turned her head to look at them, her eyes rounding slightly before she appeared to school her features into a stoic mask.

“Good evening,” Tilda said pleasantly, but Hadrian heard the urgency in her tone. “Who might you be?”

The woman’s gaze turned wary. “I am Mr. Phelps’s new housekeeper. Who are you?”

“I am Mrs. Harwood. My husband is a member of the Amicable Society.” Tilda gestured to Hadrian. “This is my brother, Mr. Beck.”

Tilda sent him a brief look, and he could tell from her expression that she did not believe the woman was a housekeeper.

Neither did Hadrian.

“Are you cleaning something down there?” Tilda asked.

Hadrian had to stifle a smile at the sardonic lilt of her tone.

The woman sniffed. “Yes, the floor under the bed was quite dusty.” She braced her hand on the bed and appeared as if she was going to rise.

Hadrian noted that her hands were empty. “Except you have no cleaning supplies.”

Before she could respond, he rushed to assist her, grabbing her hand. He was immediately rewarded with a vision.

He saw Phelps, but he was younger. The woman whose memory he saw held Phelps’s hand as they stood beside a bed.

In it was a man, perhaps in his early twenties.

His eyes were closed, his features ashen.

Hadrian had a horrible feeling the man was dead.

The woman felt sad, which could support his belief, but she was also oddly hopeful. It was most unsettling.

Hadrian looked down at the woman’s hand in the vision and saw that she wore a wedding ring. Before he could detect anything else, the vision faded as the woman released his hand.

Blinking, Hadrian looked at her left hand and saw the same wedding ring. “Where do you and your husband live? Are you residents of the Coleman Street Ward?”

“No.” The fake housekeeper glanced toward the door.

Hadrian sensed her desire to flee.

Tilda narrowed her eyes at the woman. “You should know there is a police inspector downstairs. Why don’t you tell us what you were looking for under the bed?”

The woman’s eyes rounded briefly, and she suddenly dashed around Tilda toward the door. Tilda turned and raced after her.

Hadrian followed. He saw Tilda grab the woman’s arm at the top of the stairs. Something fell from the woman and hit the floor. She tried to wrench her arm away from Tilda’s grip, then turned and pushed Tilda’s chest.

Tilda gasped. Time froze as she flailed.

Hadrian’s heart stopped, and his vision tunneled. He lunged forward, praying he could grasp her before it was too late. Except it was.

Tilda tumbled backward down the stairs.