Page 33 of A Whisper in the Shadows (Raven & Wren #4)

T ilda windmilled her arms as she sought to grab something to save herself from falling. But there was nothing, save the air around her, as she fell backward down the staircase.

She’d seen movement below her on the stairs, just before the woman had pushed her. She could only hope it was one of the inspectors.

Suddenly, a solid form clasped her, stopping her fall, and making her grunt softly at the contact. Her breath came in ragged pants as her heart hammered. The arms around her were strong and safe.

“I’ve got you,” Maxwell said, holding her close. “Are you all right?”

She managed to nod but couldn’t quite form words yet. Looking toward the top of the stairs, she saw Hadrian grasping the woman, holding her by both arms. He appeared furious, his face red and his lip curled so that his teeth were partially bared.

“I’m fine,” Tilda managed. “She pushed me.”

“I saw,” Maxwell replied.

Chisholm pushed past them and climbed to the top of the stairs. He set the lantern he carried on the newel.

Tilda turned her head and met Maxwell's concerned gaze. “Truly, I’m fine. We caught her looking for something under Phelps’s bed. She said she was his new housekeeper.”

Both of those things had to be a lie. Tilda was eager to learn what Hadrian had seen when he’d touched the woman. There was no doubt he’d had a vision, for his gaze had taken on that odd look he had when he was transported into someone’s memory.

“You can let me go now,” she said to Maxwell.

He loosened his grip, but he made sure she was standing steady on the stair above him before he released her. “You’re sure you’re all right?”

She nodded. “Thank you. I’m very glad you were there to catch me.”

“I am too,” he said with warm sincerity, his eyes dark with concern.

Chisholm took custody of the woman, whilst Hadrian bent to retrieve what she’d dropped.

Tilda had heard it hit the floor. “What is it?” she asked as she ascended the stairs. Maxwell followed her.

“A pouch.” Hadrian opened it and peered inside. “Full of money.” He handed it to Maxwell.

Tilda was certain the woman had found it under the bed. At the top of the stairs, Tilda turned to the right and returned to the bedchamber. Hadrian followed close behind her.

When Tilda had entered before, she’d been focused on the woman. She now noticed the room was disheveled—the dresser drawers were pulled out and clothing was strewn on the floor.

Kneeling where the woman had been next to the bed, Tilda ran her hands over the floor. “This board isn’t level with the rest.”

Hadrian knelt beside her and managed to pull the board up. He set it aside and Tilda looked into the space below. “I see something.” She reached in and pulled out a stack of letters.

Tilda perused the first letter. “It’s to someone named Philip Walters, and it’s signed, ‘with love, your Ida.’ She asks him about London and how things are going with the society. She says she misses him and hopes to see him soon.”

“There’s something else beneath the floorboards.” Hadrian reached into the space and pulled out a metal box. “This is the box I saw in Phelps’s memory,” he whispered.

“You’re certain?” Tilda asked in a barely audible tone.

Hadrian nodded as he opened the box. He removed a photograph of a man and a woman. The. man was Phelps—but a younger version of him—and she was a more youthful likeness of the woman who’d pushed Tilda down the stairs. Hadrian turned it over. “Philip and Ida Walters 1857” was etched on the back.

“Walter Phelps,” Tilda said softly, turning her head to meet Hadrian’s gaze. “That’s an alias. Is there anything else in the box?”

Hadrian looked. “No. And nothing else under the floorboards.”

She started to stand, but Hadrian leapt up and helped her.

“Are you all right?” he whispered, holding her hand a trifle longer than was necessary.

“I am.” She gave him a brief smile. “Thank you.”

He released her, and she turned her attention to Mrs. Walters. She and Chisholm, as well as Maxwell, had followed them into the room whilst Tilda and Hadrian investigated the hiding place under the floor.

Tilda fixed her gaze on Mrs. Walters. “Walter Phelps, or should I say Philip Walters, was your husband?”

The woman pressed her lips together and looked away, focusing her gaze on the hearth. Her features were blank, her jaw clenched.

Tilda stepped toward her. “Did you know that your husband is dead?”

Mrs. Walters darted her gaze back to Tilda, her eyes widening. Then she pressed her hand to her mouth. “I did not.”

Tilda didn’t believe her. Her reaction seemed artificial.

“Did you find the money in the box under the floorboards?” Maxwell asked.

“It’s my money.” Mrs. Walters shot a glance toward the pouch in Maxwell’s hand.

“Please answer the question,” Maxwell said sharply. “Did you take that money from the box?”

“Yes, my husband put it there. For me .”

“How did you know he’d done that?” Chisholm asked.

Mrs. Walters hesitated. She appeared quite vexed; her sable brows were drawn into a V over her amber eyes. “We have always kept our savings under a floorboard beneath our bed.”

Tilda wasn’t sure she believed the woman—not when the bedchamber looked as though it had been searched and also since she’d already been dishonest. “Why did you lie about being his housekeeper?” When the woman did not reply, Tilda continued.

“Why did your husband tell everyone that his wife was dead?”

Her lack of immediate reaction revealed that she was not surprised to hear this.

“You can answer these questions here or at the police station,” Chisholm said darkly. “But you will answer them.”

Mrs. Walters’s brow creased, but only briefly. She glowered defiantly at Chisholm. The inspector glared back at her.

Though the woman hadn’t answered the questions, Tilda offered more—in large part to gauge her reaction. “When did you arrive in London? Did you come from Reading?”

Mrs. Walters’s nostrils flared, and Tilda could see the woman’s heart was beating furiously and her breath was coming fast. She was trying very hard to remain calm, but she was overexcited, perhaps nervous or even scared.

Maxwell moved closer to Mrs. Walters and gave her a stern stare. “You should know there is a woman who lives across the street who sees everything. She’ll know when you’ve been here, even if you came in the back.”

Tilda wasn’t sure that was true, but she appreciated Maxwell’s bluff.

“Philip stopped writing to me,” Mrs. Walters said. “I came to find out why, but now I hear he is dead.”

Though Mrs. Walters gave this reasoning, Tilda still didn’t believe she wasn’t aware that her husband was dead. If she was, she certainly wasn’t overly upset about his demise.

“Surely, you must have realized something was amiss when you arrived here this evening?” Tilda noted. “Weren’t you expecting your husband to be at home?”

Mrs. Walters pursed her lips. “I assumed he was out.”

Tilda gave her a pointed look. “Yet, instead of waiting for him, you searched this room.”

“It appears as if she did the same downstairs,” Maxwell said. “I don’t think she knew where the money was hidden. But why lie about that?”

“It’s my money!” Mrs. Walters repeated.

Tilda realized Mrs. Walters had left the letters and the photograph under the floorboards.

Apparently, she didn’t care as much about those as she did the money.

Perhaps she would have taken them, but then heard Tilda and Hadrian approaching and decided to replace the floorboard before she was caught.

“I’m going to take Mrs. Walters to the station,” Chisholm announced. “She may be more inclined to tell the truth when she’s locked in a cell. Or perhaps charged with murder.”

Mrs. Walters gasped and tried to pull her arm from Chisholm’s grip. “I did not murder my husband!”

“Whoever said I was speaking of your husband’s murder?” Chisholm said shrewdly. He turned to Maxwell. “Will you alert the constable out front that we have Mrs. Walters and need to transport her to Old Jewry?”

Maxwell turned and disappeared downstairs.

Chisholm looked to Tilda and then Hadrian. “I’ll need those letters and the photograph.”

“Of course,” Tilda replied. “I would like to review the letters for any pertinence to the fraud perpetrated by the Amicable Society.” Given the money found beneath the floor, Tilda strongly suspected Phelps had been involved in the swindle they now knew Eaton had conducted.

“I’ll let you know if we find any,” Chisholm said in a tone that brooked no argument.

Tilda reluctantly offered the letters to him.

“Hold onto them until we are downstairs and I can turn custody of Mrs. Walters over to the constable.” He looked sideways at Mrs. Walters.

“Let’s go.” He propelled her toward the doorway and the stairs.

Tilda sifted through the letters she held. “There’s only about a half dozen here.”

“Are you going to quickly scan them on the way downstairs?” Hadrian asked with a half-smile.

“I will try,” she replied.

“We’ll descend slowly,” he added with a wink before plucking up the lantern that had been next to Mrs. Walters on the floor.

They started toward the stairs, and Tilda did her best to skim the letters with Hadrian holding the lantern for her. She stopped halfway down, her eyes fixing on a line in one of the letters:

I am relieved this will be the last one and look forward to our new life in Cornwall.

“ H adrian ,” Tilda whispered urgently. “Listen to this.” She read him the line and met his gaze as his eyes rounded.

“What does that mean?”

“I can only guess, but if Mrs. Walters is anticipating a new life and feeling relief over a ‘last one,’ I’m inclined to believe this entire friendly society is a fraud perpetrated by Phelps.” Tilda returned her attention to the letter. “There’s more.” She read the next few lines.

I need to leave Reading soon. Someone from Maidstone is poking around. Can I come to you, please? Yours, Ida.

“ W hat happened in Maidstone?” Hadrian asked.