Page 48 of A Whisper in the Shadows (Raven & Wren #4)

H adrian enjoyed these days when they were in the thick of an investigation. He especially loved watching Tilda in her element. She’d managed things very well at the police station. Chisholm had no idea that she’d out-investigated him. At least in Hadrian’s opinion.

They arrived at Evans Court, and Tilda paused, touching Hadrian’s sleeve so that he stopped with her. He pivoted to face her. “What is it?”

“For the purposes of this inquiry, I will be Miss Wren, but as when we called on Mrs. Vickers, you should not be the Earl of Ravenhurst.”

He nodded. “I understand. As it happens, I am also Hadrian Becket.” He smiled at her.

Her mouth quirked up. “I’ve watched how you’ve become more of him than the earl these past several days.

Has it been difficult? You made it look rather easy.

I know the lodgings are not what you’re accustomed to, and the wardrobe probably isn’t either.

” Her gaze flicked to his simple, dark garments.

“It has been different, and I’ve learned a great deal.” Hadrian imagined he would reflect on the period he’d lived here in the Coleman Street Ward for some time.

“But do you miss your home and its comforts?” she asked.

“No more than you, I imagine. I know you miss your bed,” he said with a chuckle.

“True,” she said with a rueful smile. “I’m going to tell Mr. Oldham we’re looking for a missing man. I’d rather not mention Timothy Eaton unless it becomes necessary. I want to hear what he knows before we give him too much information.”

Hadrian nodded and they continued into the alley. They found Mr. Oldham’s lodging, a narrow, rather ramshackle house at the end of a terrace. Hadrian knocked on the door.

A woman slightly older than Hadrian answered. Her light brown hair was scraped atop her head beneath a cap, whilst a few strands flowed loose. She eyed Hadrian and Tilda with a bit of suspicion.

Tilda smiled. “Good morning. I’m an investigator looking into the disappearance of a man from the Coleman Street Ward. My name is Miss Wren, and this is my associate, Mr. Becket. Can we trouble your husband for a few minutes of his time? We understand he is the night soil man for this area.”

The woman’s features relaxed somewhat, though there was still a touch of wariness in her gaze. “I’ll ask ’im if ’e wants to speak with ye.” She did not invite them in and closed the door in their faces.

“I suppose we wait,” Hadrian said wryly. “Should I have offered money?”

“Let’s see what happens. But yes, we may need to do that.” She looked over at him. “You don’t mind?”

“Not at all.”

They waited a few minutes, and Hadrian began to worry that their errand would be for naught. But then the door opened, and a man with dark, receding hair and a razor-sharp nose regarded them cautiously. “I’m Oldham. Who’re ye looking for?”

“A man called Thomas Edgars,” Tilda said with ease. “Specifically, we’d like to speak with you about last Saturday night, when he went missing. We understand you might have loaned your night soil cart to someone.”

Oldham’s eyes narrowed. “I do that sometimes—when I want a night off. I don’t know anybody named Thomas Edgars.”

“Who borrowed your cart last Saturday?” Tilda asked.

“Neither of ’em were Thomas. I can’t ’elp you.” Oldham started to close the door, but Hadrian put his hand on the wood to stop him.

“We understand this is an inconvenience. Perhaps I can make it worth your time.” Hadrian reached into his pocket and pulled out a few coins, which he offered to the man.

Oldham hesitated the barest moment before taking the money and tucking it into his pocket. “A couple o’ fellows asked to borrow me cart. They came ’ere asking just as I was getting ready to leave. Promised they’d ’ave it back within an ’our—but they were late.”

“Do you know their names?” Tilda asked.

“I’ve seen ’em about, but I don’t know ’em personally.”

“Could you describe them?” Hadrian prompted.

“One of ’em ’ad long, dark side whiskers. I remember, ’is eyes were small and shifty. ’E was on the ’eavier side. Smelled like booze. Other one ’ad gray hair and a round nose. ’E kept to the background and the drunk did the talking.”

“Was he actually drunk?” Tilda asked.

Oldham shrugged. “Could’ve been.”

“So this wasn’t really an instance of you wanting to take the night off,” Tilda said. “These two approached you to borrow your cart. Do you know why?”

Oldham blew out a breath. “I don’t ask. It ’appens from time to time, usually during the day though. People want to use me cart to move something. They paid me a decent sum, so I didn’t care.”

Tilda gave him a pleasant nod. “May we see your cart?”

The man looked to Hadrian, but didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to, because Hadrian knew he wanted more money.

Withdrawing another few coins, Hadrian pressed them into the man’s hand, which had shot out the moment Hadrian reached into his coat pocket. “Where’s your cart?”

Oldham took them around the end of the terrace to a small yard with a privy and the night soil cart. Though the cart was empty, the stench of offal was pungent. Hadrian resisted the urge to reach for his handkerchief to cover his nose. He glanced at Tilda and saw her nose wrinkle.

They moved close to the cart, and Tilda peered inside. It was empty, but there was soil embedded in the corners. She reached inside and plucked a piece of fabric a few inches in size from a splinter of the wood.

She held it between her gloved fingers and lifted it to peruse it more closely. It appeared to be broadcloth and was dark blue with a very subtle and simple plaid pattern. She turned it about. There was a white mark on the other side, like chalk.

“This seems as though it’s from a piece of clothing,” she observed. She looked to Oldham. “I imagine you pick up any number of things in your nightly collection.”

“I do,” Oldham said with a nod. He scrutinized the fabric a moment. “That was from the night those blokes borrowed the cart.”

“How do you know?” Tilda asked.

Oldham looked at Hadrian again expectantly.

Hadrian handed the man a few more coins.

“When the blokes brought the cart back, there was a large piece of that fabric—enough to spread over the cart a few times over.” Oldham made a face. “But it was soaked with pig’s blood, and they asked me to burn it. Paid me extra.”

Hadrian exchanged an excited look with Tilda.

“Did they dispose of a pig?” Tilda asked.

“Assume so.” Oldham shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”

Tilda handed the scrap of fabric to Hadrian, who’d removed his glove.

Right away, he was inside Nevill’s shop.

He saw the fabric spread out over a table with a pattern marked out in chalk.

Nevill—Hadrian assumed it was his memory he was seeing—swept it up and walked to the front part of the shop.

Phelps stood there, waiting with a small lantern in his hand. It was night.

Blinking, Hadrian met Tilda’s gaze and nodded. He didn’t want to give the scrap back to her yet in case he might see something else.

Tilda looked to the night soil man. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Oldham.” She turned and started toward the street.

Hadrian joined her and focused on the fabric in his hand as they walked. He tried to think of what the fabric had been used for.

There! He was back in Phelps’s house. Nevill and Phelps lifted Eaton onto the fabric, which had been laid out over the floor of the parlor. Then they rolled him inside it.

“Hadrian!” Tilda gripped his arm, startling him from the vision.

He realized he was falling. She tried to keep him upright, but gravity would not be denied. He managed to put his arms in front of himself to break his fall and landed on his knees.

“Are you all right?” Tilda’s tone was fraught with concern as she crouched beside him.

“I’m fine. I don’t know what happened. One moment, I was in Phelps’s parlor, and the next I was pitching forward.” He took a breath to try to slow his pulse and pushed himself up.

Tilda clasped his arm and helped him as best she could. “I know what happened. You were seeing a vision and trying to walk at the same time. I’m not sure you’ve ever done that before. I would advise you not to try it again.”

He saw that she was frowning at him. No, not frowning, just regarding him with grave concern.

“I’m fine, but your counsel is well received.

You’re right—I haven’t ever done that before.

I’m not sure why I did. Honestly, I didn’t think about it.

I had the fabric, and I focused on trying to see what Nevill did with it. ”

Realizing he no longer had the fabric piece in his hand, he glanced at the cobblestones and saw that he’d dropped it. Tilda bent and retrieved the swatch. “I’ll keep this for now.” She tucked it into her pocket.

“You sure you want to put something that has spent a week in a night soil cart in your pocket?” Hadrian asked wryly.

She lifted a shoulder. “What choice is there? Are you ready to continue walking?”

“Yes, though my head is throbbing.” He winced as he touched his temple.

The furrows in Tilda’s forehead deepened. “No more visions today.”

“We’ll see what happens.” Hadrian wasn’t going to promise anything, especially not when they were so close to solving at least Eaton’s murder. They continued on their way from the alley. “I saw Nevill in Phelps’s parlor. They lifted Eaton onto the fabric and rolled him up.”

“Did you see them put the body into the cart?” Tilda asked.

Hadrian shook his head and immediately regretted it as the pain sharpened. “No, I lost the vision along with my balance. I could try again.”

“We don’t need you to,” Tilda said firmly. “We’ll learn the rest from Nevill. Could you tell how he was feeling?”

“In the first vision at the shop, he was extremely agitated and upset and angry at Phelps. At Phelps’s house, he was disgusted, almost sick.”