Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

T ilda had watched as Ravenhurst put his hand on the bed. She'd almost spoken then, but she'd seen him flinch. Lines of pain streaked across his forehead and around his mouth. It was precisely how he'd reacted to the photograph downstairs and to Dr. Selwin the other day.

He straightened, letting his hands fall to his sides. "It's just my head aching. You were right. I should go home. I'll wait in the sitting room until my coachman arrives."

"Balderdash." She pushed away from the door frame and walked into the room. "You touched that bed and had some sort of reaction. The same thing happened when you took the photograph from me downstairs. And when you shook Dr. Selwin's hand the other day."

He blanched.

Tilda went on. "Since we met, I've had the sense you were withholding something. Your explanations for how you knew things never quite added up to the correct sum, beginning with why you arrived here the day after Sir Henry died."

Exhaling, he leaned back, almost perching on the edge of the mattress. "If I tell you the truth of the matter, you will think me mad. Hell, I think I'm mad."

"You have always struck me as a thoroughly even-tempered and intelligent gentleman. Nothing about you suggests so much as a hint of lunacy." She frowned at him. "Do not try to avoid telling me the truth, else our association will end right here, right now. I can't work with somebody who won't be honest with me. Furthermore, how can I do my best for this investigation if I don't know all the facts?"

He held up his hand, his expression weary. "All right. I haven't told a soul about this, but I will tell you. You will think I'm barking mad." His gaze sharpened. "Don't say I didn't warn you. And please do not have me committed to an asylum."

There was a desperate note to his plea that belied any sarcasm. He was actually concerned that she may doubt his sanity. Tilda moved closer to him so that they stood just a couple of feet apart. "I won't do that. I can see this is of grave concern to you. Tell me what is happening to cause pain in your head, because that I believe."

"It started after I was concussed."

"When you were attacked?"

He nodded then winced faintly and put his hand to his temple briefly. "The headaches come along with other unwelcome occurrences. I…see things. Or feel…sensations."

"What do you mean?"

"As I was recuperating, I realized I still had the ring I'd stripped from my assailant's finger as he attacked me. When I handled it, I would see things, almost as if they were memories, but they weren't mine. None of what I saw, which were just fleeing images really, made sense." He put his hands in front of him, almost as though he were trying to touch something she couldn't see. "The more I tried to understand what I was seeing in my mind, rather, the more I tried to conjure these things for longer periods of time so I could understand them, the more my head would ache. Amidst all the nonsense, I was able to recognize the monument to the Great Fire."

She had to think that would be confusing and frightening. No wonder he hadn't wanted to tell anyone. "If you knew these weren't your memories, what did you think you were seeing?"

"The only thing I could reason—and reason seems a far stretch as I truly feel as though I may be losing my mind—is that I was seeing the assailant's thoughts and memories." He still sounded as if he couldn't quite believe it. "Whatever I was seeing, was coming from the ring, which he had worn."

"So, the ring is some sort of connection between you and him?" She couldn't keep from sounding both astonished and skeptical. It was all absolutely fantastical, and yet she believed him completely. It wasn't just that his fear and worry were palpable. She trusted him. She'd continued to trust him even when she'd been certain he was hiding something. Now that she knew why, it all made sense to her. And she gave a great deal of credit to sense.

"Something like that."

"Do you have the ring with you?"

"Always." He pulled it from his pocket and held it out to her in his palm. "Do you want to see if you feel anything?"

She was afraid to touch it, which was silly. "Do you see anything now?"

He shook his head. "But I am trying not to. While I often put my mind to seeing whatever an object or person can show me, I also instruct my mind not to do those things."

"And does it work?"

"It seems more effective than trying to see things," he said with a sardonic smile. "I'm grateful for that much, at least." He tucked the ring back in his pocket.

"What did you do after you saw the monument?" Tilda found herself torn between wanting to talk to him about the ability itself and the desperate need to know where these visions had led him.

"I decided my best hope of finding anything was to go to the place I recognized—the monument. I had also seen a sign with a bell. I was lucky to happen upon the Bell, an alehouse, almost immediately."

"That is most fortunate. Do you think these visions are trying to tell you something?"

"No, because if they were, they would do so clearly and immediately instead of making me work so hard," he said with exasperation. "My apologies, I find this curse most burdensome. Where was I with my tale? The Bell. I found the alehouse and went inside. I had the ring with me, of course, but it wasn't until I touched a table that I saw something that I recognized. Rather, someone."

Tilda could hardly believe what she was hearing. The man had visions. That gave him headaches. And they'd led him to…someone. She suddenly knew. "It was Sir Henry."

"I have always known you are quite clever," he noted with a smile that flattered her more than it should have, especially just now when she ought to be seriously considering whether he actually was mad. Except that ring and those visions had led him to Sir Henry, and she was more convinced than ever that Sir Henry's death had not been caused by a heart attack.

"That led you here the day we met."

"Yes, it did. Now, you can see why I have not been completely honest with you. This…curse makes no sense." He scrubbed his hand over his eyes. "I quite detest it actually."

"But it's been helpful." She thought through what he'd said. The ring had been worn by his assailant and that had led him to the Bell, which had in turn led him to Sir Henry. "I see now why you believe Sir Henry is somehow connected to your attacker."

"Yes," he said with enthusiasm, his eyes brightening. "The visions showed me Sir Henry. My attacker knew Sir Henry. Of that, I am convinced."

He removed his hat and set it atop the mattress. Then he ran his hand through his dark hair. She'd never seen him do anything so…informal before. She felt they were moving into a new stage of their association. Friendship didn't quite describe it, at least to Tilda. But then her experience with friendship was limited. She only knew that she felt closer to him and wanted to help him.

"I want to understand this…power," she said slowly. "Touching the ring gave you visions, but so did the table?"

He nodded. "I can see things and feel sensations when I touch objects and people with my bare hands."

"People too?" Tilda recalled his reaction to Dr. Selwin. "You saw something when you shook Dr. Selwin's hand."

"I only felt sensations in that instance, but yes. Shaking his hand activated the curse."

She noticed the way he referred to this ability and could see just how much it taxed him. "This affects you greatly. I am amazed you've kept this burden to yourself for so long."

He pushed away from the mattress to stand straight. "I didn't see I had any choice. To tell someone would be to admit I am careening down a path of madness." There was a bit of levity to his tone, but she knew he had a real fear that his sanity was in question, at least to him.

"You are not mad," Tilda said. "At least, you don't appear to be. But I can see how this…ability would be terrifying."

"It is that," he said with a faint smile.

"Tell me about the sensations you felt when you shook Dr. Selwin's hand," she urged, eager to learn everything she could of what he knew.

Brows pulling together, Ravenhurst seemed to be concentrating. "I felt his agitation and fear, as well as his deception."

"That had to be unnerving." To feel fear and agitation was unsettling enough, but to feel those things and not know why would make one question their sanity. Tilda understood why he would call this a curse. "I was sure the doctor was hiding something, so I'm not surprised to hear you felt a sense of deception."

Ravenhurst looked at her in open admiration. "You seem to be good at discerning that, and without the aid of an abominable curse."

"Perhaps." She found it fascinating that he could sense people's emotions by touching them. Would he be able to do that if he touched her? She realized they had never touched bare skin to bare skin. "Goodness, how are you not bombarded with visions and sensations constantly?" A curse indeed.

"It isn't consistent. And I don't see visions or feel anything touching objects at my home or when my valet touches me as he trims my hair or helps me dress. I suppose that's because I handle those things regularly or that they are mine, meaning anything I would see or feel would be my own memories and emotions, and I already have those inside me. And with Sharp, my valet, I don't know if I feel any sensations. I haven't paid attention, and perhaps whatever I would feel would not stand apart from what I am currently feeling." He blew out a breath. "I honestly don't understand how it works or where it came from, but none of this happened before I hit my head on the pavement several weeks ago."

Tilda uncrossed her arms. "What a burden this must be," she said softly. "I am sorry, though it has been helpful. I don't blame you for not telling me about it."

"I couldn't even imagine where to begin," he said with a chuckle. "Speaking of inconsistency, the photograph downstairs is a prime example. When I picked it up the other day, I saw a very clear image, but then I couldn't see it again until today." He hesitated, his features darkening. Whatever he had seen, it wasn't good. "I saw a young woman, her neck bruised and her eyes open—unseeing. She was most certainly dead."

Tilda gasped. "How horrifying."

"It was. Nevertheless, I strove to see it again in the hope that I might recognize her. But when I wasn't able to conjure the image again, I took the photograph with me when I left. I brought it back today." He gave her a sheepish look. "I hope you'll forgive me."

"Well, that solves one mystery," she said lightly. "I do understand—why you couldn't tell me and why you wanted to borrow the photograph."

"I thought if I returned it to where I'd first seen the dead woman, I might be able to conjure the image again."

"And you did, earlier when you took the photograph from me." She'd seen him go pale and grab his head, but she'd never imagined the true cause of his reaction.

"Yes. I saw her more clearly than the first time. I made out a few additional details such as her hair and eye color—light brown and brown respectively. I still didn't recognize her." His expression was pensive. "And I would say she looked to be from a different time. Her gown was of a style my mother wore when she was younger. I've a painting of her from the 1830s. The neckline and sleeves matched that of the gown the poor woman was wearing in my vision."

"Do you think you're seeing a woman who died decades ago?"

"That is my suspicion, but who can say?" He cut his hand through the air. "Who can say whether anything I see is accurate? You say it's helpful, but only enough to be extremely aggravating because it's never the whole story. I also came back today so that I could walk about the house and touch things to see what else I might learn." He rubbed his head again, his brow deeply furrowed.

She didn't need an odd ability to see his agitation or feel his frustration. "What about the headaches?" she asked softly. "Are you in pain now?"

"Somewhat, yes." He dropped his hand to his side. "Once they start with a vision or sensation, the pain will linger—even though it lessens—for hours. The more I demand of the ability, the more intense the pain. Sometimes I have to give up, at least for a while."

That sounded horrible. It was any wonder he even tried to have the visions. "You must take care of yourself. Perhaps you shouldn't be trying to see anything."

"I've thought about that, but it's deuced difficult when you see something like a dead woman, which raises so many questions." He met her gaze with a dark look. "It's also unsettling enough that you can't not think of it or want to know everything about it."

"I can understand that. I haven't seen her in my mind, and I'm quite eager to learn her identity. I'm sure you feel even more pressed for answers."

"That's exactly it. Why am I even seeing her? Why did I see Sir Henry?"

"It's as if something or someone is trying to communicate with you, to lead you to answers," Tilda said.

"Yes, but I can't imagine who or what. Rather than try to resolve that, I am focused on these urgent questions—who is that woman and what is her connection to that photograph?"

"I would guess she is somehow tied to the men in the photograph. Pity we can't ask Sir Henry."

"Yes, though perhaps that is why he is dead," Ravenhurst said, provoking a shiver to move up Tilda's spine.

"Perhaps," Tilda agreed. "I think we must treat the investigations into your attack, Crawford's murder, and Sir Henry's death as one."

His features relaxed with relief. "Thank you. I know they are all connected. We just have to determine how."

Tilda's mind was spinning. "You're hoping that by touching other things here in Sir Henry's house, you may find some answers?"

He glanced around the room. "That is my hope, though here in his bedchamber, I'm not seeing anything to do with the dead woman." He returned his focus to her. "Was Sir Henry a gambler?"

"I recall he liked cards, but I can't say what his wagering habits were. I could ask my grandmother. She would know far more than I do."

"I have the sense he lost a great deal of money on several occasions. I see different gaming tables and I feel loss, disappointment, even despair. If he'd lost large sums, that could explain the state of his finances."

Tilda blew out a frustrated breath. "Well, that does not support the theory of embezzlement by Mr. Hardacre."

"Perhaps, but I still think we should call on Mr. Hardacre."

"Of course we will," Tilda said. "A good investigator follows every path to gather as much information as possible, if only to rule things out."

He smiled at her. "And you are nothing if not a good investigator."

"Thank you." Tilda's mind was still whirring too fast to indulge in his flattery. "I suppose it's also possible that Sir Henry could have gambling losses and Hardacre could have been stealing from him. Wait! Why didn't we find any IOUs as we emptied the house? Especially in Sir Henry's study."

Ravenhurst shrugged. "It may be that Sir Henry never used them. Perhaps he covered his losses as soon as they happened. It would explain his lack of funds. It may also explain what happened to your grandmother's investment. Perhaps Sir Henry was in deep enough that he had to steal from her."

Tilda sucked in a breath. She hadn't considered that Sir Henry could have done something so despicable. It was too shocking. "I can't believe he would do that." Tilda would hate for her grandmother to find out he'd done that. Or for Millicent, who was already suffering enough with the state of things. Though, matters could be worse for her if there were IOUs for her to deal with. "I will speak to my grandmother and to Millicent. They will know whether Sir Henry was a gambler, but it seems as though he was."

"Do we trust my visions completely then?" Ravenhurst asked. "I confess, I am not always entirely confident. I can't even explain why they happen."

"They haven't steered you wrong yet, have they?"

"I don't think so. I only wish this…ability was more reliable or that I understood it better." Again, he sounded understandably frustrated. "I do wonder if it will disappear entirely when I am fully recovered. The doctor said it could be several months before my headaches eased."

"We should go downstairs," Tilda said, thinking he needed to rest, at least for a short while. "Perhaps there is some tea in the kitchen, though I believe we gave what was left to the cook and the maid."

"I'd rather go through the rest of the house and see what I may learn."

Tilda frowned at him. "I don't think that's wise. Your head is already aching. You can come back another day. I'll meet you so you don't have to break into the house," she added wryly.

He smiled. "I do appreciate your concern, but my head is feeling better. I should like to attempt at least one more room. The study probably, since that is likely where Sir Henry spent the most time aside from his bedchamber."

"That or the parlor. But start with the study. That way, I can search it one more time. Perhaps there's an IOU stuck at the back of a drawer in his desk." She turned and walked from the bedchamber.

She heard the earl following behind her as they made their way downstairs. "What do you suppose Sir Henry has to do with a woman who perchance died decades ago and with the man who attacked you?"

"I can't begin to guess," Ravenhurst replied. "The other question burning in my mind is why someone stabbed me, Crawford, and Sir Henry. I think we can agree that Sir Henry did not die of a heart attack."

Tilda paused at the bottom of the stairs and turned to look up at him. She hadn't wanted to make the conclusion just yet, but that was what she believed. "Yes, we can agree. I suppose that means we can also agree that he was likely murdered."

Ravenhurst stood a few stairs above her. "I think so."

She cocked her head. "Do you suppose there's a chance Crawford is one of the men in the photograph?"

"He would have been too young. If that photograph is from the 1830s—using the era of the clothing the woman in my vision was wearing—Patrick Crawford would have been a young man. I suppose he could be one of the blurred figures on the left." He inclined his head. "It is an interesting theory."

Turning, Tilda continued toward the study. "I hope we're able to review Inspector Padgett's reports. We need to find your assailant. He is what connects you to Sir Henry."

"I am frustrated by whatever is happening at Scotland Yard," Ravenhurst said, his tone hard. "Padgett didn't conduct a thorough investigation and the confidentiality of the reports is highly suspect. I wonder if he is not tainted in some way, especially since you said corruption is rampant in the police."

"You may be right, but as I keep saying when it comes to the police, we need to tread carefully." Tilda wanted to believe they were all as honest and well-meaning as her father. No, it wasn't that she wanted to believe they were. She wanted them to be that way. It occurred to her that she ought not to bribe anyone anymore, not if she wanted to be true to her father's legacy.

"I understand," Ravenhurst replied. "But that doesn't make me less irritated." He flashed her a smile that make her belly tickle. "We could start our search for my assailant at the Bell. It's on Fish Street Hill."

"Excellent." Tilda felt a surge of excitement. She was glad to have no more secrets between her and the earl. "Between your gift and my investigative skills, we will find him."

"It is not a gift but a curse," Ravenhurst said with considerable bitterness. "If given the choice, I would rather we solve this case using our investigative skills."

She did not miss his use of the word our and was surprised to find she didn't mind having him as a partner, or at least an assistant. "Are you just going to start touching everything now?"

"I suppose so." His mouth tipped into a lop-sided smile. "Do you see how this makes me look entirely mad?"

Suppressing a giggle, Tilda began searching the study. In the end, she found nothing and Ravenhurst's explorations were completely unfruitful. Tilda thought that may be for the best since his head was still paining him.

Ravenhurst's coachman had returned, and the earl insisted on driving Tilda home. They secured the house with plans to return, perhaps the next day.

"We have a great many things to do, it seems," Ravenhurst remarked as the coach moved along Huntley Street.

"We do indeed," Tilda agreed. "We still need to call on Mr. Hardacre. However, our first priority must be locating your assailant. When shall we visit the Bell?"

"I wondered if you might want to go this evening," he suggested. "I imagine the alehouse is busy on a Saturday night. It may even be that the assailant is there."

"You would recognize him?" she asked.

"Perhaps. I saw his eyes clearly, but he wore a covering over the rest of his face."

"So you must get very close to everyone and look them in the eye," Tilda said with a laugh. "This could be rather diverting."

He smiled. "I shall endeavor to amuse you. You've a most charming laugh."

Tilda appreciated the compliment. She didn't think anyone had ever commented on her laugh. "All right, we will go this evening. What shall I tell my grandmother?"

"That I am taking you to a play?" he suggested.

"No, I must tell her I've gone to play cards with friends." A play would encourage her grandmother to think there may be more between Tilda and Ravenhurst when he was merely her client. And, apparently, her friend. "You will need to pick me up on Bulstrode Street."

"Eight o'clock?"

Tilda nodded. How exciting her life had suddenly become.