Chapter 18

CHAPTER 18

A fter making their way through the throng of people outside the Bell, Tilda hurried alongside Ravenhurst toward his coach. The journalists outside had asked the earl question after question, but he'd ignored them all. A few followed Ravenhurst and Tilda to the coach and were still trying to ask questions as Leach ushered them into the vehicle. When the coach pulled away, Tilda relaxed against the seat.

"Persistent, aren't they?" she asked wryly.

"Quite." Ravenhurst checked his pocket watch. "We've plenty of time to call on Mr. Hardacre. I instructed the coachman to take us to Walton Street."

Tilda was glad they could finally do so. "Thank you."

It took them some time to reach Walton Street near Brompton Crescent in the far west end. On the way, they discussed the inquest. Hardacre's home was a smart, new terrace with wrought iron across a narrow first floor balcony.

"He retired very well," Tilda noted as they stood on the pavement after exiting the coach. "Embezzlement would allow for that, I imagine."

"Quite." Ravenhurst escorted her to the door where a butler answered promptly.

The earl gave the butler his card and asked to see Mr. Hardacre. Tilda couldn't deny that Ravenhurst's privilege was rather helpful to their investigation.

"I will see if Mr. Hardacre is receiving." The butler invited them into the entrance hall and closed the door then walked upstairs.

"Do you suppose there is a Mrs. Hardacre?" Tilda murmured.

Ravenhurst shrugged. "I hadn't considered it."

A few minutes later, the butler returned. "If you will just follow me."

He led them up the stairs to the drawing room. Two tall windows opened onto the narrow balcony that overlooked the street below. The room itself was elegantly appointed in gold and ivory. Tilda assumed a woman had decorated it.

"The Earl of Ravenhurst, eh?" a voice creaked from the doorway.

They turned as Mr. Hardacre ambled in. He leaned on a cane and moved slowly. Of average height, he was slightly stooped, though not as much as Vaughn. Hardacre was almost completely bald, yet he had the thickest, whitest brows Tilda had ever seen.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Hardacre," Ravenhurst said. "We're sorry to disturb you, however, we've come on a matter of urgent importance."

"Sit down then," Hardacre said as he lowered himself into a chair. He set his cane against the arm and settled back with a huff. "Do I know you? Terrible thing to ask, but my memory's not what it once was, I'm afraid."

Tilda and Ravenhurst settled themselves on a settee. "I'm sorry to hear that," Tilda said. "No, you don't know us. You were solicitor to my grandfather's cousin, Sir Henry Meacham."

Hardacre's impressive brows climbed. "Oh yes, Sir Henry. Jolly chap. I'd received notice of his death, but I regret I was unable to attend the funeral. I don't go out too much these days. I did send a card. I think I sent a card." His wide brow furrowed, and he shook his head.

"That was kind of you," Tilda said. "I'll get right to the reason for our call."

"What was your name?" Hardacre asked, interrupting her before she could continue. "Did I forget that already?"

"Actually no. I am Miss Matilda Wren."

Hardacre's brow creased once more. "Wren? Sounds familiar. But everyone knows Christopher Wren." He chuckled.

Christopher Wren was, in fact, Tilda's ancestor, but she did not mention that fact. "Perhaps you recall my father, Thomas Wren? He died eleven years ago and at that time, the funds that he'd been managing for his mother—my grandmother—came under the control of Sir Henry as her closest living male relative. However, it seems that money has disappeared."

Hardacre blinked at her. "Disappeared?"

"Mr. Whitley, who took over as Sir Henry's solicitor when you retired, says there is no record of my grandmother's investments. I am hoping you will recall what happened to her money." Tilda held her breath.

Ravenhurst scooted forward on the settee and fixed Hardacre with a serious stare. "It is of vital importance we learn the truth, Mr. Hardacre, whatever it may be."

"Who are you again?" Hardacre asked. "Sir Henry's nephew?"

"No, I'm Ravenhurst."

"Ah." Hardacre nodded and tapped his finger to his temple. "I can remember a dinner that occurred twenty years ago, and yet something you tell me right now will likely be forgotten in a matter of minutes."

"You remember Sir Henry then?" Tilda prodded. Hardacre had referred to him as delightful.

"I do. Always cheerful with a wicked sense of humor. Horrible with his finances though." Hardacre shook his head and looked down for a moment.

"Horrible how?" Tilda asked. When the man didn't respond for a long moment, Tilda said, "Mr. Hardacre, we were discussing some investments Sir Henry would have made on behalf of his cousin's widow, Mrs. Alexander Wren. That would have been some eleven years ago. Would you recall that?"

"Not entirely, but the name is familiar. Like Christopher Wren," he added with a smile.

Tilda sent a frustrated look toward Ravenhurst who, thankfully, appeared more patient. She was worried this would be a fruitless errand. But they'd had to try.

"Do you know what happened to those investments?" Ravenhurst asked. "Whitley, your successor, has no record of them."

"He wouldn't." Hardacre said this with a surprising certainty. "Can't imagine Sir Henry would have held onto anything for eleven years. He spent money as fast as he got it. Terrible gambling habit. I distinctly recall him completely bleeding through his wife's inheritance in just a few years. Never missed a whist tournament."

"That's true," Tilda said softly. "You're certain?" She had to ask for confirmation.

"Absolutely. As I said, I can remember things from long ago quite well. Sir Henry was a singular fellow. He always felt so badly when he lost large sums—he was particularly upset after he went through the last of his wife's money. But then he'd come up with a way to make the money back, though it was always a gamble, and rarely successful." Hardacre's forehead creased, and his brows nearly met over his eyes, resembling a long, white caterpillar. "Now that I think about it, I believe he did borrow from a fund to pay a debt. That might have been your grandmother's money."

Tilda sagged against the back of the settee. "I gather he didn't repay the loan?"

"Can't imagine he did. Always short of funds, that one. Indeed, I recall he once considered blackmailing someone." Hardacre waggled his brows. "Absolutely salacious!"

Tilda straightened and sent a shocked look toward Ravenhurst who returned the same.

The earl directed his attention back to Hardacre. "Do you know who he meant to blackmail?"

"Someone with plenty of money. In the end, he didn't do it." Hardacre shrugged. "Said he was too afraid he'd be found out."

"You're certain he likely spent my grandmother's funds?" Tilda had known it was possible, but having a definitive answer meant there was no hope.

"Sir Henry spent every shilling he could get his hands on." Hardacre blinked at her. "Who was your grandmother?"

Ravenhurst cleared his throat. "Mr. Hardacre, we know you also took money that didn't belong to you. Did you embezzle Mrs. Barbara Wren's investment funds eleven years ago or at any time since?"

Hardacre appeared affronted. "Embezzle? I did no such thing. I charged a fair fee for my services."

Tilda wondered if Hardacre perhaps didn't recall embezzling money or even realized he'd done so. It was possible that in his mind, he'd done nothing wrong. But she didn't believe he'd stolen Grandmama's money, not when he seemed to recall Sir Henry and his spendthrift behavior very well. And since Tilda now knew he'd been an inveterate gambler and risk-taker, she had no trouble believing he'd pilfered her grandmother's funds, particularly since he'd always avoided discussing financial matters with Tilda.

"Thank you, Mr. Hardacre." Tilda rose. "We appreciate your time today."

"Glad I could help." His expression was blank as he regarded her, and she could tell he'd forgotten who she was.

"Good day, Mr. Hardacre," Ravenhurst said before escorting Tilda out of the drawing room and then down the stairs.

The butler showed them out, and Ravenhurst handed her into the coach. Tilda heard him direct the coachman to Scotland Yard in Whitehall. But her mind was reeling with what they'd just learned.

Ravenhurst sat opposite her, and the coach began moving. "That was a worthwhile errand, albeit a disappointing one. I'm sorry."

"I'm so angry." Indeed, Tilda's hands were shaking. "That money should have ensured my grandmother's comfort in these later years."

"It is an awful situation," he said quietly. "I wish there was something I could say or do."

There was nothing to be done. The money was gone and had been for some time. No wonder Sir Henry had never wanted to speak with her about increasing their stipend. "I'm surprised he didn't steal the first investment too, but then Grandmama would have had nothing to live on."

"At least he showed a modicum of restraint." Ravenhurst spoke gently. She knew he was trying to soothe her, but there was no way to soften this blow.

"I will also need to tell Millicent." Tilda's stomach churned. "She held out hope I would find some money."

"I am doubly sorry that you have to be the bearer of more bad news. Perhaps you don't tell her about the potential blackmail."

"No, I'll leave that part out. Though that was an interesting tidbit."

"Agreed," Ravenhurst said.

They were quiet a few minutes as they traveled east toward Whitehall. Tilda's blood began to cool, her anger giving way to sadness and dread. She did not look forward to the conversations with her grandmother and Millicent.

Diverting her attention from her financial problems, Tilda said, "What is our goal in meeting with Superintendent Newsome?"

Ravenhurst squared his shoulders against the seat. "My primary objective is to ask for the supposedly confidential reports of my attack and Crawford's death. I think you mut also tell him about the note from Inspector Lowther."

"I fear you are right, though I dislike causing any trouble. I suppose it's fair to say that Lowther started the trouble by sending that note."

"Yes, that exactly." Ravenhurst's eyes narrowed. "I am torn between wanting to complete this investigation ourselves and informing Scotland Yard of what we have learned, which indicates they should not have closed my case or Crawford's, and that they must investigate Sir Henry's death."

"We could do both," Tilda suggested. "Teague is ready and eager to help at any moment. We must first present proof that Sir Henry was murdered, or that he at least died suspiciously, and the matter deserves an inquest. That requires a body, however." Tilda could not afford to exhume Sir Henry, and she doubted Millicent would be able to pay for it—or that her husband would even allow the expense.

"I would pay for it," Ravenhurst said, his gaze gentle.

She hadn't said a word, and yet he had easily discerned the obstacle. "You couldn't."

"Why not? I want to discover who was behind Sir Henry's death as much as you do. Perhaps more. Because that person is responsible for my attack and these horrid visions. You are my private investigator, and this is merely another expense." He wasn't wrong about that.

Setting aside the matter of exhumation for now, she said, "You could argue that person—because of your visions—inadvertently triggered an investigation that may very well bring them to justice."

Ravenhurst grinned. "That's rather poetic."

As they neared Whitehall, she said, "I do hope Superintendent Newsome is open to hearing what we have to say about your case and Crawford's, as well as Sir Henry's death. This is another time when I daresay your rank will be of considerable assistance." Tilda wasn't sure she could have secured an appointment with the superintendent.

"Your connections to Scotland Yard should also prove useful," Ravenhurst said. "I would hope that Newsome would be eager to listen to the daughter of one of his best sergeants."

"That's kind of you to say," Tilda said quietly. "But my father died more than a decade ago. I am not sure his legacy carries much weight."

"It should, particularly since he died in service." Ravenhurst sounded most authoritative on that point.

"We are going to suggest that one of his inspectors may have corrupted investigations outright. We must be prepared for the superintendent to take umbrage."

"Alas, it must be done," Ravenhurst said firmly. "Padgett has worked to bury these investigations, and I would know why. Teague said he was corrupt, and I trust him to tell us the truth."

"The question is who would have bribed him to tamper with your investigation and that of Crawford's murder?"

The earl's eyes gleamed with zeal. "That, my dear Miss Wren, is what I would like to know."

A short while later, they were seated in the superintendent's office awaiting his arrival. It was a quarter hour past their appointed meeting time when Newsome finally entered. In his early fifties, he was a tall man with thin sideburns and thick gray hair. His eyes were wide set and a rather unnerving shade of pale blue. He looked as if he could see through you. Hadrian imagined those eyes were quite useful in interrogations.

"Afternoon, Ravenhurst, Miss Wren. I'm sorry to have kept you waiting." He joined them at a table where a clerk had set a tea service shortly after Hadrian and Miss Wren had arrived. "Ah, tea will not come amiss. I see you have already poured out for yourselves, excellent."

The superintendent poured his cup and took a satisfying sip, indicative by the sigh he let out as he returned the cup to its saucer. "Inspector Teague tells me you have questions about the investigation into that nasty attack you suffered in January. I am terribly sorry that happened, my lord. It does look as though you've recovered well."

"I have, thank you. As I understand it, no one has been caught and charged with the crime, yet the case has been closed."

Newsome rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers together. "Yes, that is, unfortunately, what happens sometimes."

"Except Lord Ravenhurst did find the man who stabbed him," Miss Wren said evenly. "We found him dead in his lodgings two nights ago. He'd been garroted."

Unsteepling his hands, Newsome let them drop toward his lap. "I am aware of that. In fact, I just came from a meeting about the inquest earlier today. You were there, I believe? I understand that man's killer has been arrested by the City of London Police." He looked to Hadrian. "Since the man you identified as your attacker is dead, I would say the case is most definitely closed."

Though the interview had barely started, Hadrian's patience was thinning already. "I suppose that is true, however the investigation into the death of Mr. Patrick Crawford, MP, should be reopened. I believe he was killed by the same man who stabbed me."

"Well, then that case would be solved too then, wouldn't it?" Newsome said pleasantly.

Hadrian exchanged a frustrated glance with Miss Wren. She leaned slightly toward Newsome. "At the very least, the reports regarding both investigations should be amended to indicate the identity of the culprit."

"How do you know they haven't been?" Newsome asked, his brows climbing.

"Because the reports are confidential, and we haven't been able to see them," Miss Wren replied flatly.

"I find it perplexing that they are classified as confidential," Hadrian said. "If these attacks were indeed due to a common footpad, it makes no sense that they would be secreted away."

The superintendent frowned. "You raise a good argument, and I'm afraid I don't have an answer for you."

"Perhaps you could look into the matter so that you could have an answer," Hadrian suggested with a bland smile.

Miss Wren moved her hand slightly so that she brushed Hadrian's leg. He looked at her, and she sent him a warning glance. Hadrian realized he may have overstepped. Even for an earl.

"We have another matter we think requires Scotland Yard's investigation. My grandfather's cousin, Sir Henry Meacham, died a fortnight ago. He was reported to have collapsed at a club called Farringer's near Covent Garden. However, we believe the true cause of his death has been misrepresented, and that he was stabbed in the same manner as Lord Ravenhurst and Mr. Crawford."

Surprise flashed over Newsome's features. "Do you think he was killed by the same man? The one who was killed and for whom there was an inquest today?"

"We do," Miss Wren said.

Newsome picked up his tea for another sip. "I realize your father was a respected sergeant with the Metropolitan Police and that your grandfather was a highly regarded magistrate, but you are hardly qualified to make such deductions, Miss Wren."

The condescension from the superintendent made Hadrian's blood boil. He could only imagine how it made Miss Wren feel. He looked over at her and observed a tic in her jaw.

"I would argue that my lineage makes me uniquely qualified," she informed him cooly. "Ravenhurst and I are still working out the connections, but Mr. Fitch seems to have been an employee at the gaming club where Sir Henry died. From there, someone took his body to his physician, Dr. Selwin, who determined he'd died of a heart attack—without conducting an autopsy. However, when Sir Henry's daughter prepared him for the funeral, she noticed a stitched wound on his right side. This is inconsistent with the cause of death listed on his death certificate. I will also note that a death certificate would not have been necessary, and its existence raises more questions."

Hadrian wanted to stand and applaud.

Newsome was not as impressed—he shrugged. "Just because Sir Henry had a wound doesn't mean his death was caused by it. And whilst a death certificate may not have been necessary, it seems a wise course of action in this situation. Please do accept my condolences, Miss Wren."

Miss Wren pursed her lips. "We have reason to believe Sir Henry may not have been suffering from a heart ailment at all, which would mean the death certificate contains false information. The wound to his side seems the likelier cause of death." She pinned the superintendent with a direct stare—Hadrian was in awe of her confidence. "We are prepared to have his body exhumed."

Surprise widened Newsome's eyes. "His next of kin supports that?"

"Yes," Miss Wren said as she gripped her reticule. The action was a tell that she was not being completely honest, not that Hadrian was going to dispute anything she said.

Before Newsome could pursue that line of questioning, Hadrian said, "You should know that we have spoken to employees at Farringer's. It is clear to us that his death was not ordinary. Indeed, I am surprised there wasn't an inquest."

Newsome tapped his fingers on the desk briefly. "You say the cause of his death was inaccurately documented as a heart ailment. Are you saying the physician was wrong?"

"Wrong, or he lied," Miss Wren said without looking away from the superintendent.

"That is a weighty accusation." Newsome took another sip of tea. Setting the cup down, he returned his attention to Miss Wren, but his gaze had gone cool. "Miss Wren, I highly doubt your father would approve of you doing the work of our good inspectors. I suggest—highly—that you leave the investigating to them." He shot a look toward Hadrian. "I would give you the same counsel, Ravenhurst."

It occurred to Hadrian that Lowther's note could have been written as a direct result of the superintendent himself learning of Miss Wren's investigation and wanting her to stop. Perhaps it was best if they didn't mention it. He would not, though Miss Wren might—and he couldn't prevent her.

Hadrian saw that Miss Wren's neck was flushing red above her blue gown. He could not remain silent and sent the superintendent an icy stare. "Perhaps if we'd felt the police had done their job more thoroughly, we would not be compelled to investigate these matters ourselves."

"Perhaps you didn't know my father very well, Superintendent Newsome," Miss Wren added quietly but firmly. "If you did, you would know that he would be my staunchest supporter. Everything I know about investigations and solving crimes I learned from him."

Again, Hadrian wanted to cheer. He noted that Newsome's jaw had tightened, and there were lines around his mouth. He appeared to be growing annoyed or losing patience. Or both.

Hadrian forced a small, brief smile. "I'm confident Scotland Yard would prefer to learn the truth and ensure justice is served."

"Except—by your assertion—your attacker and Crawford's and Sir Henry's murderer is already dead," Newsome replied flatly. "Justice has already been dealt."

"Fitch was not acting on his own," Miss Wren said. "What reason would a man such as him have for stalking gentlemen so far from where he lives and in such a manner that would potentially increase his risk?"

Impatience flashed in Newsome's gaze and his features darkened. "I fail to see why this is pertinent. Mr. Fitch is dead. The crimes you claim he committed are therefore solved. Furthermore, everything you have presented today is circumstantial, and while I sympathize with your plight, Ravenhurst, I simply don't have the resources to pander to an earl who wishes to play investigator."

Hadrian stood, and Miss Wren joined him. "While that may be, I should, at the very least, be allowed to review the report of Inspector Padgett's investigation. If you are not able to provide it to me, I shall ask the Home Secretary for his assistance."

"You needn't bother him," Newsome said gruffly, his jaw moving with agitation. "I will obtain the reports and deliver them to you personally. I trust you will keep them confidential, since that is what they have been classified." He glanced toward Miss Wren as if trying to communicate that she wasn't allowed to read them.

"I should like to know why Padgett classified them in that manner," Hadrian said. "You can inform me when you deliver the reports." He looked to Miss Wren with a subtle nod toward the door.

"Thank you for your time, Superintendent Newsome," Miss Wren said tightly.

Newsome rose. "I am glad to help." He smiled, but the expression did not extend to his eyes—those seemed to say he was not at all pleased to have to assist them. "Ravenhurst, if there is some conspiracy or plot to murder Crawford, Sir Henry, and you, why are you still alive? At least, why hasn't someone tried again to kill you?"

"I don't believe I was the intended victim," Hadrian replied. "Crawford was. He was known to visit a pub on Tuesday evenings for a card game with other MPs. I was mistaken for him. Fitch was quite surprised when I turned on him, and we made eye contact. That detail ought to be in the confidential report as I relayed it to Inspector Padgett when he interviewed me."

Newsome's nostrils had flared slightly as Hadrian had spoken, seeming to indicate he was not unmoved by Hadrian's argument. Perhaps he would truly consider looking into these cases.

Hadrian escorted Miss Wren from the man's office. They followed a corridor into the main reception area.

"I did not expect Newsome to be so dismissive," Miss Wren said as they made their way outside to Hadrian's coach.

"I can only hope we've opened his eyes to certain facts he may not have been aware of. I didn't like that he tried to deter you. It sounded rather like the note you received from Lowther."

"I agree, which is why I didn't bring it up. It's possible Newsome advised Lowther to tell me to mind my own business." She scoffed.

Hadrian handed her into the coach. "I think we've made it clear we aren't going to do that."

"And you've threatened to go above him and speak to the Home Secretary," she said. "Will you really do that?"

Hadrian settled opposite her as the coach moved forward. "I may. It depends on what happens with the confidential reports, such as when I receive them and what Newsome has to say about Padgett's behavior." He met her gaze. "And I will most definitely share them with you."

Miss Wren chuckled. "The superintendent seemed to imply you should not. Because I am not properly trained, you see." She rolled her eyes, and he was glad she was able to find some humor in Newsome's obnoxious behavior.

"I am very sorry he said those things to you," Hadrian said. "You behaved wonderfully. I was quite in awe of your confidence and capability in dealing with him. He should wish he had more investigators like you."

Faint spots of pink stained her cheeks, and she glanced toward the window. "That is kind of you to say." A moment later, she gave Hadrian a dubious look. "Why do I think the reports will not appear?"

"I hope that does not happen." Hadrian really would speak to the Home Secretary in that case. "Tomorrow, we have our appointment with Selwin. I am keen to interrogate him about what really happened the night Sir Henry died."

"I am too. I think he must have been persuaded to falsify a death certificate. By whomever is pulling the strings."

"But we are no closer to discovering why," Hadrian said, feeling frustrated. He would think they were doing a poor job, but they were finding more answers than the police.

She returned her gaze to his. "Perhaps Sir Henry's IOUs are the place to look for motivation."

"Someone killed him because he couldn't pay?" Hadrian shook his head. "That would be illogical, for then you wouldn't ever get paid."

"Does that mean Millicent can ignore the IOUs she found?" Miss Wren asked, sounding hopeful.

"Probably, though she should perhaps contact each of the holders and simply state that she is unable to repay because her father died bankrupt."

Miss Wren nodded. "I'm sure her husband can help her with that." Her brow creased. "But why would the IOUs have caused someone to kill Crawford?"

"There is that link between the IOU to Martin Crawford, but why was his son murdered?" Hadrian shook his head. "There is a connection between Patrick Crawford and Sir Henry. I think we should call on his widow tomorrow after our appointment with Selwin."

"Do you think she'll see us?" Miss Wren asked. "Though it's been almost two months since her husband's death, she may not be receiving."

Hadrian pressed his back against the squab. "We have to try. I am hoping your presence will smooth things."

"Why?" Miss Wren sounded surprised. "I don't know her."

He shrugged. "Because you're a woman?"

She laughed. "That is hardly a reason to think I will help matters, but I suppose it can't hurt."

"Perhaps you should don black again," Hadrian suggested.

Miss Wren grimaced. "As much as I detest that idea, that is very smart."

"Why do you detest it?"

"The thought of wearing that mourning gown even one more day…" She shuddered in clear revulsion. "Still, I will do it."

"I appreciate your sacrifice," he said with a faint smirk that made her smile in return. He was glad for that, for he knew this had been a trying day for her. And she had yet to speak with her grandmother about what they'd learned from Hardacre. Her day was not going to improve.

"Ravenhurst?" she said, as they neared Marylebone.

"Yes?"

"We haven't spoken much of the vision you had with the photograph at Sir Henry's house—not since we found Fitch."

"No, we haven't." Hadrian's thoughts of the dead woman had been pushed aside by the vision he'd seen of Sir Henry dying. "My mind has been too focused on what I saw from Fitch's coin. And on finding Fitch dead." Hadrian's sleep last night had been interrupted by a dream of Fitch coming after him again, this time with a garotte.

Miss Wren nodded. "Understandably so. But Sir Henry is somehow linked to this dead woman. We have to consider that she is a part of all this."

"Do we?" Hadrian wasn't sure. "Her appearance seemed to indicate she likely lived decades ago. I can't see how she would be involved with Sir Henry's death at all."

"I can't disagree with that assessment, however, I find it troubling that Sir Henry had something to do with a dead woman, even if it was some time ago. I just wish there was someone we could ask." She tapped her finger on the seat next to her leg. "Please don't suggest Millicent. While she may have been alive at that time, I can't imagine she'd know anything about a dead woman."

Hadrian agreed it was unlikely Sir Henry's daughter would know anything. "You could ask her about who his friends were at that time. Perhaps we could speak with them."

"I suppose I could do that." A faint grimace passed over Miss Wren's features. "I need to tell her about there being absolutely no money."

"You'll also need to mention the possible exhumation," he said gently. "I'd be happy to accompany you."

"I will consider your kind offer." She took a deep breath. "That is not a conversation I look forward to having."

The coach arrived at her house, and Hadrian saw her to the door. Vaughn admitted her with a very butler-esque nod.

Back in his coach, Hadrian became consumed with thoughts of the dead young woman. Who was she? What did she have to do with Sir Henry?

He thought about her the whole way home but was no closer to concluding how she might be involved with their current mystery. Hadrian feared the mystery of her identity and her—what looked to be—violent death had died with Sir Henry.