Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

A mere five days after Sir Henry's funeral, Tilda sat in the office of his solicitor, Mr. Charles Whitley. A decade or so older than Tilda, he had a high forehead and a receding hairline. He possessed a round face with a thick, dark-brown mustache. His eyes were small and his smile ready as he'd greeted her.

"I am sorry for the loss of your cousin, Miss Wren," he said from the chair across from hers. A secretary brought a tea tray and set it on the small round table between them. "I do hope your grandmother hasn't suffered from the tragedy."

Though Tilda nor her grandmother had ever met Mr. Whitley, he seemed to know of them at least. Which of course he would since he was overseeing their financial matters.

"I appreciate your condolences, Mr. Whitley. What is most pressing for me and my grandmother at the moment is determining the state of her finances. She has been living on the income from her investment the past thirty-three years, however that income has not changed in eight years now." That was the length of time Tilda had been living with her grandmother and had taken over management of the household. When she asked her grandmother if it had fluctuated before that, she'd only shrugged.

Mr. Whitley poured their tea then generously sugared his cup. "Not at all? I'm sure it has."

"It has not. I wanted to speak about this matter as our expenses have increased over the years, which is to be expected. However, since Sir Henry has died, I must ask for your help instead."

"I understand," Whitley said solemnly and with just the slightest condescension. "Perhaps you should review the payments Mrs. Wren received. You will likely find they have increased, just not as much as you might have liked."

Tilda kept her lip from curling. "I have been managing my grandmother's household for eight years. That is how I know the income has not increased. Perhaps you can provide me with a summary of payments for that time period so I can make sure she received all that was due. Furthermore, I would like to see your records for Mrs. Wren's secondary investment."

The solicitor flattened his lips. "I'm afraid I only have records for the past three years, as that was when I took over from the previous solicitor who retired." He frowned. "Furthermore, I am not aware of an additional investment."

Tilda's pulse quickened. "But there most certainly is. You must review your records. Perhaps a mistake was made during the transition from the former solicitor."

Mr. Whitley sipped his tea making a soft but unmistakable slurping sound. He set his cup down and gave her a sympathetic look. "I can have my clerk review the records, but I highly doubt there was a mistake. I will provide a summary of the transactions regarding Mrs. Wren's that have occurred since I have been Sir Henry's solicitor. Will that be acceptable?"

It was better than nothing, even if it didn't ease Tilda's frustration. "Yes, thank you. My grandmother said her husband made that second investment before he died. It was meant to provide for her as she aged and serve as a supplement to the primary investment."

"I see. That is helpful to know," Whitley said.

There had to be another investment. The interest from the one wasn't enough to meet their needs. They'd have to reinvest the money or perchance put it into an annuity. Tilda wasn't sure what they would need to do. "If you don't have record of it, I must address the issue with the prior solicitor. Will you provide me with his direction?"

"Yes, though I must tell you he no longer has all of his wits about him," Whitley said with a faint grimace. "I should also inform you that he was forced into retirement after he was caught embezzling money from a client. He paid the money back to avoid imprisonment."

Tilda gasped. That was the probable "mistake" then. "Is it possible he stole my grandmother's investment?"

"I suppose it's possible, though Hardacre claimed he'd taken them from the client by accident, that he was confused, that he'd had no intent to steal anything." Whitley blew out a breath. "Given his mental decline, I don't find that difficult to believe."

Whatever the truth, Tilda would find it.

"I think it's far more likely the investment money was used before you assumed management of Mrs. Wren's household," Whitley continued. "Or that the investment was poor, and the money was lost—and your grandmother simply forgot." He lifted a shoulder as if he were discussing the weather and not the livelihood of Tilda's grandmother and her household.

Tilda's pulse sped once more, as her frustration grew. "My grandmother did not use that money." She had, however, forgotten about it for a time, so Tilda supposed it was possible she'd also forgotten the investment had failed. Grandmama had also not tracked the amount of income Sir Henry had given her. This was what could happen when women did not have agency over their financial decisions and weren't even encouraged to do so. Tilda was determined to assume control of these matters.

Tilda would speak with her grandmother and gather every detail she could. Tilda's investigative skills would be most useful, though this was not how she imagined employing them. She reached for her cup and took a drink of tea before realizing she hadn't added any sugar or even a splash of cream. Still, the moisture was welcome.

Setting her cup down, she said, "I will confirm the details of the investments with my grandmother, and I will await your summary. For now, please write down Mr. Hardacre's direction."

Whitley took a small piece of parchment from his desk and scrawled out the retired solicitor's name and address. "I wish you good luck. It will likely take my clerk several days to retrieve all the records, and I want him to look for anything that might have been retained from Mr. Hardacre. I do understand that this is a great deal for you to take in. I will be happy to help with your financial matters however I can. I'm sure we can come up with a strategy to provide additional income."

Whilst Tilda appreciated Whitley's willingness to be thorough and that he genuinely seemed to want to help, she couldn't miss his slightly condescending message reminding her that women were not expected to concern themselves with such matters. "Thank you." Tilda rose, her emotions a knot of irritation, worry, and fear. What if the money was gone? Unfortunately, it seemed that was the case.

"Good day, Miss Wren," he said with a smile. Did he not realize this had been a devastating meeting?

She turned and left his office.

Outside the building, she made her way across Chancery Lane. She was most eager to speak with her grandmother. She would call on Mr. Hardacre as soon as possible. At this point, she had to hope he'd stolen the money, for that was the only chance she had of recovering it.

And if she could not, then Mr. Whitley's strategy had better be a good one.

B ack in Parliament for the first time since his attack, Hadrian was welcomed robustly by his colleagues. And perhaps somewhat less so by his political adversaries. It was a Tuesday, the same day of the week he was stabbed.

After business concluded and Hadrian was making his way out of the building, he encountered the Viscount Ardleigh who gave him a cheerful smile. "Welcome back, Ravenhurst. When I saw you at Sir Henry Meacham's funeral last week, I suspected you'd return to your chair here soon. I apologize for not mentioning that dastardly business you suffered. Seemed inappropriate at the funeral."

"No need to apologize," Hadrian said. "I am much recovered, thank you."

"And we're glad to see it," an MP called Gilbert said. He came up behind Hadrian and clapped him on the shoulder. "Could have been so much worse," he added soberly. "Like Crawford."

Patrick Crawford was an MP from Kent. Hadrian frowned. "What happened to Crawford?" He was a relatively young man, not even forty years old.

"He was attacked, same as you," another MP who'd joined them said. The man, Dillingsworth, was young and earnest, serving in the Commons for the first time. "But he died."

Hadrian was shocked to hear this news. How had he missed it? "I wasn't aware of any of that."

"How can that be?" Gilbert asked in surprise. "He was stabbed the week after you and in the same location."

Hadrian had to work to keep from gaping at the man. But had it been the same man who'd stabbed Hadrian? That would be awfully coincidental, though Crawford being attacked in the same manner and in the same place as Hadrian a week later was the definition of coincidence. There was no way, in Hadrian's mind, that the assailant was a simple footpad.

Ardleigh's expression was solemn. "It was a shock after you'd also been attacked in a similar fashion, and both of you on a Tuesday evening."

"What sort of footpad stabs the person they are robbing?" Dillingsworth asked.

His question nearly made Hadrian smile. Finally, someone with common sense that was apparently lacking at Scotland Yard. "Crawford was determined to have been killed by a footpad?" Hadrian asked.

"That's what we heard," Gilbert said.

"That seems incredibly reckless—and pointless. Unless the man wasn't really a footpad, but some sort of twisted killer," Hadrian said with more than a touch of anger. He realized he was furious about what had happened to him and that the case had been solved in a most unsatisfying fashion.

Ardleigh looked aghast. "A killer? I can't imagine that. Surely, this footpad became scared or something."

That hadn't been Hadrian's experience. His assailant had stabbed first and then hadn't even stolen from him.

Gilbert nodded. "Same as you, and on the same stretch of Parliament Street. Crawford was on his way to our Tuesday night card game at the White Stag. We're headed there now." The man blinked at Hadrian. "I hadn't realized before, but you and Crawford are about the same height and have a similar build. And your hair's the same color."

A chill raced down Hadrian's spine, and he had to quash a shiver. "Has anyone else been attacked since?"

That would be weeks ago now that Crawford had been killed. Hadrian was still surprised he hadn't known. Surely, he would have seen the notice in the newspaper. But it was possible he had not. He hadn't kept up on reading it during the first few weeks of his recovery. He'd been too busy sleeping and being distracted by the cursed ring.

"Not that we've heard," Ardleigh said with a shake of his head. "I, for one, have avoided that area. Not that I walk about London much at night."

Dillingsworth nodded in agreement. "I don't think anyone has walked alone down Parliament Street after dark since. A footpad who stabs people is bloody terrifying."

Yes, it was, and Hadrian couldn't believe Scotland Yard wasn't trying to make sense of that. He would go there now, demand to know if they'd perchance reopened his case after Crawford was killed. Though, he doubted it. Wouldn't they have informed him?

"Was Crawford robbed?" Hadrian asked. "If it was the same assailant, he left me on the pavement without claiming a single prize."

"I believe Crawford was relieved of his purse and pocket watch," Gilbert replied. "Terrible shame. Crawford was a good man."

Though Hadrian hadn't known him well and they didn't share the same general political beliefs, Crawford had seemed a dedicated and thoughtful MP. "It is a shame indeed," Hadrian agreed.

"You're welcome to join our game at the White Stag," Gilbert said, turning toward the door.

"Not tonight," Hadrian responded with a faint smile. "I do appreciate the invitation, but I think it's best I don't overdo it."

Gilbert gave him a nod. "Have a good evening then. Glad to have you back." He and Dillingsworth left together.

"Smart to take it easy," Ardleigh said. "Evening, Ravenhurst."

As the viscount departed, Hadrian's mind turned over the information he'd just learned. Though he had no proof whatsoever, he felt certain the same brigand had stabbed him and Crawford. The coincidence was too great. But why attack Hadrian and then Crawford in the same place on the same day in the same manner, then stop? He supposed it made sense the assailant would move on to another location, but it made even more sense that he would have done so after his failed assault on Hadrian—if thievery was his goal.

The fact that Crawford and Hadrian resembled each other was an important detail, as was the fact that they'd been attacked on the same night of the week, a night that Crawford was known to walk that length of Parliament Street on his way to the White Stag. Hadrian had to deduce that Crawford had been the assailant's target, not Hadrian. It explained the assailant's surprise when he'd seen Hadrian's face.

A moment later, Hadrian departed the same way as the others and set his hat atop his head as he stepped outside. The late winter evening was cool with a stiff breeze. However, he didn't don his gloves as he hastened toward Parliament Street.

Instead, he put the horrid ring on his little finger and urged it to show him something new. Could he perhaps see something to do with Crawford? That would be most helpful.

Walking quickly, he made his way to Parliament Street, a surprising apprehension catching hold of him. Hadrian looked about, and he realized he was looking for young boys who might distract him or men with their faces covered. Shivering, he crossed Bridge Street and worked to push the fear away. He didn't have time for such sensitivity, nor would he fall prey to it. His assailant had already stolen weeks of his life and left him with an abundance of unanswerable questions. Perhaps that was why he was so driven to discover the truth of why he'd been stabbed.

Hadrian began to slow as he drew nearer to the site of his assault. When it was but twenty paces in front of him, he stopped. Trepidation slithered up his spine. Twitching his shoulders as if he could dislodge the fear like a physical thing, he put all his focus on that night and what happened.

He recalled his errand that evening—he was to meet an inspector at Whitehall about the horrible explosion at Clerkenwell in December. The Fenians had allegedly blown a hole in the side of the prison to break out one of their own. However, the prison had learned something was afoot and exercised the prisoners in the morning instead of the afternoon when the explosion occurred. As a result, no one had escaped. Instead, the blast had killed and injured many innocent people who lived on the opposite side of the street.

The inspector, who claimed an Irish lineage, wanted to make sure the investigation was conducted with the utmost integrity. He'd sought Hadrian out because of his work on police and justice reform. Hadrian was even now lending his attention to a bill that would end public executions, which he found utterly barbaric.

Hell, now he was distracted. Taking a deep breath and mentally scolding himself, he refocused his mind on that night specifically. He'd been on his way to meet Inspector Teague. The night was cold, the street perhaps emptier than usual. But there'd been a boy. He'd asked Hadrian for money. The interaction had been enough to distract Hadrian just as his assailant had accosted him.

Had the boy's presence been a coincidence, or did he work in concert with the brigand who'd stabbed Hadrian?

Moving toward the place he'd been attacked, Hadrian saw the boy's face in his mind. This wasn't a vision from the ring but his own distinct memory.

Suddenly, he became overwhelmed with sensation. Surprise flowed through him then a sliver of fear. He felt a powerful urge to run. From what?

He was not afraid, regardless of what was washing over him. Why should he feel surprised?

A face flashed before him—a vision, and this time from the ring. But it was a face he knew better than any other: his own. There was the surprise and the fear, though not the need to run. No, he hadn't wanted to run that night, nor did he wish to do so now.

What he was seeing and feeling belonged to the man who'd worn the ring. He'd seen Hadrian's face in the lamplight and known surprise then fear. Then he'd wanted to flee. And he had.

Hadrian chased the vision once more, summoning his own face. It took several minutes, and his head began to ache. At last, it appeared along with the sensations. Then everything went instantly and completely black, as if the moment had been wiped away. As if there was nothing more.

That was the moment he'd pulled the ring from the brigand's finger.

Breathing heavily as if he had run, Hadrian removed the ring and returned it to his pocket. He didn't really have any new information, save the overwhelming emotions he'd felt. He grew more certain that the brigand had been targeting someone specific, and it hadn't been Hadrian.

But had it been Crawford who had perished the very next week?

It also seemed clear now that the ring gave him the thoughts and impressions of the man who'd worn it right up until the moment it had left his finger. Hadrian thought of the table at the Bell and the table at Sir Henry's. Those objects had also given him visions and impressions, so he had to conclude that the ability came from him , not the object. They were merely conduits for this newfound power. He sounded as though he was losing his mind. What other explanation could there be for what was happening to him?

Hadrian massaged his forehead as he continued along Parliament Street until it met Whitehall. A few minutes later, he turned into Whitehall Place. Scotland Yard, the headquarters of the Metropolitan Police, stood ahead.

It occurred to Hadrian as he walked into the main doorway that Inspector Teague may not be present this evening. Nevertheless, Hadrian would inquire. He had too many questions about these attacks and was most eager to find answers. As it happened, he was in luck. Teague was still on the premises.

A clerk showed Hadrian to the inspector's office. The door was slightly ajar, but Hadrian rapped on the wood. "Inspector Teague?"

"Come."

Hadrian pushed the door wider and stepped inside. "Good evening, Inspector. I hope I'm not disturbing you."

In his middle thirties with dark red hair and a pale, angular face, the inspector looked up from his desk at Hadrian. "Lord Ravenhurst, what a surprise. I trust you received my note following your attack."

Teague had conveyed his regards and hope for Hadrian's full recovery in a missive that also included his regret that he hadn't been assigned as the investigator on the case.

"I did, thank you. I appreciate your kindness."

"I'm glad to see you walking about." Teague folded his hands atop the desk. "That was a nasty wound you suffered, and I understand you were also concussed."

"Quite. I had a beast of a headache for weeks," Hadrian replied. His head ached now, in fact, because of the visions he'd had a short while ago.

"Fully recovered now though?" Teague asked.

Unless one counted his deteriorating sanity. "I believe so. Though you weren't assigned to my case, I was hoping you could share what was learned during the investigation. I would ask Inspector Padgett, but I found him rather dour." His interview of Hadrian had been short and devoid of concern, not to mention the fact that Padgett believed a footpad would stab his quarry and then not steal anything. Hadrian had to question the man's capability.

"Take a seat," Teague said, indicating a chair next to his desk. "I'm happy to help but since I wasn't involved with the investigation, I may not be able to answer your questions. You may need to speak to Padgett after all, though he's not here this evening."

Hadrian removed his hat and sat down. "I understand. Is there a report I could read?"

"Certainly. I can fetch that for you."

"Thank you. I Just learned that Mr. Patrick Crawford was killed the week after I was attacked—in the same location and he was stabbed as I was."

Teague's brow creased. "Yes, that was somewhat of a coincidence."

"Too much of one, don't you think? Surely a footpad wouldn't hunt the same ground where he'd stabbed someone so recently. And why would a footpad stab his mark in the first place? He didn't even steal anything from me." Hadrian chose not to point out that he'd done the stealing—he was not prepared to surrender the ring just yet, in case it had more to reveal. "That's a murderer, not a footpad."

"But he stole from Crawford, I believe," Teague pointed out.

"You think it's the same culprit?" Hadrian asked.

"I don't know because I didn't investigate. I'm not sure what Padgett concluded. I only know what I do from the constables who came to your aid and found Crawford." He pressed his lips together in a sour expression. "Padgett is a solitary bloke, and he doesn't work well with others. You should read the coroner's inquest about Crawford's death. I can fetch that for you as well."

"That would be much appreciated, thank you." Hadrian considered sharing his suspicion that the alleged footpad hadn't meant to attack him at all. But he wasn't ready to reveal that. He wanted to read the report to see if there was any evidence that might lend credibility to his speculation. As it was, he had inexplicable visions and intuition. Those didn't exactly make a compelling case.

Instead, Hadrian said, "I hope you won't mind me asking you about something else. An acquaintance of mine died last week—Sir Henry Meacham. His death was sudden and apparently attributed to a heart attack, however, at his funeral his daughter said he'd suffered a terrible wound to his right side. I wondered if there'd been an inquest into his death." Hadrian was all but certain there hadn't been. Surely, someone at the funeral would have mentioned it.

Teague narrowed his eyes at Hadrian. "Forgive me, my lord, but why are you inquiring about such a thing?"

Hadrian decided a minor fabrication would be beneficial in this instance. "The family found it odd that he would have a wound like that if he'd died of a heart attack. I offered to obtain what information I could for them."

"While that is kind of you to offer your assistance, I shouldn't discuss the matter with you," Teague said. "Though, I am not aware of an inquest."

"The way his daughter described the wound brought my own injury to mind," Hadrian pressed. "I couldn't help wondering if he'd been the victim of a stabbing." Saying this out loud made Hadrian realize how incredibly foolish he sounded.

Teague gave him a patient look tinged with something between pity and sympathy. "I think perhaps your attack has made you…hypervigilant." Was that a polite way of saying Hadrian's sanity was slipping?

Or was he implying that Hadrian had been shaken by his attack? He bloody well had been, though he hadn't realized how much until he'd walked along Parliament Street tonight.

Whatever the man had meant, he'd made Hadrian feel as though he were a child who required coddling, which he did not. He only needed better judgment, for he never should have mentioned Sir Henry. He was going to have to find another way to learn about the man's death and what his connection had been to Hadrian's assailant.

"I'm sure you're right," Hadrian said benignly. "I fear the threat to my mortality has left me questioning a great many things."

"Wait here whilst I see about those reports and the inquest." Teague stood and departed the office, leaving the door ajar. He was gone at least ten minutes.

Hadrian turned his head as he heard the inspector return. He noticed the man was carrying a thin sheaf of papers.

"Here's Crawford's inquest," Teague said handing the papers to Hadrian. "However, the clerk says both your and Crawford's cases have been closed. The reports are filed away, but I can retrieve them tomorrow."

Disappointment curled through Hadrian as he skimmed the first page of the inquest. It was not a long document.

Teague sat down in his chair. "I shouldn't let you leave with that, but there will be copies. I can get one for you tomorrow, if you like."

"It says Crawford was murdered," Hadrian said. That was no surprise. He read the next page containing testimony. Only the constable and Inspector Padgett had been interviewed. But who else would they have spoken with? Hadrian looked over at the inspector. "Did anyone even try to find, let alone arrest, the assailant?"

"I can't say. Were you able to provide a good description of your assailant?"

Hadrian scowled. "No. His face was mostly covered. I would recognize his eyes anywhere, though." And he was fairly certain the man lived near the Monument to the Great Fire not Westminster. There was no way he could explain to Teague how he knew that, however.

"These kinds of crimes often go unsolved," Teague said. "It's almost impossible to find people such as this footpad."

"You won't convince me this was a footpad. I would hope that constables are patrolling that area more heavily, in case the man returns." It seemed unlikely, since he'd struck two weeks in a row and not in the several weeks since. And that was perplexing too.

"I confess, this is an odd situation," Teague mused. "These two attacks were very similar. I'll find these reports tomorrow and look at them myself."

Hadrian was glad to hear it. "I appreciate that, Inspector." Setting his hat atop his head, Hadrian rose.

"Good evening, Ravenhurst," the inspector said as Hadrian left the man's office.

The headache from earlier persisted, and now Hadrian's frustration seemed to strengthen it. Stepping into the cold night, he hastened toward Whitehall where he would hail a hack to take him home.

It was time to call on Miss Wren. She'd offered, twice, to help him with his private matter. Whilst he had no intention of telling her of his curse, he would hope she could help him solve the mystery of Hadrian's assailant and how he was tied to Sir Henry.