Chapter 19
CHAPTER 19
T wo things were evident to Tilda in the moment immediately following Oliver Chambers’ confession. First, he was lying. He’d no more killed Louis than Hadrian had. Second, he was trying to save Beryl. She’d already deduced that he was likely Beryl’s lover, but now it was certain.
Tilda looked up at Oliver. “How long have you and Beryl been having an affair?” She felt the stares of all three men in the room but did not move her gaze from her subject.
“We weren’t having an affair,” Oliver said quickly. “At least not like you may think.” His face burned crimson, and Tilda recalled that she was speaking to a former curate. His morals were perhaps slightly more intact than those of his degenerate, deceased brother.
“Please explain,” she urged with a patient smile.
“I love her. I have for some time.” His shoulders slumped, making him appear as defeated as he sounded.
“And does she reciprocate your sentiments?”
Oliver rotated his hat in his hands. “I believe so.” He didn’t sound completely convinced.
Tilda wasn’t sure Beryl was all that trustworthy, particularly after the way she’d behaved with Hadrian earlier.
“You realize you can’t marry her,” Teague pointed out.
Since Beryl was Oliver’s brother’s widow, they would not be permitted to wed. It was a ridiculous law.
“I know. That is why we have tried to stay apart.”
“But you haven’t been entirely successful, have you?” Tilda prodded. “Do you enter your brother’s house through the back door to visit Beryl?”
Oliver’s eyes rounded. “No, we would usually meet somewhere and then go for a ride in my brother’s coach.” His neck flushed, and he looked away.
“Has this been going on since you returned to London?” Tilda asked.
Again, Oliver blushed. “It started during a visit last autumn. I came to see my mother on her birthday.”
“Why did Louis give you twenty pounds in December?” Hadrian asked.
Oliver snapped his gaze to Hadrian. “How do you know about that?”
“The payment is recorded in the household ledger,” Hadrian replied. “Were you in need of funds? Since you are now investing in your brother’s drapery shop, it seems you were not.”
Oliver shrugged. “He assumed I needed help. He and I inherited less from our father than Daniel did. And I inherited the least of all. Louis felt bad about that. I gave it to Beryl as I knew he’d decreased her pin money.”
Tilda arched a brow at Oliver. “How ironic since it seems Louis sold some of her jewelry, and the funds from that likely went to you and then on to her. I wonder if she would prefer to have her jewelry back instead.”
Oliver clutched the hat to his chest. “That is why I gave her the money,” he said quietly. “She told me that Louis had been stealing her jewels.”
Teague crossed his arms and fixed an expectant stare on Oliver. “If you indeed killed your brother, why would you put the knife you used to stab him in Beryl’s dresser? Surely you would know that would make her appear guilty.”
Blanching, Oliver sputtered.
“And were you also poisoning him?” Teague asked. “How and when did you administer the poison? How did you gain access to the house?” When Oliver said nothing, Teague uncrossed his arms. “You didn’t kill your brother, did you?”
“No.” Oliver made a sound rather like a whimper as he cast his gaze toward the floor. “I can’t watch Beryl go to prison.”
“If she killed her husband, she will hang,” Teague said darkly.
Oliver twitched, and Tilda felt a rush of sympathy for the man. No matter what she thought of these people, it would be difficult to watch someone you cared about swing from the end of a rope in front of a jeering crowd. It was such a barbaric way to die, in Tilda’s opinion. She hoped the current push to eliminate public executions was successful.
“You may go, Mr. Chambers,” Teague said. “Though if you think of anything else that will be useful to my investigation, please let me know immediately. It may be the information that sets Mrs. Chambers free.”
Oliver’s features brightened. “I hadn’t considered that. I’ll try to think of anything helpful.”
After Oliver departed, Teague frowned at the door. “I took Mrs. Chambers into custody hoping she might confess. Instead, I provoked her paramour. She maintains that she is innocent.” He moved from behind the desk and situated the chair near them once more before sitting down. Looking at Tilda, he asked, “Who is your primary suspect?”
“Beryl, for the reasons I stated earlier. But we must also consider the Pollards, who had a motive to protect their business from Louis Chambers’ financial woes.” Tilda could not tell him what Hadrian had seen—that Joanna Pollard had visited Martha Farrow and that Louis Chambers had likely made a seductive advance upon her.
“What about the Chambers’ retainers?” Teague asked.
“They don’t seem to have liked him much, but their motives are not as strong as the Pollards’ or Beryl’s. With the exception of Massey,” Tilda said. “Chambers knew his secret and was not above threatening the valet about it. I was curious as to why the coroner didn’t question him about that at the inquest.”
Teague cleared his throat. “Massey explained to me that he visits the Cock and Hen because he meets his lover there. It is not a situation I wanted to draw attention to at the inquest. I am aware of it, however, and acknowledge that Massey does have a motive to kill Chambers. Furthermore, I will pursue him as a suspect as the evidence indicates.”
“We must also consider Martha, even though she too is dead,” Tilda pointed out. “She was carrying Chambers’ child, and he forced her to resign.”
Teague squinted faintly at his desk. “After cleaning the knife she used to stab Louis, she stole into Beryl’s room and put it in her dresser drawer? That assumes my constables are mistaken about it not being there.”
Tilda inclined her head. “She did know the house very well and would have known that Beryl was unlikely to wake due to her sleeping draught.”
“Excellent points,” Teague said. “Still, I think Beryl is the likeliest candidate.” He looked to Hadrian. “I know that isn’t what you want to hear.”
Hadrian met Teague’s gaze. “The truth is what matters. Will Beryl be staying here tonight?”
“Yes,” Teague replied. “I am still hopeful she might decide to reveal more than she has.”
Tilda rose. “And what if she’s telling the truth?”
“That’s always impossible to know, isn’t it?” Teague stood and opened the door for Tilda and Hadrian. They agreed to share information if they learned anything.
When they were in the coach on the way to Tilda’s house, Hadrian shook his head. “That was not how I expected the day to go.”
“Nor did I,” Tilda said. “I am not surprised, however, to have confirmation of Oliver and Beryl’s association.”
“Though it is sad that they have no future together,” Hadrian remarked.
“I’m not convinced she would have wanted one.” Tilda glanced toward Hadrian. “When Oliver said he believed Beryl reciprocated his feelings, he didn’t seem certain. And her behavior leads me to believe she may be interested in someone else.”
“What behavior is that?” His eyes focused on her in the dim light of the coach. When Tilda didn’t immediately reply, he asked, “Did you see her kiss me?”
Tilda’s heart knocked about in her chest as her pulse sped. “I didn’t mean to spy. I was curious. That’s my job.”
He smiled softly, and the blue of his eyes was especially arresting—rich and deep, like the sky just outside London after the sun has dipped below the horizon before it turned dark. Tilda had found him handsome when they’d met, but she’d avoided thinking of him that way since. Mostly. Right now, she could not deny that he was attractive, nor that she was drawn to him. Or would be—if she was interested in any sort of romantic entanglement.
Which she was not. She could not.
“I was surprised when she did it,” he went on. “I did not appreciate her overture, nor do I want that to happen again. I told her so. I’ve no romantic interest in Beryl.”
Why was he telling her this? “That’s probably for the best since she is currently in the custody of the Metropolitan Police.”
Hadrian smiled again, a bit more widely, and the butterflies he sometimes stirred in Tilda’s belly returned. He sobered as he brushed his hand over his thigh. “There is only one woman I would consider kissing, and it isn’t Beryl.” He held her gaze.
Tilda’s heart beat a staccato rhythm. Was he flirting with her? And not in the superficial way that was expected when men and women socialize. She wasn’t sure she knew how to flirt back.
“Why haven’t you kissed that woman?” The question tumbled from her mouth. Was that her attempt at flirting, or was she actually thinking of what it might be like to kiss him?
She swallowed. Perhaps he wasn’t even talking about her. Indeed, it was likely he wasn’t. Why would he want to kiss her of all people? They were associates. Friends, at best. Tilda was not someone the Earl of Ravenhurst would consider kissing.
“I’m not sure she wants me to.”
The coach stopped in front of Tilda’s grandmother’s house. She still couldn’t be sure he was talking about her. Regardless, she was now thinking of what she would do if he did kiss her.
She’d kissed precisely one man. A boy, really. He’d been seventeen, and she’d been fifteen. It had been an experiment on her part—an investigation.
With Hadrian, she somehow knew it would be quite different. And she could not deny it intrigued her.
Leach opened the door, and Tilda once again spoke without thinking. “You may find the woman wouldn’t mind if you did.” She stepped out of the coach with Leach’s assistance and called back to Hadrian, “See you tomorrow.”
“I’ll pick you up at eleven to go to the drapery shop,” he said.
Hopefully by then Tilda would have stopped contemplating what it would be like to kiss him. She simply could not indulge such fancy.
H adrian stepped out of his coach in front of Tilda’s grandmother’s house the following morning. The narrow terrace was neat and simple, a perfectly respectable home. But after his thoughts yesterday regarding what Tilda must think of his house, he was looking at hers in a new way.
Or perhaps it was the flirting they’d done yesterday.
He made his way slowly to the door, wondering how she would receive him. He feared he’d overstepped when he’d said there was only one woman he wanted to kiss. But he hadn’t thought about what he was saying. The words had shot from his mouth, a direct truth he’d never intended to share.
Because he hadn’t realized he wanted to kiss her until that moment.
Since then, the idea had occupied far too much of his mind. He needed to push it away and focus on their investigation.
Except she’d told him she wouldn’t mind him kissing her.
But had she, really? Perhaps she hadn’t even realized he was talking about her.
Hell, he was woefully out of practice with this sort of thing. He’d completely denied the potential for romantic entanglement since Beryl. This situation—allowing Beryl back into his life even for a short time—was making him think of things he’d buried for years, namely whether he truly wanted to forego marriage or if he was merely avoiding the possibility of another disappointment. Of humiliation. Of wondering what he lacked and someone like Louis Chambers possessed.
Vaughn greeted him at the door just as a light rain started. Hadrian stepped inside to see Tilda waiting for him. She was back to wearing her regular wardrobe, which, after seeing her in yesterday’s new, extremely flattering gown, seemed lackluster. Still, regardless of what she wore, Hadrian found her beautiful. Perhaps even distractingly so after yesterday’s flirtation.
But he wasn’t going to think about that.
Tilda’s grandmother stepped into the entrance hall from the parlor and bade Hadrian good morning.
“Good morning, Mrs. Wren. I trust you are well.”
“Exceedingly, thank you.” She beamed at him.
Hadrian returned her smile. “I hope you don’t mind me taking Tilda away from you again.”
Mrs. Wren shook her head before looking upon her granddaughter with unabashed love and pride. “We shall never tire of your presence or your association with Tilda.”
Tilda drew on her second glove. “I’ll see you later, Grandmama.” She kissed her grandmother’s cheek before moving across the entrance hall.
Hadrian stepped aside as Vaughn opened the door. “It’s raining. I’ve a pair of umbrellas in the coach.”
She cocked a brow at him. “A pair?”
“Leach is always prepared,” Hadrian said with a chuckle.
“Well, they do us no good at the moment.” Her mouth curled into a grin. The expression was brief, but it lit the dreary day.
“I didn’t say good morning to you,” he said as they hurried to the coach. “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” she replied as Leach opened the door and helped her inside.
Hadrian considered sitting opposite her. However, things did not seem to be awkward between them. Perhaps they were just going to ignore their conversation from yesterday.
“I hope you slept well,” she said. “We must prepare ourselves for a difficult assignment this morning with the Pollards.”
“How so?” Hadrian asked as the coach moved toward their destination on Oxford Street. It seemed she preferred to avoid discussing yesterday’s flirtation. Which was fine. It was better that they focus on the investigation.
“My goal is to discover why Joanna visited Martha,” Tilda said. “However, we can’t explain how we know that she did. She was veiled, after all. It’s not likely that someone would have recognized her or even been able to describe her.”
“You’ve an idea to provoke her to confess?”
Tilda lifted a shoulder. “I have some thoughts. I do think we must divide and conquer with Mr. and Mrs. Pollard, and our stated purpose ought to be shopping.”
“Shopping?”
“I will begin with Mrs. Pollard by asking her for a gown.”
Hadrian’s admiration for Tilda’s intellect somehow grew. It had already been quite high. “That’s brilliant. You’ll have her talking about something she loves. She’ll relax, and who knows what she will reveal.”
“Exactly,” Tilda replied with a nod. “Can you do the same with Pollard?”
“I will endeavor, though I am not sure what he is passionate about. The store, I suppose?”
“He also seems to like his club,” Tilda noted.
“True. I’ll do my best to befriend him. Or appear to, anyway.” Hadrian still hadn’t warmed to the man, though their interactions had been limited.
After a few minutes of silence, Tilda asked, “Have you been worried about Beryl?”
Hadrian had wondered how she’d spent her night incarcerated. “I hope it wasn’t too uncomfortable. I actually found myself wondering what will happen to her when this is over— if she is innocent.”
“It seems her family won’t help her. She may need to marry again.” Tilda wrinkled her nose. “It’s a shame she’d have to relinquish her independence as a widow.”
Hadrian smiled. “I imagine that independence would appeal to you.”
“Indeed it would, though the ‘becoming a widow’ aspect does not.”
“Because that would mean losing your spouse?”
She inclined her head. “As well as taking one to begin with.”
Yes, she was staunchly against marriage. Another reason, perhaps the primary one, he needed to not think of kissing her. It was one thing for a widow to carry on with a gentleman but quite another for an unmarried woman, even someone who considered herself a spinster.
“Is there no circumstance in which you would marry?” he found himself asking. “Not even love?”
“Not even love,” she said, her gaze moving toward the window. “We have arrived.”
The coach slowed and came to a stop. And that was the end of their intriguing conversation.
They departed the coach, and Tilda took his proffered arm. It was a short walk to the door of the shop. She took her hand from Hadrian’s sleeve as he knocked.
A moment later, Pollard answered, his brows immediately pitching into a V. “Why have you come again? The murder is solved. Mrs. Chambers has been arrested.”
“She has indeed,” Tilda said. “We have come on another matter. I am in need of a gown, and I was hoping Mrs. Pollard might help me.”
“I decided to accompany Miss Wren,” Hadrian said with a smile, warming to his new role. “I couldn’t help noticing the men’s gloves that were stacked on a case during our last visit.”
Pollard appeared nonplussed. “But we aren’t open for business.”
“As I understand it, you should be,” Hadrian replied. “If you would prefer we went elsewhere, perhaps you can recommend an alternative.”
“No, no, come in.” Pollard opened the door more widely.
Hadrian escorted Tilda inside. She cast him a surreptitious but clearly approving glance. Hadrian felt a rush of pride. Perhaps he had achieved novice investigator status.
“We do hope to open in a fortnight now that we have partnered with Oliver Chambers,” Pollard said in an animated tone. It was the most pleasant he’d ever sounded since Hadrian had met him.
“How marvelous,” Tilda said. “Where is Mrs. Pollard?”
Pollard glanced toward the central staircase. “She is upstairs. I can take you up.”
Tilda waved her hand and gave Pollard a warm smile. “No need. I’ll find my way. Lord Ravenhurst is keen to buy new gloves. And perhaps a neckcloth or two.” She waggled her brows at Hadrian before moving toward the staircase.
Hadrian smiled after her, his gaze lingering on the alluring sway of her hips before recalling that he must not look at her in that way or think of her as anything other than a friend and business associate.
Pollard gestured for Hadrian to accompany him. “The gloves have been placed in their case, which is back here. The front of the shop will have ladies’ items as they will be our primary customers. Men aren’t as inclined to shopping, in my experience.” He glanced toward Hadrian as they passed near the staircase and into a corner where the men’s gloves were located. “Indeed, I’m surprised you would think to come to my shop, my lord. Do you purchase your own clothing and accessories?”
“I confess I have a tailor in Saville Row, and I typically leave the accessories to my very capable valet. However, I saw your stack of gloves and thought it might be nice to try some on for myself for a change.”
“Certainly, my lord. Is there something in particular you are looking for?”
“Not really. Why don’t you show me what you think is best?” He gave Pollard an encouraging smile as he removed his gloves. At last, he would have the opportunity to touch Pollard.
The gloves were arrayed in the case from white to black with an array of colors in between. Pollard stepped behind it to open the back.
“What a pleasing display,” Hadrian remarked.
“Joanna’s work,” Pollard said with a measure of pride. “She has an eye for such things.” He pulled a dove-gray pair from the case and slid them over to Hadrian.
Hadrian masked his disappointment. He would much rather have had Pollard hand them to him so he could at least try to see a vision from the man. But the moment Hadrian picked up the gloves, he was transported to another time and place.
He recognized it immediately—Beryl’s bedchamber. He stood before the dresser and watched as a dark-gloved hand opened the drawer … and tucked a long kitchen knife behind neatly stacked handkerchiefs. The vision came with an accompanying sense of nervousness and excitement. There was also a distinct rush of daring and risk.
Had Pollard put the knife in Beryl’s drawer? Or had it been his wife since she’d also handled these gloves? He watched as the hand closed the drawer. It was small, feminine.
It had to be Joanna Pollard. But why? And when had she done this?
Her glove was black, which meant it was likely the funeral yesterday.
The vision dissipated. Hadrian’s head began to ache as he pulled on the dove-gray gloves.
“Those are quite nice, if you don’t mind my saying,” Pollard noted.
“They are,” Hadrian said vaguely as he pulled them off and set them atop the case. “What about the darker gray?”
“An excellent choice,” Pollard said as he pulled them from the case.
Hadrian put his hand out this time, hoping for even a scintilla of contact with Pollard. He was not disappointed—until he was. Though Pollard’s fingertips grazed Hadrian’s palm, it wasn’t enough to spark a vision or even a feeling.
But as Hadrian pulled on the first glove, he once again found himself in the Chambers’ house. This time he was in Louis’s bedchamber. It was dark, but someone carried a lantern. Hadrian strove to see their face. It was the blonde maid—Martha Farrow, certainly. She handed the lantern to whoever’s memory Hadrian was seeing. It had to be Joanna Pollard, didn’t it?
Joanna took the lantern in her left hand as she handed something from her right.
The knife.
She stood with the lantern on one side of Louis’s bed, whilst Martha walked around to the other. Joanna set the lantern on the table beside the bed and reached down to shove at Louis’s shoulder. He stirred.
Louis blinked as he fixed on Joanna, then turned his head toward Martha. She looked angry. No, furious. She waved the knife in front of his face. Fear gripped his features. He nodded.
Joanna’s hands, including the one holding the lantern, moved wildly. She was just as furious as Martha appeared. But it was more than that. There was rage but also a violent urge.
Suddenly, Martha plunged the knife into Louis’s chest. Joanna slapped one hand over his mouth and held his arm with the other as he began to flail.
The vision faded, and Hadrian hastily pulled on the other glove, his head throbbing. He wanted to see what happened next.
But what he saw next was not that. He was now at the lodging house, the veil making his vision hazy. Though he could still make out Martha. She held something that she thrust toward Joanna. The item lay in her palm—it was the brooch they’d found in Martha’s bedroom at the lodging house.
Joanna knocked the brooch from Martha’s hand. Then she stepped forward, putting her hands out toward Martha.
Hadrian felt the connection of Joanna’s fingertips with Martha’s shoulders, then her palms as Joanna shoved the poor maid. Martha stumbled backward and hit the railing. She tried to grasp the wood, but it gave, just as it had when Tilda had touched it. Wobbling the barest moment, Martha’s mouth opened in a silent—because Hadrian couldn’t hear her—cry as she fell over the railing.
Hadrian had never felt such agony in his head. He put his hand to his temple as the vision disappeared, leaving him with a sense of diminishing rage and escalating fear.
“Are you all right, Lord Ravenhurst?”
The question sounded as if it were coming from far away. Hadrian blinked hard, which made pain shoot through his forehead. “I’m fine,” he managed, taking a deep breath. Or trying to. The effort made his head hurt more if that was possible.
He’d never had so many visions in rapid succession. In truth, he felt queasy in addition to his head aching.
“You look a bit pale, if I may say,” Pollard said. “Would you like to sit down?”
He would, in fact, but what he’d seen in the visions came back to him. “I would like to find Miss Wren, actually.” Immediately.
She was with a killer.