Chapter 5
That afternoon, Hadrian arrived at Tilda’s grandmother’s house and didn’t even knock before Vaughn, their butler, opened the door.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” the septuagenarian said as welcomed Hadrian inside. “It’s always a pleasure to see you.”
“Thank you, Vaughn. Likewise.”
“Looks as if it’s going to rain,” the butler noted conversationally.
“Yes, perhaps sooner than later. I think I felt a drop as I walked to the door.” Hadrian was just glad it hadn’t rained on them that morning at Hampstead Heath.
“Miss Wren is awaiting you in the parlor.” Vaughn gestured to the room to the left of the entrance hall.
“Thank you.” Hadrian removed his hat, but not his gloves, since they would be leaving shortly. In fact, Hadrian wondered why he was going into the parlor at all.
“May I take that for you?” Vaughn asked, eyeing Hadrian’s hat.
“No, thank you. I won’t be staying long.” He smiled at the butler before turning and going into the parlor.
Tilda stood with her hat and gloves already in place and her reticule in hand. He could see from her expression that she was eager to depart, but it was apparent why they were not already on their way. Her grandmother, Mrs. Wren, sat in her chair near the window.
She wore a bright smile and was clearly pleased to see Hadrian. “I’m delighted you came in to see me before you hurry off.”
“It is my privilege,” Hadrian said, walking toward Tilda’s grandmother and giving her a courtly bow.
Mrs. Wren laughed softly. “You always know how to flatter me. I can’t believe the two of you are working on another case so soon. Surely you should rest between your assignments.” She glanced toward Tilda.
“We conduct investigations as we are needed, Grandmama,” Tilda said with perhaps an edge of impatience. “I told you this is a very important and most urgent case.”
“Well, I hope you’ll be able to take a respite when you’ve concluded this one,” her grandmother said with a note of disapproval.
Whilst she supported her granddaughter’s work, she also hoped to see Tilda pursue more traditional activities, such as marriage and motherhood.
It was not a point of contention between them as far as Hadrian could see, but he suspected the news of their courtship would please Mrs. Wren.
Unless she already knew. But Hadrian didn’t think so. Tilda surely would have said something.
“I do think it’s time that Lord Ravenhurst and perhaps his mother join us for dinner one evening,” Mrs. Wren added.
“We can discuss that later,” Tilda replied tightly. “However, now his lordship and I must be on our way.”
“I know you’ve somewhere important to be.” Mrs. Wren pursed her lips. “On a Sunday afternoon, of all times.” She exhaled.
“We won’t be gone terribly long,” Tilda said before preceding Hadrian from the parlor into the entrance hall. Hadrian placed his hat back on his head and nodded toward Vaughn, who opened the door.
As Hadrian escorted Tilda to the coach, gentle drops of rain sprinkled upon them. Hadrian had already informed Leach of their destination. They climbed into the coach and were quickly on their way to Stepney.
Rather than ask Tilda about the case yet, Hadrian slid her a curious glance. “It appears your grandmother is not yet aware of our courtship.”
“No,” Tilda confirmed. “It hasn’t seemed appropriate to discuss that amidst everything that’s going on. I plan to tell her as soon as we find Miss Chadwick.”
Hadrian studied her charming profile—her strong chin and pert nose that he’d come to know almost as well as his own. “You haven’t had a change of heart, have you?”
She snapped her head toward him, her eyes widening slightly. “No, why would you think that?”
He shrugged. “Just asking a question.”
She exhaled. “I have not changed my mind. I’m just incredibly distracted by this horrible case. I hate that Miss Chadwick has not been returned.”
“I know, and I apologize if I made it seem as if our courtship should take precedence over finding and rescuing her.” The simple fact was that Hadrian wanted the entire world to know how he felt about Tilda and that she was his—or would hopefully be.
In his mind, he was already hers. “What do you expect to learn from Hopkins?”
“Anything he can tell us about Spring-heeled Jack and the investigation he conducted thirty years ago. I hope he has a good memory,” she said wryly.
“If not, the clerk from Scotland Yard should be able to obtain the record books,” Hadrian said.
“I hope so.” Tilda fidgeted with her reticule during the ride to Stepney. Hadrian had never noticed her do that before. She truly was agitated about this case, not that he blamed her.
Arriving at Hopkins’s modest terrace on Salter Street, Hadrian was pleased to see the rain had stopped. They were greeted at the door by a woman in her late sixties. She surveyed them with a weary curiosity, her bright hazel gaze lingering on Hadrian.
“May I help you?” she asked tentatively.
“Good afternoon,” Tilda said. “I’m Miss Wren, and this is Lord Ravenhurst. We’ve come to speak with Mr. Hopkins about a case he investigated thirty years ago.”
The woman’s expression changed dramatically. She was somehow seemingly both aghast and intimidated. “You can’t be with the Metropolitan Police,” the woman said to Tilda as she flicked a nervous glance toward Hadrian. “Why would you need to speak with my husband?”
“I am a private detective,” Tilda replied. “Lord Ravenhurst is my associate. We’re working on a case, and we hope Mr. Hopkins can be of assistance.”
“I’m sure he’d like that.” Mrs. Hopkins again glanced at Hadrian, her cheeks flushing slightly. She quickly adjusted her cap, which had been sitting a bit askew atop her white hair. “My husband has been retired for some time now, but he misses the work. Come in.”
She showed them to a room at the back of the ground floor. It was something between a study and a sitting room.
“Joseph, you have guests.” Mrs. Hopkins moved to the man dozing in a chair near the hearth and touched his arm.
Hopkins’s head was mostly bald, save a band of gray hair that started above his ears and ringed his head. He jolted awake and sat up straight. “What’s that?”
Mrs. Hopkins gestured toward Tilda and Hadrian. “Lord Ravenhurst and Miss Wren. They’ve come to speak to you about a case. They’re private detectives, or at least, Miss Wren is. I’m not sure about his lordship.” She sent Hadrian a fleeting smile, again displaying her nervousness.
It seemed Mrs. Hopkins found Hadrian’s role both curious and perhaps strange, but that was understandable. He also realized it was possible she’d never met a peer, and here Hadrian was calling at her house.
“I’ll fetch tea.” Mrs. Hopkins gestured for Tilda and Hadrian to take a pair of chairs near where Hopkins was seated.
“That isn’t necessary,” Tilda said kindly, but Hadrian disagreed.
He didn’t want to offend Mrs. Hopkins. “That would be welcome, thank you.” He sent Tilda an apologetic glance. She responded with a quizzical stare, then gave a faint shrug before turning her attention to Hopkins.
Hadrian removed his gloves in anticipation of drinking the tea—and in shaking Hopkins’s hand at some point. Perhaps he’d see something helpful. Hadrian always wanted to try.
“How can I help you?” Hopkins asked, glancing between Tilda and Hadrian.
Tilda clutched her reticule in her lap and sat ramrod straight. “We understand you were the primary investigator into an attack on Miss Lucy Scales in February 1838.”
Hopkins snorted. “Are you really a detective?” His eyes narrowed with disbelief. “Or are you a writer or a journalist seeking to profit from the stories about Spring-heeled Jack? I can’t believe someone’s tried to make him into a hero,” Hopkins scoffed.
“I’m here seeking the truth of what happened thirty years ago,” Tilda replied.
“I imagine you’ve had inquiries from plenty of people seeking to sensationalize Spring-heeled Jack, but I’m truly a private detective, and I’ve been hired to find a missing young woman.
Her kidnapper claims to be Spring-heeled Jack. ”
Hopkins blinked at them in surprise. “A kidnapper, you say? Spring-heeled Jack didn’t abduct anyone in my time.
He attacked a couple of young women, which caused terrible hysteria, but he wasn’t a kidnapper.
We didn’t catch the man—or men—behind those attacks or any of the other Spring-heeled Jacks who were sighted. ”
“You think there was more than one man?” Hadrian asked.
“Those of us working on the investigations thought it was possible, given the number of sightings in different places,” Hopkins replied.
“However, we believed the attacks here in London were committed by the same perpetrator. Still, he wasn’t a kidnapper and that was decades ago. I’m not sure how I can help.”
“Since this kidnapper has adopted the identity of Spring-heeled Jack, we hope details from your investigation might aid us in catching him.” Tilda removed her notebook and pencil from her reticule.
“Can you tell us about the incident with Miss Scales and your investigation? You worked for H Division?”
“I did. I was hired when the Met was formed.” Hopkins rubbed his fingertips briefly against his forehead.
“I still remember the investigation into Miss Scales’s attack quite clearly.
It’s the most notorious case I ever investigated.
As you mentioned, I have indeed been asked about it many times since, which has kept my memories fresh. ”
Hopkins’s brow creased as he leaned forward slightly.
“Spring-heeled Jack had been seen and talked about for several months before he appeared around here in February of 1838. Miss Alsop was attacked first, on the nineteenth. It caused a great fervor, and by the time Miss Scales was attacked on the twenty-eighth, people, especially young women, were very afraid to open their doors or walk about, particularly in the evening.”