Chapter 12
Hadrian held the door open to the offices of the Daily News for Tilda, then followed her into the compact entrance hall.
An elderly porter, whom Hadrian estimated to be at least seventy, rose from behind the small desk situated between the base of a staircase and a closed door that, judging from the noise behind it, led to the printing room.
“Evening, how may I help you?” His voice was surprisingly strong and loud, but then he had to compete with the sound of the presses.
“We’re here to see Mr. Ezra Clement,” Hadrian replied.
“Rather late, isn’t it?” the porter noted, though he didn’t wait for a response before moving to the speaking tube mounted on the wall behind his desk. “Mr. Clement, you have visitors.”
The porter sat back down, and a few moments later, Clement walked down the stairs. His eyes flashed with surprise as he saw them. “Ravenhurst, Miss Wren, this is unexpected. Please, come upstairs.” He turned and led them back the way he’d come.
They stepped into the long editorial room where several desks were still occupied by journalists writing by gaslight. A few stood together at one desk talking animatedly. This was Hadrian and Tilda’s first time here. They’d previously met with Clement at his favorite coffee shop on Fleet Street.
Clement stopped at a desk next to the wall where a gas bracket illuminated his working space. It appeared as though he’d been in the middle of writing something when they’d arrived. He moved to drag a chair toward his desk, but Tilda held up her hand. “We aren’t staying long.”
Releasing the chair, Clement faced them. “What’s brought you here so late?”
“There has been a second kidnapping,” Tilda replied without preamble. Clement gasped as she went on. “The victim has been returned to her home this evening, so all is well. Except her father is out a large sum.”
“Can you start at the beginning?” Clement reached for a notebook on the corner of his desk.
“We’re not providing a statement or information to you about the kidnapping,” Tilda said. “We’ve come to ask you to place a short paragraph warning that the kidnapper may strike again.”
Clement blinked, his attention riveted. “Is that expected?”
“It must be,” Tilda replied simply, and Hadrian concluded she wasn’t going to disclose the reason behind their concern—what Lady Priscilla had overheard during captivity about there being “just one more.”
“I can only provide about ten or twelve lines, but that should suffice.” Clement sat at his desk and plucked a new piece of parchment from a pile. He poised his quill above the paper. “Tell me what you’d like it to say.”
Tilda spoke softly but clearly. “The police caution the public about the potential for another kidnapping by someone purporting to be Spring-heeled Jack. A second young lady was abducted and has been returned after the ransom was paid. If you learn of a young lady who has gone missing, please contact the Metropolitan Police immediately.”
Clement looked up at her. “This will likely lead to many reports of missing young women, none of whom have been kidnapped.”
“That’s better than if another woman is kidnapped and nothing is said at all,” Tilda said.
Nodding, Clement finished writing. “This is coming from Scotland Yard?” He raised his gaze once more.
“I ask because neither of you is from the Met, and I can’t tell the night editor that I’ve learned this information from Miss Wren.
” He sent Tilda an apologetic look. “I’m afraid your credibility is rather strained. ”
The comment pricked Hadrian’s ire. He narrowed his eyes at Clement. “Inform the editor that the Earl of Ravenhurst is delivering this message on behalf of Detective Inspector Teague from the Detective Branch who asked us to come here.”
Clement cleared his throat. “Yes, of course.” He looked at Tilda. “I’m sorry for your situation. In fact, I was just working on the article from our conversation the other day.”
“You were supposed to have published that already,” Hadrian said coldly.
“I haven’t been given the space yet.” Clement’s face flushed slightly.
Tilda’s gaze turned a bit haughty, which Hadrian found oddly alluring. “I don’t wish to be mentioned or quoted in this article that will be published in the morning, nor in anything you write about this second abduction. Do you agree?”
“Absolutely,” Clement said. “It’s frustrating to me that people don’t remember how instrumental you were in the capture of the Levitation Killers. I’m reminding them of that fact in this article that I’m writing about you.”
Tilda didn’t say anything, and Hadrian couldn’t discern how she felt about that.
“Are you going to tell me the identity of the second kidnapping victim or any other details?” Clement asked hopefully.
“It was Lady Priscilla, the Duke of Alnwick’s daughter.”
Clement’s eyes rounded. “And was it Spring-heeled Jack?”
“The ransom note they received when she was taken was exactly the same as the one left for Miss Chadwick,” Tilda replied.
“How has this been kept quiet?” Clement asked.
“The duke wished to follow the instructions of the kidnapper,” Hadrian said.
“That seemed to have worked out for him, since his daughter was returned.” Clement sent a regretful glance toward Tilda. “I don’t mean anything by that.”
Hadrian again tried to gauge her reaction. Her face was impassive, but he had to think the comment rankled her.
“I’m sure you could call at Alnwick House tomorrow if you wish to try to obtain an interview,” Tilda said. “I only ask you don’t mention me or Ravenhurst. Just say you heard a rumor. In fact, a rumor is how we learned of the kidnapping, but you can’t print that either.”
“Thank you.” Clement inclined his head. “Truly. I appreciate you bringing this to me. You could have sought any other journalist.”
Tilda inclined her head. “Yes, but I know you, and I was fairly certain you’d be here. Time is of the essence.”
“So, this was more of a convenience?” Clement asked wryly.
Tilda did not respond to his question. “You’re certain this will be published tomorrow morning?”
“I’ll do my best,” Clement said.
“It must be in tomorrow morning’s edition,” Hadrian insisted. “Where is the night editor? I will demand it.”
“I’ll fetch him.” Clement rose and hurried into an office that likely overlooked Bouverie Street.
Hadrian glowered after Clement. “I can’t help thinking no one would question your character or credibility if you were my countess.”
Tilda turned toward him, her cheeks flushing.
“I disagree. Even if I was your countess, I would always be from a different class and the daughter of a policeman. No one is ever going to forget that, no matter what I become.” She turned her gaze from his.
“It’s too soon to speak of such things. In fact, I don’t want to speak of it at all. We must focus on the case.”
Was her agitation because he’d mentioned marriage, or because of how this case had affected her reputation?
Clement returned with the night editor, a long-nosed man of about fifty with curly gray hair and spectacles. Tilda stood mute, her hands clasped in front of her, a blank expression on her face as the editor questioned Hadrian about the police warning.
“As I told Clement, this comes from Detective Inspector Teague, from the Detective Branch of the Metropolitan Police,” Hadrian explained.
“He would have come himself, but he is busy working on this case, which is, I’m sure you understand, of urgent importance.
We’re all committed to ensuring a third victim isn’t claimed. ”
“Of course,” the night editor replied. “I’ll make sure it’s in tomorrow morning’s edition. Thank you for bringing this to us.” He glanced at Tilda but didn’t say anything.
Hadrian escorted her from the building and back to the coach, where they were quickly on their way to Scotland Yard.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said.
“You didn’t.” She kept her gaze trained on the opposite side of the coach, and her tone was crisp.
“You seem bothered.”
“I am, but only because we need to stop Spring-heeled Jack before he kidnaps another young woman.”
Hadrian hoped that was all that was troubling her. “I should think he would have enough money to make his escape, and if he was smart, he would.”
“I’m not sure we’re dealing with a particularly smart person. Rather, I’m concerned he may be unhinged. I can’t say for certain he’ll strike again, but we must be prepared.”
She was right. They needed to focus entirely on this right now. It seemed easier for her to do that, however, whilst he kept thinking of their courtship and future. Perhaps that was something he should consider.
When Hadrian and Tilda arrived at Teague’s office, they found a table had been moved into the center of the room. A few additional lanterns had also been added to provide more illumination.
“There you are,” Teague said as they walked in.
Tilda took in the table and smiled. “You started without us.”
“Not yet,” Teague assured her. “I just finished laying the evidence out and decided we needed one more lantern. Wycombe’s gone to fetch it. How did it go at the Daily News?”
“Fine.” Tilda set her reticule on a chair, then removed her hat and gloves, which she placed next to it.
Teague arched a brow and looked to Hadrian in curiosity.
“We spoke with the night editor,” Hadrian explained. “The warning will appear in tomorrow morning’s edition.”
“Excellent.” Teague turned toward the table, and Hadrian removed his gloves, then tucked them into his coat pocket.
The nightgown and cloak were spread across the table, and the boots sat on one end, toe to heel.
“I’ve already recorded the evidence, and I’ve started a report.” Teague inclined his head toward his desk.
Tilda gestured to the bodice. “There’s a stain on the nightgown here, a brown ring.” She went to her reticle and removed a magnifying glass, which she used to closely inspect the garment.
“How have I never known you carried that?” Hadrian asked in bemusement.
Tilda twitched her shoulder. “I haven’t had cause to use it in any of our other investigations.” After a moment’s scrutiny, she straightened. “I don’t think this is just the sugared milk she was drinking. This brown ring seems to indicate something else.”
“I suspect she was being drugged with laudanum,” Teague said. “May I?” He held his hand out, and she gave him the glass. He bent over the table and studied the nightgown. “This looks like a laudanum stain to me.”
“What’s that on the neckline?” Tilda asked. She pointed to the fine lace edge at the top of Lady Priscilla’s gown. “Is that singed?”
Teague moved the glass to examine the lace. “It does appear to be burned.” He returned the glass to her, and Tilda bent to survey it.
“Lady Priscilla said her kidnapper breathed blue flame before he covered her mouth with what I suspect was chloroform,” Tilda said. “I wonder if the flame singed her nightgown.”
Hadrian wanted to look but preferred to do so when attention would not be directly on him.
Tilda handed him the glass and gave him a meaningful look as she moved toward the cloak with Inspector Teague. “We need Inspector Lea’s notes from the Spring-heeled Jack attacks thirty years ago. Did the clerk find them?”
“Honestly, I’ve been distracted with Miss Chadwick’s murder and then Lady Priscilla’s kidnapping. I’ll make sure we have them tomorrow.” Teague looked toward the doorway. “Ah, here’s Wycombe.”
The sergeant set the lamp on the table between the nightgown and boots. As Teague explained what they’d observed with the nightgown, Hadrian took the opportunity to examine the stain on the bodice. As he held the glass close to the garment, he allowed his fingers to graze the fabric.
He suddenly found himself in a dark space. There was just a single taper for light, but it was enough to register he was in some kind of cupboard. He felt certain he was seeing Lady Priscilla’s memory.
She lifted a cup and drank. Hadrian tasted sugared milk and perhaps something else. Was that the laudanum? He’d never tasted anything in a memory before, but then he’d never put anything in his mouth during one either.
A door slammed in the vision, and the person—presumably Lady Priscilla—holding the cup jolted, splashing the drink onto her chest. He looked down and saw where the stain now was on the bodice of Lady Priscilla’s gown. She brushed at it with her fingers, and Hadrian noted their distinct femininity.
The memory faded, and he straightened, his head pounding. He handed the magnifying glass to Wycombe so the sergeant could take his turn examining the garment.
Hadrian edged toward the cloak and surreptitiously placed his hand on the dark gray wool. He’d already touched the garment at Alnwick House, but he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to do it again. He was desperate for Tilda to feel as though she was making progress with this case.
He pivoted away from the others as Miss Chadwick’s face appeared in his mind.
A masculine hand stroked her cheek. Hadrian felt an overwhelming sense of love.
Love? Was this not the kidnapper? He tried to focus on the hand to see if it was the same as the one he’d seen before, but the vision faded, only to be replaced by another.
Miss Chadwick was before him again. However, this time she lay on a wooden floor.
Her face was pale, her eyes open and unseeing.
Her lips were parted, and she was deathly still.
Blood pooled along the scratches that marred her chest. He had the sense they’d just been made, but by whom?
He wanted to look around, only the person could not look away from Miss Chadwick.
Hadrian suffered a wave of debilitating horror and grief, as if the terrible emotions were his own.
Pain exploded from his temple to his nape.
The agony was all-encompassing in a way it had never been before.
Hadrian suddenly felt weak, and the room tilted sideways.
Which room? The one in the memory or Teague’s office?
He couldn’t tell. The memory and his present blurred together until his vision narrowed.
Feeling as though he might fall, Hadrian grasped the edge of the table. His sight disappeared completely, and he was engulfed in blackness.
The pain in his head intensified. He hit the floor.
Then everything was gone.