Chapter 22 #2
He saw the same interior, but there was a woman inside—a blonde, her hair coming loose around her faced. Her eyes were closed and she was pale. The memory-holder pulled her from the cupboard, lifting her into his arms. The young woman’s lips parted, and Hadrian could tell she was alive. Thank God.
“Do you think they were kept in there?” The question broke through the memory, and the vision disappeared. Pain seared Hadrian’s scalp and brow.
“Perhaps.” Tilda knelt next to Hadrian. “Are you all right?” she whispered.
He pressed his hand to his head, dislodging his hat. Tilda caught it.
“I’m fine.” He grimaced.
“Go sit down.” She handed him his hat, then crawled into the cupboard, whilst Hadrian managed to stand.
“There’s a chamber pot in here, and some dishes.
” She retreated into the room, her nose wrinkling.
“And blonde hairs.” She held them between her bare fingers—she must have also removed her gloves—and handed them to Teague.
“Miss Redmayne has blonde hair.” Teague frowned, then addressed Wycombe and Mercer.
“We need to collect every single item in here for evidence. Wycombe, fetch the other constables from the door downstairs and the van. Instruct the driver to move the van in front of the building so we can easily transport evidence.”
Wycombe departed, and Mercer returned to the bedchamber.
Despite the pain in his head, Hadrian wanted to touch the pallet again. He wanted to see Miss Redmayne’s memory. Perhaps it would tell them something about where she was. “I’ll help you pull this out.” He ignored Tilda frowning at him.
Hadrian bent to grab one end of the pallet, and Teague grasped the other.
As Hadrian pulled, he was overcome by another memory.
He couldn’t see anything but light filtering under the cupboard doors.
The smell of the chamber pot was overwhelming.
The worst part, however, was the sense of terror.
He felt cold and clammy. The pain in his head intensified.
“Hadrian.” Tilda said his name with alarm as she took his end of the pallet.
He relinquished his hold and managed to stagger to one of two chairs at an oak table near the window where he flopped down. Tilda and Teague set the pallet in the middle of the floor.
“You all right, Ravenhurst?” Teague asked with concern.
“I fear I’m coming down with a migraine. Carry on. I just need a moment to collect myself.” He mustered a faint smile as Tilda came toward him.
“You are not all right,” she whispered as she surreptitiously withdrew the vial of lavender from her reticule.
His pulse beat a frenetic rhythm, and he gritted his teeth against the pain in his head.
She handed him the vial and kept her voice low. “How many memories have you experienced since we arrived?”
He considered fibbing so she wouldn’t worry, but he wasn’t ever going to lie to her. “Three.”
Tilda looked over her shoulder at Teague who was inspecting the pallet. “I’m concerned your repeated unsteadiness will be noted by Teague.”
Hadrian smoothed the lavender oil into his temples. “I said I had a migraine.”
“I’m picking up a great deal of hair from this pallet,” Teague said. “Blonde and also auburn—not as red as my hair.”
“That could be Lady Priscilla’s,” Tilda replied. “It appears Mobray kept his kidnapping victims in the cupboard.” She shuddered.
“But not Miss Chadwick,” Teague said. “I haven’t found any dark brown hair.”
“He didn’t keep her there because he’d planned to run away with her,” Tilda explained. “That is, if Bannet was telling us the truth about Mobray and Miss Chadwick being in love, and I’ve no reason to doubt her.”
“Why did he flee now?” Teague asked with frustration. “And where has he taken Miss Redmayne?”
Tilda looked at Hadrian in question, and he replied with a subtle shake of his head. None of the memories he’d seen had answered those questions, unfortunately.
Wycombe returned with the other constables as Hadrian handed the vial of lavender oil back to Tilda. She slipped it back into her reticle.
Teague directed the constables to take the pallet down to the van.
“We should post handbills asking for information about Oscar Mobray,” Wycombe said. “With a reward.”
“Who’s to offer the reward?” Teague asked.
“I’m sure one of the fathers would,” Wycombe replied. “I’ll ask Redmayne first.”
“I’ll offer it,” Hadrian said. “How much do you need?”
Teague blinked at him. “That’s very generous of you. Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. How much?”
Wycombe exchanged a look with Teague. “I’d say a hundred pounds?”
Teague nodded. “That should be sufficient. Thank you, Ravenhurst.” He turned his attention to Wycombe.
“We need a photograph of Oscar Mobray, if possible. Go to the Albion and see if they have one—assuming you’re able to confirm he worked there.
I would think they’d have his photograph if he did.
Then find a printer that can make these handbills immediately. ”
“I’ll pay for that too,” Hadrian offered. “Including whatever it takes for the printer to work through the night.”
Tilda smiled at him and mouthed, “Thank you.”
“And if the theatre doesn’t have a photograph of Mobray?” Wycombe asked, his brow creasing faintly.
“We have a description from Miss Chadwick’s maid,” Tilda said. She provided it to Wycombe who recorded it in his notebook.
Wycombe nodded as he tucked his notebook away. “I’ll find you here later or at Scotland Yard.”
“Probably Scotland Yard by the time you’re finished.” Teague held up his hand. “Actually, no. When we finish here, we’ll go to the Albion. I want to question everyone there about Mobray as soon as the performance is finished.”
“Excellent. See you there.” Wycombe departed with haste.
Teague addressed Hadrian and Tilda. “You should go home. We’ll reconvene at Scotland Yard tomorrow. Though, you don’t need to be involved any longer—unless you want to be.”
“I do,” Tilda replied crisply. “I can’t rest until Miss Redmayne is found. I’m especially worried for her safety now that she’s been moved.”
“I understand. Let’s meet at half one tomorrow. I think we could all use a morning at church.”
Hadrian knew Tilda must want to join them with their inquiries at the Albion, but Hadrian didn’t think he could. Before he could suggest she go, Constable Mercer walked toward them from the bedchamber. “I found these in a drawer next to the bed.” He handed Teague a stack of pamphlets.
Teague read, “‘Spring-heeled Jack and the Terror of London.’” He flipped through the flimsy parchment. “It looks as though he collected every volume of the story about Spring-heeled Jack. These have been well-read—there are pencil marks on some pages, and several corners are folded down.”
The urge to handle the penny dreadfuls was great, but Hadrian didn’t think it was wise, nor did he think Tilda would allow him to do so. He glanced at her, and sure enough, she gave him a stern look.
Tilda, however, accepted Teague’s offer to study them.
She went to the table and sat across from Hadrian, going through each one meticulously.
“Based on the marks and folded corners, Mobray seems very interested in the vigilante aspect of this Spring-heeled Jack character. That could explain why he decided to dress up as this legend, except it doesn’t fit Mobray’s role as a kidnapper. ”
She gasped softly as she neared the end. “He did love Miss Chadwick.” She held up one of the volumes and showed a page where the name Delia Mobray was written alongside Mr. and Mrs. Oscar Mobray.
“Or at least wanted to marry her for her money,” Teague said cynically.
Tilda finished her review then handed them back to Teague. She looked at Hadrian. “We should get you home in case your migraine worsens.”
“What about assisting with inquiries at the Albion?” Hadrian asked. “Surely you want to accompany Teague on that endeavor.”
“I would,” Tilda said hesitantly. “But I need to see you home. Teague doesn’t need me.”
He might not, but that didn’t negate Tilda wanting to go and Teague likely appreciating her help.
“Take care of Ravenhurst,” Teague said. “I’ll see you tomorrow and provide a thorough update.”
Hadrian stood and was glad not to feel too wobbly. He escorted Tilda from Mobray’s rooms and down to the ground floor. When they stepped outside, he took a deep breath of the evening air.
The sun had set, and gaslight illuminated the narrow street. The headstones in the churchyard on the opposite side of the street gave a maudlin impression, or perhaps Hadrian was simply feeling the weight of not finding Mobray as well as the pain in his head.
“I’m sorry to pull you away from the investigation,” Hadrian said. “You could go back and meet them at the Albion to help with their inquiries. Leach would be happy to convey you.”
“I’ll consider it.” Her tone did nothing to indicate which way she was leaning.
They arrived at the coach, and Leach could tell things had not turned out as they’d expected. Tilda explained about Mobray having fled.
“That poor young woman is still missing then?” Leach frowned but then gave Tilda an encouraging nod. “You’ll find her.”
“To Marylebone,” Hadrian said.
“Actually, to Ravenhurst House,” Tilda said. “Then, you’ll be driving me to the Albion to assist Detective Inspector Teague with inquiries there.”
Leach nodded. “Happy to.”
They settled in the coach and Hadrian angled toward her on the seat. “Do you want to hear what I saw with the pallet?”
“Of course.” Her features and her tone gentled. “Your collapse the other day frightened me. I’m concerned what could happen if you experience too many memories.”
“The intensity of them seems to matter more than the duration or quantity. The ones at Scotland Yard were deeply upsetting and had more of an emotional impact. The last one in Mobray’s rooms was like that.
I couldn’t really see anything—it was the memory of one of the young women who was being held captive.
I could only make out the light at the bottom of the cupboard, and I felt horrendous fear.
It still lingers in my chest.” He shifted uncomfortably on the seat.
Tilda moved closer to his side and splayed her palm against his chest. “Here?”
Hadrian lamented the fact that she’d put her gloves back on. Her bare hand would have been even nicer. “Yes.”
She pressed against him firmly, and her touch settled him.
“That was the second vision I saw touching the pallet.” Hadrian explained about the memory in which the man pulled an unconscious blonde from the cupboard. “I can’t say for certain it was Miss Redmayne, as I have not seen a likeness of her.”
“I think we can assume it was.” Tilda tucked her hand beneath his waistcoat so that only his shirt and her glove separated their bare flesh. “Your heart is still beating a bit too quickly.”
He arched a brow at her. “It wasn’t until you touched me like that.”
She gave him a faux scolding stare. “You can’t help but flirt with me.”
“You’re the one touching me,” he argued playfully. “I’m not flirting, I swear.” He put his bare hand over hers on his chest. “I’m explaining my body’s reaction to your proximity and care. I simply can’t help the extraordinary effect you have on me.”
Withdrawing her hand, she turned on the seat and pressed her back against the squab, though she still sat close enough to him that their thighs grazed one another. “It’s difficult to indulge in feelings of happiness and pleasure when Miss Redmayne remains missing.”
“I know.” Hadrian clasped her hand. “We’re going to find her.”
“I hope you’re right.” She was quiet a moment, then turned her head to look at him. “You mentioned feeling fear. That reminded me of the first memory you saw when we took this case.”
“From the first ransom note the Chadwicks received,” Hadrian said. “I felt fear from that note. We decided it was the emotion of Mr. or Mrs. Chadwick, since they’d touched the letter.”
“Yes, but what if it wasn’t? If Mobray is the kidnapper, and he felt sadness after Miss Chadwick died, is it possible he also felt fear?”
“What do you think that would mean?” Hadrian asked.
Tilda exhaled. “I don’t know. I’d dearly love to find his accomplice.”
“Perhaps you will at the Albion,” Hadrian said. “I’m incredibly disappointed I can’t go with you. And I’m disappointed I couldn’t touch those penny dreadfuls.”
“You will.” Tilda gave him a sly smile. “I purposely didn’t show them to you so that you’d have an excuse to look at them tomorrow—if you’re improved. You must take a lavender bath and perhaps douse more than just your pillow with lavender oil.”
He laughed softly and pain flashed in his temple. “What do you recommend?”
“Why not a lavender-soaked turban?”
Hadrian couldn’t help laughing again, then held up his hand. “Stop. It hurts.” He continued to laugh.
She laid her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry!” She giggled. “Now I can’t stop picturing you in a turban.”
They’d sobered long before they reached his house, each falling into a contemplative silence. At least, that was what Hadrian had done and assumed Tilda had done the same.
The coach stopped, and Hadrian pressed a kiss to Tilda’s wrist. “Good luck tonight.”
“You take good care, please.” She caressed his cheek. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Hadrian climbed from the coach and wished he wasn’t going into the house alone.