A Hymn in the Silence

by Kelley York

  “I have something you can—”

  I snatch the sponge from my bath and chuck it at his face with a laugh, although he manages to dodge it. “You’re horrid. Stop that!”

  He grins, which rather ruins the effect of the seductive look he’s attempting to give me. “Is that a yes?”

  I slip on my trousers and close the distance between us, and with a sigh I lean in to kiss him. “Perhaps later, if you’re well-behaved at dinner.”

  “I’m always well-behaved.”

  “Oh, are you? So, all the times you talk too much and get us into trouble…?”

  “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Like the time you told Franklin Proust he was so sour because he had a face like a horse? Did I imagine that?”

  James almost giggles at the memory and bites it back, attempting to maintain some semblance of a sombre expression. “Perhaps we should have you see a physician, dear William, if you’re having hallucinations. Also, Proust was being a prick to you.”

  I snort and turn away to resume dressing. “Just keep your most charming face on tonight, hm?”

  He slides from his seat, and I feel the warmth of his body behind me as he ducks down and ghosts his lips against the back of my neck. “Only so long as you do your best not to fall all over yourself like a fool for Lady Adelia.”

  I contemplate elbowing him in the ribs, but he moves away before I have the chance.

  By the time the pair of us have dressed, shaved, and I’ve chased James down with a handful of pomade to make sense of his hair, Mr. Foss has returned to fetch us with an announcement that dinner will soon be served. Thankfully, a smidge earlier than usual, on our behalf because Lord Wakefield suspected we’d be famished.

  When we’re ready, Foss leads us to the dining hall. The sight of everything so lavishly decorated, the glitter of chandeliers and fine silver, a wine-coloured table runner, centrepieces each with freshly plucked flowers, almost makes me homesick for my parents’ house.

  Almost.

  As far as I’m aware, it will only be us, Lord Wakefield, and his daughter dining tonight, but the entire table has been done up. James leans over to say, “If the baths were that nice, can you imagine what the food must be like?”

  Lord Wakefield joins us with a bright smile. He, too, has changed clothes, and I wonder if it’s on our behalf or if he really is this grandiose that he felt he couldn’t show himself to us twice in the same day with the same outfit.

  “Gentlemen, you look rejuvenated. I hope you’re hungry.”

  “Always,” James says predictably. “You’ve a lovely home here, my Lord.”

  Wakefield takes a seat. “You’re too kind. I’m afraid I can’t take credit for it, however. My late wife did most of the decorating.”

  My stomach lets out a plaintive growl and I press a hand to it, hoping no one else heard it. If I’m this starved, James must feel like he’s dying. “Have you been without her long?”

  “A number of years now. It is not a new loss.” Wakefield’s mouth turns down with sadness, but only briefly before he’s smiling again. “The memory of her is all around this home, and my darling daughter possesses the spirit and beauty everyone adored in her mother.”

  “You’re too given to flattery, Father,” Adelia says from the doorway, but she wears a small smile that suggests she doesn’t mind the comparison at all.

  Wakefield immediately rises to his feet and James and I do the same out of politeness. He steps around to get his daughter’s chair for her, and she takes a seat with immense grace and not at all hindered by the bustle of her dress.

  “I hope I’m not late.”

  “Right on time,” Wakefield says with a fond smile before the three of us return to our seats.

  Of course she would sit right across from me, making it difficult to avoid looking at her. Now I’m trying too hard not to stare and it occurs to me I have no idea how much looking at a person is too much—until James nudges me with his foot under the table. I steal a flustered look at him, aware I’m likely only making matters worse but unsure of how to fix it. “Judging by this hall, I suspect you often have dinner guests?”

  “Indeed. Father is very social.”

  “Nothing wrong with that. James is much the same. Makes friends everywhere he goes, really.”

  Adelia regards me coolly. “Does that include spirits?”

  “I’m not certain either of us ‘makes friends’ with the dead. Though one of the techniques we employ to help them pass over is to speak to them, sympathise, encourage them to find peace. James is quite good at that.”

  “And what is your strength, Mr. Esher?”

  Such a question makes me slightly falter. What is my strength? James says the spirits seem to like me better, whatever that means. Miss Bennet says I’m sensitive to the dead, a trait I share with Benjamin Prichard and herself. It would explain why a spirit was able to take possession of me back at Whisperwood, but I’m not certain I would call that a strength.

  “I suppose my strength would be keeping James out of trouble.”

  James chuckles. “William is certainly the more level-headed between the two of us.”

  “I merely possess more common sense,” I point out with a slight smile. “Our methods of working seem to balance out well. What of you, Lady Adelia? What sort of pursuits interest you?”

  The doors swing open as servants carry in platters with the first course. Soups, pies, ham, and kidney beans. This in and of itself is more than James and I have grown accustomed to eating for an entire meal, and my stomach gives another eager rumble.

  “More earthly ones, I’m afraid,” Adelia says. “I enjoy reading. Scotland Yard and their cases are of interest to me.”

  “Really? What of them?”

  “The journey not only of justice, but the learning and understanding of the criminal mind.” She places a napkin across her lap. “I enjoy knowing what makes people tick, whether or not a person can be redeemed after committing horrible atrocities. I also like the methodology in unravelling such mysteries.”

  I watch her in quiet interest as she speaks. Not the sort of thing I would have expected from a woman of her social standing. “In that case, I’d be interested in hearing your opinions on this situation with the Brewers. It sounds as though you’re far more versed in these sorts of cases than we are.”

  Lord Wakefield clicks his tongue. “I’m not so sure such talk is really for a lady’s ears, gentlemen.”

  The way Adelia’s lips flatten into two thin lines does not go unnoticed. “Of course, Father.”

  I frown and think to argue. Adelia’s knowledge would be no less useful to us just because she’s a woman, but I hold my tongue and decide to file it away as a subject to approach her with later, in his absence.

  “Well,” I offer quietly, as Lord Wakefield has turned his attention to his glass being filled by one of the servers, “forensics is a fascinating subject, and one the world could use more sharp minds to improve upon.”

  The sharp edge to her gaze appears to soften ever so slightly, but she says nothing further on the subject.

  “Dinner smells absolutely divine.” James eyes the soup and bread as though he’s ready to devour it straight from the serving bowl. A servant fills both my glass and his.

  “As it should! Please, help yourselves. Eat your fill.” Lord Wakefield lifts his own glass and tips it in our direction. “To new friends and, I hope, to solving the mystery of the Brewers.”

  We tip our glasses in a toast, and I waste no time in taking a longer drink than is probably necessary. It’s past time for my medication, and that unsettled, anxious feeling has begun to set in. Not as effective as my laudanum, but it will help.

  James, meanwhile, promptly digs into his food. “What were they like, the Brewers?”

  Wakefield lea
ns back in his seat, and the sip of wine he takes is far politer than mine was. “The Brewers were good people. Kind. They possessed an excellent work ethic. Almost everyone in the area has purchased horses from them; they were quite adept breeders.”

  “So they had no enemies?”

  “None that I could name. However, their neighbours might be better able to answer that. Adelia and I rarely saw them outside of church and the occasional social function.”

  I take another long pull from my wine. “You’re putting forth a lot of effort to assist people you were not close with. Very kind of you.”

  Lord Wakefield tips his head. “Our community is a small one, Mr. Esher. I’m in the financial position to help others, and so I do.”

  James asks, “And there were no complaints of oddities from other properties?”

  “None beyond what the Brewers reported seeing to their neighbours. Oh, I do have photographs of the scene, if that would help.”

  I swallow down a bite of food. “Of the bodies?”

  He ducks his gaze. “No. I’m afraid I hadn’t the stomach for it, but I requested one of my servants to capture the footprints outside before the snowfall could cover them. I thought they might assist the police in their investigation.”

  “Did anyone follow them to see where they led?”

  “A group of men did follow them into the woods, but the prints vanished after a time. Even the hounds could not keep on the track.”

  “If one were to continue in the direction of the footprints,” James asks, “what would be the first man-made structure they encountered?”

  Wakefield pauses and frowns, giving that a long moment of thought. “Well, trees and hills for quite some time, really. I suppose the closest structure would be the Clarks’ property. Or the Marshalls’.”

  “Perhaps they saw or heard something.”

  “They were questioned, but I wasn’t privy to whatever they may have told the detectives.”

  I glance at Adelia, wondering if she’s seen the photographs or even the scene of the crime itself. I suspect her father wouldn’t approve of such things. “Those photos would be most helpful. And if someone would escort us to the farm tomorrow, we’d like to look around.”

  “I can escort them,” Adelia pipes up, though her eyes remain on her food. “I know you’ve business matters to tend to.”

  Wakefield gives her a patient smile, not unkind but entirely too patronizing. “I’m certain Albert will be happy to go.” He pats her hand. “Until whatever this is has been dealt with, I prefer you not to be in harm’s way.”

  I lower my attention to my food, nursing my guilt that I can’t say anything to defend her, and unsure that she’d want me to, anyway. For the time being, I decide to coax the conversation in another direction, figuring it better for Adelia’s mood to do so.

  Dinner is a delicious and robust four courses, from which I try some of nearly everything placed before me. I eat until my stomach aches, because I have months of feeling hungry to make up for. I might also have had a glass too many to drink, but I still have my wits about me. James easily puts away twice the food that I do.

  After our meal, Wakefield extends an offer to join him in his smoking room to take a look at the photographs. James’ eyes are heavy-lidded, and we exchange glances that say we both are full and worn out and would much prefer to retire to a room and lie all over one another to sleep, but—work first. Right.

  I’ve never been fond of tobacco myself, and the smell inside the room is ingrained in the walls and furniture and makes my nose crinkle. I will, however, take the offered glass of brandy, and the envelope Wakefield offers to me. I have a seat upon the settee and James joins me, hip to hip, while I slide out the photographs.

  The first few images are of the farm itself, unassuming and ordinary enough. The front door stands wide open, and I can make out the small, dark splotches of footprints, and in some, the inky stains against all that white. I surmise what I’m looking at there must be blood.

  I can feel James’ breath against my shoulder. “Was it snowing heavily?”

  “Not terribly, no.” Wakefield has a seat across from us, leaning back in his chair with his smoking jacket on and a pipe in hand. “But it took the investigators quite a while to arrive, so I worried much of what was there would be gone by the time they showed up.”

  James makes a noise. “What did the investigators say when they saw these? Did they have any idea what sort of person they were looking for?”

  “I’m afraid the police didn’t determine much of anything,” Wakefield says with a frown. “They believe it was a vagrant. A robbery, perhaps, and that the damage done to the bodies was the work of wild animals drawn by the smell after they’d been murdered.”

  A possibility, but a bit of a stretch. What sort of person—drifter or no—would break into a simple farmhouse to steal something? It sounds as though they had little to offer. James plucks one of the photos from my hand to bring it closer to his face, studying it with a sombreness he only ever displays when invested in his work. Or me.

  James says, “May I ask your personal opinion, Lord Wakefield? I know you suspect the supernatural, but why?”

  Wakefield sighs, swirling his brandy around in his glass. “I did not know the Brewers to be people who spooked easily, Mr. Spencer. When I heard they had claimed something unearthly was occurring at their home, I believed them.”

  “I see.”

  I come to the end of the photographs and look up. “We’d like to go over there first thing in the morning, just to look around. Then tomorrow night, it’s probably best if we stay there.”

  Wakefield’s brows shoot toward his hairline. “You want to stay there all night?”

  “If we don’t encounter anything during the day, then yes. Spirits tend to be easier to communicate with in the late hours.”

  He’s staring at us as though we’ve lost our minds. “As you will. But at least allow some of my men to accompany you.”

  “The offer is appreciated but unnecessary. James and I are better equipped to handle this sort of thing on our own.” Without novices getting underfoot, that is.

  James gives an easy smile, not seeming the least bit bothered by the notion of staying the night at a murder scene. “We’ll be all right.”

  I wish I possessed half of the confidence James does. I err on the side of uncertainty and scepticism, and at the moment, Wakefield seems to be sharing my sentiments.

  For another hour or so, he keeps us there in the smoking room, refilling our glasses as we please—water for James—and chatting about the case. He explains where the bodies were found, tells us they were brought into the nearby town of Aylesbury, and that they’ve yet to be interred while the police try to determine what happened. Dread sinks into my stomach at the thought that we might have to pay a visit to that morgue and investigate the bodies ourselves, but one step at a time, right?

  Before the hour grows too late, I politely excuse us for bed. I’m tired from a long day of traveling and socialising, I’ve not had my medicine since this morning, and while I’ve had enough to drink to make up for that it’s made focusing on anything difficult. We bid Wakefield a good-night. He smiles and tips his head to us, although he makes no move to get up himself.

  As I fall into step alongside James to head to our rooms, I ask, “Thoughts?”

  James yawns. “I think we will find the person responsible for this. Wakefield and the rest of the community are swayed by the violence of this case and want it solved, and I feel those footprints weren’t investigated well enough.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “You think we’ll be able to figure out what the police have not?”

  “Do I think I’m smarter than a group who decided the trail ended just because the tracks faded in the snow?” He rolls his gaze over to me, a smug little smile playing across his lips. “Yes.”
r />   “And you say I’m the condescending one.”

  He sniffs. “It’s not often I feel intellectually superior, dear William. Let me bask in it.”

  “I will bow before your brilliance, darling.”

  When we come to our hallway, I enter my room with James on my heels. I figure he will want to change in here, give me my laudanum, and permit me to steal a kiss before we must separate for the night. He shuts the door behind him.

  “However will you survive tonight without me?” he asks.

  “I shall cry myself to sleep, I think.” I sink onto the side of the bed to remove my shoes and shrug out of my coat. Alcohol mixed with my laudanum, which is just more alcohol and opium, tends to lend itself to a heavy sleep, but I’ll not point that out right now lest he decide to withhold my dosage for the night.

  He flashes me a grin as he slides the small bottle from his pocket. “That’s what I like to hear.”

  Lashes lowering, I brace my hands upon the mattress and lean back. “Will you write poetry about how terribly you miss me?”

  “Don’t I always?” He plucks the dropper from the bottle, stops before the bed, between my legs, and places a few measured drops into my mouth.

  Even after all this time, it never feels like enough. I’m not foolish enough to say as much to James and cause him to worry. On the very rare occasion will I beg him for more just to get through a particularly strenuous day, but now is not one of those times where I will play upon his emotions to talk him into giving it to me. Once he’s replaced the bottle back into his pocket, I snag the front of his shirt and drag him down for a kiss.

  With a pleased sigh, James leans into me, and I wonder if he can catch the traces of laudanum on my tongue. When he finally draws back enough to speak, he asks, “Are you sure I can’t stay?”

  “It would be unwise,” I murmur against his mouth. “But do believe me when I say I’m tempted.”

  His lips twitch into a smile. “What if I got naked? Would that tempt you more?”

  I bite back a laugh. “Well, you do need to get changed.”