Page 13 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)

A spark in his eyes hinted the matter was far from over, yet he said, “Agreed. Let’s begin by asking ourselves what happened to Silas Scarth.”

The change of subject brought a silent sigh of relief. His playful banter always found a weakness in her barricade. “There are two possibilities. Mr Scarth is the killer and fled after adding poison to Lavinia’s wine.”

“In which case, the sensible thing to do is leave London.”

“We should trace his known movements this past week. He may have visited a shipping office or bought a ticket for the stage.” Thankfully, the man had a distinctive look and a memorable name. “We should consider the fact that he may have been murdered, too.”

They fell quiet as the heavy thought penetrated.

“We’ll keep an open mind until we’ve searched his lodging house.” The viscount removed a piece of paper from his pocket. “Scarth lives a short walk from here on Dartmoor Street, near the Cock Pit.”

“The Cock Pit? Is there a fight tonight?”

She knew many reformers were campaigning for the abolition of blood sports, while the crooks who profited found craftier ways to dodge protesters.

“Thankfully, no. These events draw unsavoury sorts, and according to Miss Nightshade, I’m destined to live a wretched existence.

” He downed his wine, encouraging Clara to do the same.

“Daventry loaned us an unmarked carriage, along with his coachman, Gibbs. He’s already parked on Dartmoor Street and will act as our watchman.

I should warn you, he’s a no-nonsense sort of fellow. ”

Clara knocked back the wine and stood. She’d rather deal with blunt men like Gibbs than ladies who tittered behind lace handkerchiefs and pretended not to stare. Better they ask about the eye patch outright than invent wicked stories in their heads.

The viscount rounded the table, his fingers settling lightly on her elbow. The brief contact stole her breath, absurd given the chaos of their lives. She had no business noticing the warmth of his hand when her freedom hung in the balance.

“Did Daventry give you a weapon?” he said.

“No. If I’m caught with a pistol or blade, it might be used as evidence against me in court.” She had nothing to rely on but her wits and the viscount who lingered in her thoughts far more than he should.

“Then stay close,” he urged.

How ironic. She had spent two years doing precisely the opposite.

When he said close , he meant it. His hand pressed gently at the small of her back, guiding her with quiet authority through the bustling crowd and into the yard.

“Take my arm,” he said, his insistent tone rousing her ire.

“You’re not in charge here, my lord.” But even as she bristled, she noted the defined bicep straining against his coat and cursed the foolish flutter in her belly. “We’re both agents of The Order.”

“True,” he said with a devilish grin. “But as agents, appearances must serve our purpose. We’ll blend into the background far better if people think we’re a couple.”

Mr Daventry had said much the same. To be an agent was to be the finest performer on the stage.

“And you mustn’t refer to my title,” he added. “Call me Bentley, and I’ll call you Clara unless you would prefer to use fictitious names.”

Things were getting out of hand, but she had no choice. She took his arm, telling herself it was all part of the performance. “We’ll use our given names. I’d rather not complicate matters further.”

He led her away from the Spread Eagle, his arm solid beneath her hand. Though the hour was late, the street still bustled with activity: ostlers shouting outside the inn, a groom wrangling with a stubborn horse, and the clatter of a returning stagecoach.

They turned into Dartmoor Street, the shadows deepening, the noise fading to the low murmur of voices from dark doorways.

“Daventry said Scarth lodges with Mrs Morven,” Bentley informed her as they passed a stationary carriage, its hulking driver tipping his hat. “A retired opera singer who rents rooms to gentlemen, provided they pay in advance and don’t annoy her parrots.”

“Parrots?” Clara would lay odds Mrs Morven was the eccentric sort who served sherry at breakfast and communicated through dramatic sighs. “I wonder if she’s taught the birds to sing The Barber of Seville .”

She groaned inwardly, wishing she had named Don Giovanni instead , not a story of duty, disguise, and impossible love.

When they reached Number 5, a narrow terraced house with faded playbills in the front window and velvet curtains the shade of crushed plums, the faint warble of birdsong echoed from within.

“Remember, if we’re to win Mrs Morven’s confidence,” Clara whispered as Bentley knocked firmly on the door, “we must be polite to her parrots.”

From inside came the soprano’s trill. “There’s someone at the door, my darlings, someone at the d-d-door.”

A beat later, a chorus of parrots echoed in shrill unison, “ At the door! At the door! ”

Clara pursed her lips, but a chuckle escaped. “I have a sudden urge to clap and throw them seed cake.”

Bentley looked at her and laughed. “Don’t, or we’ll have to suffer an encore. I fear she will insist on telling us how she once out-sang Rosina and stole Figaro’s heart in the same breath.”

She smiled, an unexpected warmth filling her chest. “I wasn’t prepared for a concert tonight.”

He leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear. “Neither was I, yet we can both strike witnessing an opera sung by parrots off our lists.”

The sound of bolts sliding back preceded the creak of hinges.

They straightened, pasting serious expressions as the door swung open to reveal Mrs Morven: a stout woman with silver hair piled into an elaborate coif, a faded ostrich feather drooping wearily from one side.

Heavy rouge stained her cheeks, and the surrounding air was filled with the choking scent of lavender perfume.

Mrs Morven looked at Clara and clapped her hands. “A wounded Donna Anna!” she declared, invoking the veiled heroine who spends an entire opera cloaked in grief and mystery. “Vengeance in her step. Secrets in her gaze.”

“I’m flattered,” Clara replied, oddly grateful for the frank assessment, “though I hope my story ends more cheerfully.”

Mrs Morven turned to Bentley and wiggled her brows. “And you, sir, I wager you’d bring cheer to any woman’s boudoir.”

A sudden image of Bentley in her candlelit boudoir made Clara’s heart jolt, but she quickly pushed it aside. “You must be Mrs Morven.”

Mrs Morven drew herself up and waved a bejewelled hand. “That’s what the butcher calls me. I prefer Madame Violetta, if you please.”

Before either of them could respond, she narrowed her eyes and added, “Now then, how can I help you? I don’t need to commune with the spirits to know you’re here to see Mr Scarth.”

At the mention of Mr Scarth, the parrots chirped, “ Welcome, friends! Welcome, friends! ”

“Is Mr Scarth at home?” Clara asked. One didn’t need to hear voices from the veil to know the answer.

“Who’s asking?”

Bentley produced a calling card and handed it to Mrs Morven.

She flicked back her ostrich feather and read the script. “An agent of The Order. Now that’s a title worthy of a libretto.”

“May we come inside, madame?” Bentley said, his voice as smooth as fine wine. “I would hate to disturb your birds by having an unsettling conversation on the doorstep.”

The lady eyed them suspiciously. “You’re not the only ones who’ve come looking for Silas. I threw the last fellow out for sniffing around my parlour and trying to bribe the birds.”

“We’re worried about Mr Scarth,” Clara said, glancing over her shoulder as a sudden shiver prickled her spine.

A large man sat atop a nearby carriage, half-shrouded in shadow, watching them with unsettling stillness.

“We believe he’s a witness in a murder, but I fear those from the Vine Street Police Office are treating him as a suspect. ”

Mrs Morven followed Clara’s gaze, her expression tightening. “I assume he’s with you. I don’t fancy strange men loitering on the street.”

“Gibbs is here to keep watch, nothing more,” Bentley assured her.

She stepped aside with a sigh, lifting her chin. “Come in quickly before you give the neighbours something to gossip about. But mind your manners and don’t startle the sopranos.”

She led them through a narrow hallway lined with framed playbills. The parlour was furnished like a private theatre box, with walnut chairs upholstered in worn red damask, though one bore the indelicate calling cards of her birds.

The parrots were not caged or chained to a perch but stood proudly atop a gilded music stand, one African grey pecking at a loose thread in the fringe, the other muttering phrases from what sounded suspiciously like The Marriage of Figaro.

“Can you recall when you last saw Mr Scarth?” Clara said, unnerved when the birds stared at her through beady eyes and began swaying like pugilists weighing up an opponent.

“He’s not been home since he left for the seance at The Arcane Emporium.” She paused when the birds squawked, “ Nightshade’s a fraud. Welcome, friends. What tripe. ”

Mrs Morven snapped her fingers at the parrots. “Figaro, Susanna, that’s quite enough. Have some decorum in front of guests.” She turned to Clara. “Pay them no mind. Mr Scarth is entirely responsible for their bad behaviour.”

“Did Mr Scarth believe Miss Nightshade was a fraud?” Clara asked. It gave him a motive for murder. Perhaps he’d grown tired of playing the assistant when it appeared he was the one with the skill.

“He never said so personally,” Mrs Morven replied, “but I know he confided in Figaro. That’s how I discovered he was hiding a journal under the mattress.”

Clara blinked. “A journal? Figaro told you that?”

“Clear as day. Right after a rousing chorus of Largo al factotum , he squawked, ‘ Where’s the truth? Under Scarth’s mattress! ’” She gave a satisfied nod. “Hardly poetic, but very precise.”

“How did you know they were referring to a journal?”

Mrs Morven’s cheeks might have glowed red beneath the rouge, but it was hard to tell. “I went snooping, of course. I had to evict Mr Hobson for running a betting book for fights at the dreaded Cock Pit. If anyone deserved to have their eyes pecked out, it’s him.”

“We need to see Mr Scarth’s room,” Bentley said, his firm tone leaving little room for refusal.

“Well, since you put it so … politely, I suppose you had better follow me.” She glanced back at the parrots. “Figaro, Susanna, keep perfecting your bows while we’re gone. One mustn’t disappoint the audience.”

She lit a chamberstick and led them up a narrow staircase that creaked with each step. More framed playbills lined the walls, some yellowed with age, others proclaiming forgotten triumphs. Halfway up, she gestured to a fan hanging from a brass hook.

“That’s the original I used in Il matrimonio segreto at the King’s Theatre,” she said proudly. “A gentleman in the front row fainted when I fluttered it at him.”

Clara and Bentley exchanged amused glances, a quiet warmth blossoming in her chest. It was a strange feeling, something deeply satisfying yet too elusive to put into words or to add to her list.

Mr Scarth’s attic room, located up another narrow flight of stairs, was a calm, uncluttered space amid a chaotic city.

A crystal pendulum hung before the tiny window, catching the moonlight.

Shelves bore a handful of carefully chosen curiosities: ancient coins and polished stones. Sage scented the air.

Mrs Morven lit the candle lamp and set the chamberstick on the narrow desk, its flame casting long shadows across the attic walls. She lifted the mattress and then jerked back in surprise. “How odd. The book was there three days ago.”

Clara stared at the empty wooden base, the most obvious conclusion forming in her head. “Do you know what was written inside? The sergeant found a journal at The Arcane Emporium and presumed it belonged to Miss Nightshade.”

Mrs Morven hesitated, her lips pursing. “I’m not sure Silas would want me to repeat what I read.”

Bentley stepped forward. “We’re trying to find him before the authorities do. Anything you recall might help.”

She let out a reluctant sigh. “It was filled with names and addresses and a list of personal things, things you wouldn’t expect Silas to note down.

I didn’t read it all, of course,” she added quickly, though it was obviously a lie, “but enough to know it wasn’t just a book full of rambling thoughts. ”

“Can you think of an example?” Clara said.

Mrs Morven glanced at the door before whispering, “I remember one name, on account of it being unusual. Miss Picklescott of Snow Hill. And he’d written something different beside her name. There was no mention of family members who’ve passed over, no curious tales.”

A flutter of panic rose in Clara’s throat. “Mr Scarth recorded intimate details of people’s lives?”

Had he written something about her and that horrid memory? He must have. Why else would Miss Nightshade force her to sit in a reserved seat? How had she known Clara lived under a dark cloud?

“It looked that way, yes,” Mrs Morven said. “Though Silas only had to glance into a person’s eyes to know their secrets. It’s dangerous work, meddling in people’s business.”

Yes, and Miss Nightshade had paid the price.

“He was heard arguing with someone before the performance,” Clara said, though Sergeant Brown hadn’t mentioned where he got the information. “Can you think who that might have been? Did he have a grievance with anyone?”

Mrs Morven gave a careless shrug. “Maybe someone who wanted to keep their darkest secrets buried. People like that don’t take kindly to being exposed.”

Clara dreaded the past invading the present, too, but she wouldn’t poison a woman to hide the truth.

“You said Scarth wrote something beside Miss Picklescott’s name,” Bentley said, moving on, though he wasn’t the one burdened by the past.

“Yes.” Mrs Morven leaned closer, dropping her voice to an eerie whisper. “ Liar . That’s what he wrote. Nothing more. What more did he need to say?”