Page 26 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)

Bentley seized the lull to scan Miss Nightshade’s notebook, pretending to review the list of names again while searching for anything he’d missed.

While he looked for gaps or signs of pages having been torn out, Clara filled the silence. “Today, we plan to speak to the other audience members. One was heard arguing with Mr Scarth before the performance.”

She mentioned Miss Picklescott, but Bentley barely heard her. His thumb stilled on the stiffened texture of the paper lining the backboard. He angled the notebook closer to the light.

The paper looked fractionally thicker in places.

He traced the intricate black-and-white pattern, an ornate swirl of curlicues and flourishes. The design was so detailed that the delicate flap lay almost invisible to the untrained eye.

“There’s something here.” He slipped his fingernail beneath the edge and prised the flap open. A hidden pocket gaped just wide enough for him to reach inside. His heart thumped as he withdrew a small piece of paper.

Clara and Daventry were watching him intently now. Clara shifted closer, perching on the edge of her seat as Bentley unfolded the fragile slip of paper and scanned the spidery writing.

“What is it?” Clara sounded more nervous than excited.

A handful of names filled the narrow scrap, each accompanied by a cryptic note. “The names of people I suspect Miss Nightshade was considering blackmailing.”

“Like who?” Mild panic laced her voice.

“Miss Picklescott,” Bentley read aloud, brow furrowing. “Writes a scandalous column under the name of Thomas Brightwell.”

Daventry let out an appreciative hum. “Well, that explains her presence at the seance. Brightwell writes for The Satirist and exposes frauds and swindlers. I admire anyone who risks ruin to uncover the truth.”

Clara gave a small gasp. “Mr Scarth must have known that. His landlady said he wrote liar next to her name in his journal.”

Bentley’s eyes moved to Nightshade’s next potential victim. “Mr Weymouth is listed as her fiercest critic and apparently paid a bank clerk for information about her account.”

“Was he not the cynic who sat beside you?” she clarified.

“Yes, and the man who argued with Scarth. He was convinced the medium was a fraud.”

“Weymouth didn’t kill her.” Daventry spoke with the wisdom of a man who’d solved hundreds of cases. “His goal was to shame her publicly.”

Bentley’s gaze dropped to the last name and his heart missed a beat. “Miss Dalton,” he read, swallowing past the rising lump in his throat. “Miss Nightshade wrote only one word—‘Rosefield’.”

Silence swept through the elegant room.

Clara blinked, confusion clouding her visible eye, a rare glimpse of vulnerability he seldom witnessed. “Rosefield? What does that mean?”

Daventry sat forward with a sudden urgency in his manner. “Is it a place? A person? Perhaps something connected to your past, Miss Dalton?”

Bentley caught the faint unsteadiness in her voice. It drew his attention more sharply than her words, another quiet crack in the armour she wore so well.

“Please think, Clara,” he pleaded, her given name slipping out far too easily. “If anyone else discovers this, they might claim you had a motive for murder.”

Amid the rising tension, the mantel clock chimed nine.

A brisk knock on the front door drew their gazes to the hallway.

Daventry shut the enamel box. “Seems like Tarrington answered your request. The man is nothing if not prompt. Though one wonders whether it’s eagerness to help or to defend himself.”

The housekeeper entered and announced Lord Tarrington, whose thunderous expression softened when he took one look at Daventry.

“What’s so urgent you would drag me here at this early hour?” Tarrington paused only to greet them and to cast a suspicious glance Clara’s way. “Well, did she do it? Did she kill Lavinia? Is that why I’m here?” He stared at Bentley. “Do you mean to plead for clemency because she’s your?—”

“One more word,” Bentley growled, fists tightening at his sides, “and you’ll be chewing on your teeth for the next month. Think carefully before you say another damn thing.”

Tarrington’s weak chin wobbled. “Forgive me if I’ve jumped to conclusions, but I’ve barely slept these past few days. Lavinia’s admirers have taken to camping outside my front door. They’re convinced she’ll send me messages from beyond the grave.”

“One of her admirers harassed you on Wapping Wall last night,” Bentley said, pinning Tarrington with a steely gaze. “We saw you attack Mr Murray and load his unconscious body into your carriage.”

“We followed you,” Clara added, “but lost you in Shadwell.”

Tarrington paled. He removed his beaver hat and smoothed back his peppered black hair. “It … It’s not how it looks.”

“Is Murray alive?” Bentley asked.

“Of course he’s alive. I took him to his lodging house.”

“One might think your coachman was sotted. He weaved through the lanes like he was three sheets to the wind.”

“He was told to drive until I rapped on the roof. I wanted Murray awake before I gave him a ticket for the morning stagecoach to Manchester, and a warning I’d have the devil arrested if I laid eyes on him again.”

Daventry was quick to air his disapproval. “Threatening a witness is an obstruction of justice.”

Tarrington stiffened, colour rising in his cheeks. “Murray’s the crook, not me. He was harassing Lavinia and had some sort of hold over her. She was terrified of him!”

“Why didn’t you mention this when we spoke to you at the warehouse?” Clara asked. “Mr Murray gave a false address, and we’ve been unable to locate him. Is Murray even his real name?”

With an air of bafflement, Tarrington shrugged. “He appeared about a month ago and has attended four shows in all. Mr Scarth disapproved and feared he would cause trouble for Lavinia.” His voice broke at the mention of the medium’s name. “I—I still can’t believe poor Lavinia is dead.”

Daventry brought a moment of calm by offering Tarrington tea and inviting him to sit on the plush sofa.

“I’ll take brandy over tea,” Tarrington said, shoving his gloves inside his hat and leaving it on the console table. “I’m beginning to wonder if this nightmare will ever end.”

Bentley accepted the offer of brandy, though his thoughts kept circling back to his mother’s letter to Clara. The words had lodged like grit under his skin, and with them came the sharp, unshakeable urge to keep her from harm.

“Let’s tackle the problem one question at a time,” Daventry said, thrusting a crystal goblet into Tarrington’s hand. “Beginning with Murray’s address.”

“He’s got a room above the Black Horse in Shadwell.”

Daventry rang for his housekeeper and instructed her to dispatch one agent to Shadwell to verify the address, and another to The Swan in Cheapside. “The only stage to Manchester departs from there.”

Bentley gave a description of the elusive Mr Murray.

Tarrington added, “It won’t be hard to spot him. I blackened his eye. There’s every chance he killed Lavinia and probably Scarth, too.”

“The last time we spoke, you blamed Mr Scarth for the murder,” Clara said, sounding frustrated. “And you made no mention of the problems with Mr Murray.”

“To be truthful, Miss Dalton, I can hardly recall what I said. This whole business is confounding.” He noticed the black enamel box as he knocked back the brandy, his pupils narrowing before his eyes widened. “Good Lord. Is that Lavinia’s jewellery box?”

There was jewellery inside.

The spoils of her ill-gotten gains.

“Why do you ask?” Daventry said, narrowing his gaze.

“When I loaned her my wife’s diamond earrings, she described such a box. Assured me it was sturdy and she would keep them safe. I’ve pestered Inspector Mercer, keen to see the earrings returned to me.”

In vivid detail, Tarrington described the night he’d gifted the jewels to his wife, his eyes bright with the warmth of the memory. Bentley thought of Clara seeing The Lantern Ring for the first time and understood why people clung so fiercely to tokens of the past. After all, he’d kept her lantern.

Daventry opened the box to reveal the bounty within. “Miss Nightshade may have been defrauding her admirers. Using the secrets she learned, she took their possessions under the guise of securing their salvation. Is that how she came by your wife’s earrings?”

Lord Tarrington looked horrified. “Lavinia would never steal from the dead. Having the earrings helped her channel Margaret’s messages more clearly. I assure you, she took them with good intentions.”

Bentley opened the notebook and read the comments, reciting snippets of scandalous things that might see a person ruined.

“The list is endless, mention of affairs and lies, even bigamy.” Bentley wondered what Rosefield meant and how it related to Clara. “It’s fair to say Lavinia Nightshade did not have good intentions.”

But Tarrington shook his head most vehemently, refusing to accept the evidence presented. “That might belong to her assistant Mr Scarth. You know he served three years in Coldbath Fields for rioting.”

Daventry reached for his portfolio, opening it at a specific page.

“Based on the information I received yesterday, Scarth was convicted on flimsy evidence. What is interesting is the moniker he earned while there. The Oracle suggests Scarth possesses the true gift of hearing voices, not Miss Nightshade.”

In a sudden burst of outrage, Lord Tarrington shot to his feet. “I’ll not sit here while you tear Lavinia’s reputation to shreds.”

“You’re welcome to leave,” Daventry said calmly, “once you’ve explained why you punched Murray and tried to drive him out of town.”

Snatching up his hat and removing his gloves, the lord said, “Murray thinks I killed Lavinia. He’s under some absurd notion that we were—” He paused, glancing at Clara. “I’m sure you can imagine what he thought. I hit him because he dared to tarnish Margaret’s memory.”

Bentley made no comment.

He’d felt a similar surge of anger at the seance when cruel whispers about Clara’s scar echoed through the crowd. He still didn’t understand what drove these feelings. Was it desire, loyalty or something more profound?

“I want my wife’s earrings,” Tarrington said, gesturing to the black box. “I’ll sign to say they’ve been returned to my custody.”

Daventry had the lord describe them in detail before handing them over and recording his signature in the portfolio.

“My lord,” Clara called as Tarrington made to leave. “Just one more thing before you go.”

The lord released a weary sigh. “What is it, Miss Dalton?”

“When we spoke to you at the warehouse, you said Mr Scarth knew Lavinia drank wine because she always choked during the performance. Were you suggesting part of the seance was staged?”

The lord had the decency to appear slightly embarrassed. “People pay to see a show, Miss Dalton. Lavinia understood that better than anyone. Rest assured, an undeniable truth lived beneath the theatrics.”

“I understand,” Clara said, offering the man a smile Bentley had seen many times before, one that pulled at her scar and never quite reached her eyes, one that twisted something deep in his chest, a reminder that her armour, for all its polish, was paper-thin.

“We all pretend, my lord. We all put on a show so the world won’t see how much we’re hurting. ”