Page 38 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)
Bentley’s gaze sharpened. “Nothing of value to you, perhaps. What was in the file?”
“I don’t know. The drawer was open, papers scattered. I’ve yet to identify which are missing. The gardening boy was still tatting around outside. He saw the devil but wasn’t fast enough to catch him. Would you like me to summon him?”
“Yes,” Bentley said. “Fetch him.”
A few minutes later, a boy of no older than twelve shuffled into the parlour, cap in hand. He bobbed his head politely. “Milords.”
Mrs Peverill gave him a brisk prod between the shoulder blades. “Tell them what you told me, Alfie. Don’t be shy.”
“I saw the fellow cutting through the herb garden,” Alfie said, pride brightening his eyes. “Chased him with my rake, I did, but lost him in the woods. My short legs were no match for his long ’uns.”
Bentley took in the boy’s steady stance and the grip he had on his cap, like a young soldier awaiting orders. “What did he look like?”
“Can’t rightly say, milord. He wore a long black coat, a scarf over his mouth, and a slouch hat pulled low. Kept his head down, but I weren’t about to let him get away easy. Moved quick, though, like he knew the paths better than me.”
“Did you see which way he went once he reached the woods?” Bentley asked.
Alfie shook his head. “Not for certain, milord.” Mrs Peverill gave him another little push on the back, an unnecessary poke that roused Bentley’s ire.
“Soon as he hit the trees, he was gone. Might’ve turned towards the old folly, but I can’t swear to it.
I followed as far as I dared, but the ground’s uneven, and I near lost my footing. ”
Miss Woolf advanced a pace. “Really, Mrs Peverill, must you shove the poor boy like that?”
Rothley regarded Alfie with interest. “How old are you?”
“Twelve, milord.”
“Does the head gardener permit you to work so late?”
“I’m the only gardener since Mr Reeves passed last January.”
“We’re struggling to find a replacement,” the matron added.
“Do your parents live locally?” Rothley asked.
“Alfie has no parents.” Miss Peverill laid a gentler hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We’re his only family.”
Bentley knew what was coming next. Rothley’s hard exterior hid a heart shaped by childhood scars. It meant they would leave with an extra passenger.
“Would you like to work for me?” Rothley said. “I’ve a dozen gardeners, and there’s room for a trainee groom if you like horses. You’d live on a grand estate, eat three square meals a day, and I’ll triple whatever pittance they’re paying you here.”
Alfie’s mouth dropped open, but Mrs Peverill stepped in. “I’m afraid I can’t spare him. Alfie is … indispensable to Rosefield.”
Rothley’s gaze fixed on her. “Mrs Peverill, if I wish to employ the boy, I will.” The authority beneath his tone was unmistakable. “You may keep your dignity and agree, or you may have it known that you refused the generosity of a marquess. Don’t force me to complain to the board of governors.”
Colour drained from her face. “I … of course, my lord.”
Rothley’s attention returned to the boy. “If you want the position, fetch your things. We leave within the hour.”
Alfie’s grip on his cap tightened. “Yes, milord.” He shot a wary glance at Mrs Peverill before darting from the room, as though afraid she might strap him to the chair.
Bentley watched him go, noting the matron’s scowl and the stiff set of her shoulders. Whatever claim she had on the boy, she didn’t seem pleased to lose it.
“That was extremely kind of you,” Miss Woolf said quietly.
Rothley cast her a sidelong glance. “In case you haven’t been paying attention, Miss Woolf, I am not entirely without mercy.”
As the door closed, Clara addressed Mrs Peverill. “My mother attended Rosefield years ago. She knew Miss Forbes. The student who took poison after being ruined by her tutor.”
Mrs Peverill’s lips thinned. “I’ve heard the story. Girls do love to gossip. It cast a blight on Rosefield’s name, one that lingers still. Families of rank turned away, fearful of tarnishing their own.”
“Was Miss Forbes from an aristocratic family?” Clara asked.
“No,” Rothley said. “I’m familiar with every name in Debrett’s.”
“I wouldn’t know. Details of past pupils are kept in the archives,” the matron replied primly. “Those that haven’t already been destroyed.”
Bentley caught the slight pause before her last words. “Did the intruder take a file from the archives?”
“I’ve yet to determine what’s missing.”
Ever the keen enquiry agent, Clara asked the most telling question. “Have you ever heard about the curse Miss Forbes was said to have placed on the other ladies in her dormitory?”
Mrs Peverill paled. “Only the rumours, though there is evidence such a thing exists. The girl etched a curse beneath one of the chapel pews.” She pressed her lips tight, as if regretting the admission. “It accounts for the disastrous years since.”
Bentley studied her. “And what if I said there was a way to break the spell? That you might cleanse these walls of the stain.”
Mrs Peverill gave an incredulous laugh, though her eyes betrayed something closer to hope. “If such a thing were possible, my lord, it would be a blessing beyond measure. But curses are not so easily lifted. Every chaplain who’s served Rosefield has tried in vain.”
Miss Woolf stepped forward. “Not easily, no, but not impossible. A curse etched into wood can, in theory, be countered—scratched out, burnt away, or buried beneath words of greater power.”
Rothley’s brow rose. “You sound as though you speak from experience, Miss Woolf.”
Her smile was faint, enigmatic. “Only from what I’ve read.”
Mrs Peverill shuddered. “The pew was burnt years ago. Mrs Rosefield hoped to rid the house of the girl’s blasphemy.”
“Do you keep sage in the herb garden?” Miss Woolf said.
The matron blinked. “Of course.”
“Then there is still a chance. If you can tell us where we might find Miss Forbes’s family, I will burn the sage and perform the ritual. It may ease the stain she left behind.”
Mrs Peverill drew herself up and was already striding out the door. “Follow me to the stillroom, Miss Woolf. I assume you want dried sage.”
As Miss Woolf moved to leave, Rothley caught her wrist. He bent close, towering above her. “Dabbling with curses is unwise.”
“I mean only to recite a few lines of the old graveyard poets.” She paused, then whispered, “From Robert Blair’s The Grave. It will sound like an incantation.”
Rothley looked impressed. “ The Grave. A poem of hollow tombs and dead men, dressed as sorcery. How clever.”
Miss Woolf’s faint smile lingered as she slipped from his grasp and followed Mrs Peverill into the hall.
While they waited, conversation turned back to the case.
The intruder cannot be Mr Murray or Lord Tarrington,” Clara said. “Both were in London when it happened, and Mr Daventry had men watching them.”
Even so, Bentley couldn’t shake the suspicion Tarrington knew more than he admitted. His aunt had been among the girls in Miss Forbes’ dormitory, and such a legacy was not easily ignored.
Before he replied, a maid entered bearing the tea tray and set it upon the low table.
As he watched her fuss with the cups, he realised they had forgotten to ask an important question. “Perhaps you can help us. Have you ever heard talk of Miss Forbes’ curse?”
The maid’s hands faltered on the tray. “Only whispers, my lord. They say she swore vengeance on the girls in her dormitory.”
“And the tutor?” Bentley pressed. “Do you remember his name?”
She thought for a moment, eyes lowering. “It was years past, but some here still speak of him. Mr Fletcher, I think. Best you ask the matron. She would know.”
Clara sat forward. “What else do they say? If we’re to help rid this place of bad omens, we must know what truly happened.”
The maid poured the tea, spilling some on the chipped china saucer. “Old scandals linger. Some still like to gossip.”
“About Mr Fletcher?”
“About the girls in the dorm, my lady.”
Clara didn’t correct her and claim she was Bentley’s mistress and lover, not his wife. And might never be, if she sought an exciting life chasing criminals. “You mean Agnes, Mimi and?—”
“Vivienne,” Bentley added, his mother’s name sour on his tongue.
“They say he was friendly with all the girls in the dorm.”
Cold prickled down Bentley’s spine. He stared at the maid. “All of them?” Even his mother? Did it explain her obsession with the curse? Was she culpable ?
The maid nodded. “He was young and handsome, by all accounts. Jealousy—that’s what caused the trouble.” Her eyes darted nervously toward the door, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Though I hear he planned to elope with Agnes. Got as far as buying tickets for the stage.”
Bentley stilled, his pulse hammering in his ears. Agnes. Clara’s mother. Miss Nightshade’s words came rushing back with chilling clarity.
Agnes died with stained hands. Stained by silence, not blood. That’s why someone killed her.