Page 43 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)
Chapter Twenty-Three
There was no sign of Mr Scarth on Dartmoor Street. He wasn’t loitering in a darkened doorway, watching Mrs Morven’s terrace house, nor crouched amid the rubbish in the narrow alley behind. The gate to her yard was locked, the stillness suggesting she had already chased him off with her broom.
Clara released her grip on Bentley’s arm, though she couldn’t shake the sense of foreboding creeping like cold fingers over her skin. The sun lingered above the rooftops, gilding the brickwork, but the air felt heavy, charged with menace.
“We should take Mrs Morven’s statement while we’re here.” She scanned the quiet street, deciding she’d sooner hear the parrots’ shrill squawks than risk the killer pouncing from the shadows. “It would be helpful to know what Mr Scarth was looking for.”
“I agree.” Bentley’s voice bore the mark of frustration. “At this rate, we’ll never solve this damn case. Instead of being lured by a seance, I should have bought tickets to the Arabian night at the amphitheatre and let you ride a camel. At least then we’d have known the nature of the beast.”
“Fate had you purchase tickets to see Miss Nightshade instead. Despite our troubles, I wouldn’t change a thing.”
Perhaps one thing. At The Lantern Ring, she would fall into his arms, dance beneath the soft, sensual glow, taste sherry on his lips.
His eyes warmed. “Nor would I. Being with you is a gift beyond measure. But we’ll have no peace until this is over, until you’re safe.”
The image of lanterns and laughter faded as unease returned. What if the curse was real? What if their lives were doomed, forever marred by tragedy?
Desperate for answers, she asked, “Why would Mr Scarth come back here?” The question nagged at her. Had he left a damning clue behind? “We checked his belongings and found nothing incriminating.”
“Perhaps Mrs Morven stole something of his.” Bentley scanned the dull facade of the retired soprano’s house. “Or perhaps he came to kidnap the parrots and spare them her torturous singing.”
A sick feeling coiled in Clara’s stomach. “But what if he’s inside? We assume she drove him off, but what if he returned to silence her? She can testify to what he wrote in the notebook he hid under the mattress.”
The puzzle turned endlessly in her mind, but the pieces refused to fit. Was Mr Scarth the intruder at Rosefield? And if so, what was he searching for there?
“We should knock.” Bentley gave her no chance to protest. He strode to the door, raised the iron knocker, and released it with measured force.
They waited.
Silence stretched, broken by the distant clatter of a cart and the growl of a stray dog giving chase. The house itself gave nothing away; Clara strained to see through the dusty window as Bentley pressed his ear to the wood.
“Wait.” He listened intently. “I hear one of her parrots repeating the same phrase.”
“What? Save me from The Marriage of Figaro ?”
“No. ‘ Welcome, friends’ .”
“Good lord. Mr Scarth must be in there.”
He rapped again, loud enough to shake the heavens. “Mrs Morven?”
At last came a noise in the hall, more shuffles than steps.
The door creaked open. Mrs Morven stood in the gap, her hair tangled, her dress twisted and torn at the shoulder. A smear of blood marked her lip, and the faint shadow of a bruise was already blooming on her cheek. She clutched the frame for balance, her knuckles white.
“About time,” she said, wincing as she moved.
“I sent word to the address on your card two hours ago. I feared you would never come.” She peered into the street, drawing a shaky breath.
“You’re alone? You’ll need a constable. He’s far too dangerous for one man to handle.
Don’t tell me you came in a hackney. We need a prison cart. ”
“We parked our carriage at the end of the street.” Clara stepped forward, cupping Mrs Morven’s elbow when her hand slipped from the frame and she nearly fell.
“Who did this?” Bentley glanced over his shoulder, as if danger breathed down their necks. “Did Scarth attack you in the yard? Shall we fetch a doctor?”
“Good heavens, no. A hot cup of tea will suffice. I once played Rosalind for forty consecutive nights on tour. Audiences are far more brutal than one deranged lodger.”
“So Mr Scarth has been here?” Clara pressed.
“Yes. Now come in. I’ll not have the street privy to my affairs. I’m sure we can muddle through until proper help arrives.”
They followed her into the sitting room.
A coal bucket lay overturned on the rug, black dust scattered across the faded pattern.
Framed playbills hung crooked on the walls.
Red velvet chairs were flung aside. The parrots rocked atop the gilded music stand, feathers ruffled, until they caught sight of the newcomers and shrieked, “Time for an encore!” as if the chaos itself were staged.
“Mr Scarth attacked you in the house?” Clara noticed the brass tongs and shovel strewn across the grate. No wonder the parrots weren’t as lively.
Mrs Morven clutched her hands to her chest. “He tore through my rooms with wild fury, rifling drawers, tearing at sheets and blankets like a marauder hunting lost treasure.”
“Did he find what he was looking for?” Bentley asked.
No doubt Mr Scarth was searching for something he had hidden here before he fled. A clue to his guilt? Or another secret worth killing for?
Mrs Morven shook her head. “No. He only grew more agitated. Kept shouting, demanding to know what I’d done with his notebook.
It was most alarming.” She swayed, bracing one hand on the mantel.
But for the bruise, her face was pale. “And to think that madman has been living under my roof for a year. He might have murdered me in my bed.”
“I’ll make tea,” Clara said, unsettled by Mrs Morven’s sudden fragility, while Bentley righted one of the overturned chairs and urged the woman to sit.
“Don’t go to any trouble.” Mrs Morven gestured to a crystal decanter on the side table. “I’ll have sherry. Pour yourselves one too. I think you’ll need it when I tell you what that devil did.”
Clara hesitated, eyeing the decanter. Perhaps Mr Scarth had poisoned the sherry, yet Mrs Morven would not have offered if she thought it unsafe.
She pushed the notion aside and poured a glass, her mind fixed on catching the medium before he slipped from the city.
“I shall speak to our coachman. He can alert the constables at Scotland Yard.”
Mrs Morven accepted the glass with a trembling hand. “I sent a local boy, though he’s likely been distracted. Give him another ten minutes, then you may alert your driver. We must stop that devil escaping.”
Clara worried her lip. “But what if he already has?”
“I doubt that.” Mrs Morven chuckled. “Those chains are strong enough to hold a mad bull. And I’ve locked the cellar door and taken the only key.”
Though shock made Clara stumble, Bentley’s expression hardened into grim satisfaction. “You mean Scarth is still here? In the house?”
“Yes. In the cellar. I struck him with the coal scuttle to subdue him. I had to drag him down the stairs myself, though he’ll bear the bruises for a month.”
Bentley turned towards the hall. “Then we must question him without delay.”
While Clara imagined Mr Scarth creeping through her house, poisoning the port and the brandy, Mrs Morven cried, “You’ll wait for the constable. I’ve no mind to let him loose. Nor will I have blood on my hands should you provoke him.”
The parrots, restless on their gilded perch, fluffed their wings and shrieked, “ Scarth lied! Scarth lied! ”
As if staged for effect, a muffled moan rose from the depths below, followed by the eerie rattle of chains.
Bentley squared his shoulders. “I’m more than a match for Silas Scarth. Give me the key, Mrs Morven. I’ll have the truth from that devil tonight.”
Too weary to argue, Mrs Morven drew an iron key from her bodice. “Go then. I’ll wait here for the constable. But keep your wits about you. He’ll twist your thoughts if you let him.”
As the cellar door creaked open, Mr Scarth moaned and shook his chains. Damp air wafted up the stairwell, rank with days-old sweat, like the breath of a prison cell.
Bentley caught her arm. “You should wait with?—”
“I’m not leaving you. Not now.” Not ever. “And I must know what really happened at Rosefield.”
Had her mother loved the tutor?
Had she played a part in Miss Forbes’ death?
“Then stay close. There’s a knife tucked inside my right boot.”
She nodded. “Let’s pray Mrs Morven secured the chains, and the constable arrives before we have need of a weapon.”
Bracing her hand on the cold wall, Clara followed him down the narrow staircase. A single candle lamp threw an arc of light across the cellar. The ceiling pressed low, the air close, as though the very stones conspired to keep them trapped. The parrots blurted as if following a well-timed cue.
“ Scarth lied. Welcome, friends. What tripe. ”
That’s when Clara saw Silas Scarth. Bound at the wrists, ankles shackled to a wooden chair, a filthy rag tied across his mouth.
The sight held her frozen.
His white hair lay lank and unwashed. A coarse beard bristled unevenly across his jaw. Blood trickled from the cut at his temple, streaking his cheek before seeping into the collar of his stained shirt.
His eyes bulged when he saw them. He shook his head and jerked against the shackles, the chains scraping the stone floor as he struggled to break free. He looked practically feral.
Bentley gritted his teeth. “You’ll hang for what you’ve done. I’ll tighten the damn noose myself.”
But Clara caught the way Mr Scarth’s bound hands jerked towards the stairwell, not in attack but in a frantic warning.
Bentley noticed something, too. He drew her close, whispering, “Look at his wrists. Those bruises look days old. He’s been here longer than two hours.”