Page 44 of A Devil in Silk (Tales from The Burnished Jade #3)

“I don’t think he’s fighting the chains. I think he’s urging us to leave.” She slipped her hand in his, the touch steadying her as dread coiled tight in her chest. “Something is terribly wrong.”

Mrs Morven appeared, descending the stairs to join them. “You’ll need to remove the gag if you want to hear his confession. Mind, as he’s desperate enough to bite.”

Bentley released Clara’s hand and stepped forward, bending to meet the medium’s tormented gaze. “Let’s hear what you have to say, Scarth.”

“On second thoughts, best wait for the constable.” Mrs Morven cut across him, her tone oddly sharp for one so bruised and trembling. “If you’re after a confession, let the authorities hear it. He’d sooner swallow his tongue than speak the truth.”

Clara kept her composure, though her thoughts ran amok.

If Mrs Morven truly feared for their safety, why had she not armed them with fire irons before they made their descent? Why was she in the cellar, not at the window, watching for the constable? Why the delay?

“I wasn’t honest when you called the first time.” Mrs Morven edged closer, scowling at Mr Scarth as if she longed to pelt him with rotten fruit. “Blame it on misplaced loyalties. No one wants to believe they’ve been betrayed.”

Clara braced herself, certain the motive was to make Mr Scarth look guilty. “It’s not too late to tell us now.”

Mrs Morven waited a rehearsed beat before delivering her solo.

“Silas confided in me the night before poor Lavinia’s death.

A woman he was friendly with, who writes for The Satirist, claimed Miss Nightshade was blackmailing her guests with secrets he had shared.

That’s when he turned crazed and vowed vengeance. Took it as a personal attack.”

Mr Scarth cried out against the gag. He shook his head violently, rocking in the chair like a bedlamite.

“Be quiet,” Mrs Morven snapped. “It’s too late to save yourself. You won’t be joining your friends in the nether realm. Satan has a seat waiting for you beside his fire.”

Mr Scarth stilled. A strange calm settled over the room, though his gaze never left Clara. A silent message followed. He closed his eyes, held them shut for a slow count of three, and opened them wide again. A game of peekaboo she always played with her mother.

A wave of warmth washed through her despite the dank cellar. And in that instant she knew, with absolute certainty, this man would never harm a soul.

Next came the chill. The scarred side of her face prickled, a phantom echo of past pain, as realisation struck. If Scarth was not the killer, then the woman beside her had lied.

Hadn’t Mrs Morven just claimed knowledge of both victims? Too much knowledge. But why would a retired soprano want to silence a fraud and a journalist?

A word slipped into her mind like a ghostly whisper.

Rosefield.

“Did I not tell you?” Mrs Morven cried, pointing at her prisoner. “See how he blinks like a crazed buffoon?”

But Clara no longer believed it. “I think the blow to the temple has left him dazed,” she said, wondering about Mrs Morven’s curious ties to the seminary.

“We should remove the gag. Let him speak, and we’ll all bear witness to his confession.

Do you have paper and pencil, Mrs Morven?

We will make Mr Scarth sign a statement while we wait for the constable. ”

Bentley gave a curt nod. “A sensible course.”

“Sensible if he were sane,” Mrs Morven countered.

Undeterred, Clara stepped forward.

But Mrs Morven clasped her arm to stall her, her grip surprisingly firm. “Wait while I fetch some paper. I’ll check for the constable while I’m upstairs.”

Clara forced a nod. “Perhaps he’ll need water if he’s worn this gag for an hour. Shall I fetch it for you?”

Mrs Morven tutted. “I helped fifty people escape a fire in the stalls when a chandelier came crashing down. I think I can manage paper and water.”

She climbed the stairs and disappeared through the door.

Clara wasted no time, whispering, “Quick, Bentley. See if you can find the keys for the shackles while I remove the gag. Mrs Morven is the killer, and she means to blame Mr Scarth.”

“I thought as much when I saw his bruises.” He pulled the blade from his boot and tucked it into his coat. “We need to move fast. She has us trapped down here like rats on a sinking ship.”

“We’ll need to arrest her and take her into custody.” She tugged at the knots in the rag and yanked it free from Mr Scarth’s mouth.

The man drew a gasping breath, but his first words were for them. “Forget me,” he rasped. “Leave now while she’s distracted. She means to kill you both.”

The warning fell like the stroke of a guillotine.

“What is this all about?” Bentley demanded.

“I’m to blame.” Mr Scarth’s gaze snapped to the stairs. “I told her about Rosefield because I knew she once lived in Cheltenham. But go now. There’s no time for questions.”

“I’ve got the water and paper,” Mrs Morven called sweetly from above. “Now, let’s have the madman’s confession.”

Clara gathered her strength.

How hard could it be to overthrow a mad soprano?

The click of a hammer—then the echo of a second—sent her heart crashing to her stomach. She turned slowly. All trace of weariness had fled Mrs Morven’s face. In one hand gleamed a pocket pistol, its twin resting in the other.

“I once helped stage a production of The Magic Flute , with serpents, charmed bells and enchanted instruments. But nothing has given me greater pleasure than staging this tragedy.”

“ Bravo! Bravo! ” a parrot echoed.

Mr Scarth gave his own soliloquy. “Hatred hurts only the one who wields it. It is a poison that seeps into every thought, every breath, until it steals your humanity.”

“Pah! You’re the one who fed me hemlock with your notes about the seminary. You know the motto I live by, and for good reason. Reputation is everything.”

Mr Scarth drew a steady breath. “And yet you’ve ruined a lifetime of credible work in the name of vengeance.” His voice held no mockery, only sorrow. “And for what? To punish those who hurt your brother?”

Brother?

The word jarred. Clara bit back a gasp. A piece of the puzzle slotted into place. Mrs Morven’s brother was the tutor, Mr Fletcher.

Mrs Morven’s jaw clenched. She waved a pistol at Mr Scarth. “Don’t you dare mention him. Who told you?” Fury trembled in her voice. Her gaze shot to them as if she were the devil’s spawn. “Was it Agnes’ daughter or Vivienne’s son? Have you been listening to gossip from beyond the grave again?”

“You know how it works. Lavinia may have filled the seats, but I hear the voices. They told me to look into Rosefield, gave me the name Agnes, and spoke of a terrible lie that had caused a tragedy. Lavinia embellished it, as she always did.”

“Yes, and that harlot refused to listen to reason,” Mrs Morven said, hatred on her tongue. Anger had shattered her composure. “I begged her not to mention Rosefield, but the evil wretch laughed in my face.”

Clara glanced at Bentley. The outburst gave Mrs Morven a motive for murder. But who administered the poison?

“Forty years,” Mrs Morven said, tightening her grip on the pistols. “That’s how long I’ve spent hiding from that scandal. Do you think I’d permit that immoral creature to drag my brother’s name, our family name, through the dirt again?”

“You came to the emporium during the seance,” Mr Scarth said. “You poisoned the wine I served. You’re the only one who knew where to find my notebook. Revenge had you tearing out the pages to make it look as though Miss Dalton was guilty.”

Mrs Morven laughed, the cackle of a Macbeth witch rather than a mortal woman.

“No, you killed Lavinia, and your nosy friend Miss Picklescott, too. The evidence points to you. A man on the run is always deemed guilty. When I eventually summon the constable, it will appear you went on a violent rampage.”

Bentley’s voice cut through the madness. “Then you plan to dispose of the witnesses. You mean to kill us and lay the blame on Scarth.”

Mrs Morven’s eyes gleamed. “Bravo. A fitting end to an excellent performance. Your mothers lied. Their spite and jealousy ruined the life of a man whose only crime was a handsome face. He left for the Americas and died on the crossing. It’s only fitting your deaths provide the grand finale.”

The world seemed to stop.

At the duel, she had known Daniel would not fire.

But here in this foul cellar, there was every chance one of them would die.

Clara looked at Bentley, the thought of losing him a searing ache too sharp to bear.

Against all odds, she had found love, and she’d be damned if this woman’s hatred stole it from her grasp.

She mastered her fear, drawing strength from the man at her side, and fixed on wiping the smug grin from Mrs Morven’s face. “If you kill us, you will be a suspect. You must have been asleep during the heroine’s aria. The villain is always exposed.”

“I’ve left nothing to chance,” Mrs Morven shot back. “I’ve spent a week rehearsing every line.”

“On the contrary.” Clara firmed her tone.

Their lives depended on unsettling this villain.

“You scattered the papers on the floor of Miss Picklescott’s apartment.

One referred to the Factory Bill, a red herring.

You wrote it while there. If we’re found dead, you will be a suspect.

Mr Daventry will compare the writing, and the forgery will seal your fate. ”

The soprano’s brow twitched.

“It’s three miles to Snow Hill,” Clara continued. “You took a hackney and the driver waited. It’s such a steep climb, the jarvey will recall the fare. And I noticed your poker is missing. Another small detail you overlooked.”

Mr Scarth drove the point home. “Your brother’s file was among the archives at Rosefield, with a record of your last known address. People remembered the scandal. They remembered you. The girl of fifteen who ran away to join the theatre.”

Mrs Morven froze as if she’d forgotten her lines.

“And the bruises on Scarth’s wrists show he’s been restrained for the best part of two days,” Bentley added. “Any decent medical man would agree. They’re proof you lied.”

To add fuel to the fire, a parrot squawked, “ Poison’s the best revenge! Poison’s the best revenge! ”

It struck like a curse, mocking her pretence of innocence.

Defiance flashed in Mrs Morven’s eyes. She aimed her pistol at Clara.

A breath before the crack rang out, Bentley thrust Clara aside, taking the line of fire himself. The ball scorched his sleeve, sulphur thickening the air, but relief surged through her—he lived.

He was already moving, closing the distance. With a brutal twist, he wrenched the second pistol from Mrs Morven’s claw-like grasp, sending it skittering across the stone floor.

Above them, a sudden pounding on the front door rattled through the house.

Mrs Morven blinked, startled.

The pistol crack from the cellar must have carried to the street, for the hammering turned violent. A thunderous crash followed as the door gave way beneath brute force.

Footsteps thudded overhead, men’s voices rising in urgent chorus.

“Clara!” Daniel shouted, fierce with panic.

“Rutland!” Mr Daventry’s stern voice resounded.

Mrs Morven gave a thin smile. Her hand slipped into her bodice and she drew out a small vial. She uncorked it quickly, its contents dark as ink.

“Did you think I’d let you drag me through the streets like a common criminal?” She raised the vial in a mock toast, then downed the potion in one gulp. “Medea was right. Some betrayals demand poison. Better to end on my own stage.”

She dropped to her knees, hands clutching her throat.

And the parrots screeched, “ Take a bow! ”