Page 105 of A Devil in Silk
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.”
“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 forThe 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.
