Page 47 of A Devil in Silk
Clara ran her fingers along the edge of the writing desk. “The sergeant said they removed unsent letters, replies to a few desperate souls hoping she could provide the answers they sought.”
He watched her lift the inkwell, then tap a fingernail along the underside of the desk. “They’re still waiting for confirmation the journal found at the emporium was hers.”
“What happened to the letters she received?” Clara said.
He glanced at the ash in the grate. “Like everything about her life, she disposed of them.”
“Yet Mrs Morven has kept every playbill featuring her name. The stack of letters from adoring fans fills a worn valise. I heard her telling her birds that reputation is everything.”
“You’re suggesting Miss Nightshade had something to hide.”
Clara shrugged. “Someone had a reason to murder her, though heaven knows why they sought to blame me.”
A rising need to protect her made him invent another scenario. “Perhaps it’s a coincidence, and she meant to destroy all the pages in her journal but left yours by mistake.”
“Why would it be deliberate? That’s a question that keeps echoing in my mind.” She braced her hands on her hips and scanned the room. “Lavinia could have an apartment elsewhere. It would explain the lack of personal effects and the utter sense of emptiness.”
“Or a house outside London. It would account for her frequent trips out of town.” Bentley grumbled silently. Scarth would know, but it seems the man had a reason to hide. More so, since he’d probably stolen something of Lavinia’s the night of the seance.
Clara’s gaze swept the place once more, slower this time. Then she frowned. “Do you hear that?”
He stilled. “Hear what?”
“The mantel clock hasn’t chimed since we’ve been here. There’s no incessant ticking.”
Bentley looked at the small brass clock perched on the mantelpiece. Its hands were frozen just past the hour. “I doubt Lewis thinks winding the clock is a priority.”
“Where’s the key? Most people keep them on the mantel.”
“Probably hanging on the hook behind.”
Keen to find out, Clara went to examine the timepiece.
“There’s an inscription on the back.” She stared at it, giving a curious tilt of her head before reading it aloud. “Life is fleeting. Live while the hour allows.”
Bentley’s jaw tightened.
A slow anger stirred.
He had wasted too many hours in the name of duty, let guilt steal time he could never reclaim.
“There’s a key inside, but not the key to wind the clock.” Clara’s statement dragged him from his brief reverie. “It looks like it might fit a jewellery box or necessaire.”
His interest piqued, he crossed the room and examined the key. “Whatever it opens must be here somewhere.”
“Or Miss Nightshade left it at the emporium the night of the murder. Perhaps that’s what Mr Scarth was looking for when he came here.”
They contemplated the possibilities.
Bentley went downstairs and asked Mr Lewis if Miss Nightshade had given him a box for safekeeping. “It could be a jewellery box or a place she kept letters.”
“She never gave me anything but the time of day,” Lewis said, shaking his head. “And she once said trust was a luxury she could ill afford.”
Bentley returned to the sitting room to find Clara on her hands and knees near the desk, inspecting the dusty floorboards.
An arousing image flooded his mind, one that made his blood stir and his conscience bristle. He cleared his throat and forced his gaze from the tempting curve of her hips. “What exactly are you doing?”
“I once hid a pocket knife beneath the boards in my bedchamber.” She ran her hand over the wood, focusing on her task while he fought the urge to stare. “It was a present from my mother.”
