Page 67 of A Devil in Silk
Indeed, Bentley had just come to the aid of a wagon driver, wedging a block of wood beneath the wheel to stop the vehicle from sliding backwards and crashing into the carts and carriages below.
He brushed dust from his trousers and hands, looking distinctly unimpressed. “The fool should have parked his wagon on Farringdon Street and lugged the sack up the hill. Gibbs had the right idea.”
“It was good of you to stop and help.”
Few viscounts would take the trouble. Then again, few viscounts would take a job working for the Order.
Bentley gave a rueful smile. “Lavinia Nightshade claimed I’d live a miserable existence. Helping a fellow avoid catastrophe is one way to prove her wrong.”
Clara tilted her head, struck by sudden insight. “It was an odd thing for Lavinia to say unless she knew of your reluctance to marry Miss Woodall. Why else would a man with wealth and title be miserable?”
“Perhaps she discovered I’m the only surviving sibling and leapt to the obvious conclusion.”
“Or Mr Scarth wrote about it in his journal.”
Before they left the Order’s office, Mr Daventry confirmed the journal found at the murder scene belonged to Miss Nightshade’s assistant, not the medium herself.
But why had Mr Scarth gone to the trouble of ripping out pages? Why not simply take the journal with him when he left during the show? Unless he was kidnapped by the murderer who hoped to blame Clara for Miss Nightshade’s death.
“I fear we’re missing something important,” she said.
Bentley offered his arm and guided her towards the communal door leading to the upper apartments above the print shop. “Other than interview everyone Nightshade blackmailed, what more can we do?”
She mounted the stone staircase. “I think we should focus on the reason all the pages were missing from the journal except the one naming me. It may have something to do with Rosefield and why Miss Nightshade thought I’d be easy to blackmail.”
If the medium had any talent, she might have threatened to reveal how Clara had lost the sight in her eye. She would have paid a hundred pounds to keep that secret buried.
Rosefield.
Something about it seemed familiar, lost in a fog of half-remembered things. It could be the name of a person or place.
They climbed the last few steps, arriving at a narrow landing outside a plain wooden door marked with the number3.
Bentley paused, lowering his voice. “Remember, we have the advantage here. If people know a woman is writing the column inThe Satirist, Miss Picklescott will lose her post.”
“I shall be more than happy to give her a few home truths,” Clara replied curtly, and perhaps threaten to pen a scandalous article of her own. “Doubtless she’s the reason I was treated like a leper at the theatre.”
Bentley firmed his jaw. “I’ll deal with every ingrate who looked at you with anything but admiration.”
“I’m not sure there are enough hours in the day.”
“Trust me. One word in the right ear and—” As he knocked, the door creaked open and a whiff of something dreadful wafted through the gap.
Her nape prickled. “We should fetch a constable before entering. Look, there’s blood on the jamb.”
He studied the burgundy streak. “What if she’s hurt? We cannot afford to delay. I’ll answer to the constable if need be. Stay close.”
Those last two words struck a chord. She realised, with a sharp twist of longing, that staying close to him had quietly climbed to the top of her list.
They stepped cautiously inside. The small apartment was in chaos: dirty plates and glasses littered the floor near a worn desk, pages of writing scattered everywhere like fallen leaves. Both desk drawers were pulled out and upended. An ink pot lay on its side, a dark stain spreading across the papers like black blood.
Then Clara gasped.
Miss Picklescott was sprawled on the rug near the fireplace, her cold eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling. A halo of crimson circled her dark hair and stained the edges of her white cotton nightgown. The brass poker lay beside her, the tip crusted with dried blood.
A sob caught in Clara’s throat.
Bentley wrapped his strong arms around her, holding her against his chest. Seconds passed in silence, the sight too gruesome to contemplate. He drew back and brushed away a tear before it rolled off her nose.
