Page 31 of A Devil in Silk
Mrs Morven’s cheeks might have glowed red beneath the rouge, but it was hard to tell. “I went snooping, of course. I had to evict Mr Hobson for running a betting book for fights at the dreaded Cock Pit. If anyone deserved to have their eyes pecked out, it’s him.”
“We need to see Mr Scarth’s room,” Bentley said, his firm tone leaving little room for refusal.
“Well, since you put it so … politely, I suppose you had better follow me.” She glanced back at the parrots. “Figaro, Susanna, keep perfecting your bows while we’re gone. One mustn’t disappoint the audience.”
She lit a chamberstick and led them up a narrow staircase that creaked with each step. More framed playbills lined the walls, some yellowed with age, others proclaiming forgotten triumphs. Halfway up, she gestured to a fan hanging from a brass hook.
“That’s the original I used inIl matrimonio segretoat the King’s Theatre,” she said proudly. “A gentleman in the front row fainted when I fluttered it at him.”
Clara and Bentley exchanged amused glances, a quiet warmth blossoming in her chest. It was a strange feeling, something deeply satisfying yet too elusive to put into words or to add to her list.
Mr Scarth’s attic room, located up another narrow flight of stairs, was a calm, uncluttered space amid a chaotic city. A crystal pendulum hung before the tiny window, catching the moonlight. Shelves bore a handful of carefully chosen curiosities: ancient coins and polished stones. Sage scented the air.
Mrs Morven lit the candle lamp and set the chamberstick on the narrow desk, its flame casting long shadows across the attic walls. She lifted the mattress and then jerked back in surprise. “How odd. The book was there three days ago.”
Clara stared at the empty wooden base, the most obvious conclusion forming in her head. “Do you know what was written inside? The sergeant found a journal at The Arcane Emporium and presumed it belonged to Miss Nightshade.”
Mrs Morven hesitated, her lips pursing. “I’m not sure Silas would want me to repeat what I read.”
Bentley stepped forward. “We’re trying to find him before the authorities do. Anything you recall might help.”
She let out a reluctant sigh. “It was filled with names and addresses and a list of personal things, things you wouldn’t expect Silas to note down. I didn’t read it all, of course,” she added quickly, though it was obviously a lie, “but enough to know it wasn’t just a book full of rambling thoughts.”
“Can you think of an example?” Clara said.
Mrs Morven glanced at the door before whispering, “I remember one name, on account of it being unusual. Miss Picklescott of Snow Hill. And he’d written something different beside her name. There was no mention of family members who’ve passed over, no curious tales.”
A flutter of panic rose in Clara’s throat. “Mr Scarth recorded intimate details of people’s lives?”
Had he written something about her and that horrid memory? He must have. Why else would Miss Nightshade forceher to sit in a reserved seat? How had she known Clara lived under a dark cloud?
“It looked that way, yes,” Mrs Morven said. “Though Silas only had to glance into a person’s eyes to know their secrets. It’s dangerous work, meddling in people’s business.”
Yes, and Miss Nightshade had paid the price.
“He was heard arguing with someone before the performance,” Clara said, though Sergeant Brown hadn’t mentioned where he got the information. “Can you think who that might have been? Did he have a grievance with anyone?”
Mrs Morven gave a careless shrug. “Maybe someone who wanted to keep their darkest secrets buried. People like that don’t take kindly to being exposed.”
Clara dreaded the past invading the present, too, but she wouldn’t poison a woman to hide the truth.
“You said Scarth wrote something beside Miss Picklescott’s name,” Bentley said, moving on, though he wasn’t the one burdened by the past.
“Yes.” Mrs Morven leaned closer, dropping her voice to an eerie whisper. “Liar. That’s what he wrote. Nothing more. What more did he need to say?”
Chapter Seven
“Bravo! Bravo! Stay for an encore!” the parrots squawked as Bentley led Clara through the gaudy hallway as they prepared to leave.
He leaned closer and whispered, “I know I excel at questioning witnesses, but the birds’ praise is somewhat excessive.”
Clara hid her chuckle behind a polite cough. “Perhaps like me, they’re easily impressed.”
He almost scoffed. “I suggest you peruse your list again. A camel ride and a balloon flight don’t exactly speak of modest expectations.”
“Why aim low when life offers chances to soar? If I only have a short time to do as I please, I intend to dream big.”
And yet it was the little things that made her smile: a shared joke, the glow of fifty lit lanterns, sipping sherry from the same flask. He used to think dreams were fanciful. Yet he’d begun to yearn for foolish things. Impossible things.
