Page 69 of A Devil in Silk
Through the fog of worry, she tried to think. Her mother had attended a seminary in Cheltenham, but that was the extent of Clara’s knowledge. Why would a tragedy from forty years ago resurface now? And how on earth did Miss Picklescott know what was written in a notebook hidden under Miss Nightshade’s floorboards?
A sharp knock on the apartment door startled her.
“Miss Dalton?” Bentley called, rapping again. “Open the door. I’m here with two constables.”
Panic rose in her throat as she stared at the paper in her hand, torn between slipping it into her reticule or handing it over as evidence. Taking it might protect her for a time, but lies had a nasty way of surfacing at the worst possible moment.
Clutching both slips of paper, she hurried to open the door.
Bentley entered, flanked by two constables in dark blue coats and tall stovepipe hats. “Gibbs has gone to alert Daventry and Inspector Mercer. Did you find anything that might help us catch the killer?” As if sensing her distress, he clasped her elbow and drew her aside. “What is it, Clara?”
She handed him the slips of paper. “I found these hidden in the bedchamber. I think the murders might be connected.”
While the constables circled the room, hands clasped behind their backs, studying the body and the scattered pages, Bentley read the small scrolls.
“My mother attended a finishing school in Cheltenham.” His voice was calm, yet the tightness around his eyes belied his unease. “I must ask her the name.”
“So did my mother, though I doubt they were at school together. Daniel might know.” Though she had no wish to meet him on the road to ask.
Bentley glanced behind them before leaning closer. “You should have hidden these in your reticule. The mention of your name makes the evidence against you more compelling.”
“I have nothing to hide.”
Except for her feelings for him. The aching truth that no danger or scandal could stop her from wanting to know how it might feel to be loved by him completely.
The next three hours passed in a flurry of activity. Inspector Mercer questioned each of them in turn, his tone clipped, his notes brisk. Mr Daventry remained calm throughout, quietly observing the scene alongside the coroner, who arrived shortly after to examine the body.
By the time the constables began clearing the room, the shadows in the house had lengthened, and Clara felt as if she had aged a year.
“Do you have an alibi for last night, Miss Dalton?” the inspector asked, though Mr Daventry was quick to intervene.
“She attended the performance ofNormaat the King’s Theatre as the Marquess of Rothley’s guest. I know because I was there.”
“I left during the interval,” she admitted, then looked the inspector in the eye and blatantly lied. “Lord Rutland received word that Mr Murray might be found at the docks.”
Lord Rutland had lured her out of the theatre with a note that left no doubt of his intent. It spoke not of quests or adventures, only of the reckless need to live boldly. She had known the moment she read it that the night would end in a blaze of passion.
And tonight would be no different.
“You must see how this looks,” the inspector said coldly. “The woman who questioned your connection to Miss Nightshade ends up murdered.”
“Do you think Miss Dalton would be stupid enough to hand you a note that implicates her?” Bentley countered. “She could have destroyed it, and you’d be none the wiser.”
Mr Daventry glanced towards the bedchamber. “I doubt the killer knew about the notes hidden inside the silver handles. There’s nothing else here to link my agent to this crime. Might I suggest you return with me to Hart Street, Inspector? We’ll review the evidence Miss Dalton uncovered about Miss Nightshade’s criminal activity.”
The inspector gave a reluctant nod. “Until the killer is apprehended, I suggest Miss Dalton finds herself a chaperone. A lady of good standing who can vouch for her whereabouts.”
Clara fought to keep her expression neutral, though the thought slid through her like ice. How was she to sustain a secret affair with Bentley if she was under constant observation?
“The Countess of Berridge will happily oblige,” Mr Daventry said. Then, turning to Clara, “I suggest you make the arrangements. We’ll reconvene at the office in the morning. With luck, we may catch Mr Murray before he boards the stage to Manchester.”
As they left the apartment, a list of tasks flitted through her mind. Have her friend Olivia research the Rosefield Seminary, every scandal and suspicious death. Speak to the countess. Have Gibbs watch the property at night. Something told her the killer might return.
But none of those accounted for the sudden rise in her pulse. Freedom was slipping away as fast as sand in an hourglass. Time with Bentley was vanishing just as quickly, and no amount of wishing could slow its pace.
“Shall we visit the countess at The Burnished Jade?” Bentley said, helping her into the carriage as Gibbs stood by, awaiting instruction. “Or shall I take you home, Clara? You look weary. These accusations have taken their toll.”
“Home, please.”
