Page 85 of A Devil in Silk
Like a pugilist taking a blow to the chin, Clara absorbed the accusation and struck back. “I’m not the one paid to play a part at the seance. You lied, sir, to the entire audience.”
Murray’s glare sharpened. “Paid to play a part? Madam, you’ll say anything to shift the blame. You had poison in that tiny flask and convinced the sergeant it was sherry.”
“It was sherry,” Bentley countered. “I drank it myself.” Warm and sweet, like Clara’s lips. They had passed the flask between them while watching couples dancing. Being with her left him dizzy, yet he had lived to see sunrise, proof love, not curses, ruled his fate.
“Sit down, Mr Murray.” Daventry gestured to the agents flanking Murray, and they forced him back into the chair. “Miss Dalton won’t see the inside of a cell at Newgate. You will, unless you explain why you attacked the landlord at Miss Nightshade’s residence.”
Daventry motioned for Clara and Bentley to sit, then explained that his agent had been watching the house on Dowgate Hill when Murray broke in and assaulted the owner.
“In some cases, housebreaking with violence is still a hanging offence, Mr Murray. Be concerned for your own neck, not Miss Dalton’s.”
“It’s not housebreaking if I had a key,” the scruffy fellow retorted. “And a man’s allowed to defend himself when he’s walloped with a bedpan.” He touched the lump on his forehead and winced.
Daventry reached into his coat pocket and tossed a ring of skeleton keys onto the low table. “Burglars’ tools do not constitute a door key.”
“They’re not mine.”
“They were found in your pocket.”
“Planted there to make me look guilty.”
“What were you looking for?” Daventry’s expression darkened. He drew out his watch and flicked open the gold case. “You have five seconds to tell me. I’d rather not take you into the yard and add to your injuries. Be assured, I’m skilled at hurting men without leaving a mark.”
Murray’s jaw worked like a horse fighting the bit. His gaze darted to the door, then to the iron keys on the table, as ifweighing his chances of escape. “I was looking for the items Lavinia promised me.”
“The spoils of your ill-gotten gains,” Bentley said. “We have proof Lavinia blackmailed members of the audience, and by your own admission, she paid you to help deceive them.”
The lines on Murray’s brow deepened, and his hands shot up in mock surrender. “So I told a white lie and pretended to see a vision.”
“Perhaps you killed Miss Nightshade when she withheld your payment.” Anger flared in Clara’s voice. “Perhaps you poisoned your own wine and poured it into someone else’s glass when all eyes were on Lavinia.”
Murray’s bravado faltered. His mouth opened, closed, then twisted into a sneer that failed to reach his eyes. “You’ve no proof. You’re just looking for someone else to blame.”
“Am I?” Clara sat forward, her tone measured yet merciless. “You admit to lying. You admit to taking payment. How far is the leap from deceit to murder? A debt unpaid. A temper lost. A woman killed in cold blood. I saw the fear in her eyes when she looked at you, knowing death was closing in.”
Murray flinched, colour draining from his face. “Stop.”
“Did you slip poison into her drink?” she pressed. “Did you take pleasure watching as it crushed the life from her?”
“Enough!” His hands trembled as he raked them through his copper hair. “Why would I poison my own sister? She’s the only family I had.”
A stunned silence followed, hanging in the air like the toll of a funeral bell.
Daventry eased back in his chair, fingers steepled, the beginnings of a satisfied smile curving his mouth. “If I had to make a wager, I’d say you’re innocent of murder and guilty of extortion. Either way, only the truth will save you now, Murray.”
Murray bowed his head, shadows pooling beneath his eyes.
“Surely you want us to catch the person responsible,” Clara said, changing tack. “Perhaps you’ve been seeking answers yourself. Is that why you accosted Lord Tarrington outside The Prospect of Whitby tavern?”
Murray sat bolt upright. “Did Tarrington tell you that? Did he mention he punched me and hauled me into his carriage?”
“He did.” Clara relayed the lord’s account. “He said you accused him of being more than your sister’s patron. That you insulted his wife.”
Murray gave a harsh snort, thick with disdain. “Sometimes a man needs to hear the truth. Hypocrisy rules in theton, and there’s no greater hypocrite than Lord Tarrington.”
“I’ll not argue with that,” Daventry said. “Are you saying Tarrington was more than Lavinia’s patron?
Murray braced his arm on his knee, every inch of him coiled as if preparing to deliver a warning. “Sometimes people hide behind grief because it serves them,” he said bitterly. “That’s how that scoundrel lured Lavinia in, playing the wounded soul while baiting his hook.” He mimed casting a line. “I’m not saying she was a saint. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he killed her.”
