Page 104 of A Devil in Silk
Silence stretched, broken by the distant clatter of a cart and the growl of a stray dog giving chase. The house itself gavenothing away; Clara strained to see through the dusty window as Bentley pressed his ear to the wood.
“Wait.” He listened intently. “I hear one of her parrots repeating the same phrase.”
“What? Save me fromThe Marriage of Figaro?”
“No. ‘Welcome, friends’.”
“Good lord. Mr Scarth must be in there.”
He rapped again, loud enough to shake the heavens. “Mrs Morven?”
At last came a noise in the hall, more shuffles than steps.
The door creaked open. Mrs Morven stood in the gap, her hair tangled, her dress twisted and torn at the shoulder. A smear of blood marked her lip, and the faint shadow of a bruise was already blooming on her cheek. She clutched the frame for balance, her knuckles white.
“About time,” she said, wincing as she moved. “I sent word to the address on your card two hours ago. I feared you would never come.” She peered into the street, drawing a shaky breath. “You’re alone? You’ll need a constable. He’s far too dangerous for one man to handle. Don’t tell me you came in a hackney. We need a prison cart.”
“We parked our carriage at the end of the street.” Clara stepped forward, cupping Mrs Morven’s elbow when her hand slipped from the frame and she nearly fell.
“Who did this?” Bentley glanced over his shoulder, as if danger breathed down their necks. “Did Scarth attack you in the yard? Shall we fetch a doctor?”
“Good heavens, no. A hot cup of tea will suffice. I once played Rosalind for forty consecutive nights on tour. Audiences are far more brutal than one deranged lodger.”
“So Mr Scarth has been here?” Clara pressed.
“Yes. Now come in. I’ll not have the street privy to my affairs. I’m sure we can muddle through until proper help arrives.”
They followed her into the sitting room. A coal bucket lay overturned on the rug, black dust scattered across the faded pattern. Framed playbills hung crooked on the walls. Red velvet chairs were flung aside. The parrots rocked atop the gilded music stand, feathers ruffled, until they caught sight of the newcomers and shrieked, “Time for an encore!” as if the chaos itself were staged.
“Mr Scarth attacked you in the house?” Clara noticed the brass tongs and shovel strewn across the grate. No wonder the parrots weren’t as lively.
Mrs Morven clutched her hands to her chest. “He tore through my rooms with wild fury, rifling drawers, tearing at sheets and blankets like a marauder hunting lost treasure.”
“Did he find what he was looking for?” Bentley asked.
No doubt Mr Scarth was searching for something he had hidden here before he fled. A clue to his guilt? Or another secret worth killing for?
Mrs Morven shook her head. “No. He only grew more agitated. Kept shouting, demanding to know what I’d done with his notebook. It was most alarming.” She swayed, bracing one hand on the mantel. But for the bruise, her face was pale. “And to think that madman has been living under my roof for a year. He might have murdered me in my bed.”
“I’ll make tea,” Clara said, unsettled by Mrs Morven’s sudden fragility, while Bentley righted one of the overturned chairs and urged the woman to sit.
“Don’t go to any trouble.” Mrs Morven gestured to a crystal decanter on the side table. “I’ll have sherry. Pour yourselves one too. I think you’ll need it when I tell you what that devil did.”
Clara hesitated, eyeing the decanter. Perhaps Mr Scarth had poisoned the sherry, yet Mrs Morven would not have offered if she thought it unsafe. She pushed the notion aside and poured a glass, her mind fixed on catching the medium before he slippedfrom the city. “I shall speak to our coachman. He can alert the constables at Scotland Yard.”
Mrs Morven accepted the glass with a trembling hand. “I sent a local boy, though he’s likely been distracted. Give him another ten minutes, then you may alert your driver. We must stop that devil escaping.”
Clara worried her lip. “But what if he already has?”
“I doubt that.” Mrs Morven chuckled. “Those chains are strong enough to hold a mad bull. And I’ve locked the cellar door and taken the only key.”
Though shock made Clara stumble, Bentley’s expression hardened into grim satisfaction. “You mean Scarth is still here? In the house?”
“Yes. In the cellar. I struck him with the coal scuttle to subdue him. I had to drag him down the stairs myself, though he’ll bear the bruises for a month.”
Bentley turned towards the hall. “Then we must question him without delay.”
While Clara imagined Mr Scarth creeping through her house, poisoning the port and the brandy, Mrs Morven cried, “You’ll wait for the constable. I’ve no mind to let him loose. Nor will I have blood on my hands should you provoke him.”
