Page 107 of A Devil in Silk
“Pah! You’re the one who fed me hemlock with your notes about the seminary. You know the motto I live by, and for good reason. Reputation is everything.”
Mr Scarth drew a steady breath. “And yet you’ve ruined a lifetime of credible work in the name of vengeance.” His voice held no mockery, only sorrow. “And for what? To punish those who hurt your brother?”
Brother?
The word jarred. Clara bit back a gasp. A piece of the puzzle slotted into place. Mrs Morven’s brother was the tutor, Mr Fletcher.
Mrs Morven’s jaw clenched. She waved a pistol at Mr Scarth. “Don’t you dare mention him. Who told you?” Fury trembled in her voice. Her gaze shot to them as if she were the devil’s spawn. “Was it Agnes’ daughter or Vivienne’s son? Have you been listening to gossip from beyond the grave again?”
“You know how it works. Lavinia may have filled the seats, but I hear the voices. They told me to look into Rosefield, gave me the name Agnes, and spoke of a terrible lie that had caused a tragedy. Lavinia embellished it, as she always did.”
“Yes, and that harlot refused to listen to reason,” Mrs Morven said, hatred on her tongue. Anger had shattered her composure.“I begged her not to mention Rosefield, but the evil wretch laughed in my face.”
Clara glanced at Bentley. The outburst gave Mrs Morven a motive for murder. But who administered the poison?
“Forty years,” Mrs Morven said, tightening her grip on the pistols. “That’s how long I’ve spent hiding from that scandal. Do you think I’d permit that immoral creature to drag my brother’s name, our family name, through the dirt again?”
“You came to the emporium during the seance,” Mr Scarth said. “You poisoned the wine I served. You’re the only one who knew where to find my notebook. Revenge had you tearing out the pages to make it look as though Miss Dalton was guilty.”
Mrs Morven laughed, the cackle of a Macbeth witch rather than a mortal woman. “No, you killed Lavinia, and your nosy friend Miss Picklescott, too. The evidence points to you. A man on the run is always deemed guilty. When I eventually summon the constable, it will appear you went on a violent rampage.”
Bentley’s voice cut through the madness. “Then you plan to dispose of the witnesses. You mean to kill us and lay the blame on Scarth.”
Mrs Morven’s eyes gleamed. “Bravo. A fitting end to an excellent performance. Your mothers lied. Their spite and jealousy ruined the life of a man whose only crime was a handsome face. He left for the Americas and died on the crossing. It’s only fitting your deaths provide the grand finale.”
The world seemed to stop.
At the duel, she had known Daniel would not fire. But here in this foul cellar, there was every chance one of them would die. Clara looked at Bentley, the thought of losing him a searing ache too sharp to bear. Against all odds, she had found love, and she’d be damned if this woman’s hatred stole it from her grasp.
She mastered her fear, drawing strength from the man at her side, and fixed on wiping the smug grin from Mrs Morven’s face.“If you kill us, you will be a suspect. You must have been asleep during the heroine’s aria. The villain is always exposed.”
“I’ve left nothing to chance,” Mrs Morven shot back. “I’ve spent a week rehearsing every line.”
“On the contrary.” Clara firmed her tone. Their lives depended on unsettling this villain. “You scattered the papers on the floor of Miss Picklescott’s apartment. One referred to the Factory Bill, a red herring. You wrote it while there. If we’re found dead, you will be a suspect. Mr Daventry will compare the writing, and the forgery will seal your fate.”
The soprano’s brow twitched.
“It’s three miles to Snow Hill,” Clara continued. “You took a hackney and the driver waited. It’s such a steep climb, the jarvey will recall the fare. And I noticed your poker is missing. Another small detail you overlooked.”
Mr Scarth drove the point home. “Your brother’s file was among the archives at Rosefield, with a record of your last known address. People remembered the scandal. They remembered you. The girl of fifteen who ran away to join the theatre.”
Mrs Morven froze as if she’d forgotten her lines.
“And the bruises on Scarth’s wrists show he’s been restrained for the best part of two days,” Bentley added. “Any decent medical man would agree. They’re proof you lied.”
To add fuel to the fire, a parrot squawked, “Poison’s the best revenge! Poison’s the best revenge!”
It struck like a curse, mocking her pretence of innocence.
Defiance flashed in Mrs Morven’s eyes. She aimed her pistol at Clara.
A breath before the crack rang out, Bentley thrust Clara aside, taking the line of fire himself. The ball scorched his sleeve, sulphur thickening the air, but relief surged through her—he lived.
He was already moving, closing the distance. With a brutal twist, he wrenched the second pistol from Mrs Morven’s claw-like grasp, sending it skittering across the stone floor.
Above them, a sudden pounding on the front door rattled through the house.
Mrs Morven blinked, startled.
