Page 30 of A Devil in Silk
She smiled, an unexpected warmth filling her chest. “I wasn’t prepared for a concert tonight.”
He leaned closer, his breath hot against her ear. “Neither was I, yet we can both strike witnessing an opera sung by parrots off our lists.”
The sound of bolts sliding back preceded the creak of hinges. They straightened, pasting serious expressions as the door swung open to reveal Mrs Morven: a stout woman with silver hair piled into an elaborate coif, a faded ostrich feather drooping wearily from one side. Heavy rouge stained her cheeks, and the surrounding air was filled with the choking scent of lavender perfume.
Mrs Morven looked at Clara and clapped her hands. “A wounded Donna Anna!” she declared, invoking the veiledheroine who spends an entire opera cloaked in grief and mystery. “Vengeance in her step. Secrets in her gaze.”
“I’m flattered,” Clara replied, oddly grateful for the frank assessment, “though I hope my story ends more cheerfully.”
Mrs Morven turned to Bentley and wiggled her brows. “And you, sir, I wager you’d bring cheer to any woman’s boudoir.”
A sudden image of Bentley inhercandlelit boudoir made Clara’s heart jolt, but she quickly pushed it aside. “You must be Mrs Morven.”
Mrs Morven drew herself up and waved a bejewelled hand. “That’s what the butcher calls me. I prefer Madame Violetta, if you please.”
Before either of them could respond, she narrowed her eyes and added, “Now then, how can I help you? I don’t need to commune with the spirits to know you’re here to see Mr Scarth.”
At the mention of Mr Scarth, the parrots chirped, “Welcome, friends! Welcome, friends!”
“Is Mr Scarth at home?” Clara asked. One didn’t need to hear voices from the veil to know the answer.
“Who’s asking?”
Bentley produced a calling card and handed it to Mrs Morven.
She flicked back her ostrich feather and read the script. “An agent of The Order. Now that’s a title worthy of a libretto.”
“May we come inside, madame?” Bentley said, his voice as smooth as fine wine. “I would hate to disturb your birds by having an unsettling conversation on the doorstep.”
The lady eyed them suspiciously. “You’re not the only ones who’ve come looking for Silas. I threw the last fellow out for sniffing around my parlour and trying to bribe the birds.”
“We’re worried about Mr Scarth,” Clara said, glancing over her shoulder as a sudden shiver prickled her spine. A large man sat atop a nearby carriage, half-shrouded in shadow, watchingthem with unsettling stillness. “We believe he’s a witness in a murder, but I fear those from the Vine Street Police Office are treating him as a suspect.”
Mrs Morven followed Clara’s gaze, her expression tightening. “I assume he’s with you. I don’t fancy strange men loitering on the street.”
“Gibbs is here to keep watch, nothing more,” Bentley assured her.
She stepped aside with a sigh, lifting her chin. “Come in quickly before you give the neighbours something to gossip about. But mind your manners and don’t startle the sopranos.”
She led them through a narrow hallway lined with framed playbills. The parlour was furnished like a private theatre box, with walnut chairs upholstered in worn red damask, though one bore the indelicate calling cards of her birds.
The parrots were not caged or chained to a perch but stood proudly atop a gilded music stand, one African grey pecking at a loose thread in the fringe, the other muttering phrases from what sounded suspiciously likeThe Marriage of Figaro.
“Can you recall when you last saw Mr Scarth?” Clara said, unnerved when the birds stared at her through beady eyes and began swaying like pugilists weighing up an opponent.
“He’s not been home since he left for the seance at The Arcane Emporium.” She paused when the birds squawked, “Nightshade’s a fraud. Welcome, friends. What tripe.”
Mrs Morven snapped her fingers at the parrots. “Figaro, Susanna, that’s quite enough. Have some decorum in front of guests.” She turned to Clara. “Pay them no mind. Mr Scarth is entirely responsible for their bad behaviour.”
“Did Mr Scarth believe Miss Nightshade was a fraud?” Clara asked. It gave him a motive for murder. Perhaps he’d grown tired of playing the assistant when it appeared he was the one with the skill.
“He never said so personally,” Mrs Morven replied, “but I know he confided in Figaro. That’s how I discovered he was hiding a journal under the mattress.”
Clara blinked. “A journal? Figaro told you that?”
“Clear as day. Right after a rousing chorus ofLargo al factotum, he squawked, ‘Where’s the truth? Under Scarth’s mattress!’” She gave a satisfied nod. “Hardly poetic, but very precise.”
“How did you know they were referring to a journal?”
