Page 48 of A Devil in Silk
“Your mother gave you a pocket knife?” Not a lace handkerchief or a cameo brooch? “Why the unusual gift?”
“As a child, I liked to forage in the woods.”
“She gave a child a knife?” he said, shocked. His mother always gasped when he reached for a letter opener.
“No, I was sixteen. She told me to take it with me whenever I walked in the woods at Thorncroft.”
“Then why hide it beneath the floorboards?”
“Sometimes danger lurks in unlikely places.” Her voice cracked faintly. “And my father couldn’t bear reminders around the house. He stored all of my mother’s things in the attic.”
Bentley thought of his own mother, stirring her tea with Marcus’ christening spoon as if it brought sweetness to her day. It was easier to focus on that small ritual than to dwell on why Clara found it necessary to keep a knife.
“This board is loose,” she said, her excitement evident as her fingers probed the edges. “We need something thin to prise it open.”
He took the slender poker from the hearth. “Let me try.”
Clara shifted aside as he knelt beside her. With a careful prod beneath the corner of the board, he eased it up, revealing a narrow gap beneath.
Dust billowed before settling to reveal an object wrapped in coarse hessian, its shape suggesting a box.
He passed Clara the poker, then reached into the gap. “It’s much heavier than it looks.”
“I wonder what’s inside.”
Bentley met her gaze. “We’re about to find out.”
They stayed crouched on the floor while he carefully unwrapped the black enamel box, revealing its glossy surface beneath the rough cloth.
Clara opened it with the small key she’d found inside the brass clock and raised the lid.
It was like stumbling across a trove of pirate treasure. Gold coins and jewels filled every space: sovereign rings, a diamondbrooch, sapphire earrings, an emerald pendant, each too fine to be mere paste.
“Good Lord!” Clara removed a ruby necklace and held it to the light. “If these gems are real, Miss Nightshade could afford to live in Mayfair.”
Bentley felt the curl of suspicion tighten in his chest. “They could be gifts from Tarrington, hidden beneath the boards for fear of thieves.”
“Or gifts from grateful patrons. Miss Nightshade did help people find lost heirlooms and misplaced wills.”
He arched a brow. “Or she gained these by deceptive means. Secrets are worth more than gold.”
Clara gave a reluctant nod. “I pray you’re wrong, but I’m inclined to agree. We may be looking at the motive for murder.”
“We need to take this to Daventry’s office.”
“Not the Vine Street station-house?”
“As temporary agents of the Order, we answer to Daventry, not Inspector Mercer.”
She bit down tentatively on her lip. “Should we not inform Mr Lewis that we’ve removed evidence? I would hate to be accused of murder and theft.”
Much like the night of the seance, a strange foreboding coiled in his gut. Something told him to tread carefully because the killer was already one step ahead. “Very well. We will have him sign to confirm what we’ve removed from the house.”
Bentley watched as Clara returned the ruby necklace to the box and reached for another piece. But she froze, her hand hovering above the edge of a small leather-bound book peeking out from beneath the pile of coins and jewels.
“It appears Lavinia kept a private journal.” He reached into the box and pulled the book free. Its cover was scuffed, the corners worn and edges frayed. “Perhaps it holds the vital clue we need.”
He flicked through the pages, though there were no secret confessions hidden inside, no notes about a grand love affair, nor any record of the medium’s dreams and aspirations.
