Page 106 of A Devil in Silk
“Be quiet,” Mrs Morven snapped. “It’s too late to save yourself. You won’t be joining your friends in the nether realm. Satan has a seat waiting for you beside his fire.”
Mr Scarth stilled. A strange calm settled over the room, though his gaze never left Clara. A silent message followed. He closed his eyes, held them shut for a slow count of three, and opened them wide again. A game of peekaboo she always played with her mother.
A wave of warmth washed through her despite the dank cellar. And in that instant she knew, with absolute certainty, this man would never harm a soul.
Next came the chill. The scarred side of her face prickled, a phantom echo of past pain, as realisation struck. If Scarth was not the killer, then the woman beside her had lied.
Hadn’t Mrs Morven just claimed knowledge of both victims? Too much knowledge. But why would a retired soprano want to silence a fraud and a journalist?
A word slipped into her mind like a ghostly whisper.
Rosefield.
“Did I not tell you?” Mrs Morven cried, pointing at her prisoner. “See how he blinks like a crazed buffoon?”
But Clara no longer believed it. “I think the blow to the temple has left him dazed,” she said, wondering about Mrs Morven’s curious ties to the seminary. “We should remove the gag. Let him speak, and we’ll all bear witness to his confession. Do you have paper and pencil, Mrs Morven? We will make Mr Scarth sign a statement while we wait for the constable.”
Bentley gave a curt nod. “A sensible course.”
“Sensible if he were sane,” Mrs Morven countered.
Undeterred, Clara stepped forward.
But Mrs Morven clasped her arm to stall her, her grip surprisingly firm. “Wait while I fetch some paper. I’ll check for the constable while I’m upstairs.”
Clara forced a nod. “Perhaps he’ll need water if he’s worn this gag for an hour. Shall I fetch it for you?”
Mrs Morven tutted. “I helped fifty people escape a fire in the stalls when a chandelier came crashing down. I think I can manage paper and water.”
She climbed the stairs and disappeared through the door.
Clara wasted no time, whispering, “Quick, Bentley. See if you can find the keys for the shackles while I remove the gag. Mrs Morven is the killer, and she means to blame Mr Scarth.”
“I thought as much when I saw his bruises.” He pulled the blade from his boot and tucked it into his coat. “We need to move fast. She has us trapped down here like rats on a sinking ship.”
“We’ll need to arrest her and take her into custody.” She tugged at the knots in the rag and yanked it free from Mr Scarth’s mouth.
The man drew a gasping breath, but his first words were for them. “Forget me,” he rasped. “Leave now while she’s distracted. She means to kill you both.”
The warning fell like the stroke of a guillotine.
“What is this all about?” Bentley demanded.
“I’m to blame.” Mr Scarth’s gaze snapped to the stairs. “I told her about Rosefield because I knew she once lived in Cheltenham. But go now. There’s no time for questions.”
“I’ve got the water and paper,” Mrs Morven called sweetly from above. “Now, let’s have the madman’s confession.”
Clara gathered her strength.
How hard could it be to overthrow a mad soprano?
The click of a hammer—then the echo of a second—sent her heart crashing to her stomach. She turned slowly. All trace ofweariness had fled Mrs Morven’s face. In one hand gleamed a pocket pistol, its twin resting in the other.
“I once helped stage a production ofThe Magic Flute, with serpents, charmed bells and enchanted instruments. But nothing has given me greater pleasure than staging this tragedy.”
“Bravo! Bravo!” a parrot echoed.
Mr Scarth gave his own soliloquy. “Hatred hurts only the one who wields it. It is a poison that seeps into every thought, every breath, until it steals your humanity.”
