Page 108 of A Devil in Silk
The pistol crack from the cellar must have carried to the street, for the hammering turned violent. A thunderous crash followed as the door gave way beneath brute force.
Footsteps thudded overhead, men’s voices rising in urgent chorus.
“Clara!” Daniel shouted, fierce with panic.
“Rutland!” Mr Daventry’s stern voice resounded.
Mrs Morven gave a thin smile. Her hand slipped into her bodice and she drew out a small vial. She uncorked it quickly, its contents dark as ink.
“Did you think I’d let you drag me through the streets like a common criminal?” She raised the vial in a mock toast, then downed the potion in one gulp. “Medea was right. Some betrayals demand poison. Better to end on my own stage.”
She dropped to her knees, hands clutching her throat.
And the parrots screeched, “Take a bow!”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“What will happen to Mrs Morven’s birds?” Clara asked, stroking the subdued African greys on their perch. The creatures shifted uneasily, as if aware they had outlived their mistress. “I might ask the countess if she’ll keep them at The Burnished Jade.”
Though Dalton hovered at her shoulder, Bentley stepped forward and placed a steady hand on her back. “I’m sure her ladies will find the birds entertaining. But we should see if Scarth wants them.”
He tried to sound sympathetic, but nothing mattered more than the fact Clara was alive. The image of Mrs Morven firing her pistol would haunt him forever. All he wanted now was for Inspector Mercer to release them, so he could take Clara home, hold her close, and love her as she deserved.
Daventry approached. “Mercer wants you at the Vine Street office tomorrow to give your statements. He’s sending Sergeant Brown to Cheltenham to confirm Scarth’s account.”
“We can confirm Scarth’s account,” Bentley said tightly. “Brown visiting Rosefield is like shutting the stable door after the horse has bolted.”
“They were convinced the murders were tied to the Factory Bill. Let them preserve appearances. The result is what matters.” Daventry congratulated them on their efforts before turning to Clara. “Have you considered working for the Order, Miss Dalton? London lacks Henley’s clean air, but the pursuit of criminals has its rewards.”
Bentley muttered under his breath. Daventry’s needling only sharpened his resolve. Clara would be his wife, once the world stopped interfering.
Clara smiled politely. “I daresay I’ve had enough adventure to last a lifetime, but I’m most grateful for the offer.”
Bentley didn’t contradict her. If she thought her adventures were over, she was wrong. Together, theirs were only just beginning.
“Well, the offer is there.” Daventry’s attention shifted to the cellar stairs, where the coroner’s men carried up the stretcher bearing Mrs Morven’s lifeless body. One pale hand slipped from beneath the white sheet, her final encore.
Clara shivered. “If titles were given for deception, Mrs Morven would have been a marchioness. She fooled us all with her masks and performances.”
Daventry’s gaze lingered on the sheeted form. “Lies are powerful weapons. They leave wounds that rarely heal.”
At the mention of deceit, Dalton asked, “Did Scarth explain how my mother was involved? Were the rumours of an elopement true?”
“I’m afraid that will always remain a mystery. Take comfort in knowing your mother loved you, regardless of what happened in her past.”
The words struck Bentley harder than he cared to admit. Did his own mother love him? Would she isolate herself, fearful for the future?
To banish the thought, he asked his own question. “You interviewed Scarth for half an hour. Did he say what he took from Nightshade’s apartment that night?”
“He went looking for proof Miss Picklescott was right about the blackmail. She came to the first seance undercover, hoping to expose Miss Nightshade. But she returned a second time not as an investigator, but as a victim, trapped in the very blackmail she’d sought to reveal.”
“Did he find any evidence to corroborate her story?”
“No. But he blames himself for confiding in Mrs Morven. In trying to stop a blackmailer, he’d unwittingly recruited a murderer.”
Bentley found it ironic. “The spirits didn’t warn him of the dangers?”
Daventry’s mouth twitched. “The Bard had it right. All the world’s a stage, and some events must play out until the curtain falls.”
