Page 43 of A Devil in Silk
“Do you know anyone who might have a reason to kill Lavinia?” she asked, wondering how Miss Nightshade knew Mr Scarth. “It seems odd that her assistant has disappeared and was heard arguing with someone shortly before the performance.”
“It’s not odd. The man probably knows he’s the next target. And I believe he argued with that older fellow.” The lord mumbled under his breath. “Weymouth. Yes, that’s his name. A comment Scarth made roused his temper, though you’ll have to ask him about that.”
Clara recalled the names on her map. Mr Weymouth had sat beside Bentley, a declared non-believer with little patience for theatrics.
So why attend a seance at all?
“Something else was amiss that night,” Lord Tarrington continued, keen to cast the blame elsewhere. “Lavinia seemed rattled and asked for wine before she took to the stage. It was shortly after her disagreement with Scarth over Mr Murray. He was a late addition to the guest list.”
Mr Murray was the red-haired gentleman whose sister Bethany drowned many years ago, the only patron so distraught he drank the last drop of his wine.
“Guest list?” Bentley questioned, sounding annoyed. “We paid a king’s ransom for the tickets. Why would another sale bother Scarth?”
The lord’s cheeks flushed and he stuttered a little before saying, “Murray didn’t purchase a ticket. He was Lavinia’s guest.”
Clara stiffened at the revelation. “She knew him?”
So much for ghostly whispers. Miss Nightshade had clearly used their acquaintance to deceive the audience.
“Yes,” Lord Tarrington admitted. “Though I’m not sure in what capacity. She rarely spoke about her past.”
“Might they have been romantically involved?”
A muscle in the lord’s cheek twitched. “Not to my knowledge, though Lavinia was a private person, often troubled. Hearing voices would have the sanest man carted to Bedlam.”
A stocky dockworker appeared in the doorway, a large crate balanced on his handcart. “Where do you want this one, governor?”
The lord turned to Bentley and offered a brief nod of apology. “Excuse me. I must see to the delivery and ensure nothing has been damaged in transit.”
Clara cleared her throat. “Before we leave, my lord, might I ask a question?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “What do you think has happened to Mr Scarth?”
“The obvious, Miss Dalton,” he said coldly. “Scarth poisoned the wine. He must have had an accomplice in the crowd. Someone who’s likely vanished as well, perhaps fled to France.”
Clara wasn’t convinced. “There’s a flaw in your logic, my lord. Mr Scarth didn’t know Lavinia would drink the guests’ wine or that she would choke on stage.” It couldn’t have been planned.
Lord Tarrington looked at her as though she were simple. “He most certainly did. Lavinia choked on stage during every performance.”
Chapter Nine
They had spent hours chasing a ghost.
Mr Murray did not live at the address he’d given the constable. The landlady on Watling Street had never heard of him, nor had the neighbouring tenants. Despite a description—tall, slender, with wiry red hair and a habit of dissolving into tears—no one had seen a man of that likeness come or go.
Standing beside Clara on the pavement, Bentley sighed as the bells of St Mary-le-Bow tolled three. “We could call on Mr Weymouth instead, though I suspect his quarrel with Scarth was based on his disbelief.”
Clara offered another suggestion. “Miss Nightshade lived on Dowgate Hill, a short walk from here. Perhaps we might find an address book there.”
Sergeant Brown and his men had searched the rooms, removing nothing except for a few letters Miss Nightshade had written but not posted. Still, seeing her home might help them understand more about the woman with the unusual gift.
“Let’s hope the landlord on Dowgate Hill is accommodating,” he said, eager to make progress so he could suggest ticking another adventure off her list tonight.
Based on Clara’s reluctance to speak of their kiss, he’d have more chance of catching a star in a bottle than luring her into an escapade. But guarded as she was today, he knew the passionate woman wasn’t far beneath the surface.
The memory of her mouth on his fired his blood. Like a drug, he craved another taste. Kissing her had been everything he’d imagined: soft and fierce, hesitant and hungry. A collision of longing and restraint that had haunted him every hour since.
He just wished she’d stop hiding behind what she’d lost and see the woman she’d become. The accident hadn’t broken her. It had forged her into someone stronger. Fiercer than the girl he remembered from those long-ago afternoons in her family’s drawing room. If only she knew how hard it was to maintain his distance.
Dowgate Hill sloped down towards the river, the air tinged with smoke from the nearby dye works. Shops and lodging houses lined the street, most with crooked windows and flaking paint. Gibbs insisted on accompanying them and sat atop his box, book in hand, casting suspicious glances at the odd passersby.
