Page 42 of A Devil in Silk
She remembered Miss Nightshade’s voice changing, her eyes rolling white, her body trembling as if something had taken control of her. Whether real or just a performance, it had chilled Clara to the bone.
They spent the rest of the journey to Wapping Wall looking at the map and trying to recall every word spoken that night.
The carriage slowed to a halt beside the river.
Bentley helped her down to the cobbles. The brief brush of his hand was innocent, yet it burned through her glove, stirring a memory of Westminster Abbey and everything she was trying to forget.
The warmth of the morning sun was already lifting the scent of tar and salt into the air. The docks bustled with the clatter of barrow wheels, shrieking gulls, and the steady thud of crates being hauled from barges to shore. Burly men, shirtsleeves rolled to their elbows, shouted to one another over the din. A fewcast curious glances their way, unused to well-dressed visitors arriving in carriages.
Bentley approached and asked for directions to Lord Tarrington’s warehouse. One dockworker jerked his chin towards a narrow alley tucked between a lodging house and a rundown tavern.
“Best say a prayer if you plan to step inside. Some say the only thing he’s tradin’ is the devil’s curses.”
They followed the alley to a grimy brick building with dirty windows and a timber door hanging open. Inside, it was dim and cluttered with peculiar objects from foreign shores, grotesque masks that might haunt a child’s dreams, carved idols, and glass cases filled with pinned insects.
They entered, careful not to knock over a hanging totem or disturb the rows of dusty crates. At the far end, Lord Tarrington stood inspecting an ancient dagger with a jagged edge. Its surface shimmered with an oily sheen, the metal etched with odd symbols.
“Lord Tarrington,” Bentley called.
The man didn’t move. Didn’t turn. He stared at the weapon, as if caught in a strange spell.
Against her better judgement, Clara sidled closer to the viscount, briefly touching his coat sleeve, the hairs on her nape prickling to attention. “Lord Tarrington,” she said, hoping the sound of a woman’s voice might break the trance.
Slowly, the lord turned his head. His eyes were glassy and unfocused before he blinked and clarity returned. “Rutland. Miss Dalton. I was just admiring this ancient artefact from Persia. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“We came to offer our personal condolences,” Bentley said, his voice sincere. “Miss Nightshade was a rare talent amongst her kind. It must be a terrible loss.”
The lord stared at the dagger in his hand, holding it as if it were a weapon of vengeance, then laid it in the crate, nestled it in the straw, and secured the lid. “A loss in the sense that I won’t see her again until I depart this world. A loss because her life was stolen while she was in her prime.”
A sad stillness settled, but a sudden bang from somewhere in the warehouse tore a smile from the grieving lord’s lips.
“No doubt that was Lavinia,” Lord Tarrington added, brushing a hand through his midnight hair. “Reminding us one is never truly … gone.”
Clara saw an opening to discuss the case. “Let’s hope she conveys a message that might help us find her killer. Until then, we’re all walking under a cloud of suspicion.”
The lord stiffened. “If you’ve come to accuse me of murder, save your breath. I’ve lost thousands from cancelled performances, had people hounding me day and night, convinced she’s alive and begging for her to hold a private seance.”
“Is that why you’re here?” Bentley said.
“With the emporium closed, there’s nowhere else to hide.”
Bentley glanced at the door. “Do you not hire a guard to protect the artefacts? There must be valuable items stored here.”
The lord’s mouth curled into a sly grin. “No one dares enter for fear they’ll leave cursed. Tales of evil spirits suit my purpose.”
“I expect that’s why people think you killed Miss Nightshade,” Clara said. “They’ll sleep easier in their beds if the killer has an obvious affliction. It’s why I’m a suspect myself.”
Bentley stepped forward. “The coroner is convinced you gave Lavinia poisoned wine.”
The lord’s face crumpled. “Do you think I would have made her drink if I’d known the outcome? Her death has ruined me.”
“Perhaps that was the killer’s intention,” Bentley said calmly. “To ruin you. To put an end to theseheathenpractices.”
“If you think communing with the departed is heathen, why purchase a ticket? Miss Nightshade conveyed messages from Margaret, godly messages that were deeply personal.”
“Margaret?” Clara asked.
“My wife.” Lord Tarrington’s hand came to his chest, fingers pressing hard as if to hold in the ache. Such raw devotion was rare among theton. “She’s the reason I sponsored Lavinia.”
