Page 44 of A Devil in Silk
Opposite the ancient hall of the Dyers’ Company stood a narrow brown-brick house, its doorway recessed beneath a crumbling stone arch.
Mr Lewis, a reedy man with thinning hair, opened the door at the second knock. He owned the house but lived on the ground floor, explaining he worked as an accountant for a cloth merchant.
He adjusted his spectacles and studied Bentley’s calling card from the Order. “I brought the account ledgers home, in case thesergeant called with further questions,” he said, welcoming them inside and murmuring an apology for his ink-stained fingers.
They remained in the hall while Lewis wept and spoke of his shock at the tragic turn of events. “No one deserves to suffer like that, least of all Lavinia. Despite what people said, she had a good heart and pure soul.”
The comment piqued Bentley’s curiosity. “People can be cruel, particularly when it concerns a contentious subject like the afterlife.”
Lewis seemed to wrestle with his own conscience before saying, “One lady had a hard time believing. She found out where Lavinia lived and loitered outside the Dyers’ Hall for hours, staring at the house.”
Bentley frowned, disturbed by the image of the woman’s silent vigil. “Did she ever knock on the door?”
“No. Never.”
Perhaps she suspected Lavinia was a fraud, a theory Bentley had no intention of voicing aloud, not to a man who seemed to idolise his tenant.
“Grief makes people do strange things.” He spoke from bitter experience. His mother mourned the man he refused to become—the obedient son, the dutiful heir. “Would you recognise her if you saw her again?”
Lewis shook his head. “She always appeared after nightfall, shrouded in a dark cloak and keeping to the shadows.”
Clara stiffened, her fingers tightening around the drawstrings of her reticule. “Did you mention this to Sergeant Brown?”
“No. He made it clear he thought communing with the dead was nonsense, and it’s not like the woman made serious threats.”
After a solemn pause, Clara asked, “How long had Miss Nightshade rented the rooms? Lord Tarrington has only been her patron for a few months.”
“Almost two years, though she travels out of town, often for weeks on end.” Lewis glanced at the empty staircase as if half-expecting to see her there. “You go ahead. I can’t bear to spend another minute in her room. Hopefully, Lord Tarrington will send someone to collect her belongings.”
Clara offered him a sympathetic smile. “When did you last see her assistant, Mr Scarth?”
“Silas? He always called the day before a performance, but he’s not visited since the night of the seance.”
Bentley straightened. “The night of the seance? Can you recall what time?”
Lewis shrugged a shoulder. “Around six o’clock. He came because Lavinia had forgotten her notes. It wasn’t unusual for her to receive messages days before a seance.”
Had Scarth come for the notes, to rummage in Lavinia’s chamber, or for another nefarious reason? “How long was he here?”
“Ten minutes or so.”
“But he left with the notes?” Clara sought to clarify.
“I don’t know. I was in the yard, feeding the cat.”
Perhaps tired of their questions, Lewis stepped aside, gesturing to the stairs. “Both rooms are hers. Nothing’s been touched since the sergeant left.”
“We’ll make sure to leave them as we found them.”
Bentley led the way up the narrow flight, the steps creaking beneath his boots. The air turned colder as he reached the top, like stepping into the waiting room at the morgue.
Clara followed close behind, the whisper of her skirts brushing the silence, her nearness a maddening reminder of how little space separated them.
When they reached the landing, he offered a half-smile to lighten the mood. “Shall we begin in the bedchamber?”
She paused, her gaze flicking to his mouth before she quickly looked away. Was she remembering their kiss? God knew he was … the press of her lips, the breathless heat between them, the way her fingers gripped his coat lapels, lingered with unforgiving clarity.
“Only if we’re searching for clues, my lord. Not trouble.”
