Page 63 of A Devil in Silk
“No, I suspect not.” Daventry returned the earrings to the box. “No secret compartments? No hidden drawers?”
“None that we found,” Clara replied, though was quick to remind him, “We are amateurs, sir, mere assistants, really.”
“Yet you found a vital clue Sergeant Brown missed,” Daventry said. “And something made you leave halfway through Giuditta Pasta’s performance. Keen insight led you to find two suspects fighting outside The Prospect of Whitby.”
Bentley inwardly groaned. A desire for excitement had led them to the tavern, but he said, “I look forward to hearing Tarrington’s explanation when he arrives.”
They had followed Tarrington’s carriage as it turned off Wapping Wall, only to lose it in the twisting alleys of Shadwell.
“Ifhe arrives,” Daventry stressed. “He may already be bound for Dover.”
“If he’s innocent, he’ll be eager to explain his actions.”
“Arrogant men often think they can get away with murder. Of course, it helps if they have a title.” Daventry paused, his expression distant as though sifting through details in his mind.
Bentley seized the lull to scan Miss Nightshade’s notebook, pretending to review the list of names again while searching for anything he’d missed.
While he looked for gaps or signs of pages having been torn out, Clara filled the silence. “Today, we plan to speak to the other audience members. One was heard arguing with Mr Scarth before the performance.”
She mentioned Miss Picklescott, but Bentley barely heard her. His thumb stilled on the stiffened texture of the paper lining the backboard. He angled the notebook closer to the light.
The paper looked fractionally thicker in places.
He traced the intricate black-and-white pattern, an ornate swirl of curlicues and flourishes. The design was so detailed that the delicate flap lay almost invisible to the untrained eye.
“There’s something here.” He slipped his fingernail beneath the edge and prised the flap open. A hidden pocket gaped just wide enough for him to reach inside. His heart thumped as he withdrew a small piece of paper.
Clara and Daventry were watching him intently now. Clara shifted closer, perching on the edge of her seat as Bentley unfolded the fragile slip of paper and scanned the spidery writing.
“What is it?” Clara sounded more nervous than excited.
A handful of names filled the narrow scrap, each accompanied by a cryptic note. “The names of people I suspect Miss Nightshade was considering blackmailing.”
“Like who?” Mild panic laced her voice.
“Miss Picklescott,” Bentley read aloud, brow furrowing. “Writes a scandalous column under the name of Thomas Brightwell.”
Daventry let out an appreciative hum. “Well, that explains her presence at the seance. Brightwell writes forThe Satiristand exposes frauds and swindlers. I admire anyone who risks ruin to uncover the truth.”
Clara gave a small gasp. “Mr Scarth must have known that. His landlady said he wroteliarnext to her name in his journal.”
Bentley’s eyes moved to Nightshade’s next potential victim. “Mr Weymouth is listed as her fiercest critic and apparently paid a bank clerk for information about her account.”
“Was he not the cynic who sat beside you?” she clarified.
“Yes, and the man who argued with Scarth. He was convinced the medium was a fraud.”
“Weymouth didn’t kill her.” Daventry spoke with the wisdom of a man who’d solved hundreds of cases. “His goal was to shame her publicly.”
Bentley’s gaze dropped to the last name and his heart missed a beat. “Miss Dalton,” he read, swallowing past the rising lump in his throat. “Miss Nightshade wrote only one word—‘Rosefield’.”
Silence swept through the elegant room.
Clara blinked, confusion clouding her visible eye, a rare glimpse of vulnerability he seldom witnessed. “Rosefield? What does that mean?”
Daventry sat forward with a sudden urgency in his manner. “Is it a place? A person? Perhaps something connected to your past, Miss Dalton?”
Bentley caught the faint unsteadiness in her voice. It drew his attention more sharply than her words, another quiet crack in the armour she wore so well.
