The Spy Master's Scheme (Glass and Steele Book 12)

by C. J. Archer

  “Yet no one noticed a commotion?” Matt asked.

  They shook their heads. “It’s a busy route after five,” Willie said. “Shop keepers and clerks are going home and it’s light enough at that time now the days are getting longer. If someone was kidnapped against their will, they’d be seen.”

  So Mr. Pyke hadn’t been kidnapped. I suddenly felt sorry for Mrs. Pyke. It was looking like he left of his own accord, after all.

  Matt had another idea, however. “He might have diverted from his course under his own steam, but he might have been waylaid by someone when he reached his destination. It’s possible he arranged to meet someone who then detained him.”

  “It must be the man in the carriage,” I said heavily.

  “Or woman,” Willie pointed out.

  “Whoever it was left him worried, according to Mrs. Pyke, then later the same day, he goes missing. That’s not a coincidence.”

  “It’s unlikely it was Mr. Fuller, the rival carpet maker, in that carriage,” Matt said. “According to the neighbor, their encounter was the day before yesterday and it’s unlikely Mr. Fuller arrived in a private conveyance.”

  Everyone but Duke nodded. “I don’t reckon it’s Fuller, but I ain’t convinced Pyke didn’t run off with a lover,” he said. “It explains why he never confided in his wife.”

  Cyclops scoffed. “And leave his shop untouched? He may have his guild membership revoked, and be forced to close his shop, but no craftsman is going to walk away from his livelihood without making other plans.”

  Particularly a magician. Rug making was in Mr. Pyke’s blood. He was an avid enthusiast who saw his rugs as his legacy, his children almost. Cyclops was right; he wouldn’t just walk away and leave his rugs behind. He might have taken a detour on his way home, but he’d not intended to be gone long.

  I sighed. “If we don’t think Mr. Fuller detained him, we’re back to the beginning with no clues.”

  “We’ll speak to Fuller anyway,” Matt said. “He might be able to give us some insight into anyone else who held a grudge against Pyke and his magic.”

  We continued on to Mr. Fuller’s shop where the shopkeeper welcomed Matt and me with a smile. The others remained in the carriage. She introduced herself as Mrs. Fuller, the wife of the rug maker. The shop wasn’t as large as Mr. Pyke’s but it was laid out similarly with rugs on the floor and walls, and a desk tucked into the corner. A clacking and low mechanical hum came from the other side of a door which must lead to the workshop. The smell of wool wasn’t as strong here as in Mr. Pyke’s shop and there was a whiff of oiliness in the air from the machine.

  I removed my glove and skimmed my fingers over several carpets as I walked around. None were warm with magic, and their patterns weren’t as intricate as Mr. Pyke’s. If the Fullers had once been magicians, the magic had not been passed onto the proprietor of this shop.

  Matt introduced us using our real names. Mrs. Fuller showed no recognition. “May we speak to your husband?” he asked.

  Mrs. Fuller was about my age with warm eyes and apple cheeks that made her seem approachable, particularly when she smiled, as she did now. “He’s just out the back. I’ll fetch him for you.” She headed for the door, turning her head to speak to us as she walked. “Is this about a carpet you purchased from us?”

  “No.”

  She paused but Matt gave no further explanation. He simply smiled back and waited.

  She pushed open the door. A moment later, the machine stopped and the workshop fell silent. Upstairs, children’s voices could be heard needling each other. Mr. Fuller emerged from the workshop, but his wife did not.

  He was as large as Mr. Pyke’s neighbor described with a crop of red hair that was beginning to recede at the front. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms as big as legs of ham, and the hands he wiped on a rag were enormous.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  Matt introduced us. “We’re looking into the disappearance of Mr. Pyke on behalf of his wife.”

  Mr. Fuller stopped wiping his hands. “Disappearance?”

  “He didn’t return home last night after he locked up the shop.”

  He grunted. “Probably got himself a mistress. Pardon me, ma’am, but if you’re an inquiry agent, I’m supposing you’ve heard worse.”

  “You suppose correctly,” I said. “But Mr. Pyke was devoted to his wife, so it’s unlikely he had a mistress.”

  “If you say so.” He flung the cloth over his shoulder and turned his attention to Matt. He eyed him up and down as if sizing up the likelihood he could win in a fight.

  While I had faith in Matt’s strength and ability, I doubted he could win in a fair match. Mr. Fuller would be near impossible to knock off his feet. But when he did fall, he’d fall hard. I shook myself. When did I start to assess men as fighters? I blamed Willie’s influence.

  Mrs. Fuller returned, having quieted the children. The family must live upstairs. It would be cramped, but no worse than where many shopkeepers lived. “Is everything all right?” she asked through a forced smile.

  “Fine,” Mr. Fuller growled.

  “We were just asking your husband about his encounter with Mr. Pyke two days ago,” Matt said. “Mr. Pyke is missing.”

  She blinked rapidly. “So you thought you’d come here and accuse my husband?” She thrust a hand on her hip, her smile gone. “Just because they’re both carpet makers with shops near each other doesn’t mean they hate each other. They were competitors, that’s all. It’s not personal.”

  “’Were?’” I echoed.

  “Pardon?”

  “You said they ‘were competitors’. Why are you speaking in the past tense?”

  She lowered her hand to her side. “Just a matter of speech. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  Mr. Fuller moved closer to his wife. The difference in their height was almost comical, but there was nothing amusing about their expressions. The scowls hadn’t left their faces from the moment we mentioned Mr. Pyke’s name.

  “We know you argued with Mr. Pyke,” Matt said.

  “Who says that?” Mr. Fuller snapped.

  “You accused Mr. Pyke of being a magician.”

  “So?” Mrs. Fuller said. “He is a magician.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “Because I’ve seen his rugs. No one can make them that luxurious or have the patterns so intricate. It’s impossible.”

  “And it’s not fair,” Mr. Fuller added. “Why should he be allowed to make such fine rugs when the rest of us can’t?”

  Matt opened his mouth to say something but I placed a hand on his arm and he closed it again. I was tired of reasoning with people like the Fullers, tired of their whining and calls for a level playing field. What did they want magicians to do? Not make things they’d been making their entire lives? Try to produce poorer quality goods?

  “You’re right,” I said tartly. “Why should a magician get to use their natural talent for craftsmanship when others can’t?”

  Mr. Fuller looked pleased that I appeared to understand his discontent, but Mrs. Fuller narrowed her gaze warily. She’d heard my tone.

  “After all, you shouldn’t be allowed to reach higher shelves when your wife can’t just because you’re taller. Should you?”

  He frowned. “What?”

  “A nobleman shouldn’t be allowed to inherit his father’s estate, just because he was born into that family, either. Don’t you agree? And why should a pretty girl have her pick of beaus? She has such an unfair advantage over the plainer debutantes. Nor is it fair that some men are paid to play football when others aren’t, just because they’ve got better skills with a ball or can run faster. Indeed, they ought not be allowed to play at all. You’re right, Mr. Fuller. It’s not fair for the rest.”

  “I see you’ve come to mock me,” he ground out between a clenched jaw.

  His wife placed a warning hand on his arm just as I had done with Matt. “She does make a good point.”

>   He shook her off. “Whose side are you on?”

  “Yours, of course. But—” She broke off beneath his withering glare.

  “You better go before I lose my temper,” Mr. Fuller said to Matt.

  “We haven’t finished with our questions,” Matt said mildly.

  “I’m not answering your bloody questions!” He closed his hands into fists.

  I tried to tug Matt away, but he stood his ground. I glanced back at the door, calculating how long it would take for me to fetch the others. Cyclops’s presence in particular would be welcome. On the other hand, Willie had a gun.

  “You were jealous of Mr. Pyke’s flourishing business,” Matt went on.

  I winced, afraid of antagonizing the giant of a man further.

  But instead of getting angry, Mr. Fuller laughed. “Flourishing? He was in debt up to his neck. He bought a new loom last year, in the hope of turning things around, but it almost sent him broke.”

  “Why was he doing so poorly if he made better carpets than his competitors?” I asked.

  “Because he didn’t have my Janey to sell them.” Mr. Fuller rested a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “She could convince a man to buy the moon if she put her mind to it.”

  She smiled up at him. “I do my best.”

  “If Pyke had someone like my Janey to sell his carpets, he’d be unbeatable. Lucky for me, he doesn’t. He works the shop floor himself, and he’s not much of a salesman. It takes a certain skill to get a customer to part with his money and my Janey has it.”

  I couldn’t help getting in another sharp dig. “She was born with the knack.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You could say it’s as natural to her as magic is to a magician.”

  Mr. Fuller pressed his lips together.

  His wife cleared her throat. “The thing is, after Mr. Pyke revealed himself to be a magician in that newspaper article, he gained more custom. I saw people coming and going from his shop all day.”

  “You spied on him?” Matt asked.

  She dismissed his question with a shrug. “We were going to lose customers. It’s already a struggle, having two rug shops so close to one another, but if it’s revealed that one of those makes a superior carpet, we would be finished.”

  “So what were you planning to do?” Matt asked.

  “Not make him disappear!”

  “We weren’t going to do anything,” Mr. Fuller added, looking down at his feet.

  “No?” Matt asked idly. “You didn’t speak to the guild and have him thrown out?”

  “My husband wouldn’t do that. He wouldn’t ruin another man’s life and livelihood.”

  The problem with a complexion like Mr. Fuller’s is its tendency to flush at even the slightest inducement. His entire face pinked. He tried to hide it from his wife, but she saw.

  She stamped her hand on her hip. “You told the guild master about Mr. Pyke being a magician?”

  “I was too late,” Mr. Fuller told her. “He already knew on account of the newspaper article. He and Mr. Abercrombie were drafting some changes to the guild’s bylaws that would allow them to remove magicians from the guild.”

  I gasped. “Abercrombie!”

  Matt steadied me with a hand to my lower back. “What does this have to do with him?” he asked, his voice so calm it was unnerving.

  Mr. Fuller glanced uncertainly between us. “He’s a consultant advising on the legalities of banning magicians from guilds. He’s helping the guilds draft changes to their bylaws, so the master told me.”

  “You say guilds, plural,” Matt said carefully.

  Mr. Fuller nodded. “That’s right. He’s calling on all the London guilds, offering his services. He used to be the master for the Watchmaker’s Guild where they’ve already dealt with this problem.”

  “He’s no longer master there. He was thrown out of the leadership role after using some underhanded tactics.” Matt caught my hand and placed it on his arm then, with his hand over mine, steered me away.

  I could feel the vibrations of his simmering anger. Or perhaps that was my simmering anger.

  I stopped at the door and glanced over my shoulder at the couple, watching us with perplexed expressions on their faces. I lifted my chin, aware that I must seem as snooty as Aunt Letitia could be at times. But I didn’t care. “The Watchmaker’s Guild have not dealt with this problem as there is no problem to deal with.” I marched out of the shop, not bothering to wish them a good day.

  Chapter 5

  I gave Woodall orders to drive to Mr. Abercrombie’s shop on Oxford Street, only to have three loud complaints coming from inside the cabin. Matt had quickly dived inside to join the others, leaving me to give Woodall instructions. The complaints were not about visiting a man we all loathed. It was about something even more important to Willie, Cyclops and Duke—food.

  “It’s past lunch time!” Cyclops whined. “I’m half starved.”

  “That’s because you’re so big breakfast only half fills you,” Willie said. “But I agree, India. I’m hungry too.”

  “Can we stop at a chop house or tea shop?” Duke asked.

  “Tea shop!” Cyclops scoffed. “I ain’t going to find something there that’ll satisfy.”

  Willie agreed. “We ain’t going to a tea shop. They’ll take one look at us and catch a case of the vapors.”

  Duke rolled his eyes. “You can’t catch the vapors.”

  “Anyway,” Willie went on, “Matt can’t eat in public. He’s too exposed.”

  It would seem we were going to have to eat somewhere if we were going to get any peace. I gave Woodall instructions to drive home. Mrs. Potter’s sandwiches would have to do.

  I climbed into the cabin and squeezed between Duke and Willie. Matt sported a curious smile as he watched me. I didn’t think the encounter with the Fullers warranted such a happy countenance and told him so.

  “Why’s that?” Willie asked.

  “They were selfish people who want to ban magicians from the guild,” I said. “Mrs. Fuller spied on Mr. Pyke, and Mr. Fuller complained about Mr. Pyke to the master of the woolen guild. He learned that Mr. Abercrombie was there, offering advice on how to change the guild’s bylaws so that magicians could be excluded.”

  Willie pulled a face. “So why do you look so happy, Matt?”

  “This isn’t happiness, this is pride. India was marvelous. She put the Fullers back in their place while giving them something to think about. She may have even made them change their opinion on magicians.”

  His words had me blushing, which only made his smile widen. “Perhaps Mrs. Fuller, but not her husband.”

  “Don’t underestimate the influence of a wife on her husband. He may change his opinion yet.” He leaned forward and clasped my hand. He drew it to his lips and kissed the knuckles lightly before letting go.

  My heart swelled. I’d always known that I mattered to Matt, but this was more. He made me feel like I could make a difference. I had influenced Mrs. Fuller to a degree and she could, in turn, influence her husband. Perhaps they could both go on to influence others.

  Abercrombie's Fine Watches and Clocks occupied the same prominent corner on Oxford Street that it had for decades. The family business had been established by the current proprietor’s forebear, who counted princes and peers among his customers. Being artless had not stopped the family business from flourishing, yet my own family’s shop had remained small by comparison. Being ousted from the position of Master of the Worshipful Company of Watchmakers had not harmed Mr. Abercrombie’s business in any way. The shop was as busy as always.

  The closest Woodall could get to the door was to stop alongside another parked carriage. Matt darted past it and across the pavement to the door with Cyclops flanking his right side and Willie on the left, her hand tucked inside her jacket so she could quickly whip out her gun if necessary.

  “Move on!” shouted the coachman stuck behind our carriage.

  I instructed Woodall to find som
ewhere to stop safely or drive in a loop if he couldn’t. I waited until Duke disappeared around the corner of the side street on another errand before entering the shop.

  It was a wonderland to this watchmaker, and I paused to take in the walls covered with clocks and the glass cabinets housing the more expensive items decorated in gold and other precious metals. Watches hung by their chains from stands on the long counter or were nestled into luxurious velvet pillows inside open boxes. The ticking of dozens upon dozens of clocks were as harmonious to me as a symphony. The two grandfather clocks set the base rhythm that vibrated through to my bones, while the higher pitch of the smaller ones soared to the heights of the ceiling.

  Matt touched my hand. “Ready?”

  I nodded and searched for Mr. Abercrombie, finding him at the same time he spotted us. He’d been standing behind his four shop assistants, scrutinizing their every move as they interacted with customers, but now came striding toward us.

  “Get out of my shop,” he hissed.

  “Not until you tell us about your interactions with the wool guild,” Matt said, not bothering to lower his voice.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “It is when a member of that guild goes missing.”

  Mr. Abercrombie’s pince nez fell off his nose where it had been precariously perched since he joined us. He left it to dangle by its chain around his neck. “Are you accusing me of something?”

  “Shall we discuss this in your workshop or would you like to remain out here?” Matt smiled and held the door open for a customer as she left carrying a small parcel.

  Mr. Abercrombie clicked his tongue and marched off toward the door leading to the workshop. We’d been in the back room before, but I took a moment to take it all in again. It wasn’t often I had the opportunity to step inside a workshop of this size. It was twice as big as my father’s and Mr. Mason’s. Many of the instruments looked in new condition, and the pleasant smell of metal and wood polish hung in the air.

  Mr. Abercrombie sent his three workers outside via the rear door then turned to me. “I had nothing to do with the disappearance of anyone from the wool company. Where is your proof? Well? I want evidence.” He stamped the end of his forefinger on the workbench. “Show me the facts.”