by C. J. Archer
“If we like the girl, we’ll introduce her to Lord Farnsworth,” Aunt Letitia said.
Willie humphed loudly.
Aunt Letitia pretended not to notice. “If we like her, and she’s not too unconventional, then we’ll arrange a dinner and invite them both.”
“Shouldn’t the decision of whether she’s too unconventional for his taste be made by him?” I asked.
“Oh, India. You know nothing about matchmaking. I’m very good at it, as you well know. Look at you and Matthew.”
If it had been left to her, Matt would have married a lady from a good family and I would have been relegated to the staff quarters. Her memory was selective and it was perhaps best not to dredge up the time when she was against me marrying Matt.
Willie humphed again.
“Is something the matter?” I asked her.
She crossed her arms. “No.”
Something was bothering her, but I waited until Peter the footman finished collecting our empty bowls and left the room. “Are you worried that Lord Farnsworth will fall in love with the girl?” I asked quietly.
“No! I ain’t jealous, India. Not like that.” She leaned forward, resting both elbows on the table. “Marriage is just so final. And Farnsworth himself said he reckons he’s not cut out for it.”
Aunt Letitia poked her fork into Willie’s arm. “Elbows off the table. As to Lord Farnsworth’s opinion of marriage, he will change his mind. He must. It’s his duty. Anyway, he just needs to find the right lady. Perhaps this girl will be her.”
“Marriage ain’t for everyone, Letty.”
Aunt Letitia picked up her wine glass and peered at her over the rim. “As a spinster, I am well aware of that. You and I are cut from different cloth to most, however, and neither of us are expected to find husbands. Not at our age.”
Willie frowned. “Are you calling me old?”
Peter returned carrying a covered tray. “Lovely! The main course has arrived,” Aunt Letitia said with far more enthusiasm than she’d ever greeted a meal before.
“I could get a husband if I wanted.”
“Aye,” Duke said with a wink for Cyclops. “Two, according to the Romany fortune teller.”
“Preferably not at the same time,” Aunt Letitia added under her breath.
We had just finished an early breakfast the following morning and were about to discuss what to do next in the search for Mr. Pyke when Bristow entered the library and announced the arrival of Fabian.
“Tell him to go away,” Willie said. “He ain’t welcome here.”
I’d calmed down overnight and although I didn’t like how vehement Fabian had been, I didn’t want to fall out over our disagreement. But perhaps I was being too generous. “Matt? What do you think?”
He closed the notebook in which he’d been making notes about the case. “I think it’s up to you. I won’t pretend I like how he spoke to you yesterday, but I won’t hold it against him if you want to give him a chance to apologize.”
I turned to Bristow. “Send him in.”
Willie and Duke shook their heads at my decision.
If Fabian had kept his hat instead of giving it to Bristow at the front door, I suspected he’d be worrying the brim with both hands as he entered the library. He could barely meet my eye as he stopped near the door.
He waited for Bristow to leave then finally lifted his gaze to mine. He swallowed hard, as if there were a lump in his throat, and stuttered through an apology. “It was terrible of me to speak to you that way, India. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, although I do not expect it.”
“Good,” Willie muttered.
“I won’t pretend I wasn’t upset by yesterday’s encounter,” I said. “I thought you agreed with me that we should not create new spells.”
“I did agree.” He sighed. “I thought I agreed.”
“But when a new and exciting opportunity rose, you changed your mind.”
“I am not strong like you, India. I cannot resist the calling within me.” He tapped his fist against his chest. “I ache to perform magic.”
“Then perform it. No one is suggesting you stop manipulating iron, just as I have not stopped tinkering with timepieces.”
“It is not enough.”
“It has to be enough, because creating spells could bring danger to the world. I don’t want that on my conscience. Do you?”
He released a breath then finally shook his head. “Do I have your forgiveness?”
I gave him a tentative smile, not yet ready to welcome him into our home with open arms. “You do.”
He released a breath. “And yours, Glass?”
“You don’t need mine,” Matt said.
“But I do! As India’s husband, your opinion matters.”
“I told you yesterday, India is capable of making her own decisions.”
“Nevertheless, I would like your forgiveness too.” Fabian put out his hand.
For one long moment, I thought Matt would refuse to shake it, but he eventually took it. They didn’t exchange smiles or any other words and both stepped away when they released hands, like pugilists returning to their corner between rounds. Fabian didn’t offer his hand to either Duke or Willie, which was probably just as well as I suspected they might snub him, going by their scowls.
“Please take a seat, Fabian,” I said. “We were just discussing what we know so far about Mr. Pyke’s disappearance.”
Fabian hitched up his trouser legs and sat. “Then what I have to say will interest you. I did not come here just to apologize, although that was the most pressing reason. Something troubling has occurred.”
“What is it?”
He rubbed a jawline peppered with dark stubble and flicked an anxious glance at Matt. He was worried about Matt’s reaction. Now I was even more intrigued. “The flying rug was stolen last night.”
“What?” Matt exploded.
I rested a hand on his arm and I think it stopped him from getting to his feet and standing over Fabian in a threatening manner. But only just, if the vibrations coursing through him were an indication.
Duke swore under his breath. “That ain’t good.”
“How could it be stolen?” I asked. “It’s a large rug and was on your floor with furniture covering it. You would have heard something.”
“It was that servant girl, weren’t it?” Willie asked. “The one you’ve been spending your nights with. Was it her? Or was she a decoy?”
Fabian’s face flushed. He hadn’t known that we knew about his relationship with his maid. “The carpet wasn’t in the house. After I retrieved it from the paddock near Brighton, it didn’t clean very well. It was in no condition to be in my drawing room, so I stored it in the stables.”
Matt groaned and rubbed his forehead. “You stored the most important magical object in the world in an insecure area.”
“You idiot!” Willie blurted out.
“The stables are locked at night,” Fabian said. “And the stable boy is always there. It was taken in the evening when I was out and the coachman with me.”
“And the stable boy?” Matt asked.
Fabian sank into the chair. “Asleep.”
Duke and Willie muttered under their breaths.
Matt merely sighed. “Have you questioned him this morning? Are there any clues? Witnesses?”
“The boy says he heard a noise, but did not know the time. I have not asked the outdoor servants from other houses. They always give me odd looks, because I am French. That’s why I came here. You are English and experts at asking questions. Also, the theft could be tied to Pyke’s disappearance.”
I gasped as it dawned on me that he could be right.
Matt had clearly already made the connection. He didn’t look at all shocked. “If the two incidents are linked—and I think they are—then there are two scenarios,” he said. “Either Coyle kidnapped Pyke then stole the carpet for Pyke to use in some magical way, or, if Pyke was kidnapped by someone else, h
e told them about the carpet and they subsequently stole it.”
“But only India can make the carpet fly,” Duke said. “Why bother with Pyke at all?”
“Only I can make it fly with passengers,” I pointed out. “With the new moving spell, Mr. Pyke should be able to make the carpet fly but without any weight on it.”
Fabian agreed with Matt. “Coyle stole the spell and carpet and kidnapped Pyke. It must be him. Who else?”
“Who else indeed, but we only think Coyle has all three. We have no proof.”
Willie had been drumming her fingers on the chair arm, but suddenly stopped. “It could be Pyke himself. He could be hiding out somewhere. Maybe he stole it for himself, not for someone else, and has plans to make flying carpets and sell them.”
Duke pulled a face. “Why would he do that? His magic won’t last and no one can sit on the rugs while it flies. What’s the point of a flying rug if you can’t ride it?”
“Novelty gift value,” Willie said, as if he were a fool. “Corsets or spinning tops don’t have a function, but they’re sold the world over.”
“Some would disagree about them not having a function,” I said.
“What about stuffed animals dressed like humans?” She arched her brow at me. “Curiosities sell, especially to fools with too much money.”
She did have a point.
Fabian appeared to be slowly warming to the idea. “Pyke wanted a copy of the spell after we made it.”
Matt wasn’t convinced, however. “You’re forgetting a few key clues. By all accounts, Pyke was worried on the afternoon of his disappearance after he was visited by someone in a carriage. He also told Mrs. Fuller that he was being followed by a man with dark hair, streaked with gray.”
The more I thought about it, the more I agreed with him. “Mr. Pyke wouldn’t abandon his wife. Not so he could secretly sell off magic carpets. Besides, what would he need that particular carpet for? If he stole the spell, he could just use it on any carpet of his own making. Why did he need to steal that one?”
“Because the magic in it is stronger than anything he could do on his own,” Matt said slowly. “You’re right, India. He doesn’t want to just sell magic flying carpets. He needs that particular one. Or somebody does.”
Our gazes met. We both thought it was Lord Coyle but didn’t say his name. I wanted to keep an open mind at this point, and I suspected Matt did too.
“There is one thing we can be sure about now,” Matt said. “Pyke probably wasn’t kidnapped by a rival artless rug maker out of jealousy. That eliminates a lot of suspects, including Abercrombie.”
Willie wrinkled her nose. “Abercrombie’s still guilty of being an ass.”
“I think we can also safely say Pyke has not come to harm,” Matt went on. “Whoever stole the spell has most likely also stolen the rug, and they need Pyke and his magic. As long as they need him, he’ll be safe.”
But what happened if he couldn’t do what his kidnapper wanted? What happened if they thought he could fly the rug with passengers then learned he couldn’t?
I pressed a hand to my throat and my eyes unexpectedly welled with tears. I hardly knew the man, but in a way, I was responsible for his fate. The moment Fabian and I had enlisted his help with the flying wool spell, we’d put him in danger.
Matt crouched beside me and gathered my hands in his. “He’s alive, India. We’ll do our best to keep it that way.”
Duke suddenly got to his feet and stalked to the window. He pulled the curtains closed, plunging the room into near-darkness.
“What’d you do that for?” Willie cried.
“Y’all have forgotten something.”
Matt rose but kept hold of one of my hands. “What?”
“If the kidnapper realizes Pyke can’t make the carpet fly with passengers on it, and Pyke tells him it’s because his magic isn’t strong enough, what’s to stop Pyke from keeping India’s name out of it? Who’s to say he won’t tell his kidnapper that he needs India?”
“Mon dieu,” Fabian murmured. “The kidnapper may come for India next.”
Matt squeezed my hand and held on tightly. My own hand began to shake.
Chapter 10
Matt sent a message to Scotland Yard asking Brockwell to meet us at Fabian’s stables, located in the mews behind his townhouse. We alighted from our carriage at the end of the mews. Duke and Willie remained there so I felt it was safe for Matt to be exposed.
“Hold my hand,” he said. “The cobbles are slippery.”
I suspected he was as concerned about me being kidnapped just as much as he was concerned about me falling. I could have told him no one would attempt it with him nearby, but I doubted it would change his behavior. Besides, I liked holding his hand.
We dodged horse deposits and puddles until we reached the coach house and stables opposite the rear entrance to Fabian’s townhouse. We waited a few minutes for Brockwell to arrive with two constables in tow. He immediately ordered them to interview the outdoor servants of other houses up and down the mews. We then relayed what we knew to Brockwell. It amounted to very little.
He tipped his head back to look up at the servants’ quarters above the coach house. “Why did Charbonneau leave the rug here?”
Fabian had agreed not to join us so that his staff felt freer to answer honestly. He’d sent word ahead ordering them to tell us everything they could. The stable hand and the coachman greeted us politely if stiffly in the coach house. The double doors stood open and the natural light made the glossy black paint of the carriage shine. The coachman must polish it often because the smell was almost overwhelming. I couldn’t smell the horses at all. Perhaps that was the point.
The first thing Brockwell did was reassure the two staff they were not in trouble. It didn’t seem to ease them, however. They remained rigidly standing to attention, their gazes averted.
“Nothing you say to us will be reported back to Mr. Charbonneau,” Matt said. “No one is in trouble with the police or your employer. We just want to find the thief.”
Some of their tension eased and the coachman relaxed his stance. The stable hand followed his superior’s lead although he still looked nervous.
“Tell us when you first noticed the rug was missing,” Matt said.
Brockwell put up a finger for silence then reached into his pocket and removed his notepad and pencil. He removed his glove, licked his thumb, and used it to flip the pages until he found a blank one. “Proceed.”
The stable lad, Jimmy, spoke first. “It was me. I noticed it was gone when I got up this morning to feed the horses. The rug was stored at the back of the stables with the feed, see.”
“Was it there last night?” Brockwell asked.
“Aye. At least it was at about five when I checked the stock.”
“It was also there at seven-fifteen,” the coachman said. “I had to fetch a whisp on account of Farthing’s tail needed currying.” He shot the stable boy a sharp glare. “It wasn’t done proper, and I can’t have an untidy horse pulling the master’s brougham.”
“You drove Mr. Charbonneau last night,” Matt said. “How long were you gone?”
“I drove the master to Knightsbridge, that’s correct. I left promptly at five-to-eight, so that I’d be around the front at eight, and returned here to the coach house at twenty minutes past midnight.”
Brockwell wrote the times down in his notebook. “You didn’t notice the carpet missing at that point?”
“No, sir. I didn’t need to go to the back of the stables. The harness is stored over there.” He pointed to the straps and other equipment hanging on the wall.
“And where was the rug stored?”
The youth led the way through to the stables, past the two horses in individual stalls, to the back where buckets, brooms, sacks of feed, and other equipment were stored. He pointed to a wooden barrier and a chair without a seat positioned some feet away. “It was rolled up with one end here and the other here. When I came down at six this
morning, I saw it was gone. I informed Mr. Ogilvie when he woke up.” He nodded at the coachman.
Mr. Ogilvie lifted his chin. “And I informed the inside staff immediately.”
“Did you conduct a search first?”
“No, sir. I thought one of the inside staff had fetched it while we were asleep. It wasn’t until the butler informed me that they hadn’t that we both realized it was stolen. We searched high and low but couldn’t find it.”
Matt and Brockwell checked the area where the carpet was kept then inspected the floor. There were three possible exit points from the stables and adjoining coach house—the double doors used for the carriage, the single door that also allowed access to the coach house and another door for the stables. There was no sign the rug had been dragged along the floor. Not that the floor was particularly dirty, but it wasn’t spotless either. If a large object had been dragged, it would have left a mark.
I inspected the stable door, but the lock looked as it should. It hadn’t been tampered with. “When did you fall asleep?” I asked Jimmy while Matt inspected the locks on the other doors.
“About nine or so,” he said.
The coachman clicked his tongue. “He usually falls asleep between nine and nine-fifteen. I wasn’t here at that time last night, of course, but you can write that down in your book, Inspector.”
Brockwell did. “Thank you, Mr. Ogilvie. Accuracy and precision are important in my line of work.”
“Mine too, sir.”
Jimmy rolled his eyes behind his superior’s back.
“And are the doors locked at night?” Brockwell asked.
“Not while the carriage is out, no,” Mr. Ogilvie said. “I lock up after I get back and the horses are settled.”
Brockwell flipped his notebook closed and pocketed it. “Thank you for your time. We may have more questions for you later.”
