The Kidnapper's Accomplice (Glass and Steele Book 10)

by C. J. Archer

  “We have,” the inspector said. “They led us here.”

  “You have substantial premises,” Matt said, looking out of the window. “We need to search all the buildings.”

  Mr. Moreton looked as though he would object, but a glare from Matt had him nodding quickly. “Of course, of course. Go ahead. The staff have all left for the day. I’d be happy to escort you.”

  Matt strode toward the door. “We can do it alone.”

  Mr. Moreton rose and hurried after him. “I prefer to show you around myself. The factory is full of explosive material, Mr. Glass. It would be unethical of me to allow an outsider to wander around unattended.”

  Matt may or may not have heard him. He was already out the office door.

  I moved up alongside Mr. Moreton as he followed Matt. “Do you think my husband’s cousin is in danger from Amelia if I refuse to use my magic?”

  “My daughter is a sweet girl. She wouldn’t harm anyone. I don’t know Bunn, however.”

  A few minutes ago he’d told us she used to be sweet, and now he claimed she still was. Perhaps it was a father remembering his little girl with fondness, or perhaps he was right. People didn’t usually go from being kind-hearted to kidnapper in a matter of a few years.

  It had grown quite dark, and the two lamps lit on either side of the courtyard did little to keep the wintry evening at bay. Mr. Moreton puffed from the rapid pace as he led us into the main factory. He lit lanterns hanging by the door, and handed one each to the men, but seemed to think I didn’t need one.

  “You must be careful of a naked flame at all times,” Mr. Moreton said as he lifted his lantern high. “The elements that make gunpowder aren’t stored in here, of course, but there might be traces on the work surfaces. The girls don’t always clean up very well at the end of the day. They’re not the brightest creatures and don’t fully understand the dangers of not tidying up.”

  “Perhaps if you educated them they will,” Matt said.

  Mr. Moreton looked as if he’d protest, but Matt walked off before he could respond.

  The work benches were of little interest to us. Nothing could be hidden there. A large steam-powered crushing machine loomed silently in the middle of the room, and a faint tangy smell lingered in the air, but otherwise the factory was like any other.

  Matt pointed to some barrels stacked in a corner. “What’s in those?”

  “Various chemicals for making different colored fireworks.” Mr. Moreton pointed to the chemical symbols painted on the crates. “Strontium for red, barium for green, copper for blue, sodium for yellow and so forth.”

  Matt opened one, much to Mr. Moreton’s distress.

  Meanwhile, Cyclops and Duke were inspecting the floor. “What are you doing?” I whispered.

  “Looking for a trapdoor,” Duke whispered back. “If there’s a storeroom underneath, Willie could be down there.”

  “We could just ask Mr. Moreton,” I said.

  “You trust him?”

  I wasn’t sure. He didn’t seem to condone his daughter’s behavior, but that could be a façade.

  We inspected the factory thoroughly, moving every barrel to ensure there were no trapdoors. We headed upstairs to the mezzanine level where the foreman’s office and a walkway overlooked the factory floor. There was no trace of Willie or her captors anywhere.

  “Take me to the warehouse,” Matt ordered.

  “Of course, of course. Follow me.” Mr. Moreton turned to go but stopped suddenly. “Where is the detective inspector?”

  Brockwell had indeed disappeared. I hadn’t noticed him slip out.

  “He shouldn’t have gone off alone,” Mr. Moreton muttered as he hurried out of the factory. “It can be dangerous taking a naked flame near gunpowder.”

  “He ain’t a fool,” Cyclops snapped.

  “But what if he trips over? What if he has a fainting spell?”

  He stopped in the courtyard and scanned the buildings around it. When he spotted a flickering light through one of the windows, he strode off in that direction.

  “You shouldn’t wander,” he scolded Brockwell when we caught up to him.

  Brockwell pointed to a collection of a dozen or more stacked crates in the corner of the small warehouse. “What’s in those?”

  “Firework rockets. They’re ready for a shipment to a customer in Southampton, along with those set pieces.” Mr. Moreton pointed to a Catherine wheel and some wooden structures that looked as though they would make very large ships once put together. “Recreating sea battles with Roman candles as cannon are very popular, particularly for seafaring cities and ports.”

  We inspected the warehouse, moving aside every crate, and tapping the floor to search for hollow spaces. Again, we found nothing.

  We returned outside to the courtyard where Matt was already striding off to the last building. “Not in there!” Mr. Moreton said, chasing after him. “That’s the magazine where the elements to make the charges are stored. It’s far too dangerous to go rummaging about inside.”

  “We have to search everywhere,” Brockwell said, pushing past.

  “I can assure you, there are no places for Mr. Glass’s cousin to hide. Not in there; not anywhere!”

  We ignored him and continued to the magazine. It was quite a large space, again packed with barrels and crates. There were far too many to check individually. It would also take some time to move them all aside.

  “We use this warehouse to store the components to make gunpowder,” Mr. Moreton said. “Some contain potassium nitrate—what we used to call saltpeter—and the rest are charcoal and sulfur.”

  “This quantity would make a lot of black powder,” Cyclops said.

  “We make a lot of fireworks.”

  “Which crates contain the potassium nitrate?”

  “The third to the left. The central third are charcoal and the right-hand third contain sulfur.”

  Cyclops shook his head. “Those proportions are all wrong. Fireworks are seventy-five percent potassium nitrate, fifteen percent charcoal and ten percent sulfur.”

  I went cold. If Willie was in one of the crates, then she must be… Oh God.

  Mr. Moreton held his lamp higher to get a better look at Cyclops. He sniffed. “I doubt you are an expert on fireworks.”

  “I worked with explosives in mines back home. Sometimes we made Roman candles for fun.” He picked up a crowbar and opened one of the crates on the left. “Saltpeter,” he said, smelling the contents.

  “Of course it is. I told you—”

  “Duke, open one of the crates in the middle. I’ll open one on the right.”

  Mr. Moreton stepped in front of Cyclops. “That’s really not necessary. You can take my word, there is nothing but powders in those crates.”

  Duke wedged open a crate with a crowbar. The lid slid off and clattered onto the floor. “Looks like powder to me.”

  “See!” Mr. Moreton declared. “There’s nothing of interest to you in here. Your cousin in not being kept anywhere on these premises. I’ve been very accommodating, Inspector, but I really must insist that you leave now. My wife is expecting me. Indeed, I’m sure my daughter is at home as we speak. Why not come with me to the house and we’ll settle this nonsense.”

  Duke opened another crate.

  Mr. Moreton tugged on his tie knot. “I’m sure Amelia will be happy to answer all your questions, Inspector. Once she knows the gravity of the situation, she’ll lead you straight to Mr. Glass’s cousin who no doubt will tell you it was all Mr. Bunn’s idea.”

  “That’s a heavy looking fireworks case,” Duke said, peering into the crate.

  Matt held the lamp over the crate. “That’s not a firework case. That’s a bomb.”

  Chapter 5

  Mr. Moreton took one look at the inspector and set off at a run.

  Fortunately he was not the most athletic of men and Cyclops easily caught him. He escorted Mr. Moreton back to the magazine to stand before Brockwell.

  “You�
��re making explosive devices,” the detective inspector stated. “Illegally.”

  Mr. Moreton wisely remained silent.

  Matt opened another crate. “There’s one in here too. Where are these going? Who is your customer?”

  Mr. Moreton pressed his lips together.

  “Cyclops, if you would be so kind as to escort Mr. Moreton to my conveyance and accompany us to Scotland Yard,” Brockwell said. “Mr. Moreton, you are under arrest.”

  Duke moved to block their exit, a determined set to his jaw. “We’ll overlook this is if you tell us where to find Willie.”

  “I cannot overlook it,” Brockwell said, somewhat sadly. “Not even for Willie’s sake. These bombs could be heading to the realm’s enemies.”

  “I don’t send them overseas,” Mr. Moreton shot back.

  “Enemies can live on English soil. Duke, I sympathize, but step aside.”

  “But—”

  I touched Duke’s arm. “The inspector’s right. This must be dealt with properly. Those bombs could do great harm on a comprehensive scale.”

  Duke closed his eyes and sighed. He stepped aside.

  Matt, however, grabbed Mr. Moreton by his jacket lapels and shook him. “Where is she?” he snarled. “Where is my cousin?”

  Mr. Moreton put up his hands in surrender. “I don’t know! I swear to you, I don’t know where she is. Amelia tells me nothing anymore. It’s that Bunn character. He’s corrupting her, giving her ideas.”

  Matt screwed his fist into the jacket, tightening it at Mr. Moreton’s throat. The firework magician’s face turned a rather deep shade of red very quickly. Matt suddenly let go, shoving Mr. Moreton for good measure.

  “If I find out you lied and you knew all along…”

  Mr. Moreton smoothed the front of his jacket and stretched his neck out of his collar. “I think I’d like to go to Scotland Yard now, thank you, Inspector.”

  Cyclops escorted Mr. Moreton out. Brockwell went to follow but paused at the door. “I can rely on you to find her, Glass.”

  Matt nodded.

  Brockwell pulled out his watch, checked the time, and returned it to his pocket. “It’s six-thirty.”

  “I’ll find her,” Matt said again, gentler. “You have my word.”

  The problem was, where to look next? We’d searched all the buildings at the factory; Willie wasn’t here.

  “We could try Amelia’s home,” I said. “Although I doubt she took Willie somewhere where her mother could see.”

  “Maybe an abandoned warehouse,” Duke suggested with a shrug as we crossed the courtyard. “Or tenement. Maybe Moreton owns some places and one’s vacant right now.”

  It was a good idea. Luckily we were in the right place to check. If Moreton kept financial records of other properties, they were most likely in his office.

  We split up and checked a different filing cabinet each. It didn’t take long for Matt to declare success. He slammed a thick file onto the desk and flipped through the pages.

  “Moreton seems to own…” He ran his finger down the first page. “Eight different properties in addition to this factory.”

  Duke joined him at the desk. “It’ll take some time to check them all.” He leaned his knuckles on the desk and lowered his head. We won’t get to all of them before midnight.

  I pressed his shoulder. “Woodall is an excellent driver and the traffic will have decreased considerably.”

  “It’s raining,” he said flatly. “The slippery roads will slow the horses.”

  “We have to try!”

  My bark startled him. “You’re right. Sorry, India.” He turned to the file. “Where’s the closest property?”

  I looked over the addresses, feeling my heart sink a little more with each one. Not only were they all on the other side of the river, they were quite spread out. We couldn’t visit them all. We had to hope Willie was in one of the first three if we were to free her before midnight.

  “Who are you?” came a shrill voice from the doorway.

  We’d been so intent on the property list we hadn’t noticed the woman arrive. She reminded me of a wounded bird, dressed as she was in all black with her gray hair poking out in unkempt strands from beneath a tall hat trimmed with crushed silk. Despite the defiant tilt of her chin, her darting gaze gave away her anxiety.

  “Get out of my husband’s office,” she said in a trembling voice.

  “Mrs. Moreton?” Matt said smoothly. “My name is Matthew Glass and this is my wife, India, and my associate, Duke. We’re very glad to see you.”

  “I am not glad to see you.” She indicated the front door. “Leave.”

  Beyond her stood Mr. Teele, Mr. Moreton’s assistant. He must have fetched her. He cleared his throat and stepped forward. “They came with the policeman, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Moreton’s chin lowered.

  Matt took some steps toward her. “Detective Inspector Brockwell of Scotland Yard has authorized me to continue the investigation into the disappearance of my cousin in his absence.”

  “Where is he?”

  Matt paused before answering. “He took your husband to Scotland Yard. He has some questions over some illegal devices found in one of the warehouses.”

  She blinked rapidly. “What sort of devices?”

  “Bombs.”

  She gasped. “Mr. Teele? Do you know anything about this?”

  “Nothing, I swear to you!” The assistant backed towards the door. “I have to leave now. My wife is expecting me home for dinner.”

  Mrs. Moreton watched him go and some of her fortitude seemed to leave with him. She pressed a hand to her stomach. “What should I do?”

  “I suggest you contact a lawyer for your husband,” Matt said. “But that isn’t why we came here tonight. We’re looking for my cousin. She has been kidnapped by your daughter and—”

  “Amelia!”

  “She sent a note demanding my wife use her magic to extend the life of Mr. Bunn’s magic. If my wife refuses, she will kill my cousin.”

  Mrs. Moreton went very pale and slumped against the doorframe. Matt took one elbow and I grabbed the other while Duke pushed a chair closer. We directed Mrs. Moreton to sit.

  “Duke, a drink for Mrs. Moreton, please,” Matt said.

  Duke disappeared into Mr. Moreton’s office and came out with a glass of the liquor Mr. Moreton had been drinking earlier. He handed it to Mrs. Moreton who sniffed, reeled back, then sipped.

  It seemed to rally her but not lift her spirits. Tears welled in her eyes. “This is awful. Just awful. I am so sorry, Mr. Glass.” She lifted her distressed gaze to mine. “Mrs. Glass, you’re that powerful magician, aren’t you? My daughter told me about you.” Her face crumpled. “I’m so sorry for this. For everything.”

  “It’s all right,” I said gently, not sure what to say. What did one say to a woman whose child had done something as despicable as kidnap and threatened to do worse?

  Matt seemed to know. He crouched before Mrs. Moreton and gave her his handkerchief. “The worst can be averted if you assist us. There is still time to find my cousin. Will you help us, Mrs. Moreton? Will you set this right?”

  She wiped her damp cheeks on his handkerchief. “I’ll do everything in power to help, but I’m not sure I can.”

  Matt turned to Duke and nodded at the desk. Duke fetched the file of papers.

  “My daughter frightens me,” Mrs. Moreton said quietly. “Her magic is strong. Not as strong as yours, Mrs. Glass, but it comes easily to her. She can use the same spell as my husband and yet her fireworks are more spectacular than his, more colorful and varied.” She accepted the file from Duke. “But her power is not the problem. It’s her recklessness.” She tapped the rolled-up handkerchief against her chest above her heart. “They say boys are the reckless ones, but that’s not my experience. Amelia can be wild at times.”

  “Mrs. Moreton, can you look through that list of your husband’s properties,” Matt said. “I need to know which one Amelia is more lik
ely to hide my cousin in.”

  Mrs. Moreton dabbed at her eyes and opened the file. Her movements were excruciatingly slow, grating on my nerves. Matt shifted his weight on his haunches, while Duke paced the room. The wait frustrated all of us.

  “I think this one is without tenants,” Mrs. Moreton said, pointing to an address.

  Matt took the file from her and rifled through it until he found the papers he needed. “You’re right. It’s not. It’s in a terrible state, according to this report, and requires urgent repairs before it can be leased again.”

  “And possibly this one,” Mrs. Moreton said, pointing to another on the list. “My husband was grumbling about the cost of something or other just last week.”

  Matt looked through the papers again. “It appears to be tenanted.”

  “Then she must be at the other one,” Duke said. “Let’s go, Matt.”

  Matt rose and thanked Mrs. Moreton.

  I looked back at her from the exit, a forlorn creature crying into Matt’s handkerchief. She had all but lost her husband and daughter in one night, and in some ways I felt responsible. If it hadn’t been for my magic, none of this would have happened.

  Matt must have sensed my melancholia because he took my hand as we headed through the drizzling rain to the carriage. “Only Amelia and Bunn are responsible for their actions, no one else. And if it hadn’t been for you, Moreton’s secret arms business would never have been discovered.” He squeezed my hand. “Now come on and let’s rescue Willie.”

  Woodall outdid himself steering the horses through the slippery streets on the southern side of the Thames. Even so, our progress felt excruciatingly slow, particularly through the narrow, dark lanes of the East End. Whereas the West End streets were deserted of pedestrians most evenings in winter, the slums were a hive of activity by comparison. People huddled around braziers tucked away in lanes and yards. Drunks slept in doorways, while a few hardy prostitutes braved the cold to ply their trade near taverns.

  We found Mr. Moreton’s property at the edge of a small court. The windows were broken and the front door hung by a single hinge. Outside, men sat around a brazier, bottles in hand. They looked warily upon us as we approached, and one even spat on the ground at Matt’s feet.