by C. J. Archer
"The Inquisition has arrived, I see." He handed Bristow his hat and gloves and indicated we should enter the library ahead of him.
Willie was the first to speak after he shut the door. "Where have you been?"
"That's not your business." He held up a finger upon her protest. "You, of all people, should respect my right to privacy."
That thoroughly doused her fuse before it began to even flare. She sat with a pout and a grumble.
I wouldn't be put off, however. "Did you visit Mr. Force?"
"No."
"Mr. Barratt?"
His gaze narrowed. "Enough questions, India. You won't get the answer out of me. I had business to attend to. That's all I'll say."
I sat with a huff too.
Duke took over. "We already know you didn't visit Abercrombie."
Matt frowned. "How do you know?"
"That's not your affair," I said before anyone else could tell him how we'd spent the morning. I didn't want to avoid answering out of spite—well, not entirely out of spite—but because I didn't want the lecture.
His lips flattened but he sat too and the matter was dropped. "One thing I can tell you," he said, "is the temperature of public opinion. Every conversation I overheard was about Force's article in The City Review. The city is humming with gossip and speculation, and it's still early."
"What are they saying?" I asked. "Do they believe it? Do they agree with Force's views?"
"Some but not all. Sides have been picked and people are defending their choice vehemently."
I hoped those who chose the side of the magicians didn't find themselves persecuted for their choice—or accused of being witches, as Abercrombie accused me. I suddenly wished I had my watch with me to feel the familiar smooth case, the magical warmth, and the faint throb of each tick. It usually comforted me.
"They also want to know who among them is a magician," Matt went on. "Names of craftsmen and manufacturers are being bandied about."
"In hatred?" Willie asked. "Fear?"
"Merely in curious tones."
"The hatred and fear comes later," Cyclops said heavily.
Duke grasped his friend's shoulder. "It may not happen that way."
The weighty silence that followed was broken by the entrance of Bristow with the mail. He handed a thick envelope to me. It was sealed with red wax.
"It's from Lord Coyle," I said, opening it. "He has invited me to a dinner party he's having on Saturday." I re-read the invitation then folded it again. "How odd. I hardly know the man. Why would he ask me?"
"Because he collects magical objects," Matt said darkly. "And thanks to Abercrombie and Force, he now knows your grandfather is a magician and therefore you are most likely one too."
"I think he already guessed after witnessing my watch capture Mr. Pitt."
"Perhaps, but the article must have confirmed his suspicions. The timing of his invitation coming the day after the article is too coincidental." He rubbed his forefinger lightly along his lower lip. "Damn it. This is what I was afraid of."
"It's just a dinner invitation," I said. "Anyway, I'm going to decline. I have far too much on my plate to bother with a nobleman I hardly know. I'll write a response now. When I'm done, shall we visit Father Antonio again? Or is that where you went this morning without me?"
"I wouldn't dare." He gave me one of his mischievous smiles. "I'm only half the investigator without you."
"I'm glad you realize it."
* * *
Father Antonio made us wait in the church for sixteen minutes before he met with us.
"You know that staring at your watch doesn't make time go faster," Matt said while we sat on the third pew from the front.
I snapped the watchcase closed and returned it to my reticule. "I need to look at something to soothe my nerves."
"You're surrounded by beautiful stained glass windows and are sitting beside a handsome man. Isn't that enough?"
I bit back my smile and made a show of glancing at an elderly parishioner in the pew across the aisle. He was either asleep or deep in prayer. "He is quite handsome, isn't he?"
Matt was saved from answering by the arrival of Father Antonio. The priest couldn't have been more than mid-fifties in age, making him quite young twenty-seven years ago. For a reason I couldn't remember now, I'd expected an elderly, cantankerous fellow who'd send us on our way immediately upon meeting us, but Father Antonio was all pleasant smiles and warm handshakes. The eyes behind the spectacles were equally warm.
Matt didn't try to hide the fact that we'd visited the convent and had some questions about events that had happened there in the past.
"You're the American they warned me about," Father Antonio said. "Mother Frances told me to send you on your way if you came here."
My heart sank. Could we not have one conversation in this investigation without being blocked at every turn? I shifted my glare from Father Antonio to the effigy of Christ in the sanctuary and back again.
"Please, Father, just hear what we have to say before you dismiss us," Matt said.
"I'll speak with you on one condition." Father Antonio leaned forward and lowered his voice. "Don't tell Mother Frances." He winked and sat on the pew in front of us. "You wish to know about a particular baby brought to the convent many years ago. I am sorry, but I know nothing about the infants taken there, and even if I did, I'd be sworn to secrecy. Most of the adopting couples prefer anonymity. I'm sorry your journey here has been wasted."
"We have other questions," Matt said. "About the missing Mother Alfreda, for one thing."
A blink was the only change to the priest's features. "I know nothing about that either. It was a long time ago."
"You're on record claiming she wrote to say she left the convent of her own free will, and yet we know she wrote no such letter. Her departure is still shrouded in mystery. Why did you lie to the police?"
Matt had spoken in hushed tones but the priest still glanced toward the elderly parishioner, the only other person in the church. "Come with me," Father Antonio said.
He led us to the rectory next door and into a sunny sitting room at the front of the house overlooking the street. From here, he could see the comings and goings at the church, the convent, and many of the houses. He adjusted his cassock and sat in a chair by the window. The sunshine bounced off his bald head and picked out the golden stubble on his chin.
I wondered how much he'd been told. If only the mother superior had warned him and not the other nuns, Matt's question about the missing Mother Alfreda would have come as quite a surprise. Yet he had shown very little sign of being ruffled. Perhaps a man in his position had heard a great many odd things over the years and was used to not giving away his thoughts.
"How do you know what was reported to the police?" Father Antonio began. "Do you work for them?"
"I consult for them on occasion," Matt said.
"On this occasion?"
Matt settled into the chair and smiled at the priest who smiled back. It was a battle of pleasantness with no clear winner—yet. "We're looking into the departure of the previous mother superior on behalf of an interested party."
"Who?"
"Someone who does not wish to be named. Can you help us?"
"I'll certainly try." The priest's smile slipped a little and his gaze lost focus. He was trying to think who could have tasked us with finding out what had become of Mother Alfreda, and what, if anything, it had to do with our inquiry into baby Phineas.
"The mother superior was reported missing by you," Matt went on, "and you retracted the statement the following day. However, no correspondence was received from her by anyone at the convent. They're still under the impression she did not leave of her own accord. Why did you retract your original police statement?"
I held my breath and watched Father Antonio very closely. It wouldn't be often that he was called a liar, yet he managed to keep his features schooled. "It's true that no correspondence was received, but I retracted my st
atement anyway. You see, the convent is securely locked at night. No one from the outside can get in without great commotion. There were no signs of a break in, no evidence of an intruder, and Mother Alfreda's cell was as it should be. There were no signs of foul play, as the police put it. After contemplation and prayer, I decided it wasn't worth upsetting the rest of the nuns by having police crawling over the convent. Some of them are young and very naive about the world. It would upset them greatly to think something awful had happened to their beloved reverend mother, and I wanted to spare them that. Please understand, sir, that if there was evidence of something having befallen Mother Alfreda, I would have been the first to invite the police in. But there was not. All evidence pointed to her having left of her own accord during the night. That alone was disruption enough for the good sisters, but to upset them further by involving the police, when there was no cause, would have been irresponsible of me. Without a mother superior, I was their only spiritual guide, their parent, if you like, and it was my responsibility to take care of their wellbeing. So yes, I made the decision to retract the statement. I never regretted that decision."
It sounded plausible, if somewhat patriarchal, yet I wasn't sure I entirely believed him. Surely he must have been as worried about the mother superior's disappearance as Sister Clare and the other nuns?
"Do you have any inkling why she left?" I asked.
"No. She seemed devoted to her work. It came as quite a shock. That doesn't mean I think she was met with foul play, just that I didn't know her all that well."
"Didn't you ask the sisters if it was out of character?" I went on.
"I spoke to them," he said tightly.
"So did we, and it seems Mother Alfreda wasn't the sort to just leave without word."
His only answer was a small shrug.
"The nuns you spoke to about her," Matt said, "what did they say to you?"
"I cannot tell you that. Surely you understand my position, Mr. Glass, even if you're not Catholic."
Matt inched forward on the chair. "They spoke to you about the matter in the confessional?"
Father Antonio clamped his mouth shut and forced a smile. Another shrug told us his answer to that question. Someone had spoken to him in confession, but he was not able to say more. Why would one or more of the nuns have something to confess if they were innocent?
"How convenient," Matt murmured, sitting back again.
"Did you look for her?" I asked.
"No," Father Antonio said. "If she wanted to be found, God would have guided me to her."
"Her disappearance occurred around the same time two babies disappeared from the convent," Matt said. "They were not given away for adoption and their records also disappeared. Do you know anything about that?"
The priest adjusted his cassock again and crossed his legs. "No. Are you suggesting that the reverend mother's disappearance is linked to theirs?"
Matt spread out his hands. "I'm not suggesting anything, merely stating facts."
"Are you sure you're not a policeman? You sound like one." Father Antonio's eyes crinkled at the corners. When Matt didn't return the smile, the priest sobered and adjusted his spectacles. "As I said earlier, I know nothing about the babies that go through the convent. That's something organized entirely by the sisters."
"You must know the families who adopt them," I said. "Aren't they your parishioners?"
"I'm not at liberty to say, Miss Steele. I hope you understand."
I sighed. We were getting nowhere. Apparently Matt thought so too because he changed the subject. "There was a young nun who left the convent around that time. She's not missing; she left of her own accord. Her religious name was Sister Francesca, her real name Abigail Pilcher. Do you remember her?"
Father Antonio pursed his lips, steepled his fingers, and shook his bald head slowly. "I don't believe I do."
"Are you sure? You visited her in Bermondsey several times after she left the convent."
The priest's gaze sharpened.
"Before and after she had the baby," Matt went on.
The priest's face suddenly cleared. "Ah, now I recall. She was a silly girl, quite unsuited to convent life. She was far too…" He waved his hand in the air and searched for the right word.
"Worldly?" I offered.
He pointed at me. "Precisely, Miss Steele. Too worldly to be a nun. I wasn't particularly surprised that she left under such circumstances."
"I thought you said it was difficult for outsiders to get into the convent. How do you think she got pregnant?"
"The sisters aren't locked in. They could leave, although it wasn't encouraged. Clearly Abigail chose to come and go as she pleased."
"Or perhaps just the once," Matt said.
"Why do you want to know about her?"
"She might be able to shed some light on Mother Alfreda's disappearance."
He blinked. "I doubt that. It was nothing to do with her. She left because of her condition."
"Are you sure? Did you ask her on one of your visits to her home?"
The priest looked away. "Did she tell you I'd visited?"
"She's no longer at the same residence. She moved ten years ago. You didn't know?"
Father Antonio face flushed. He adjusted his cassock over his knees again. "Of course not. Why would I? I only visited her once or twice after she left the convent to make sure she settled into civilian life. As I said, I feel responsible for the nuns, even after they leave my care."
"Yet we had to remind you of her name moments ago," I bit off. The man was beginning to grate on my nerves. He was clearly hiding something, and I suspected it was the identity of the father of Abigail's baby. I didn't want it to be him. I really didn't. But he was the most likely option.
"I've never been very good with names," he said. "Look. I don't know where she is now. She asked me not to return again, so I didn't. I didn't even know she'd moved out of that awful garret."
"You stopped going?" I pressed. "Just like that, even though you say you felt responsible for her? She was an unwed woman with a newborn baby. As if that's not difficult enough, she had no friends or family to help her. It's a miracle she survived at all."
He bristled. "She not only survived, she was thriving the last time I saw her. Indeed, she had more savings than me! I didn't worry about her, Miss Steele, because Abigail had work from the hat factory. She was making a good sum, despite the low pay. Indeed, she enjoyed the work. It seemed to fulfill her, somehow, in a way that being a nun never did."
"How do you mean, fulfill her?" I hedged. The use of that term piqued my curiosity. It wasn't one I would have used to describe a piece worker forced to do menial labor for low wages.
"She told me she enjoyed working with the silk. She spoke about the way it felt against her skin, how lovely it looked when it caught the light." He stared out the window and smiled wistfully. "She was drawn to it," he murmured, his voice distant. "That's the word she used—drawn. Like a gentleman to his lover." His face suddenly turned scarlet and he dismissed his comment with a chuckle. "Or so I'm told."
Fulfill. Drawn. I looked at Matt. He looked at me, his eyes bright with the same realization. Abigail Pilcher was a silk magician.
Chapter 6
"Silk is a natural fiber," I told Matt as we drove home. "But working it is where the magic comes into play."
"Like gold and wood," he added with a nod. "Abigail must be a magician. I'm convinced of it. Her son must be too. That's why he was good in the silk hat department at Christy's but not the other areas. He had an affinity for it."
"We should be looking at factories that work with silk to find him."
"He could be in a shop, not a factory. Any draper or dressmaker would do. And there must be a thousand of those scattered through the city."
"Not so many high-end ones, and silk is definitely high-end."
My reasoning seemed to rally him a little. "Does London have a silk trade?"
"Spitalfields used to be full of pure sil
k weavers, but the trade has suffered in recent times, and I don't think there are many left. They used to work from their homes for manufacturers that required silk for their goods, rather like Abigail did for Christy's. That's all I know of the business."
"Then it seems more likely we'll find Abigail's son working for one of those manufacturers rather than as a weaver. Ready-made gowns, hats, undergarments…can you think of anything else that requires silk?"
"Silk flowers, waistcoat lining…" I absently stroked my thumb along the padded fabric covering the door as I thought—the silk covering. "Coach interiors."
I pulled out a notepad and pencil from my reticule and jotted down all the trades we could think of that required silk, but I didn't know where to begin looking for the factories that produced them. Many wouldn't even be made in London these days. Bristow might know.
We told the others of our discovery when we returned home. While Duke and Cyclops considered it a significant finding, Willie wasn't so sure. "Why does it matter that Abigail Pilcher is a magician?" she grumbled. "It don't mean she'll know what happened to Phineas Millroy."
"Or it may mean she sensed magic in the baby and knew he had to be cared for by people with a knowledge of magic," Matt countered. "She could have squirreled him out of the convent."
"It's worth finding her and asking," I said.
"S'pose," Willie grumbled into her chest.
"She's been like this all morning," Duke whispered to me. "Best to leave her alone or she'll bite your head off for talking."
Willie glared at him, as if she knew what he was saying even though she couldn't have heard from the other side of the drawing room.
"What did Father Antonio have to say about Miss Pilcher?" Cyclops asked. "Did he know who the father of the baby was?"
"I suspect so," I said with a glance at Matt. I didn't want to upset Cyclops with my suspicions. He was already disappointed to learn that the priest had lied to the police.
"He didn't say it, but I think he's the father," Matt said, obviously devoid of the same qualms. "What do you think, India?"
