by C. J. Archer
"As will we." I rose and put out my hand. "Thank you, Inspector. Willie and I will report back after we've spoken to Mr. Hendry."
He came around to my side of the desk and shook my hand. "I look forward to it." He grasped Willie's hand next, even though she hadn't offered it. "Very much."
Chapter 5
Matt refused to return home while Willie and I spoke to Mr. Hendry. He wanted to wait nearby, in case we needed him.
"Why would we need you?" Willie asked.
"He can make weapons from paper with the utterance of a spell," Matt reminded her.
"And India's watch will save her."
"We don't know that," I said. "Besides, if it does work, it will save me, not you."
The carriage deposited us around the corner from Hendry's Smithfield shop. The shop was empty but the thump thump of machinery from the workshop at the back told us where to find him. I pushed open the door and cleared my throat, but he couldn't hear me over the hammer pounding the pulp. I stepped up to him and waved my hand in front of his face.
He emitted a squeak, quickly followed by a scold. "It's rude to sneak up on a fellow, Miss Steele." The machine slowed to a halt as he rose. Despite the warm room, he looked as well dressed as ever in a gray and red striped waistcoat with a tie in the same hue of red. Not a single hair was out of place, even though he'd been leaning over his work. The thick steely locks remained swept off his high forehead—a forehead creased in a frown. "What do you want now?"
"It's rude to speak like that to a lady," Willie shot back. "’Specially one who cleared your name of murder."
Mr. Hendry had the decency to look sheepish. "You're right. I apologize. Welcome. Please step into my shop."
We returned to the shop where displays of paper, card stock, invitations and books were set out on the counter top and in glass cabinets. It was a small space but he didn't require anything larger. He rarely sold pre-made wares, preferring to make his wares to order according to his loyal customers' requirements.
He remained behind the counter and pulled out a ledger. "Are you here to order invitations? I read about your engagement. Congratulations."
"We don't need invitations," I said. "It'll be an intimate affair, and everyone we wish to be there has been personally informed."
From the look on his face, one would think I'd just told him I drowned a litter of kittens. "But…but…every wedding requires invitations. Even one hastily put together."
"It ain't like that," Willie said hotly. "They just want to get married straight away on account of all the fuss lately with his cousin."
"Of course, of course." He slid a piece of paper across the counter and handed me a pencil. "Write the details down, as well as the number required, and I'll have something made up. My regular calligrapher owes me a favor and will put the order through straight away."
"I don't know," I said.
"It'll be very elegant, very sophisticated." He pushed the pencil and paper closer to me.
Willie took the pencil and wrote the details down. "Send the account to Matt at the delivery address. Now, we want to ask you something."
He sighed. "Go on then."
"A man by the name of Emmett Cocker was murdered," I began. "He was an American sharpshooter in the Buffalo Bill show. Did you know him?"
"I don't know every murder victim in London, you know." He picked up the paper and read what Willie had written.
"He was a paper magician."
He lowered the paper. "Oh. Now I see why you're here."
"Are you sure you don't know him?" Willie asked.
He gave her a withering glare. "Of course I'm sure."
I wished I'd torn the article from the newspaper to show him Emmett's picture. "He didn't seek you out?"
"Why would he? It's not widely known that I'm a magician."
"He might have been aware of your existence," I said. "Perhaps through family stories. It's likely you came from different branches of the same magical lineage."
"That is a possibility. There are stories of some members of the family settling in America more than a hundred years ago. He could be one of their descendants, but I can't help you with any details. I'm sorry. Now, do you mind?" He waved the paper. "I have work to do."
"One more question. If you wanted to cheat at cards, could you use a spell to do so?"
"A spell to identify them only to the magician?" He shook his head. "I don't know any spells like that."
"But if you did know one…?"
"I told you, I don't."
I thanked him for his time and we left the shop. "Do you think he's lying?" I asked.
"He started getting hot under the collar when you pressed him about the spell," Willie said. "And he seemed to remember about the American branch of his family late, and not until after you mentioned it."
"Perhaps he'd forgotten."
"I don't like perhapses."
"Nor do I."
Cyclops was sitting on the driver's seat when we returned, chatting to the coachman, while Matt stood on the pavement, leaning against the carriage door, his ankles and arms crossed. It was a relaxed, confident stance and one that epitomized all the good things about him now his health had been restored. I couldn't help smiling.
"It seems you were successful," he said, smiling back.
"Not in the least. I just like looking at you."
Willie groaned. "Save me before I drown in the syrup, Cyclops."
Cyclops jumped down and joined us. "So what did he say about Emmett?"
"He never met him," Willie said. "Emmett never visited, so he claims."
"You don't believe him?"
"We're not sure," I said. "He admitted to having long lost family in America, and assumes Emmett belonged to that branch. That's all the information he offered. We both picked up an air of evasiveness, however."
Matt surveyed the street, lined with small shops and workshops operated by craftsmen of different persuasions. How many magicians took refuge behind their small operations? How many practiced their art in secret, like Mr. Hendry, or hid it altogether, like Mr. Gibbons the cartography magician? Very few turned their magical craft into a large scale operation like Isaac Barratt, the ink magician. People like Isaac would be the first to be brought down if the artless took a stand against their magical rivals, but these smaller craftsmen would be victimized too.
"We could ask the neighbors if they saw Emmett enter the shop," Matt said. "He wore distinctive clothes and had a distinctive accent so it's not quite as bad as searching for a needle in a haystack."
"Distinctive moustache too," Willie added.
"We'll ask around," Cyclops said. "Duke, Willie and me."
"After I report to Brockwell," Willie said. "No need for you to come, India. There weren't much to report anyway."
"It's settled then," I said. "What will we do, Matt?"
"Speak to Sir Charles Whittaker. I want to find out why he was there at the pub that night, what he knows about Emmett, and what the so-called Collectors' Club knows."
"What if he won't tell us anything?" I asked. "He pretended not to be at the bare knuckle fights."
Matt’s lips simply curled into a curious smile that made me glad he wasn't about to interrogate me.
We returned home with Cyclops in tow but not Willie. We found Duke playing cards with Miss Glass in the sitting room, a plate of sandwiches on the side table next to them. Duke waved a sandwich at us in greeting, his mouth too full to speak. Miss Glass didn't look up from her cards.
"Can you beat that?" she asked, showing Duke her cards.
He sighed but did no not reveal his in return.
I tried to sneak a peek over his shoulder, but he placed the cards on top of the deck and shuffled them. Miss Glass added her winnings to her sizeable pile. I wondered if Duke would let her win with a pair of eights if they were playing for something more valuable than matchsticks.
"Where's Willie?" Duke asked, his sandwich finished.
"Speaking wit
h Detective Inspector Brockwell," Cyclops said, taking a sandwich.
Duke snatched the plate away. "Ask Bristow for your own."
"He's bringing more," Matt said.
"Aren't you on a diet?" Duke asked Cyclops.
"I ain't stopping eating altogether," Cyclops said.
"You don't need to be on a diet, Cyclops dear," Miss Glass said. "You're perfect the way you are."
"Thank you."
"Miss Mason says so. I overheard her telling India once."
I couldn't remember Catherine saying it quite so baldly, but the gist was the same.
Cyclops looked as though he wanted to walk out of the room but changed his mind when Bristow entered carrying three more plates piled with sandwiches cut into triangles.
"Eat up," Cyclops told Duke. "We've got work to do when Willie returns."
Miss Glass made a face of protest. "If you're going to discuss murder, I'm leaving. It's quite an unsavory discussion for a lady." She rose and waited, but when I didn't rise too, she left, sighing so loudly and repeatedly I could hear her all the way to the staircase.
"What have you been doing this morning, Duke?" I asked, taking a sandwich.
"I went to hospital to visit a certain nurse."
"You did?"
He smiled around his sandwich.
"Willie'll kill you if she finds out," Cyclops said. "Make sure I'm here when you do."
"She won't kill me because she won't find out," Duke said. "I'm not going to tell her and neither are any of you."
"So?" I prompted. "Tell us how it went."
"She won't change her mind about Willie. That's definite."
"That is a shame. Did you list all her fine qualities?"
"She knows Willie's qualities, fine and otherwise. She didn't want to talk to me at first, when I told her who I was. But I gave her no choice."
Cyclops's eye widened. "You kidnapped her?"
"No! I dogged her every step."
"Right." Cyclops shoved a sandwich into his mouth with a shrug.
"She says she can't be with Willie," Duke went on. "She can't be with any woman. She's got a fiancé, a good man she doesn't want to hurt. She's got no brothers and sisters and says her parents will disown her if she doesn't marry."
"Willie would take care of her financially," I said. "And she has her work as a nurse."
"It's not just that, India. She loves her parents. She doesn't want to hurt them or cut herself off from them, not for something she described as a 'fleeting fancy.'"
"Oh."
"She ain't willing to give up her life and loved ones to indulge a passing whim. Them's also her words."
We sat in silence, eating and thinking. For my part, I tried to put myself in the nurse's shoes. I considered whether love was something I would give up everything for. I rather suspected it was. I'd been prepared to give up my life in England to be with Matt. But I had to admit that our situation was different. As difficult as our relationship had been, it wasn't taboo. Nor did either of us consider it a passing whim.
"It weren't a wasted trip altogether," Duke said. "I got to see what the nurse was like, to see what sort of person Willie would want."
"And?" I prompted. "What was she like?"
"Capable, efficient. She's respected by the other nurses."
Cyclops grunted. "She sounds like a laugh."
"He has a point," I said. "Those are all excellent traits in a nurse, but what of her character? Was she lively? Or reserved?"
Duke shrugged. "I didn't speak to her for long. She didn't like my questions."
"She stormed off, didn't she?" Matt asked, amused. "You do have a way with women, Duke."
"Most of what I learned about her came from the other nurses," Duke admitted.
I touched his hand. "You tried, and that's the main thing. You're a good friend, Duke."
"Yes, ma'am, I am."
Willie returned just as the rest of us were preparing to leave again. She regarded each of us in turn in the entrance hall, hats or gloves in hand, and told us we had no patience.
"You were gone an age," Duke said, slapping his hat on his head. "We waited a long time, but we can't wait all day."
"I had to wait for a hansom. And Jasper was busy when I got there."
"Jasper?" Matt and I both asked.
"Jasper Brockwell. You two been working with him all this time and didn't know his first name?" She clicked her tongue. "Wait for me. I'll be back down in three swishes of a bronco's tail."
We all stared after her as she took the stairs two at a time.
"Japser," Matt said, his tone somewhere between amused and bemused. "I would never have guessed."
Sir Charles Whittaker was not at home but his housekeeper expected him back mid-afternoon. Instead of returning home, Matt and I stopped for ices on Oxford Street and afterward he insisted we browse for home wares.
"Why?" I asked, as he steered me into Mortlock's china shop. "The house is fully furnished. It has everything we need."
"But does it have everything you like? It was furnished by my father, years ago, in his bachelor days. Not only is it masculine but some of the furnishings are dated. I thought you might like to put your own touch on it."
"I hadn't thought of that. I'm used to it the way it is." I'd never considered changing a thing.
"It's your home, India," he said quietly. "Change whatever you want." He leaned closer as the shop assistant made her way toward us. "Money is no object and you don't have to buy anything here," Matt whispered. "But don't tell her that."
We spent some time looking at dinner sets, vases and other knick knacks in Mortlock's then wandered along Oxford Street, entering shops that sold soft furnishings and other such items. We even perused furniture catalogues. We settled on a dinner set we both liked and had it sent home, but I needed more time for the larger purchases.
"I'll ask your aunt for her help," I said as we left a draper's shop. "And perhaps Willie."
"Or you could look through some magazines."
"You really don't want me to seek their input, do you?"
"I want my fiancée to retain her sanity."
We returned to Sir Charles's house, and his housekeeper was in the process of telling us he hadn't yet returned when a hansom pulled up at the curb and deposited him outside.
"What a delightful surprise," Sir Charles said in his rich plummy accent. I'd originally thought him a wealthy man, judging by the accent and his well-tailored suits, but Hammersmith wasn't the best address in London, although it was far from the worst. "Come inside, out of this heat."
He asked his housekeeper to bring tea and led us into the sitting room. Like the man himself, the room was neat and furnished in a simple style, not at all cluttered as some homes could be. He quickly gathered the magazines scattered across two occasional tables but not before I noticed they were a mix of catalogues and magazines about horses and carriages.
"How can I help you?" he asked, settling on the chair, leaving the sofa for Matt and me.
"We want to know what you were doing at The Prince of Wales the other night," Matt said.
Whittaker's lower lip protruded as he thought, then he shook his head. "I don't recall being there. What night was it?"
"Don't play games," Matt said, matching Whittaker's idle tone. "We know you were there. We also know you were at the bare knuckle fights, yet you claim not to have been."
"Unless you have an identical twin, you were there," I said. "At both venues."
A look of resignation came over Whittaker's face. "You're right. I was there at the fights, and also at the pub. So?"
"Are you following me?" I asked.
"Of course not. Why would I?"
"To report my activities to Lord Coyle and the other members of the club." It had been a nagging thought that I couldn't shake, but now that I'd said it out loud, it sounded somewhat ridiculous. "I don't know."
"You lied to us about the fights," Matt said. "You must see that it makes you look suspic
ious."
The housekeeper brought in a tray with tea things and cake. We waited until she finished pouring before resuming the conversation. I think Whittaker was glad to have the time to think of what to say.
"I didn't like admitting I was at the fights because it's not the most seemly of pastimes," he said.
"You were ashamed?" Matt asked. "Of watching bare knuckle fights? Sir Charles, we were there as well. Our friends participated. Why would you be ashamed to admit your presence to us?"
"Your friends fought? I didn't know that." He sipped his tea. "Who knows why I said what I did? You caught me, and all I could think to do was deny it."
"And what about The Prince of Wales pub?" I asked.
He set his cup down on the saucer. "That's a different matter. I had heard about Emmett Cocker's talent for cards and thought it suspicious that he continued to win, time and time again. So I watched him to decide for myself if he used magic. Rest assured, I wasn't following you, Miss Steele. I know what you're capable of. I don't know what Emmett Cocker is—was—capable of."
"You heard that he was good at cards and came to the conclusion that he was a magician?" Matt scoffed. "Come now, you don't expect us to believe that, do you?"
Whittaker lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug. "It's the truth. I suspected he might be a paper magician."
Matt contemplated his sponge cake but didn't eat any. I thought it was rather delicious and ate a whole slice as I considered what to make of Whittaker's claim.
"In your time of watching Cocker, did he visit Melville Hendry?" Matt asked.
"I don't know."
Matt smiled. "I think you meant to say that you didn't see him visit Hendry."
Whittaker smiled back. "I couldn't watch Cocker all the time. He may have visited Hendry when I wasn't looking. I'm just one man, Mr. Glass."
"Yet the club contains many."
Whittaker sipped.
Matt set down his cake uneaten and stood. "Thank you for the tea, Sir Charles."
"You're very welcome. Stop by any time, Miss Steele." He took my hand and patted it. "Always a pleasure."
Matt strode to the door and waited for me to exit ahead of him. "I don't like him," he muttered as he assisted me into the carriage. "He's lying."
