by C. J. Archer
“What about members of the Toymaker’s Guild?” I asked. “Perhaps one of them learned he was a magician and became worried for their own business. If they suspected he used magic, they might kill him out of jealousy or fear.”
She picked up a small wooden horse in need of painting. “Do my husband’s toys seem special to you, Mrs. Glass?” She set the horse down. “His magic wasn’t strong enough to make the sort of pieces that would make another toymaker jealous. Besides, he didn’t use magic in many of his toys.”
“That’s not true. All of the toys I touched yesterday had magic in them.”
“Oh.” She looked down at her handkerchief, scrunched in her fist. “He told me he rarely used it.”
“Has anyone called on your husband lately?” Brockwell asked. “Anyone who wasn’t a regular customer or supplier?”
“You mean besides Mr. and Mrs. Glass?” She began to shake her head but stopped. “There was a gentleman last week who comes to mind. He was well dressed and arrived by a private conveyance which is why I remember his visit. He came into the shop and asked to see my husband. I directed him in here.”
“Do you know his name?”
She looked down at her handkerchief again. “My husband wouldn’t tell me when I inquired.”
Brockwell and I exchanged frowns. “Is it odd for him not to confide in you?” I asked gently.
“Somewhat.” She sniffed and dabbed at her nose.
The inspector removed his notepad and short pencil from his jacket pocket. “What did the gentleman look like?”
“Older, very large in girth but not height, with a long white moustache.”
Everything inside me tightened. It was Lord Coyle. That put a connection between him and Trentham before the collector’s club soiree.
Brockwell’s pencil paused before he continued taking notes. “Do you know what he spoke to your husband about?”
“No.” She blinked up at him. “Do you think it was him, Inspector? Do you think that man murdered my husband?”
“I don’t think anything yet, Mrs. Trentham.” He snapped the notebook closed. “Did your husband keep any private correspondence upstairs?”
“All of his work papers, including correspondence, are kept down here.” She indicated the desk in the corner where Duke had just finished going through the drawers. “He keeps nothing in our rooms, not even private letters. He has no family, you see, and no friends outside the guild. Inspector, that gentleman…”
“Yes?”
“There was something about him I didn’t like. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I got a feeling of dread when I looked into his eyes.”
Brockwell gave a curt, “Thank you,” then led the way outside. “Feelings are all well and good, but they’re not evidence,” he said to us.
There was no sign of Matt or Willie so we waited by the carriage for them. It was one of London’s typical wintry days with a sky of solid gray and a chill that made one want to hunker down by the fireplace with a good book. At least it wasn’t raining. Yet.
“Find anything?” Brockwell asked Duke.
Duke shook his head. “I went through the papers in the desk, but found nothing from Coyle. There were just unpaid bills, orders, and receipts.”
Brockwell turned to me. “Tell me more about Mirnov and the curse he is supposed to have put on Trentham.”
“Mirnov is another magician toymaker who sells his wares from a cart,” I said. “He seems to work in the poorer areas of the city. We visited him after Trentham blamed him for the theft. Mirnov’s late wife was Romany and it was she who cursed Trentham’s magic.”
“That’s why you were interested in the gypsy camp.”
“We think the Romany family in Mitcham Common is Mirnov’s wife’s family. He suggested as much and didn’t deny it when pressed.”
“Why have they stayed here through winter?” Duke asked.
Brockwell flipped up the collar of his coat as a freezing wind whipped along the street. “We should visit them and ask.”
Duke shivered. “I don’t like gypsies.”
“They’re ordinary people,” I told him. “They just live differently to us. There’s no need to fear them.”
“They curse their enemies!”
“We don’t know that. We don’t even know if curses are real.” Two figures emerged from a tobacconist two doors down. “Here come Matt and Willie. Let’s hope they discovered something.”
Going by Willie’s smug look, I suspected they had learned something of use. We all piled into the carriage with Duke and Brockwell sharing one seat while Matt, Willie and I squeezed together on the opposite side.
We had hardly settled when Willie, unable to remain silent any longer, blurted out, “A figure was seen leaving the premises last night.”
“Now that is intriguing.” Brockwell took out his notepad and pencil again. “Go on.”
Willie leaned forward to watch as he wrote. “The pharmacist’s son saw him when he came home.” She indicated the shop directly opposite. “According to the father, the son is a bit of a scoundrel, stays out late drinking and gambling. Anyway, when he came home last night at about one, he saw a man leaving the toy shop. He couldn’t see his face, but he reckons it was definitely a man.”
“Although we all know how deceptive clothing can be,” Matt pointed out.
“Aye, but we reckon the murderer was a man on account of the strength needed to strangle someone,” Duke said.
“Did he describe the man’s physique? His gait?” Brockwell asked.
“He was slim, so it ain’t Coyle,” Willie said. “Coyle wouldn’t do his own dirty work anyway.”
“Did he walk or get into a conveyance?” Brockwell asked.
“He was on foot.”
Brockwell wrote that down then glanced up, pencil hovering over the page. “Anything else?”
“One more thing,” Matt said, more to me than the inspector. “The figure leaving the toyshop last night wore a long coat.”
I drew in a breath. “Mirnov. He’s slim and wears a long coat.”
Brockwell resumed writing. “Then we’ll question him next. Glass, be so good as to inform your driver.”
Duke opened the door. “I’ll do it, and I’ll sit with Woodall. There ain’t no room in here. I’ve got to say, I’m glad we’re not going to the gypsy camp.”
Willie snorted. “You scared of gypsies, Duke?”
“I’m scared of their curses.”
She rolled her eyes.
Duke climbed out, but didn’t shut the door. He leaned against the doorframe, frowning. “Why did the killer strangle Trentham with his bare hands?”
“What do you mean?” Matt asked.
“The workshop didn’t look like much had been moved since the murder. There were toy parts all over the place, and tools too. Both a hammer and screwdriver were near where Trentham’s body was found. Why not just use either of them and bash him in the head? It would be easier than strangulation and over in an instant.”
It was a good point and one that I pondered on the drive to Brick Lane in Bethnal Green. I couldn’t come up with a conclusion, however.
We found Mr. Mirnov standing with his cart at the end of the street market, crouched in front of a group of wide-eyed children watching him perform a sleight-of-hand trick with a deck of cards. Three of them had cards stuck to their foreheads, as did Mr. Mirnov. When he accurately guessed the card on his forehead, the children squealed and applauded with delight.
Upon seeing us, Mr. Mirnov unfolded his long limbs and straightened. He directed the children to run off and find their parents. “What’s this? You have more questions?”
“We do,” Matt said. He introduced Brockwell, Duke and Willie.
“Detective?” He looked Brockwell up and down. “I’m not a thief! I told them that, but they don’t believe me because I’m half-Romany and have a foreign name.”
“This isn’t about the theft,” Brockwell said.
“And
it has nothing to do with your ancestry or culture and everything to do with your connection to Trentham,” Matt added.
“What has he said now?”
“Nothing. He’s dead.”
Mr. Mirnov went very still. “How did he die?”
“He was strangled by hand.”
He blinked. “Strangled!” He muttered something under his breath in what sounded like a foreign language. “That’s terrible. Are you here because you think I killed him?”
“We’re interviewing people who knew him and may have held a grudge against him,” Brockwell said. “My colleagues informed me that Mr. Trentham accused you of theft, and now he is dead.”
“I didn’t kill him! I don’t hold grudges.” He stabbed his chest with his finger. “He held a grudge against me.”
“Because he believed your wife cursed his magic. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And did she curse him?”
“She did, but if you’re asking me if curses are real and if it worked, I don’t know. The Romany believe they do, my wife believed she cursed him, but I can’t say for sure.”
“Where were you last night?”
“Home.” He gave an address in Shoreditch which Brockwell noted in his little book.
“Can anyone confirm you were there all night?”
“No.”
“Have you been to Mr. Trentham’s toy shop lately?”
“No. I have no reason to go there, just as I have no reason to kill him. Now, are you finished? I have to work.”
“In a moment,” Brockwell said in his most plodding voice. “Do you know why your wife’s family returned to Mitcham Common?”
Again, he went quite still before answering. “No. You’ll have to ask them. Do you think one of them is Trentham’s murderer?”
“Should we have reason to think that?”
He shook his head slowly. “No, but nothing about the Shaw family would surprise me. Be careful not to believe everything they tell you, Inspector. They’re liars, the lot of them.”
“Are they also thieves?” Matt asked.
Mr. Mirnov gave a harsh chuckle. “Yes, Mr. Glass, they’re thieves and very good ones. Perhaps one of them stole that spell.”
“What would they want with it?”
He threw his hands in the air. “I don’t know. Ask them.”
Beside me, Duke heaved a sigh. He knew where we were heading next and he didn’t like it.
Brockwell thanked Mr. Mirnov and closed his notebook. He walked off through the market with Duke and Willie flanking him. Matt remained behind and I waited too.
“Just one more question,” Matt said. “Do you know a gentleman by the name of Coyle?”
Mr. Mirnov shook his head. “No.”
We followed the others back to the carriage. Matt gave Woodall instructions to drive to Mitcham Common on the other side of the river. Thankfully the rain held off, but the grassland was too soggy for the carriage to traverse so we walked from the road across the common. It was quite a vast area with some sheep grazing in the distance, several ponds, and some small copses of trees. A plume of smoke signaled the location of the Shaw family.
A dog tied to a tree stump announced our arrival at the camp with a vicious bark and was immediately joined by two more. Three young boys kicking a small sack stopped and stared. The tallest settled his feet apart, crossed his arms and lifted his chin. His trouser legs were two inches too short and his jacket bore more patches than original fabric, but at least he wore shoes, unlike one of the smaller boys.
An elderly woman with steel-gray hair poking out from beneath a faded red scarf and a young girl seated by the campfire looked up from the cooking pots. The woman rose, adjusting her shawl, but her gaze was more curious than confrontational. Once it fell on me, it didn’t leave.
A man aged about thirty emerged from the tent, pitched beside the caravan. He wiped his hands on a rag and stopped by one of the dogs. He spoke quietly to it and the dog fell silent. The others soon followed suit.
“I don’t like this,” Duke murmured.
Willie hissed at him to be quiet.
We’d already decided in the carriage that Matt should do the talking, and we wouldn’t tell them Brockwell was with Scotland Yard unless it became necessary. The inspector had protested but been outvoted.
“Is this the Shaw family encampment?” Matt asked.
The man approached. Now that he was closer, I could make out the terrible scarring on his ear. Half of the lobe was missing, as if it had been bitten off. He continued to wipe his hands on the rag. Both rag and hands were filthy with grease and dirt.
“Who’re you?”
Matt introduced us all. “We have some questions about Nicholas Mirnov we hope the Shaw family can answer for us. Are you the Shaws?”
The man spat into the ground.
“We are the Shaws,” the woman said. “What do you want to know about that snake?”
“He was married to a member of your family, wasn’t he?”
“My daughter, Albina.”
Matt indicated the children. “Is this your entire family?”
The woman laughed a brittle, thin laugh that ended with a dry cough. “All of this just for us?” She indicated the caravan and tent. “Course not. The others are out working.”
“What sort of work do they do?”
“Stealing and fighting,” the man said with a crooked grin.
“Lancelot!” the woman snapped.
Lancelot’s grin turned bitter.
“He’s my son,” Mrs. Shaw said. “My other son is a tinker. My two daughters-in-law are out selling pegs, baskets, and odds and ends. My husband’s dead.”
“Does that meet with your approval?” Lancelot asked Matt in a mocking upper class accent.
“I don’t care what you do,” Matt told him.
“Unless it’s illegal,” Brockwell added. “You’re not a tinker, are you, Lancelot?”
Lancelot Shaw must be the name of the master thief Brockwell had identified. I wanted to kick him for inferring that he knew it with his tone. Willie shot him a glare, but Brockwell was too intent on the Romany man to notice. Lancelot’s grin widened.
“I want to know about a curse your daughter, Albina, might have placed on a toymaker by the name of Trentham,” Matt said.
The woman thrust a hand on her hip. A loose strand of hair fluttered across her face in the breeze and she swiped at it with her shoulder. “A curse, eh? What do you want to know about it?”
“You can start by telling us if they’re real or not.”
Lancelot tossed the rag over his shoulder and held out his palm. His mother merely smiled as she waited for us to pay him.
“Duke,” Matt said.
Duke didn’t move. He swallowed hard as he stared at the dog, sitting by its master.
Willie swore under her breath and dug into her pocket. She handed Lancelot a coin, patted the dog and stepped back next to me.
“Curses are real,” Mrs. Shaw said. “They work if done properly.”
“Did your daughter tell you about the curse she placed on Mr. Trentham?”
Lancelot put out his palm again.
Willie hesitated but when Mrs. Shaw didn’t respond, she handed over another coin.
“No, she didn’t tell me she cursed a man by that name. She tell you, Lancelot?”
“No, Ma.”
“Then why’d you take my money?” Willie asked.
“You want answers, you got to pay for them,” Lancelot said. “Even if the answer’s not what you want to hear.”
Her jaw firmed. “I don’t like it when someone takes advantage.”
“Then what’re you doing in a Romany camp?” Lancelot spread out his arms, indicating the site. “Don’t you know we take advantage of gorja?”
Willie pushed back her jacket to reveal the gun tucked into her waistband. The moment she did so, Mrs. Shaw whipped out a pistol from the folds of her skirt. All of the children, including th
e girl, suddenly held knives.
Duke swore. Matt moved to stand in front of me, and Brockwell put his hands up for calm.
Willie chuckled and let her jacket fall back into place. “You’re my kind of people. Ever played poker, Lancelot?”
“What’s that?”
“A card game from America. Maybe one day I’ll teach you.”
Duke groaned.
“Willie,” I hissed. “I know you want a new friend, but I suspect he’ll be a bad influence on you.”
“Maybe I’ll be a bad influence on him.”
“Lancelot is married,” Mrs. Shaw said with a scowl for Willie. “Both my sons are. If you want to learn about your future husband, come here and I’ll read your palm.”
Duke laughed. “She won’t get married. There you go, Willie, I just saved you a penny.”
“It costs more than that.” Mrs. Shaw’s thin-lipped smile stretched wide and her dark eyes sparkled. “Do you dare, Miss? Or are you afraid of what you’ll learn?”
Duke’s laughter died. He knew accusing Willie of being afraid was the best way to get her to do something. Mrs. Shaw had read Willie well.
“Why not?” Willie said. “Just don’t tell me when I die. I don’t want to know that.” She handed over another coin, this time to Mrs. Shaw, and put out her palm.
Mrs. Shaw squinted and bent to give Willie’s palm a close inspection. “You will not have children.”
“Thank God for that.”
“Amen,” Matt muttered.
I nudged him with my elbow.
“You will not return to your homeland,” Mrs. Shaw went on.
Willie pulled her hand free. “I damn well will.”
Mrs. Shaw grabbed Willie’s hand and held it tightly. “You paid for a full reading, so I must give you one or it will be bad luck for both of us.”
Willie sighed. “So what other nonsense you going to tell me?”
Mrs. Shaw smiled and released her hand. “You’ll marry twice. One of your husbands is standing here today.”
Willie stared at her. Then she burst out laughing. She laughed so hard she frightened the horse tied to the nearest tree and set one of the dogs barking. “You should have said one husband and I might have believed you.” She wiped the tears from her eyes, still chuckling. “Nope, not even then. Jasper knows it too, don’t you, Jasper?”
