by C. J. Archer
Nash squeezed between the wall and end of the desk and resumed his seat. He rested his clasped hands on the papers and smiled at me. “How can I help you?”
“Do you know any tin magicians?” I asked.
His smile slipped. “I’m afraid not.”
“Oh.”
“I know iron, copper and lead magicians. Will one of them do?”
“No. We’re investigating a murder and believe a tin magician may be able to answer some of our questions.”
“Murder!”
“A toymaker magician by the name of Trentham was killed in his workshop.”
“I read about it but had no idea he was a magician. How dreadful.”
“Mr. Trentham’s death may be related to magic, but we don’t know for sure.”
“Well, I’m very sorry I can’t be of more help.”
“What do you know about curses?” Matt asked. “Romany curses, to be specific.”
“Those are the only kind, as far as I am aware.” Professor Nash pointed to the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. “There’s a volume about the Romany on the top shelf. The small one with the red cover.”
Matt, the closest to the shelves, plucked off the book and opened it to the contents page. His finger scanned the lines until he found the chapter he needed. “It’s a short book.”
“So little is known about curses, and those who do know, the Romany families, don’t like writing down their knowledge.” He indicated the book. “You may borrow it if you like, but perhaps I can answer your questions now. Is there something specific you need to know?”
“Are curses real?” I asked.
He chuckled. “As real as magic.”
“Oscar Barratt says some believe curses are a branch of magic, but he personally doubted it.”
“Then he’s wrong. Historical research points to the likelihood the two were once one and separated at some point in the distant past.” He settled into the chair, and I suspected we were in for a history lesson. “Curses and most magic operate on the natural plane, not the manufactured one.”
“Time pieces and toys are manufactured.”
“Those are two exceptions. As a rule of thumb, if it’s created by a craftsman, or is a raw material that can be manipulated by a craftsman, magic can be used on it. Do you recall when I told you that horology magic is a relatively modern magic? Its rise coincided with the new science of horology which is merely hundreds of years old instead of the thousands of the other magics, like gold, for example. If you disregard those modern, manufactured magics, the other, older ones work on natural materials. Wood, clay, cloth fibers, minerals, that sort of thing. Do you follow?”
“So far,” I said. “So if curses and most magic work on natural materials, can curses only work on natural objects?”
Professor Nash looked pleased. “Precisely. In fact, they work on only one natural object. The body.”
“I don’t understand.”
Matt closed the book, giving Nash his full attention too. “Like medical magic?”
Professor Nash pointed a finger at Matt. “Correct. The theory is that curses and medical magic are linked. Perhaps one grew out of the other. Both curses and medical magic manipulate the body in some way, you see.”
Brockwell shook his head. “I’m confused. What if a Romany put a curse on someone to lose their key, for example, or to lose a wager? That’s nothing to do with bodies.”
Professor Nash chuckled. “That kind of curse is not real, Inspector. They’re the stuff of fairy tales and sensation novels. The only true curses, ones that actually work, operate on the human body. That’s why so many curses are about making the victim fall ill, or for their hair to fall out, their nose to grow warts, that sort of thing. All natural phenomena to do with the body, but helped along by a curse, so to speak.”
He tilted his head to the side, smiling, as he waited for one of us to speak. I remained silent as I tried to digest what it meant for our case.
“Does that help you?” the professor prompted.
Matt was the first to form his thoughts into words. “It has been suggested that a curse was placed on the victim by a Romany to diminish the effectiveness of his magic. By your reckoning, that should be possible because magic is also natural.”
“I suppose so, yes.” Professor Nash pushed his spectacles up his nose. “Magic is an extension of the magician’s natural makeup, as it were.” He indicated me. “Magic cannot be extracted from Mrs. Glass. It is a part of her as much as any organ within her body. It makes sense that a curse could manipulate her magic, just as it could give her an earache or warts.” He suddenly rifled through the papers on his desk until he found a blank one. He dipped a pen in the inkwell and began furiously writing. “This is an interesting development, and one that hasn’t been explored. Nobody has conducted research on curses affecting a magician’s magic.”
“Thank you, Professor,” I said, rising. “You’ve been very helpful.”
He continued writing, his spectacles slipping slowly down his nose as he bent over the paper. With a final flourish of the pen, he finally looked up and saw that we were leaving. He returned the pen to the inkstand and rose.
“I’m so pleased I could be of help.” He edged around the desk to see us out. “Keep the book as long as you need.”
“One more thing,” I said before we joined the others in the corridor. “Have you ever heard of magic being faulty?”
He frowned. “I don’t understand.”
I couldn’t think of any way to explain it except by using the real example of the automaton. “There is a toy in Mr. Trentham’s shop that has magic in it. It’s a wind-up toy and the magic was supposed to make the movements last longer after it’s wound. This particular toy still operates on occasion without anyone winding it up, however. Considering Mr. Trentham’s magic wasn’t very strong, and didn’t last long by all accounts, it shouldn’t do that, so we wondered if perhaps his magic is faulty.”
“Is it made of tin? Is this why you wanted to find a tin magician? You think it’s actually tin magic in the toy, not Trentham’s toymaker magic? You do know that a wind-up toy is made from several different metals, not just its outer shell, so only a toymaker magician’s magic can make it work.”
“Just answer the question, Professor,” Matt said.
Professor Nash pushed his spectacles up his nose. “I’ve never heard of faulty magic before. It either works or doesn’t.”
I put out my hand and he shook it. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
We walked off, but he followed us into the corridor. “Perhaps it was Mr. Trentham’s intention for this particular toy to operate that way, without being wound up. Perhaps the magic is working precisely as it should.”
Given that Mr. Trentham’s magic wasn’t particularly strong, I doubted it, and voiced my opinion once we were ensconced in the carriage and heading home.
“Mr. Mirnov’s magic is stronger, however,” I pointed out.
Brockwell agreed. “The magic in that automaton must be Mirnov’s. The question is, did he direct it to kill Trentham?”
Matt had been reading the book and he handed it to me with a gleam in his eyes. “According to this, Romany families have been intermarrying over the centuries, so any single magic lineage is almost impossible to trace.”
“And?” I prompted.
“And Mirnov told us he’s half-Romany on his mother’s side. If he inherited his magic from his mother, then toymaker magic probably exists within the wider Romany community, not just his mother’s family.”
“His wife’s family could be toymaker magicians too,” I said, nodding along. It was a good theory.
“One of the Shaws could have used their magic on the automaton to make it move,” Brockwell said. “But why? There is no good reason why they would kill Trentham. They don’t benefit from his death, except that it throws suspicion onto Mirnov.”
He was right. The theory was built on flimsy foundations. Matt knew it too. He
sighed and accepted the book when I returned it to him.
“Maybe we’ll have some ideas over lunch.” Brockwell rubbed his hands together. “Is Mrs. Potter cooking something special?”
The only idea we had over lunch was to visit Mr. Mirnov once again. He would not be happy to see us, and I suggested waiting for the market to close and speaking to him at the Rose and Crown instead. Cyclops, Duke and Willie insisted on coming with us and acting as bodyguards to Matt. I felt a little better knowing they were looking out for suspicions persons, but the dread never quite left me. The shooter had fired from a passing carriage, and if he did so again, their presence would not save Matt. He was as exposed now as he was when he was shot outside the toyshop. I just had to hope the gunman had been lucky last time and that his luck had run out.
We spotted Mirnov sitting in the same spot at the end of the counter as last time. But he was not alone.
“Well, well,” Matt said as he forged a path through the crowd.
Mr. Mirnov saw us first. He looked up and wrinkled his nose. Mrs. Trentham followed his gaze and gasped.
“What a surprise to see you here,” Matt said cheerfully. “I didn’t think you two knew each other.”
“We don’t,” she said. “But I had a business proposition for Mr. Mirnov. I found his home address in my husband’s papers, and Mr. Mirnov’s neighbor said I would find him here.”
Mr. Mirnov narrowed his gaze at her.
“I want to sell some of my stock, and I thought Mr. Mirnov might purchase it for a fair price. I don’t want to keep the shop, you see. The task is too much for me without my husband. I simply don’t have the skills to keep it going.”
Mr. Mirnov gave Matt a smug look. “You thought we were colluding about Trentham’s murder, didn’t you?”
Mrs. Trentham clasped her throat. “Good lord.” She eyed Mirnov warily, as if just realizing she could be speaking to her husband’s murderer. “Good day to you. I’ll leave you to think about my offer.”
She picked up her skirts and hurried off.
Mr. Mirnov chuckled into his tankard. “What do you want now, Inspector?”
“We have some questions about your family history,” Brockwell said.
“Go on.”
“Did you inherit your magic from your mother or father?”
“Father.”
Damnation. That dashed our theory to pieces.
“Do you know if your mother’s and father’s families were in any way related?”
Mr. Mirnov barked a laugh and pointed the cup at Brockwell. “That’s a disturbing thought, coming from a policeman.”
“It’s not unusual for Romany families to intermarry.”
“True, but my father’s family are not Romany. I told you that. Nor was he even born in this country. He and my mother were not distant cousins, as far as I’m aware.” He frowned at me. “Is this something to do with magic lineages? Are you trying to find out if there could be toymaker magic in the Shaws?” He nodded, answering his own question. “Interesting.”
“Do you think the Shaws have any magic?” Matt asked.
Mr. Mirnov shrugged. “If they do, they kept it from me.” He finished his ale and waved the empty tankard in Matt’s face.
Matt paid for another and we left.
“Now where?” I asked.
“Now we go home,” Matt said. “I’m at a loss as to what to do next.”
I was quite happy with that suggestion since it kept him off the street and out of danger.
We were sitting down for dinner when a constable arrived with an urgent message for Brockwell. Bristow brought him into the dining room. The constable must have run to the house because he puffed heavily and needed a moment before he could speak.
“The widow said you might be with the Glasses, sir,” he finally managed to say between breaths. “You must come quickly.”
“Where?” Brockwell asked, rising. “What widow?”
“Mrs. Trentham. We were called to her shop after a disturbance was reported. We have the culprit under arrest, sir, and await your instructions.”
Brockwell sighed with longing as Peter the footman brought in a platter of roast pork. “Very well. I’m coming. Who is the culprit? Do you have a name?”
“Well, sir, that’s the thing.” The constable shifted from foot to foot and chewed on his lip. “It’s real strange.”
“Just tell me!”
“The perpetrator is dressed in a medieval suit of armor.”
Chapter 10
The sight of police handcuffs around the wrists of the automaton made me giggle during what should have been a worrying time. Matt also looked as though he was attempting to suppress his smile as we picked our way across the floor littered with toys.
Brockwell, however, was taking the situation seriously. He lifted the knight’s visor, even though one of the constables said there was no one inside, and removed his notebook from his coat pocket.
“Can I take off the cuffs now, sir?” asked the constable. “The perpetrator fled before we arrived, but the widow insisted we leave them on the armor.”
Mrs. Trentham was sitting on a stool behind the counter, her hair down and a black woolen shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders. She must have been settling in for the night in her rooms upstairs.
“Keep them on for now,” Brockwell said.
“Yes, sir.” The constable gave his superior a dubious look. “I don’t know how he got out of that thing so quickly. It doesn’t look like it’d be easy to take on and off.”
“There must be a way.” Brockwell indicated the toys strewn around the shop. “Start setting the shop to rights as best you can.”
Duke helped the constables return fallen toys to tables while Willie and Cyclops remained near the door in their self-appointed role as Matt’s guardians.
The shop was a mess, and many of the toys were broken. Two display tables had been overturned and a shelf hung from the wall by a hinge. Mrs. Trentham was close to tears as the inspector forged a path through the mess toward her. Matt and I joined him.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked gently.
She shook her head. “No, thank you, Mrs. Glass.”
“Are you hurt?” Matt asked.
“No.”
Brockwell opened his notebook to a blank page. “Tell me what happened.”
She adjusted her shawl. “I was upstairs when I heard loud noises down here. Crashing, banging…it was terrible.”
“That must have been frightening,” I said.
“It was. I knew it couldn’t be a burglary. No burglar would make that much noise.” She indicated the door leading to the workshop and the stairs beyond that led up to her private rooms. “I opened the door a little to peek through. I was too scared to confront the intruder. But then I saw it was the automaton. I knew instantly that it was acting of its own accord.”
“What movements was it making?” Brockwell asked.
“Stepping this way and that without any clear sense of direction. If it bumped into a table, it would turn and head in a different direction. Sometimes it would spin around or flail its arms.”
“Do you think it was trying to get out?”
She shrugged.
“It’s mindless, Inspector,” Matt said.
He was right, but if a magician was operating it, then it likely had a purpose for moving. I didn’t want to point that out in front of Mrs. Trentham, however. It was probably best if she thought it was simply the automaton acting without aim and without a person controlling it.
“My husband’s magic is proving to be faulty,” she said.
We didn’t tell her that we’d learned there was no such thing as faulty magic. Once again, it was probably better for her to assume that was the case. If she suspected another magician was manipulating the automaton, she would be even more frightened than she already was.
“Did you see anyone else here?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Just the automaton, but it was q
uite dark.”
“What happened after you saw it acting wildly?” Brockwell asked.
“I ran out the back way, along the lane to the street. I shouted for help and two constables came running. They tried the front door, but it was locked, so we returned via the back way. By the time we arrived, it had calmed down considerably and was just sort of shuffling from foot to foot without going anywhere. One of them handcuffed it. When he opened the visor and saw no one was inside, I suggested they find you.” She blinked large watery eyes at the inspector. “I didn’t know who else they should speak to. I didn’t want to mention magic, you see, and since you seemed aware of magic…”
“You did very well, Mrs. Trentham,” Brockwell assured her.
“You will take it away, won’t you? I don’t want it here anymore.”
“Of course.” Brockwell flipped his notebook closed. “Thank you for your assistance.”
I touched her shoulder. “Will you be all right?”
She gave me a small smile. “Yes, thank you, Mrs. Glass. You’re very kind.”
“Glass,” Brockwell whispered to Matt as we moved away from the counter, “can you keep the automaton at your house?”
“No! I don’t want it anywhere near my family. What if it moves again?”
“Can’t you put it in an empty cell at the Yard?” I asked.
“This city is full of criminals,” Brockwell said. “We don’t have empty cells. Besides, even if we did put it an empty one, it would attract attention from the officers on duty. My superiors won’t want that.”
He was right. We didn’t want the police gossiping about the empty suit of armor occupying one of the cells. What if it moved again? “I have an idea,” I said. “We can keep it in the stables, handcuffed to something so it can’t create a scene like it did here.”
Brockwell grunted a humorless laugh. “Your coachman will like that.”
