by C. J. Archer
I picked up the card. Doctor Shelby, it read in bold lettering. In smaller type underneath it listed his specialties as Women’s Complaints, Hysteria, and Fertility.
I pocketed the card and was about to look through the dressing table again when Duke whistled. I picked up my skirts and raced downstairs. I pushed open the workshop door just as Mrs. Trentham entered through the front door. Hopefully she assumed I’d just paid a visit to the outhouse.
“I’ll take those upstairs for you,” I said, accepting a paper bag from her.
Mrs. Trentham insisted on coming with me and together we made sandwiches in the kitchen. I didn’t want to look suspicious so we stayed for another hour after lunch then left. I directed Woodall to drive to Scotland Yard instead of home, however.
“But we have nothing to report to Brockwell,” Duke said as we drove off.
“I’m not so certain.” I showed him the card and told him about the appointments.
“How is this relevant?”
“It might not be, but I want to speak to the doctor and to do that, we need Brockwell. A doctor won’t talk about a patient to us but he might to the police. If nothing else, it gives us a clearer picture of Mrs. Trentham’s state. If she has a terminal illness, it might explain why she killed the man she didn’t love to be with the man she does.”
Duke didn’t look convinced. Nor did the inspector when I explained my theory to him.
“We have nothing else to go on at this point,” I said, my exasperation coming through in my tone. “Shouldn’t we at least learn why she had two appointments with this doctor?”
“They were months before her husband’s murder,” Duke pointed out.
Brockwell pushed back his chair, scraping the legs on the floor. “I don’t think it will help, but I’ll talk to him.”
“We’ll talk to him,” I said. “Your presence will make the interview official and mine will ease his mind when you insist he hand over all her records.”
“How will it ease his mind?”
“He’s a doctor of women’s complaints and I am a woman.”
Brockwell and Duke exchanged glances.
I plucked my reticule off the desk and stood. “I’m joining you in that interview whether you like it or not, Inspector. Come along.”
Doctor Shelby’s clinic was located in a row house in an upper class neighborhood. The bronze plaque on the wall beside the door merely stated his name. It did not mention his specialty as the card had. His patients wanted discretion and privacy.
The patient in the waiting room turned scarlet upon seeing the inspector then dipped her head low.
“May I help you?” asked the female assistant sitting behind a desk.
“I’m Detective Inspector Brockwell and this is Mrs. Glass, my associate. We need to speak with Doctor Shelby.”
She pointed at the chairs. “You’ll have to wait.”
We waited and when the adjoining door opened and a woman emerged, we stood. I apologized to the waiting patient and assured her we wouldn’t be long, then followed Brockwell through. The room was sparsely furnished with a metal framed bed to one side, a desk and two chairs. Aside from a filing cabinet and a shelf of books, the room was empty. There weren’t even pictures on the white walls, and the lack of a fireplace meant the air was cold. I shivered and clutched my coat closed at my throat.
Doctor Shelby was a small man of late middle age with thin hair on his head and wiry gray hair on his chin. He peered closely at the inspector through his spectacles.
Brockwell introduced us and stated our business in his direct, matter-of-fact way.
Doctor Shelby flatly refused to comply with his request. “I can’t hand over patient records to the police! I must maintain my integrity.”
“I’m ordering you,” Brockwell said.
Doctor Shelby squared his shoulders. “Don’t you need paperwork for that sort of thing?”
“And I will get it if you continue to resist, but time is of the essence. Our murder investigation hinges on what’s contained in Mrs. Trentham’s file.”
Doctor Shelby was unmoved. “I’m sorry but my files are confidential. Unless a judge orders me to hand over her records, I’m going to respectfully refuse.”
Brockwell scratched his sideburns. He looked at a loss. I suspected identifying himself as a policeman and mentioning murder usually got results. Doctor Shelby was an ethical fellow and I felt somewhat awful for what I was about to say to force his hand. But it was necessary.
“Obtaining permission will mean your assistant and waiting patients will learn that their information has been rifled through by the detective and a number of constables. Unfortunately, everyone knows constables aren’t all that discreet. If we do it now, it will just be the two of us. As a woman, I would find that less intrusive. Having constables know my intimate business would be humiliating and make me less likely to return here.”
Doctor Shelby paled. “Would constables need to be involved?”
“No if you let us view Mrs. Trentham’s file now.”
“That’s blackmail.”
“I prefer to call it common sense.”
He removed his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. After a heavy sigh and a shake of his head, he returned them. “If she is a murderess, I suppose it’s my duty to let you look at her file.”
“Not a murderess, merely an accomplice,” Brockwell said. “Do you remember her?”
“A little. I saw her husband’s name in the papers, but her appointments were some time ago and I don’t recall the particulars of her situation.” He opened a cabinet and flipped through the files. “Here it is.” Now that he’d decided to help, he no longer seemed angry. He opened the file and started reading. “Good lord, now I remember. She asked me a rather odd question. It was easy enough to answer, but unusual.”
He handed the file to Brockwell. We read it together. Mrs. Trentham had come to Doctor Shelby’s clinic looking for a treatment for infertility. She had asked if there was a medical reason why she had not conceived after years of marriage. The doctor had inspected her and declared he could not find one. He had informed her that it’s not unusual to never discover a reason, and that she and her husband should keep trying.
“How was she after the first consultation?” I asked.
“Deeply upset,” he said. “No woman likes to hear there is no cure for infertility. I discussed the, er, process with her to make sure she and Mr. Trentham were doing it correctly. You would be surprised at how often ignorance is the cause. But there were no issues there.”
Brockwell, who’d continued to read, tapped his finger on a sentence in the report. “It says here she asked about consanguinity and its effect on infertility. What’s that?”
“Blood relations. In essence, she was asking me if the kinship between her and Mr. Trentham could be a cause of their inability to conceive.”
“Kinship?” I echoed. “You mean they’re related?”
“Yes, but I can’t recall how distantly. It wasn’t close.”
I tried to think back to my conversations with Mr. Trentham about his magic and whether he’d inherited it from his mother or father. “Can you recall on which side they’re related?”
“I didn’t ask.”
Brockwell and I exchanged glances. He closed the file, but I’d caught sight of something further down the page.
I took it off him and read the doctor’s report of the second appointment. Mrs. Trentham had returned to ask Doctor Shelby if her husband could be the reason they hadn’t conceived, not her. The notes said that she informed him that Mr. Trentham had been married before and since there was no child born from the marriage, could he be the infertile one.
“Tell me about the second appointment,” I said, handing the file back to Brockwell to read.
“I didn’t expect to see her again, so I was surprised when she returned,” Doctor Shelby said. “She informed me of her husband’s previous marriage and lack of children, and asked if that
meant he was infertile, not her. I told her that was most likely the case. She got very irate with me for not telling her that could have been the reason during her first consultation, but I pointed out that she hadn’t asked me about her husband, just herself.”
“So you let her believe the problem lay with her?” I bit off. Too often, men let women take the blame for things that were not their fault. In the case of childlessness, the woman always bore the brunt of blame, from society as well as their own families. A doctor ought to know better and give a full explanation for peace of mind, if nothing else.
Doctor Shelby snatched the file off Brockwell. “I suggested they should keep trying and if that doesn’t bear fruit there’s adoption. She didn’t appear to be listening, however.”
“Probably because she was still reeling from discovering her husband was infertile.” Or perhaps she was already plotting his murder.
I exchanged a glance with Brockwell. He gave me a small nod. He was thinking the same thing—Mrs. Trentham had motive. Considering she could also be a toymaker magician, she also had the means to manipulate the automaton.
Forget Mirnov—Mrs. Trentham had just become our primary suspect.
Chapter 11
“We can’t arrest her yet,” Brockwell said as we sat in the carriage outside the doctor’s clinic.
We were debating where to go next. Duke agreed with me that we should at least question Mrs. Trentham about what we’d learned, but Brockwell wanted more evidence.
“We need to find out if she is a toymaker magician,” Brockwell said. “Then our case against her will be tighter, and we’ll have more leverage to get a confession from her. You think Trentham’s magic came from his father, India?”
“I recall him saying as much at his lecture.”
“Then we just need to prove she is related to him on his father’s side. May I give your coachman instructions?”
“Go ahead.”
He opened the window and directed Woodall to the General Register Office in Somerset House on the Strand. I felt a little guilty for continuing this far into the investigation without Matt. We always did this sort of thing together. But I comforted myself with the knowledge that he was safely at home with Willie protecting him.
I was very glad to be undertaking this part of the investigation with Brockwell, however. The presence of a Scotland Yard detective had been invaluable with Doctor Shelby and proved to be again at the Register Office. Requests to look at birth, death or marriage certificates were usually added to a long queue, but the administrative staff fetched Mrs. Trentham’s records immediately.
The marriage certificate told us everything we needed to know. Her maiden name was the same as her married name, which meant husband and wife were indeed related on the magical paternal side. An amendment had been attached to the certificate with details of their kinship. According to the family tree, they shared the same great grandparents.
Mrs. Trentham was most likely a toymaker magician too.
That meant she could manipulate the automaton from afar by using my new moving spell. She could have made it strangle her husband.
“Do you think they married just so they could have magician children?” Duke asked.
“I’m almost certain of it,” I murmured as my eye settled on something on the marriage certificate. I gasped, not quite believing it. “My god. Look at this.”
Duke and Brockwell leaned in. “Coyle!” Duke cried.
Brockwell took the certificate from me. “Why was Lord Coyle at their wedding?”
“He didn’t just attend the Trenthams’ wedding, he was the witness.” I smiled to myself. He’d made a rare mistake. This was proof that he’d lied about knowing Mrs. Trentham.
“But why?” Brockwell asked again. “Did he arrange it?”
“Possibly,” Duke said.
“I think it’s very likely,” I said. “He probably introduced them in the hope they’d marry and have toymaker magician children.” My heart beat faster as another thought occurred to me. “Inspector, can you ask the staff to fetch the marriage certificate for Mr. Trentham’s first marriage?”
Brockwell rose. “You think Coyle organized that one too?”
“I’m not sure, but I also want to see the first Mrs. Trentham’s death certificate.”
“Ah.” He buttoned up his jacket. “Now I follow.”
Duke watched him approach the desk where the clerk was busily filling out forms. “Do you think Brockwell has the power to arrest Coyle if we prove he murdered the first Mrs. Trentham?”
“Probably not, but I don’t think we’ll find proof, anyway. It’ll only be conjecture. Coyle certainly won’t admit to it, even if we confront him. But it might be enough to let him know that we know, and perhaps that’ll make him think twice about doing it again in the future.”
Duke dragged a hand over his mouth and chin. “India,” he said quietly. He sat forward, but his gaze didn’t lift to mine. “If he’s capable of murdering a woman to clear the path for her husband to marry a magician and have magician children, then he could be behind the shooting of Matt for the same reason.” His gaze locked with mine. “To make you a widow.”
The blood rushed to my toes. I felt light-headed, unbalanced. I clutched the edge of the desk to steady myself and Duke, realizing, clasped my elbow.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
I breathed deeply to suppress the well of emotions filling me. “I’m glad you did. If we’re going to keep Matt safe, we need to know what we’re up against. Who we’re up against.” I took his hand and squeezed. “He won’t succeed, Duke. I promise you. I won’t let him.”
It was some time before the clerk brought us the two new documents. Lord Coyle’s name was not on the marriage certificate.
“This is interesting.” Brockwell showed us the death certificate. “The first Mrs. Trentham died just a few months before her husband remarried. That’s not a very long period of mourning.”
“What did she die of?” Duke asked.
“It says ‘Unknown’. Unfortunately it’s very common for the doctor to have no idea what caused a death. It makes murder investigations somewhat difficult.”
The picture was becoming clearer. Mrs. Trentham or Coyle—or both—had killed Mr. Trentham’s first wife so that he would be free to marry a toymaker magician and beget magician children. But when there were no offspring forthcoming, they struck again, this time killing Mr. Trentham so that his widow would be free to marry Mirnov, another toymaker magician and also recently widowed.
It was getting worse and worse. “I suspect the Shaws are partly right,” I murmured. “Albina’s death was suspicious, but she wasn’t killed by her husband. She was killed by Mrs. Trentham or Coyle so that Mrs. Trentham could marry Mr. Mirnov.”
Brockwell sat up straight and gave a small pump of his fist. It was the most animated I’d ever seen him. “We need to see Albina Mirnov’s death certificate.”
“Why?” Duke asked. “We know she died of heart failure.”
“Because if Mrs. Mirnov’s death occurred around the same time the current Mrs. Trentham discovered her husband was infertile, it points to the likelihood that Mrs. Trentham murdered her because she wanted to marry Mr. Mirnov and bear his children.”
We’d gone from one death to three in a matter of hours, and all for the sake of bearing magician children.
It seemed to take an age for the clerk to fetch the death certificate. My mind was reeling now, joining all the pieces of the puzzle together. Matt was going to be shocked at our progress. He would be pleased that we had found evidence of Coyle’s involvement, but he would insist on confronting the earl.
Coyle should be confronted, but I wasn’t so sure if Matt was the right person to do it.
“I wonder if Mr. Trentham knew he was being manipulated by his second wife and Coyle,” Brockwell said as we waited for the clerk to fetch the document.
“He didn’t seem like he knew,” I
pointed out. “He spoke to Coyle after the lecture at Louisa’s house, and I didn’t detect any animosity.”
The clerk arrived with the death certificate and our theory gathered momentum. Mrs. Mirnov died two days after Mrs. Trentham’s second appointment with Doctor Shelby; two days after she discovered her husband was infertile and couldn’t give her the magician children she desired.
Or was it a case of the magician children Lord Coyle desired her to have?
With Duke there to assist him, Brockwell decided to arrest Mrs. Trentham immediately rather than return to the Yard to fetch constables. Duke was very pleased with the idea, and so was I. The longer we delayed, the more opportunity she had to leave the city.
We found her at home above the toyshop. When she smiled at me, a pang of guilt twisted my gut. I’d liked her. Even when I thought her an accomplice of Mirnov’s, I’d liked her.
But she was not the woman I thought she was, manipulated by a man she was in love with. She was a cold-hearted killer. Whether she’d killed three people or Coyle had arranged it, it didn’t matter. She was complicit and just as guilty.
“Thank you again for your help clearing up the mess,” Mrs. Trentham said. “It’s much appreciated and, as you can see, the shop is back as it was now. I can reopen tomorrow.”
Brockwell cleared his throat. “Mrs. Trentham, you are under arrest for the murders of Mrs. Clara Trentham, Mr. Trentham, and Mrs. Mirnov.”
Her face paled. She blinked rapidly at Brockwell then turned to me. “Wh—what is this? What’s going on? I haven’t murdered anybody.”
“I’ll take you to Scotland Yard shortly, but I’d like to ask you some questions first.” Brockwell was doing this here for my benefit.
I would have smiled my thanks but he wasn’t looking at me, and I didn’t have the heart to smile.
“Mrs. Glass, I don’t understand! Why does the inspector think I murdered my husband and those other people?”
“We know about your husband’s infertility,” I said.
She swallowed. “How?”
