by C. J. Archer
“We know that you’re a toymaker magician—a relative of Mr. Trentham’s, in fact.”
Her jaw firmed. At least she didn’t try to deny it.
“We know your marriage to him was arranged by Lord Coyle,” I went on. “We know you killed the first Mrs. Trentham so that her husband could be free to marry you. And when you learned he was infertile, you killed Mrs. Mirnov. Then, after a suitable length of time, you murdered Mr. Trentham using the spell you stole from Fabian Charbonneau on the automaton.”
She clutched her throat. It wasn’t the first time she’d done it, but it was the first time I’d realized she did whenever the strangulation of her husband was mentioned. Again, she didn’t try to deny it. That surprised me. I thought she’d blame Coyle. Indeed, she looked as though she were thinking.
“You killed two innocent women simply because they happened to be married to the men you wanted for yourself.”
The hand clutching her throat shook as it dropped to her side. “This is absurd. I haven’t killed anyone.” The hysteria in her voice was replaced with steeliness. “What evidence do you have?”
Brockwell didn’t answer. Instead, he asked a question of his own. “You initially told us that you saw Lord Coyle mere days before your husband’s death then changed it to weeks. Why?”
The sudden focus on Coyle made her blink in surprise. “I made a mistake.”
“Or were you trying to implicate him in the murder at the beginning of our investigation?”
A look of dread came over her. “No!”
“Is it not the case of one murderer turning on the other?”
“No,” she whispered through white lips.
Brockwell pressed on. “We know Coyle witnessed your marriage to Trentham. Did he arrange it?”
She turned huge eyes onto me. “Mrs. Glass, please.”
“Just answer him,” I snapped. I was tired of being lied to. She had manipulated me, just as she had manipulated her late husband.
She backed up to a table and gripped its edge. She gave a small nod. “I’ve known Lord Coyle for years. He approached my parents when I was fifteen with the suggestion that he arrange my marriage to another toymaker magician. He told them it was for the benefit of magic, strengthening the lineage and ensuring we had magician children. My parents refused, saying I was too young. I never forgot him or his offer, however. So when I was ready to marry, I sought him out. My parents had died by that time, and as their only child, I wanted to continue my father’s lineage.”
When she fell into silence, I filled it. “So you found Lord Coyle and asked him to arrange your marriage, only to learn that the man—your distant cousin—had married in the meantime.”
She nodded. “I was disappointed. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted magician children. Lord Coyle told me to be patient.”
“Why?” Brockwell asked. “Did he promise Mr. Trentham would become available for you?”
“He promised nothing of the sort. It was a simple letter with a simple message; be patient. So I waited. Then a year later, Coyle wrote to me again saying that Mr. Trentham’s wife had died and would I like to meet him.”
“He killed Mrs. Trentham?”
“I don’t know. But I assure you, I didn’t.”
Brockwell and I exchanged glances. “Go on.”
“We married in a small ceremony with Lord Coyle present.”
“Did your husband know you are a magician?” I asked.
“Of course. I told him why I was marrying him, and he thought it was as good a reason as any to marry again. We both hoped for children. When they didn’t arrive, I went to see a specialist. At first he let me think I was to blame. It didn’t occur to me that my husband could be the reason until I thought on it some more. When the doctor confirmed that my husband was most likely the infertile one, since he didn’t have children by his first wife, I became upset.”
“By this time you’d learned of another toymaker magician, right here in London,” Brockwell said.
“Yes, I knew of Mr. Mirnov, but I didn’t kill my husband so that I could marry his business rival.”
Brockwell was having none of it. “You went to Coyle and suggested you should be married to Mirnov instead of Trentham, and asked him to remove your husband to free you to marry Mirnov.”
“No. Lord Coyle wasn’t even aware of Mr. Mirnov’s existence until very recently. Let me assure you, Inspector, I didn’t approach Coyle to kill my husband.”
Why wasn’t she implicating Coyle? We were leading her to do so, and yet she did not, even though it could save her.
“What about Mrs. Mirnov?” Brockwell asked. “Did you kill her?”
She focused on the floor. “No.”
“I suggest you killed Mrs. Mirnov, so that her husband would be widowed, then you waited for an appropriate time and killed your husband.”
“After stealing my moving spell and using it on the automaton,” I added.
Her chin wobbled, but she managed to shake her head.
“You flirted with Mirnov in the meantime so he would be open to a marriage between you when the time came,” I went on. “You were desperate for magician children, so you committed murder for your dream to come true.”
“Please, you must believe me, I didn’t kill anyone!”
“Did Coyle ask you to steal the spell for him?” Brockwell asked.
She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.
“But he told you about it, didn’t he?”
Her eyes sprang open. They were filled with tears. “Yes. He told me when I touched the carpet for him. The fake carpet you sold him, Mrs. Glass. There was no magic in it.” She gave me a small but triumphant smile. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
“It was you we saw leaving Coyle’s house.” I recalled the woman driving away in a cab, her face hidden from view. It must have been Mrs. Trentham, leaving after testing the fake carpet for Coyle.
“How did you break into Fabian’s house unnoticed?”
“The window latch was loose and snapped off without much effort. I climbed through the window easily enough. The desk drawer presented more of a problem, but I have some experience opening that type of lock without a key. I learned to pick the locks on my father’s desk when I was growing up, for something to do.”
“Where is the spell now?”
She hesitated before placing her fingers down her bodice. Duke stepped forward to grab her wrist if necessary, but she merely pulled out a piece of paper and passed it to me. The handwriting was neither mine nor Fabian’s.
“This is a copy,” I said. “Where’s the original?”
“I lost it.”
“Did you give it to Coyle?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“That is hardly my problem, is it?” she spat.
I rubbed my temple. This was going nowhere. She wasn’t going to implicate Coyle, no matter how much we pressed. Nor had she confessed to the murders.
That was because she hadn’t done them. The automaton’s hands had wrapped around Mr. Trentham’s throat, not hers. It was a distinction that didn’t matter to me.
“Your magic was stronger than your husband’s, wasn’t it?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Tell us about using the stolen spell on the automaton,” I said.
Her gaze met mine. Her eyes were swimming with unshed tears, but her jaw was set hard. “I wanted to see if Lord Coyle was correct and the spell would work for a magician using it on their own craft, so I spoke it into the automaton. It proved to be very strong and unpredictable.”
“In what way?”
“I tried to direct it with my mind, but I couldn’t. It would turn around and around, or move without reason. It smashed some toys. I couldn’t control it.” Her voice grew louder in her desperation for us to believe her innocent. “I could sense that my magic wasn’t strong enough to direct it. It was like it was pulling me in a direction I didn’t want to go. I tried to rein it
in, Mrs. Glass. I truly did. But it took over from me altogether. It strangled my husband. The automaton killed him, not me.”
“Are you saying it strangled him of its own accord?” Brockwell asked.
I glanced sharply at him. He sounded like he believed her—or wanted to. I did not.
“That’s right,” she said on a rush of breath. “I tried to stop it, but couldn’t. It ran off after my husband stopped breathing.”
“How did it get out of the shop when the door was locked?”
“The door wasn’t locked. It simply turned the handle and ran outside. It must have finally run out of magic in the laneway where it was found the next day.”
“Why didn’t you tell us any of this earlier?” Brockwell asked.
“Would you have believed me?” She folded her arms. “You would have thought I directed it to murder him. Mrs. Glass thinks that now.”
I lifted my chin.
“But it’s all true,” she said. “You saw how the automaton acts without warning. It scared your friend. And do you think I would have directed it to smash up the shop?” She indicated the toys on the tables. “It almost destroyed everything.”
“What about Coyle?” Duke asked.
She seemed surprised that he had anything to say at all. “What about him?”
“Did he kill Mrs. Trentham and Mrs. Mirnov?”
“Do you think a man like that confides in me?”
“Did he tell you how to kill your husband with the stolen spell so that you would appear innocent?”
“I stole the spell of my accord then lost it after making a copy. It was my idea to use it on the automaton, and mine alone. I didn’t direct the automaton to kill my husband. The magic was too strong for me to control it properly. If you want to blame me for something, blame me for that. But aside from telling me about the spell, Lord Coyle had nothing to do with my husband’s death.”
“Damn it, Mrs. Trentham. We’re giving you an opportunity to pin all of this on someone else.”
“Duke,” the inspector snapped.
Duke rounded on him, his hands curled into fists at his sides. “Tell her a judge will be lenient on her if she implicates Coyle. Tell her, Brockwell!”
“A judge?” Mrs. Trentham wailed. “But I’m innocent. You can’t arrest me.”
Brockwell sighed. “I have to take you to the Yard for further questioning.”
“Will I be charged with my husband’s murder?”
Brockwell looked uncertain how to answer. I suspected he couldn’t yet give one. Whether Mrs. Trentham was charged with murder or not might be a decision for Brockwell’s superiors. The idea of a murderous magical automaton might be less palatable to the authorities than the hanging of a widow.
“Just come with me to the Yard.”
“But I didn’t do it! The automaton did.”
When she didn’t move, Duke grabbed her arm. “Are you keeping Coyle’s name out of this because you’re afraid of him?” he asked.
“Duke,” Brockwell growled. “That’s enough. Take her to the carriage. India, may I use it to transport Mrs. Trentham to Scotland Yard?”
“Yes, of course,” I said as Duke marched her out of the toyshop. “Send Woodall and Duke home when she’s safely locked away.”
“You won’t stay? It shouldn’t be a long wait.”
“No.”
He eyed me carefully. “You are going straight home, aren’t you?”
“Where else would I go, Inspector?”
Brockwell seemed to have made up his mind that Mrs. Trentham was innocent. Even Duke assumed she had done it under the direction of Coyle. I was in two minds. I wasn’t convinced she couldn’t control the automaton using my spell. But I also suspected Coyle had more to do with it than she let on.
I doubted Brockwell would get her to confess to directing the automaton to murder Mr. Trentham using my spell. I also doubted he would confront Coyle. He wouldn’t see the point, considering Coyle would simply deny it then speak to Brockwell’s superiors and have the investigation stopped.
So I would have to confront him myself.
I sat with Hope in the drawing room while the footman fetched Lord Coyle. The footman returned without him, however, and asked me to call on his lordship in his study. It was an unusual request considering I was an unaccompanied woman.
Hope bristled. “Why?”
The footman said nothing. Indeed, he pretended not to have heard her.
I followed him out, glancing over my shoulder as I exited the drawing room. Hope sat in the middle of the sofa, her slender frame erect, her chin lifted. She looked very much like someone trying to hold herself together. But whether she was trying to suppress anger or hurt, I wasn’t sure.
Lord Coyle did not look up upon my entry. “Sit, Mrs. Glass.”
I sat and waited for him to finish writing. It gave me a moment to gather my wits, although I’d had the entire hansom cab journey from the toyshop to think about what I wanted to say to this man. I watched him writing, his head bent to the task, his bulk hulking over the desk. I should be afraid of him. I was in his house, surrounded by people who would do his bidding, and I hadn’t informed anyone where I was going.
But I wasn’t afraid. Lord Coyle might want to kill Matt, but Matt wasn’t here. It was just me, and Lord Coyle liked having me alive. I was the most powerful magician of his acquaintance, and that would keep me safe until a more powerful one appeared.
I had to believe that or I would be a trembling mess.
He finally put down his pen. “Have you come to sell me another fake magical object?”
“I’ve just come from Trentham’s toyshop. Detective Inspector Brockwell has taken Mrs. Trentham in for questioning over the murder of her husband.”
The chair creaked as he sat back. “Is that so? And what does that have to do with you being here?”
“She admitted that you told her about my spell.”
“So?”
“We know that you killed Mr. Trentham’s first wife so that he could remarry.”
“Is that what she told you?” When I didn’t answer, he added, “I didn’t kill her. I don’t know who did, but it sounds like the inspector has the murderer in custody.”
“You introduced the Trenthams and even witnessed their marriage.”
“That part is true. But I can assure you, I’ve killed nobody for her. It’s most likely she acted alone. I’ve long thought her mad.” He reached for his pipe and a box of matches. “She was desperate for children. Not just any children—magical ones. I suspected she killed the first Mrs. Trentham, of course, but the police never came knocking on my door, so I didn’t offer my help.”
“What about Mrs. Mirnov?”
“I’ve never met her or her husband.”
“You were seen at his place of residence.”
He puffed three times on the pipe. Smoke billowed then thinned and drifted away. “Mrs. Trentham’s a liar. She sent me to Mirnov’s house so I’d be seen there, making a false connection between us to fool the police. She also lied to the police about seeing me at the toyshop days before her husband’s death.”
“She later changed her statement about the timing. Why?”
He removed the pipe from his mouth and pointed it at me. “You would have to ask her that, Mrs. Glass.” He plugged the pipe back into the corner of his mouth. “The fact is, I am a convenient scapegoat for her.”
“Except she’s not using you as a scapegoat.” I leaned forward. “What have you said to her? What have you threatened her with if she talks?”
He merely continued to puff on the pipe.
“Clearly she tried to implicate you early in the investigation,” I pushed on. “When we told you that, did you send her a message saying she must retract her statement? Did you threaten her if she dragged your name into it?”
“You’re seeing things that aren’t there, Mrs. Glass.”
I steeled myself against his insults. This conversation would not be over until I want
ed it to be.
Deep creases formed at the corners of his eyes. “You’re lost in these interrogations without your husband, aren’t you?”
“Pardon?”
“He would have worked it out by now.”
“Worked what out?”
“Why I had nothing to do with the deaths of Mr. Trentham, his first wife, or Mrs. Mirnov. Let me help you, since I don’t want to wait for you to discover it yourself.” He removed the pipe, licked his lips, and plugged it back in. I wanted to shove it down his throat. “While there’s no doubt I am interested in the future of magic, I am more interested in its present. Specifically, the power my magical collection, contacts and knowledge gives me now. That has always been the case, and I think you know that. What happens in the next generation is not much of a concern to me, although I do hate to see a good magical lineage die out. That’s why I initially approached Mrs. Trentham’s family when she was young. It was a disappointment that they refused to marry her off, but that’s all. Just a disappointment.”
“What about Mr. Hendry?”
“What about him?”
“You helped him avoid conviction when he was accused of murder so that he’d owe you, and now he is married. Mr. Hendry was not interested in marriage. You forced him.”
“Perhaps he changed and decided it was a good idea. Some men like him do, you know. A wife is a convenience to avoid suspicion.”
I knew from Willie that a man of Mr. Hendry’s inclination did not simply change, although having a wife would certainly make him more respectable in the eyes of the world. “You forced him so that he would have magician children. I assume his wife is also a magician.”
He tapped the end of the pipe on the table to loosen the tobacco before putting it back in his mouth. “If I were so greatly concerned with the continuation of magical lines, to the point of committing murder to make sure two magicians married one another, wouldn’t I have killed more artless spouses of magicians before now? I know dozens upon dozens of magicians, many of them married to artless.” He pointed the pipe at me. “Including you, Mrs. Glass.”
This was my opening. This was my moment to accuse him of shooting Matt.
But I was no longer sure. Coyle made a good point. He did know many magicians married to artless. Why kill for Mrs. Trentham but not the others?
