The Ink Master's Silence

by C. J. Archer

  Chapter 3

  Oscar handed several pieces of paper to Matt and I got up to read them over his shoulder. The words were formed using cut out newsprint letters pasted onto the paper. The short, deadly messages were addressed to Oscar and urged him to cease writing the magic articles or he'd be forcefully stopped.

  "Crude," Matt said.

  "Unoriginal," Oscar said. "Touch the paper, India."

  I fingered a sheaf. "It's warm."

  Matt held one of the pieces of paper to the light coming through the window. "The quality is exceptional. It's light in weight yet feels thick. It doesn't let much light through."

  "Paper magic," Oscar said.

  "Do you know any paper magicians?" Matt asked.

  "No."

  "Did they arrive in envelopes?"

  Oscar shook his head. "Slipped under the office door. One has been delivered every night for five nights."

  Bristow brought in a tray and left again. I poured the tea and handed a cup to Oscar. "We are very sorry about Mr. Baggley," I said gently. "He seemed like a good man."

  He clasped the saucer in both hands and stared into the cup. "He was my mentor, my friend, colleague… I was closer to him than I am to my own family."

  Matt inspected the notes closely, turning them over, holding them to the light again, then spreading them out on the floor. "They have a pattern," he said, standing to get the best perspective. "The words are different but the sentence structure is the same. They were most likely written by the same person."

  "Every word is spelled correctly," I said, standing beside him, teacup in hand.

  "There are grammatical errors." Oscar pointed to the lack of a comma in two of the letters and the incorrect use of effect. "It should be 'Your irresponsible articles affect good people' not effect."

  "So we can eliminate a writer or editor," Matt said.

  "Unless the mistakes were deliberate to obscure his or her identity," I said.

  Oscar sighed and slumped into the chair. "Too many suspects."

  He was right. How could we narrow it down?

  "Has anyone threatened you to your face?" I asked. "Or put their name to a letter ordering you to stop?"

  "My brother, for one." Oscar's brother was an ink magician, like Oscar, and ran the family ink manufacturing business. It was enormously successful, and the family had grown quite wealthy, although Oscar preferred to make his own way in London, unaided by his brother. "Isaac made his point very clear."

  "Surely he didn't threaten you," I said.

  "Only to cut off my allowance, which I don't touch anyway. It all goes to our sister, who needs it more than me. Isaac threw her out five years ago when she chose a husband he didn't approve of."

  "Abercrombie is a suspect," Matt added. "We know he's against your articles."

  "He isn't the only guild master who made it clear I've been irresponsible," Oscar said. "A man known as Tucker, from the Carpenter's Guild, made a scene only two days ago. He had to be forcibly removed from the office after shouting all sorts of foul things."

  "What about the editor and writer from The City Review?" I asked. "Mr. Force has been writing a number of articles refuting yours with the assistance of Abercrombie."

  "True."

  "I wouldn't be so sure," Matt said. "The City Review's circulation has likely increased too as a result of the tit-for-tat. Mr. Force and his editor are probably privately pleased."

  "But The Review is a paper for businessmen," I said. "And businessmen want to protect their enterprises."

  "Their artless enterprises," Oscar added. He scooted forward on the sofa and wagged his finger. "What about the Review's owners? On the one hand, they may be pleased with the increased circulation, if it has indeed increased. But on the other, they're so desperate for me to stop, they're devoting several inches of their front page to refuting my claims. I think they should definitely be suspects."

  "It's quite a leap from owning a rival newspaper to killing someone," Matt said. "And why kill you if they're combatting your revelations through their own pieces?"

  "Frustration because it's not working? The average people believe me, Mr. Glass, not the conservative Review." Oscar drummed his fingers on his knee and nodded, over and over. He seemed to find it difficult to sit still. "Let me ask around. I'll find out who owns the paper."

  We had a number of suspects then, if Lord Coyle and his dinner guests were included. With such little evidence, it would be tough to narrow it down. "The problem with someone from the guilds or The City Review being a suspect is that this paper was made by a magician," I said. "It's very unlikely a guild master will be a magician."

  "It could be coincidence," Oscar said. "The killer could have unwittingly purchased the paper from a paper magician."

  "It's worth speaking to the Stationers’ Guild," Matt said. "A magician may belong to the company. We've seen it before."

  "The Stationers’ Guild is for printers and publishers," Oscar said. "Not paper manufacturers. I don't think they have their own company. There is a close relationship between the Stationers’ Guild and paper manufacturers, though. It's worth following up."

  "Is there anything more you can tell us?" I asked. "Anything at all?"

  "I don't think so." He lifted one shoulder and winced. It was his injured shoulder from when he'd been shot some weeks ago. It would seem someone had intended to shoot him again, and Baggley had been shot by mistake.

  "Do you often work late?" Matt asked.

  "Yes."

  "Is that common knowledge?"

  "The other staff know. My brother knows. I'm often the only one there at night."

  "What about Baggley?"

  "He rarely works as late as I do. He has a wife, whereas I have no one to go home to." He gave me a flat smile. "Yet another reason why I think I was the intended victim."

  "But you look nothing like Baggley," I said. "He's older and shorter. No one would confuse the two of you."

  "Unless the killer hadn't seen Barratt before," Matt said.

  "Even if he had, he could have made a mistake," Oscar said. "Mr. Baggley was seated, his back to the entrance, his head probably bowed over his work. I'd left him only moments before. Seeing only one man there, the killer assumed it was me."

  Matt got up again and paced around the messages spread on the floor. "It won't be hard to find out who manufactures the best quality paper in the city. We'll begin with the Stationers’ Guild."

  "This may not have come from a large factory," I said. "The person who wrote those messages wants to stop magic from being revealed to the world. Any magician who wants that will not be manufacturing a quality magical product at a prominent factory. They'll be hiding away." I hated to think that a magician was behind the threats to Oscar, and the murder, but we couldn't discount any possibility.

  "A number of magicians are scared now," Matt said, watching Oscar closely. "They've been safely in hiding, still producing good products, and now their secret is revealed, and possibly their identities, putting them in danger. No one can blame them for being scared of persecution."

  "They should band together and fight their persecutors," Oscar declared. "There is nothing to be gained from hiding. And anyway, they wouldn't want to kill me but rather the people persecuting them. The artless."

  Matt grunted. "Are you quite sure about that?"

  Oscar swallowed.

  "Well," I said quickly, "at least we have a direction, now. We'll try to find the source of this paper."

  "And I'll see who owns The City Review," Oscar added. "I still think it's a worthwhile avenue to follow, Glass, even if you don't." He stood and thanked us. "I'll get started today."

  "Wait," Matt said, as Oscar made to exit the drawing room. "Before we decide whether to take on this case, I want to ask you something."

  "We haven't decided to take it on?" I asked.

  Oscar frowned. "I thought we'd put our differences aside, Glass. Finding the killer is important to both of us, no matter if
you think I'm doing the right thing or not."

  "That may be true, but I want to know why you want our help. The police are working to find the killer. You should take these messages to Detective Inspector Brockwell and let him hunt for the author."

  "He's artless."

  "He believes in magic now," I said.

  "I'd still prefer to have a magician involved in the investigation. Your unique perspective will help find the killer." He suddenly leaned forward and clasped my hand. "I only want you to do this if you promise to be careful, India. If anything happened to you…" He went to lift my hand, perhaps to kiss it, but changed his mind and let go. He flicked a glance in Matt's direction.

  Matt scowled.

  "Will you investigate?" Oscar pressed.

  "Of course," I said.

  "Until and unless it becomes dangerous," Matt added.

  Oscar put out his hand. "I appreciate it, Glass."

  Matt shook his hand, and a moment of shared understanding seemed to pass between them, but I couldn't decipher it. "Be careful," Matt said. "If you were the intended victim, the killer may try again once he learns he got the wrong man."

  "Thank you for the warning. Fortunately, the office is crawling with police at the moment."

  After Oscar left, Matt suggested I join him in his study to discuss our investigation. "What do you think?" I asked as he shut the door. "Could the bullet have been meant for him and not Baggley? Oh!"

  He took me by the hand, and with another at my waist, waltzed me across the floor to his desk where he proceeded to kiss my neck.

  I giggled. "Matt, stop. This is most improper."

  "That's why I closed the door," he murmured against the sensitive flesh below my ear.

  I clasped his face between my hands and marveled at the smokiness of his gaze, the lazy set of his mouth. "If we're going to be improper, we might as well kiss thoroughly."

  He grinned. And then he pulled me even closer.

  I dug my hands through his hair and pressed against his body, relishing the hardness and masculinity, and wondering when I'd get to see it.

  That moment of thought opened a crack for the doubts to creep in. As far as some people were concerned, Matt was betrothed to another woman. While neither he nor I thought of him as Patience's intended, his family thought otherwise. Did that make this wrong? I wasn't sure, but it was difficult to dislodge that doubt.

  I broke the kiss and couldn't meet his gaze.

  "India," he purred. "I know what you're thinking." When I didn't look at him, he touched my chin. "Stop worrying about it. I will not marry her. I'm marrying you."

  "Yes, but…" I shook my head. We'd had this discussion too many times already. "Let's make a list of suspects."

  He sighed then sat at his desk. He wrote Lord Coyle's name at the top of the list, followed by the names of his dinner guests. Abercrombie came next, and we made a note that all guild members and masters were suspects. Matt added Mr. Gibbons at the bottom.

  "But he's an old man," I said.

  "He confronted Barratt at the Gazette's office. He might be angry enough to kill."

  Angry and sad. Mr. Gibbons had lost his grandson, a cartography magician, because of the jealous members of the Mapmaker's Guild. He wanted to keep magic a secret to stop others from facing similar retaliation. Members from both the magician and artless camps wanted Oscar silenced. It was a very large and tangled puzzle we needed to solve.

  "Write down Isaac Barratt," I said.

  "Surely Oscar's own brother wouldn't try to kill him," Matt said, dipping his pen in the ink.

  "Write it anyway." I leaned over his shoulder to watch, but he didn't write.

  He caught my arm and drew me down for another kiss. It was swifter but just as effective as the deeper kiss. This time he drew away first. He growled and looked down at the ink splotch on the paper.

  "This is hell," he muttered.

  I looped my arms around his neck from behind and kissed the top of his head. "I know," I said on a sigh. "I know."

  We visited the Stationers’ Hall in Ludgate Hill only to find the guild master was not in. The porter asked us to return the following day and made an appointment in the register. He was quite amenable. Clearly Mr. Abercrombie of the Watchmakers’ Guild hadn't warned every staff member of every guild hall about us.

  Matt dined at Lord Cox's gentleman's club that evening, so Miss Glass decided to have a light supper with me in her private sitting room. We chatted easily enough, although a tense undercurrent was never too far away anymore. I wasn't entirely sure if she felt it too or whether I was the only one aware of it. She carried most of the conversation and thankfully didn't mention Patience or weddings once. She did talk about Matt's obligations as the future baron of Rycroft, however.

  "That's why I'm so pleased he is dining out tonight at a club," she said, swirling her soup with a spoon. "He needs to make more contacts in London. That's how gentlemen get ahead, you know, by making friends with the right sort."

  I tried to tune her out, as I usually did, but this time I couldn't. Perhaps it was the frustration of my thwarted passion, or perhaps it was simply that I'd reached the end of my rope. Her snobbishness stretched my nerves so thin they were in danger of snapping.

  "Of course, I don't expect you to understand, India," she went on. "You're a lovely girl, but your family are from a different world to his. Your father had to rely only on his own skill, but Matt must make the right connections."

  I dropped my soup spoon into the near empty bowl. "Miss Glass," I said hotly, "I don't know whether you are implying that my father had no friends or Matt has no skills, but neither is true. What I do know is that you are yet again telling me that Matt and I are not suited, that I am beneath him. Again, neither is true. We are well suited, and I am not beneath anyone." I stood, pushing my chair back so hard that it almost toppled. "I may not be the sort of wife you would like Matt to have, but I happen to think I'd be a worthy choice. He must think so too, because he has asked me to marry him when he sorts out the debacle with Patience."

  Her lips pinched so hard they turned white. "That is hardly my fault. My brother is forcing them to marry, not me. I don't think they're suited very well either."

  "You would still rather he married someone who is not me. As long as you want that, we will be at odds." I shoved the chair forward. "I think it's time you found another companion."

  She patted the lace collar at her throat. "India, my dear, it wasn't my intention to upset you."

  "Well, you have."

  "Then I must apologize and beg your forgiveness."

  "I cannot forgive your prejudices. Not this time."

  I stormed off, determined not to glance back. I was afraid that if I did, I'd see a frail, lonely woman trying to make sense of the changes happening around her while clinging to her traditional values. She wanted a nephew who followed tradition, but Matt wasn't like that.

  I only hoped she would understand and accept it before she lost his love and respect. She was already well on the way to losing mine.

  My temper cooled enough to send her maid, Polly Picket, up to her room to keep her company. It hadn't cooled enough to sit quietly on my own in my room, however. I found Willie in her bedroom, getting ready for their evening out. She studied her reflection in the mirror then, with a pout, undid her necktie.

  "I need your help," I told her.

  "With what?" she asked, retying the tie.

  "With choosing an outfit for tonight."

  Her gaze met mine in the reflection. "Where're you going?"

  "To watch Cyclops and Duke fight. I need some entertainment to take my mind off…everything."

  She grinned. "I know exactly what you should wear."

  Willie had insisted I wear my dark gray-green day dress with its matching military style jacket and perky hat. It was more suited to an afternoon calling on friends, rather than a night at a disreputable tavern, and I'd questioned her reasoning.

  "That's why," Willie
said when we reached the back of the taproom.

  I'd been so busy making sure my hem didn't touch the sticky floor that I’d taken no notice of the other patrons. The taproom was crowded with drinkers, lining up at the polished bar, and all stools were occupied. Serving girls carried trays aloft, and they eyed us with as much curiosity as the men. I felt my face heat at the attention and kept close to Willie, Cyclops and Duke.

  "I don't understand," I whispered. "Why are they looking at us?"

  "You, not us," she said. "They think you're a toff, come to watch the fighting."

  "If I were a well-heeled lady, I'd be wearing jewels and a fine gown, not this simple day dress, as nice as it is."

  "You're a sensible well-heeled lady. You ain't stupid enough to flash your pretty rocks and invite light fingers. Trust me, India. If you want to fit in, you got to look like a tavern wench, a whore, or a lady who likes to ogle male flesh."

  What had I got myself into?

  "What about you?" I asked. "Why aren't you dressed like me? You're a woman too."

  Duke snorted as he opened a door for us. Willie thumped him in the stomach as she passed, but he only winked at her. "Got to hit harder than that," he said cheerfully. "I'm made of iron."

  "Aye, and up here too." She tapped her temple and skipped aside as he pretended to lunge at her. She fell against a barrel lined up with several others along a corridor. Duke let out a whoop of laughter, earning himself a scowl from Willie.

  A man as big as Cyclops stood at the top of a narrow stone staircase, guarding a door. A flickering candle in a wall nook by his head cast his left side in shadow and made the scars on his right stand out. He looked each of us over, raising a single brow upon seeing me. It was Cyclops he addressed, however.

  "You fighting?" he asked.

  "Me and my friend," Cyclops drawled.

  "You can't wear that." The guard nodded at Cyclops's eye patch. Cyclops merely nodded.

  The guard let us past then shut the door. The air became cooler as we followed the steps down to a cellar. Despite the barrels and crates pushed to one side of the large space, it felt like a tomb, with its low vaulted ceiling and stone walls and floor. I shivered and wished I'd brought a shawl.