The Prisoner's Key: Glass and Steele, #8

by C. J. Archer

  We fell into silence. Matt massaged my foot, but I could tell his mind wasn't on the task. He stared into the unlit fireplace, his brow furrowed. Like me, he was grappling with the information, and the similarity between Mrs. McGuire and my mother's cousin.

  "I might be quite wrong," I said. "Mrs. McGuire might be trying to hide the documents from us because she knows they'll implicate her or someone she wants to protect. She mentioned not wanting to betray someone."

  "There's only one way to know for certain. We have to get those documents before she destroys them."

  "If she hasn't already. How will we get them?"

  I knew from his face that I wouldn't like his answer. And that meant only one thing.

  "No. No, Matt. I forbid it. We're not breaking into her house."

  "We are not breaking in. I am, alone."

  I crossed my arms and withdrew my foot. "No."

  "Last time you entered a house with me, you almost got caught," he said. "I won't risk it a second time."

  "That's not what I meant. I mean you cannot break into the home of a widow who is showing signs of nervousness. It could shatter her nerves completely if she came upon you."

  "Then we'll just have to make sure she doesn't come upon me."

  With Cyclops watching Chronos, Matt took Duke with him to Mrs. McGuire's residence. Willie and I watched on from the carriage parked up the street as the two of them knocked on her door. Dressed in working clothes and armed with a copy of the Public Health Act 1875 and a box full of tools, they eventually talked their way inside. No doubt Matt used his charm to full effect to explain to Mrs. McGuire that there'd been reports of a strange smell emanating from her house and she had to vacate while they investigated. I expected her to refuse, but she dutifully stood on the pavement while Matt and Duke entered.

  Willie and I were present in case Mrs. McGuire got tired of waiting, but we weren't needed. Twelve minutes after talking their way in, they emerged and spoke to Mrs. McGuire. She returned inside, closed the door, and was none the wiser. We drove off and met them around the corner where they climbed in alongside us.

  "I reckon I could be a real sanitary inspector," Duke said. "Ain't nothing to it. You don't even need to fix the problem, just report on it."

  "What did you tell her before you left?" I asked.

  "That it must have been a false report." Matt opened the tool box on his lap. "We gave her house a clean bill of health." He pulled out a ledger book and handed it to me. "Once we located McGuire's office, it was easy to find this. He kept everything in here, the names and addresses of the men who owed him money, the principal and interest, repayments, everything."

  I flipped open the book and scanned the first few pages then flipped to the last entry. Fabian's name appeared in entries dated the previous three weeks, but not before. I didn't recognize any of the other names.

  "Is he owed any unusually large amounts?" Matt asked.

  I returned to the front of the book where each loan had been summarized. "Not particularly, although this entry has an asterisk next to the name and is for the largest amount."

  "Maybe the asterisk is because it's a large amount," Willie said. "Let me see." She took the book and checked the details. "Mr. Hubert Stanhope, partner in the Ingles Vinegar Company, South Lambeth."

  "That's an industrial area on the other side of the river," I said. "Ingles is a vinegar manufacturer."

  "The vinegar business can't be good if Stanhope has to borrow money," Duke said.

  "They manufacture cordials and wine too," I said. "I didn't realize the business was suffering, although they're certainly not the only vinegar manufacturer in London."

  "I've seen Ingles' embossed bottles in the pub," Willie said.

  Matt took the ledger back. "I assume that loan is a personal one to Mr. Hubert Stanhope. McGuire wasn't a big money lender and wouldn't be loaning funds to large scale manufacturers." He returned the ledger to the tool box. "Tomorrow we'll pay a visit to Mr. Stanhope at his place of business."

  "What about Brockwell?" I asked.

  "After our visit, we'll hand the ledger over to Scotland Yard with any other information we gather. I'm sure Mr. Stanhope will respond better to our questions than the inspector's."

  We found Mr. Stanhope in the company's utilitarian brown brick building fronting South Lambeth Road. The staff working in the office wore suits and carried pencils. They studied ledgers or documents on the desks before them, and they peered at Matt and me above their spectacles as we passed. I caught a glimpse through the windows of a garden courtyard surrounded by more brown brick buildings, the tallest of which was topped by a water tank. Horses pulled carts laden with barrels or crates, and steam billowed from an engine used to pump water from a well. Out there was where the business of making vinegar, cordials and wine happened. This office building was for the managers and accountants, the sales representatives and myriad other staff needed to run a medium sized manufacturing business.

  We were shown into a large room with an equally large desk and a tall bookshelf, neatly stacked with the ledgers to the left and other books to the right. A quick glance over the spines revealed they were mostly accounting books, and were organized alphabetically by author. Several paintings of the same set of buildings depicted from different angles hung on two of the walls, while a window on the third wall overlooked the courtyard.

  The man behind the desk closed the enormous ledger he'd been inspecting, removed his spectacles, and rose. "My assistant tells me you're private inquiry agents," Mr. Stanhope said, "but he didn't say what you're inquiring about."

  According to the assistant who'd escorted us, Mr. Stanhope was the company's chief accountant as well as business partner to Mr. Ingles. Like the office, he was neatly presented with just the right amount of cuff showing, a collar that was neither too high nor too pointed, and a gray tie of the same shade as his suit. He was balding, a little portly but not fat, and exactly how I expected a chief accountant to look.

  "My name is Matthew Glass, and this is my wife, India," Matt said. "We're investigating the murder of Mr. Douglas McGuire. You knew him."

  Mr. Stanhope's face froze, the welcoming smile still in place.

  "Do you mind if we sit?" Matt asked. "We just have a few questions. It won't take long."

  Mr. Stanhope's features thawed. He stroked his beard then his tie before sitting heavily. He nodded and indicated we should occupy the chairs opposite.

  "I read about his death in the newspaper," he said. "His murder, I should say. I expected this call, although I thought the police would come. Who do you work for again?"

  "We're assisting the police on a consultative basis," Matt said. "Scotland Yard employs us from time to time with particular cases."

  "Particular cases?" he echoed.

  "Cases requiring a certain line of inquiry."

  "I don't understand."

  It took me a moment to realize what Matt was trying to say. He wanted to lead Mr. Stanhope to the conclusion that we helped the police in cases involving magic, but he was being far too subtle. Mr. Stanhope merely looked confused. Unless we told him directly, he wouldn't grasp Matt's meaning, and I wasn't sure we should bring up the subject of magic with a man who may not believe in it.

  "What my husband means to say is that the police call on us when a woman's touch is required," I said.

  "And this case requires a woman's touch?" Mr. Stanhope asked.

  "Yes."

  "I see."

  "I'm glad you do. Please tell us how you know the victim."

  Mr. Stanhope clasped his hands over the ledger and stared at them. "This is rather awkward."

  "Why?" I asked gently.

  "I suspect you know why and it's the reason you're here." His knuckles turned white. "I owe Mr. McGuire a great deal of money."

  "What for?" Matt asked. "The business seems prosperous, and as partner, you will enjoy the profits as well as a good wage."

  "You are correct in all things, Mr. Glass
." Mr. Stanhope's shoulders rounded and he rubbed his forehead. "The loan was for personal reasons. Reasons I'd rather no one know about."

  "If you don't tell us, Detective Inspector Brockwell will come instead, and his methods of extracting information are not as gentlemanly as mine," Matt said.

  I eyed him sideways and hoped Brockwell never heard himself described that way. On the other hand, he might be flattered or amused.

  "Very well, but…it's rather humiliating."

  "Would you like me to leave the room?" I asked.

  "No, no, that's not necessary." He flattened his tie. "I like horse racing a little too much. The money I borrowed from Mr. McGuire was to repay a gambling debt. There. Now you know my secret."

  "Thank you for telling us."

  "What I don't understand is, why am I a suspect in the murder? The debt is still outstanding, but instead of owing Mr. McGuire, I now owe his heirs. His death doesn't dissolve my debt, merely transplants it, so to speak."

  "You didn't sign a clause stating otherwise?" Matt asked.

  "No, and I can prove it." He unlocked the bottom drawer of his desk and rifled through papers before handing one to Matt. "The law requires all debts be repaid to the lender's estate upon his death."

  Matt scanned the document then handed it to me. It was a contract for a loan between Mr. McGuire and Mr. Stanhope. There were no special clauses to the effect the debt would be dissolved under any circumstances, let alone McGuire's death.

  "Do you know why Mr. McGuire would put an asterisk beside your name in his ledger?" Matt asked.

  Mr. Stanhope frowned. "No."

  "Do you know Mr. Fabian Charbonneau?" I asked.

  "Who?"

  "A Frenchman."

  "I've never heard of him."

  "We just have one more question, Mr. Stanhope," Matt said. "Where were you on the night Mr. McGuire died?"

  "I left here at about nine and went straight home like I always do. I was there all night. My wife will tell you."

  "Nine seems rather late to be leaving the office."

  "I have a lot of work to do." He indicated the ledger. "Ask Ernest."

  "Ernest?"

  "Ernest Ingles," Mr. Stanhope said, as if we should know. "My business partner and manager of the company. You'll probably find him in the brew house at this time of day, but he comes in here to discuss the company's financials in the early evenings."

  Mr. Stanhope walked us out, escorting us to the front door. Matt asked him questions about making vinegar and associated products, and by the time we reached the exit, I knew how to brew vinegar, wine and cordial, and that Ingles was thinking of expanding into producing gas.

  "It sounds complex," Matt said jovially.

  "Only at first," Mr. Stanhope said. "The process hasn't changed for centuries, only the equipment has become more sophisticated."

  "Does the process of making vinegar involve a particular skill?"

  Mr. Stanhope gave him a blank look. "We employ chemists, of course, and engineers to oversee the engines and specialized equipment, but otherwise our staff mostly consist of unskilled labor."

  "Does your equipment ever break down?"

  "Of course, but fortunately not too often. If it did, we'd have to invest in new equipment, and as the company accountant, it's my job to keep such costs down." He smiled. "You seem uncommonly interested in the business, Mr. Glass. You don't work for a rival company, I hope."

  "I can assure you, I don't." Matt shook his hand. "Thank you for your honesty, Mr. Stanhope."

  We exited the building but instead of returning to the carriage, we followed a cart along the lane to the courtyard. The smell of vinegar became stronger and irritated my nose and eyes. Matt handed me his handkerchief.

  Two workers loading barrels onto a cart directed us to the building where thick smoke billowed from large chimney stacks. The sounds of machinery grew louder the closer we got, and the odor became more intense.

  "Do you want to wait outside?" Matt asked.

  I shook my head and handed back his handkerchief. "I'm growing used to it."

  Inside, the heat enveloped me, and the pungent smell had me reaching for Matt's handkerchief again. I blinked watery eyes and searched for someone who looked like he owned the factory. There weren't as many workers as I expected to see, but that could have been because the area was filled with several enormous vats. There was nothing for workers to do except wait for the process to complete. Each vat was connected to copper pipes that disappeared into the ceiling. The whirring, thumping and grinding sounds of machinery came from up there.

  Matt asked a workman to direct us to Mr. Ingles, but the man insisted we wait while he fetched him, and he instructed us not to touch a thing as some of the equipment was hot. I didn't dare check to see if any held magical heat. Considering the warmth of the room, I doubted I'd be able to discern the different type of heats anyway.

  A few minutes later, a man dressed in a waistcoat with his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows trotted down the stairs. He was about the same age as Mr. Stanhope, but where Stanhope was all orderly neatness, this man looked rather wild with his unkempt hair, long stringy beard, and crooked teeth. He greeted us with a cheerful if uncertain smile.

  "You were looking for me?" he asked.

  "Your partner, Mr. Stanhope, said we'd find you here," Matt said, raising his voice so it could be clearly heard over the machines. "I'm Matthew Glass, and this is my wife, India. May we speak to you somewhere quieter?"

  "Of course, of course. I expect Mrs. Glass would prefer to get away from the smell, too." His smile turned sympathetic, and he indicated we should walk with him outside. "You get used to it, so I'm told. I was brought up here so I've never really known fresh air. It would probably smell as putrid to me as this does to you." He laughed and directed us to the shady side of the building.

  "This is your family business?" Matt asked.

  "All this was started by my grandfather." Mr. Ingles stood hands on hips and surveyed the buildings, carts and activity. "It was in trouble when I inherited over thirty years ago, but we turned it around. Now look at it. We employ over a hundred staff."

  "You said 'we' turned it around," Matt pointed out. "Are you referring to a brother or other family member?"

  "I mean Hubert Stanhope. He's like a brother to me. We've known one another for fifty years. His father worked here before him, but without Hubert, this place would still be languishing. The man is a financial genius. I think he sleeps with his ledgers." He rocked back on his heels, chuckling into his beard.

  "Is that why you made him partner?" I asked.

  "Best decision I ever made, aside from marrying Mrs. Ingles. Hubert brought more than capital to the partnership, he brought his brain too. I might be the one with the chemistry know-how, but that's worthless without sound business sense. Is that enough information for your article, Glass, or do you require more nuts and bolts?"

  "Article?" Matt echoed.

  "Aren't you the fellow who wrote requesting an interview for your book about London's factories?"

  "We're private inquiry agents assisting the police to find a killer."

  Mr. Ingles' face fell. "Killer?"

  "A money lender by the name of Douglas McGuire."

  "I—I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know a McGuire. Why are you asking me questions when the fellow's death has nothing to do with me?"

  "Mr. Stanhope knew him," Matt said.

  "You think Hubert killed him?"

  "We're not suggesting it."

  "Then why are you here at all?"

  "We're just asking questions, Mr. Ingles, nothing more. We've already spoken to Mr. Stanhope and he directed us here to you."

  "Very well." He rolled down one of his sleeves. "Ask me anything. I have nothing to hide and nor does Hubert."

  "Where were you Monday evening?"

  "Here until a little after nine, then I went home. Hubert was with me, but I'm sure he already told you that. We often wor
k together in the evenings, going over the financial reports he prepares. Is there anything else? I have to return to the brew house."

  "Do you know how Mr. Stanhope knew Mr. McGuire?"

  Mr. Ingles rolled down his other sleeve. "I've never heard of a man named McGuire, so how would I know of a connection?"

  "McGuire was a money lender," Matt said. "Mr. Stanhope borrowed a large sum from him."

  "That's not a crime."

  "You don't look surprised to hear that your business partner borrowed a large sum from a money lender," I said.

  "What Hubert does with his money in his time is not my concern. But I would like to point out that the money lender's death doesn't absolve Hubert of the debt. I know the law, and the law states that he will still have to pay it. So why are you accusing him when he has nothing to gain?"

  "We're gathering a picture of Mr. McGuire's life, and that means talking to his associates. Sometimes a seemingly insignificant piece of information can turn out to be a vital clue."

  "Oh. Very well." He drew in a deep breath. "Murder is a horrid business. Sometimes I feel isolated from the city, working long hours here and living just next door, but when I hear of the unpleasant goings on out there, I'm glad I rarely have to leave the premises."

  "You say you're a chemist," I said. "What does a chemist do here?"

  "Everything, including taste the final product." He winked and chuckled. "The brew house is the heart of the operation. It's where the chemistry takes place. I test the liquids at various stages of the process, adjust aeration and room temperature accordingly, add more mother of vinegar if necessary."

  I'd never heard of chemistry magic before, but it wasn't that long ago I'd never heard of any kind of magic beyond storybooks. If Mr. Ingles were a magician, he could use spells during the process to refine the flavor or speed up the process.

  "You have a lot of equipment," Matt said. "Who is your supplier?"