The Ink Master's Silence: Glass and Steele, #6

by C. J. Archer

  Her husband made a sound of disgust in his throat.

  "Can you describe the other man?" Matt asked.

  "Slight of build, well dressed, handsome. I passed him as I entered the shop and couldn't help noticing his lovely blue eyes and an unfortunate nervous twitch here." She touched her top lip.

  Sweeney.

  "Thank you," Matt said, rising and buttoning his jacket.

  Mrs. Delancey rang for a footman to show us the way out. "You will come next week for dinner, India dear," she said as we waited.

  I nodded and wished I had the nerve to refuse her to her face.

  The footman arrived and indicated we should walk ahead of him.

  "I wish you'd told me before today about that fellow," Mr. Delancey mumbled to his wife as we were leaving. "You could have saved me the trouble of retracting the loan today. It was a most unpleasant scene. I hope none of his neighbors thought we were arguing over something of a more personal nature."

  "No one will think that," his wife bit off. "He prefers handsome young men."

  Matt directed our driver to Hendry's shop. "We're not visiting Sweeney?" I asked as we settled into the carriage.

  "I think we should check on Hendry, first," Matt said. "The last time we saw him, he was anxious and a little irrational. This setback must be a blow."

  I sidled closer to him and took his hand. "It's good of you to worry about him."

  "Don't make me out to be a saint, India. I'm also hoping to get some answers."

  "To which questions?"

  "To the question of Sweeney's guilt in the murder of Baggley."

  "You think Sweeney did it?"

  He shrugged. "I don't know. Something isn't quite right." He flipped my hand over and drew circles on my palm with his thumb. "For instance, if Hendry and Sweeney were lovers who fell out over Hendry being a magician, what led Sweeney to want to murder Oscar Barratt? Wouldn't he want to murder Hendry?"

  "Perhaps they didn't fall out over Hendry being a magician but something more personal. Jealousy, perhaps."

  Matt laughed. "Perhaps Oscar Barratt is the other man in the equation."

  "He isn't."

  Matt's laughter suddenly died. He twisted to see me better. "How can you be so sure?"

  "Because Oscar looks at me in a certain way."

  His eyes darkened. "What way?"

  "In a way that neither Mr. Hendry nor Mr. Sweeney have looked at me."

  He grunted. "Fine. So Barratt isn't the reason they fell out. Then why try to kill him?"

  "To stop the articles?" I said on a sigh. "But you're right. I don't think Sweeney discovering that Hendry is a magician is a good enough reason to suddenly kill someone else. I also don't think jealousy is behind this. Mr. Sweeney seems quite alone, and I'm not a relationship expert, but I do think Mr. Hendry still cares for him."

  Matt considered this with a slow nod. "You might be right. We'll ask him."

  "Do you think it wise to simply ask him these things directly? Their relationship is very personal, not to mention illegal."

  "Then you must employ your charms on him, India."

  "I don't think those will work." I patted his cheek. "You try."

  He gave me a lopsided grin. "I suppose I am more his type."

  "Matt, you're everybody's type."

  Mr. Hendry looked as if he would cry when he saw us enter his shop. "Why can't you leave me alone?" he whined.

  "Because you are our chief suspect in the murder of Mr. Baggley," I told him.

  "Me?" He shook his head in rapid, jerky movements. "I didn't murder anyone. Th—the gun." He indicated the shelf behind the counter with a shaking hand. "It was put there by someone else. I gave you his description. You should be looking for him."

  "We gave the gun to the police," I said.

  His shoulders slumped as he rounded the counter. "Then I suppose I can expect a visit from them soon."

  Matt rested a hand on Mr. Hendry's shoulder. "We've come about another matter," he said gently. "A delicate matter."

  Mr. Hendry frowned and plucked Matt's hand off. I bit back my smile. "What matter?" Mr. Hendry asked.

  "About your private life. With Patrick Sweeney."

  Mr. Hendry backed away, bumping into the counter. "I—I don't like your implication."

  Matt followed him and stood a little closer than necessary. "Don't be anxious. You can talk to us. We don't care who you're in a relationship with, we only care about solving this crime."

  Mr. Hendry swallowed loudly. "Go away."

  Matt rested a hand on the counter.

  Mr. Hendry slipped along the counter in the opposite direction. "I said go away. I've got nothing more to say to you. Go and find the real murderer and leave me alone." He lifted the counter hatch and stepped through, slamming the hatch back into place.

  "We know you still care about him," Matt went on.

  Tears welled in Mr. Hendry's eyes. "Leave me alone! I've got nothing to say to you."

  Matt and I did as asked and left. "Do you call that flirting?" I said as he assisted me into the carriage.

  "I'm out of practice. Besides, I only want to flirt with you. It doesn't feel right flirting with someone else."

  "You must learn to set aside your principles if you want to get anywhere in this investigation business," I teased.

  He ordered the driver to continue on to Sweeney's factory and sat alongside me in the cabin. He kissed the skin below my ear. "I think I need a more thorough lesson in investigative technique," he murmured. "Will you teach me?"

  His lips tickled and I giggled and squirmed. Next thing I knew, I was being thoroughly and completely kissed.

  Mr. Sweeney's assistant told us we would find him at the Stationers' Hall. Unfortunately, the porter there not only knew us but had been warned to keep us out. He watched as we retreated to the carriage and slammed the door. Instead of leaving, we waited.

  We occupied our time with talk of our plans to leave London. Or rather, Matt talked, and I listened. He told me of all the places on the continent he wanted to take me, and he listed reasons for and against living in each city he'd visited before. I was glad he didn't expect me to contribute more to the conversation than a nod here and there, because I wasn't sure I could lie to him very well. My heart wasn't in the discussion, knowing we wouldn't leave. We couldn't leave.

  An hour and eight minutes passed before Mr. Sweeney finally emerged from the hall. He slapped on his hat, spoke to the porter, and headed off up the street. Once the porter closed the door, we followed Sweeney on foot. We waited until we were out of sight of the hall's windows before we hailed him.

  He stopped and, upon seeing us, groaned. "What do you want?" he snapped.

  "To ask you a few questions," Matt said.

  "This is harassment."

  "This is nothing compared to how the police will treat you if we tell them what we know."

  Mr. Sweeney's throat worked but no words came out.

  Matt filled the void. "We know about your relationship with Hendry."

  Mr. Sweeney bristled. "You're mistaken, sir, and your implication disgusts me."

  "You were seen together," I said.

  Mr. Sweeney's eyes widened. Then he turned and marched off. "This is outrageous. Slanderous. I'll be speaking to my lawyer."

  "Is your relationship the reason why you were so angry when Mr. Hendry told you he's a magician?" Matt pressed, easily keeping up. I had to lift my skirts and trot a few paces behind them.

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Were you in love with Mr. Hendry and felt he'd betrayed you by keeping it from you until those articles were printed?"

  He stopped again and rounded on Matt. "What does your accusation have to do with the murder? Why would I kill anyone at the newspaper? What has my falling out with Hendry got to do with it? I don't like the articles but I'm no murderer. As to your suggestion of love, it's laughable. There's no such thing as love, particularly of that kind." He strode off again, his
steps quick, his back straight.

  Matt went to follow him but I caught his hand. "Let him go."

  We returned to the carriage and asked the driver to take us home. "Interesting reaction," Matt said as we pulled away from the curb. "Very interesting."

  "In what way?" I asked.

  "I believe him when he says he doesn't believe in love. I don't know why, I just do. I don't think he cares about Hendry at all."

  What that might mean for Sweeney's guilt or otherwise in the murder, neither of us could fathom.

  Matt and I were about to sit down to dinner when Detective Inspector Brockwell arrived. He greeted us with his usual briskness then sucked in a deep breath, swelling his chest.

  "Something smells good," he said.

  "We're about to dine," Matt told him.

  "I am sorry. I'll return later."

  "Please stay." I indicated to Bristow to take Brockwell's hat and coat. "Join us for dinner. It's only Matt and me, tonight. His aunt is dining in her room and our friends are out."

  "Well, that would be a pleasure." His cheeks flushed pink. "Thank you, Miss Steele, you're very kind. I don't get to dine at fine houses like this too often."

  "Then you're in for a treat. Mrs. Potter is a marvelous cook."

  "If the delicious smells emanating from the kitchen are anything to go by, then I already agree."

  I hooked my arm through Brockwell's and escorted him to dinner. "Coming, Matt?" I asked over my shoulder.

  "Oh, I'm invited, am I?" he said with a crooked smile.

  Bristow answered a knock at the door, and Matt stayed to see who it was. Bristow accepted a note from the messenger and handed it to Matt. Matt's scowl deepened as he read. I resisted the urge to ask, and instead I directed Brockwell to sit at the long table. I sent Peter off to fetch more silverware, to make another place, and sat opposite Brockwell. I had to lean to the side to see past the vase of lovely roses. He stood and moved the vase aside then sat again.

  "Better." He smiled at me.

  Matt took his seat at the head of the table. The note was nowhere in sight but the scowl was still in place, although he directed it at the roses. "To what do we owe this visit?" he asked Brockwell.

  "All in good time," I said. "Let the inspector enjoy his first glass of wine before you demand answers."

  Matt's eyes tightened.

  Bristow poured the wine and melted away into the background as Peter returned and set another place. Brockwell seemed uncomfortable; no doubt being waited on felt strange. I understood completely.

  "Are you working late this evening?" I asked him.

  "I do most nights," he said. "If not at the office then at home. It keeps me occupied. A bachelor's life can be rather dull."

  "Then you must dine with us more often. Don't you agree, Matt?"

  Matt lowered his glass to the table. "Most definitely. India and I are very fortunate to have your company tonight, Inspector. We would have been quite alone otherwise." He lifted his glass in salute and drank.

  It was my turn to scowl at him, but unfortunately he wasn't looking at me.

  "How is your health?" Brockwell asked Matt.

  "Fine."

  Brockwell eyed the footman and butler and lifted his brows. Matt gave a slight shake of his head. There would be no conversation about magic until the servants left. Unfortunately, that left us with little in common to talk about. I tried to engage the inspector with other topics, but he admitting to reading few novels and rarely attending the theater. That left us with current events that did not involve magic.

  I was rather glad when we retired to the drawing room and Matt finally dismissed the servants.

  "I'm afraid we can't smoke in here," Matt said. "My aunt prefers it to be confined to the smoking room.

  "That's all right, I'm not much of a smoker anyway." Brockwell eased himself into one of the chairs, looking rather satisfied as he patted his stomach. "Dinner was grand. Your cook is indeed a marvel. Thank you for having me."

  I waited for Matt to say something. When he didn't, I said, "Our pleasure."

  "So what do you have to report?" Matt asked as he poured brandies. "Any news on the weapon?"

  "It was the same type as that used in the murder," Brockwell said.

  Matt stopped pouring. "Interesting."

  "I spoke to Hendry this afternoon. You two had just been there, as it happens. He was in a state over it and demanded I make you stop pestering him, as he put it."

  "We won't stop," Matt said. "Our investigation is a private matter."

  "And I have no authority to force you to stop. At least, that's what I told Hendry."

  Matt gave him a nod of thanks.

  "Do you want to know what we learned?" I asked Brockwell.

  "That's why I'm here, Miss Steele, although I will admit the prospect of your pleasant company lured me too." He smiled warmly. "Of course, if Glass weren’t engaged to his cousin, I would never dream of intruding on a private dinner. Happily for me, he is."

  Matt stepped between us and handed Brockwell the tumbler of brandy. "We learned that Hendry was…very good friends with Sweeney, master of the Stationers’ Guild. They are no longer friends."

  Brockwell showed no surprise. "I know."

  "What did you find out from your conversation with Hendry, Inspector?" I asked as Matt handed me a glass.

  "Very little. As I said, he was upset about you calling on him incessantly."

  "Hardly incessantly," Matt countered.

  "He listed the dates and times of all your visits. There were quite a number of them." Brockwell put up his hand to halt Matt's protests. "I agree, it was perhaps necessary, considering the letters to Mr. Barratt were on his paper and the gun was found in his shop. Speaking of which, I questioned him about it this afternoon, and it's my belief that he lied to you about how the gun came to be in his possession. I think he knew who put it there, and it's not Abercrombie."

  "Why do you say so?" I asked.

  "He acted suspiciously when I confronted him. He wouldn't meet my gaze and he wouldn't stand still. Both are classic signs of a poor liar. When I told him his false description could see an innocent man arrested, he broke down. He didn't admit it, of course, but he changed his story and claimed he couldn't recall what the man looked like."

  "Blast," I muttered. "I thought we had proof of Abercrombie's involvement, although I did doubt that he pulled the trigger himself. He's too cowardly to do that."

  Matt pulled out a piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to me. "This arrived before dinner. It proves Brockwell's theory about Abercrombie's innocence."

  The note was from the clockmaker in Abercrombie's workshop who'd told us his master had received Mr. Sweeney on Friday, the day the gun had been placed in Hendry's shop. According to the clockmaker, he'd remembered incorrectly and the day had in fact been Thursday, not Friday. He went on to explain why he'd made the mistake.

  "Do you think this is the truth or has Abercrombie learned that we spoke to him?" I asked Matt as I passed the note to Brockwell.

  "Impossible to know for sure, but if the inspector believes Hendry lied and gave a false description, I'm inclined to believe the note."

  Brockwell passed the note back to Matt. "So if it wasn't Abercrombie who left the gun in Hendry's shop, who did?"

  "Sweeney?" I offered. "Perhaps Hendry realized it was him and wanted to protect him from our inquiries. If he still has feelings for Sweeney, he wouldn't want to make trouble for him."

  "Or it could be Hendry himself," Matt said.

  "Either way," Brockwell said, "I owe you an apology, Glass. And Miss Steele, too. I believe now that this crime is related to magic. Hendry is in up to his neck, and he's a magician, and Barratt is the author of those articles. That makes it a sensitive case." He sighed. "My superiors will not like it."

  "Then tell Commissioner Munro to speak with me," Matt said. "We'll find a way to word it so that the press can't link the murder to magic."

 
; "I can do that myself." Brockwell finished his drink and stood. "I must go. Thank you again for a delicious dinner. Miss Steele." He bent over my hand, lightly brushing his lips against my knuckles. "It has been delightful, as always. If I may be so bold, may I ask if I can call on you soon? In a personal capacity. And without your employer here."

  I tried to think of the best answer in order to be polite yet not encouraging and found my tongue wouldn't work.

  Matt came to my rescue. "Stop by any day after Saturday."

  I pressed my lips together to suppress my smile.

  Bristow escorted Brockwell out, and Matt rejoined me. He plucked the glass from my fingers and pulled me out of the chair. He pressed close, assuming a waltzing position, and swayed with me. I leaned into him and breathed deeply, relaxing into the rhythm, relishing the feel of being so close.

  "That was tortuous," he murmured into my hair.

  "It wasn't too bad," I said. "And we did learn something."

  "Even if he told us who the killer was, I would still rather he hadn't stayed for dinner." He let go of my hand and circled both arms around my waist. I tilted my head up so I could see him better. "Tonight was supposed to be just you and me."

  "Oh. Is that why your aunt stayed in her room?"

  "I asked her to."

  "And the flowers on the table. Oh, Matt, they were lovely. I’m sorry, I didn't realize. You should have told me, and I wouldn't have asked Brockwell to stay."

  "It doesn't matter." From his heavy tone, it sounded like it mattered very much.

  We danced slowly together in the silence until Duke and Cyclops interrupted us. They had nothing of interest to report and happily tucked into the left over food. Willie arrived twenty minutes later and helped herself to the cold meat and salads from the tray Bristow brought in for her.

  "How was your evening?" Willie asked brightly. "Did we miss anything?"

  Matt sat quietly and stared into the fireplace. He managed to give me a wan smile when I squeezed his arm but he didn't answer her.