by C. J. Archer
"No, Mr. Glass, I must look only at the evidence."
"But that's the thing, you don't have evidence linking India or myself to his escape."
He cleared his throat but did not relax his shoulders until Matt sat back. "You weren't the only ones who visited him that day."
"Would you accuse Lady Louisa to her face?" I asked.
"If I have sufficient evidence."
"Did he have any other visitors?" Matt asked.
Brockwell shook his head. "I'll be speaking to Lady Louisa Hollingbroke today."
"There's another explanation behind his escape," I said.
"India," Matt warned. It would seem he'd come to the same conclusion as me, but wasn't sure whether we should divulge it to the police. I saw no choice. Brockwell would keep pressing until he found an answer, and I didn't want him pressing on me.
"You know who helped him?" Brockwell asked, reaching for his pencil.
"Nobody helped him," I said. "He did it on his own."
He set down the pencil. "No one escapes from Newgate, Mrs. Glass. Not these days. It's a very secure facility. He must have had help, either from a corrupt guard, or a friend who smuggled in a lock picking device."
"Or he made a key from something readily at hand," I pointed out.
Brockwell cocked his head, frowning, but it quickly cleared. "Ah. What is his magic craft? Keys?"
"Metal," I said. "Specifically iron. He can shape it with a spell. All he needs is a small piece to insert into the lock."
"Diabolical," Brockwell said on a breath. He sounded impressed, however. His skepticism of months ago was nowhere in sight. He accepted my explanation without question.
"Can you think of something in the cell that he could use?" I asked. "The tine of a fork?"
"Prisoners aren't allowed forks or knives. Wooden spoons only."
I tried to think of the items I'd seen in Fabian's cell, but none had been metal in nature. "What about bed springs?"
Brockwell shook his head. "Slats."
Matt clicked his fingers. "The bars across the window. Were any missing?"
"I don't think so but I'll send a constable to check."
"It might not be missing," I said. "Fabian might have shaved off just enough to fashion a key that fits in the lock. The bars are high up and a missing sliver would go unnoticed."
Matt nodded, but Brockwell sighed. "The commissioner won't like that explanation. They won't want it presented in court."
"Then you'd better set about proving Charbonneau didn't commit the murder, or it will come out."
"And how do I do that?"
"Find out who did murder McGuire. Don't worry, Inspector," Matt said breezily. "We'll help you."
Brockwell sighed again. "I knew you'd say that." He gathered up the papers on his desk and handed them to Matt. "I had these copies made for you."
I blinked at him. "You intended to involve us all along?"
"It depended on your answers." Brockwell clasped his hands on the desk again. "Please inform Miss Johnson that I can't see her tonight as arranged. I have a lot of work to do."
"She'll be disappointed," I said, teasing.
"As am I, but murder comes before pleasure."
I suppressed a laugh. "How committed you are, Inspector. No wonder Willie speaks so highly of you."
A smile flirted with his lips. "She does? Well, thank you, Mrs. Glass. Kind of you to say. I'll be thinking of that as I sift through evidence gathered at the crime scene."
"Nicely done," Matt said, offering me his arm as we exited Scotland Yard.
"Which part? Telling him Willie likes him or telling him how Fabian escaped?"
"Both."
He assisted me into our waiting carriage and gave the coachman instructions to return to number sixteen Park Street. "We're going home?" I asked.
"I am." He held up the paperwork. "I want to read through this. I thought you might like to question Lady Louisa Hollingbroke."
"I suppose Brockwell didn't say I couldn't. Indeed, Louisa might say more to me than to the police. An excellent notion, Matt, and I'll go just as soon as I learn where she lives. Mrs. Delancey will know. What a mess Fabian has landed in. I wonder if he knows Mr. McGuire is dead."
"I wonder where he is," Matt said.
"Hopefully Louisa knows. Who else would he turn to but an old family friend?"
Matt rubbed his finger along his lower lip. He was working up to saying something. Something he thought I wouldn't like to hear.
"Go on, Matt. Out with it."
He paused then said, "You know that Charbonneau never intended to pay off his debt, don't you?"
I sighed. "I know. He practically told us that yesterday. But murder? Do you think him capable?"
"You know him better than me. Do you think him capable?"
"No, I don't."
"Then we'll help clear his name."
He pressed my hand to his lips, and I settled into his side, not wanting him to see me, lest he notice my doubt. I didn't think Fabian was a murderer, but I'd been wrong about people before.
Mr. Delancey's position at Rotherby's bank meant he kept long hours at the office, so I was surprised to see Sir Charles Whittaker leaving the Delanceys' home. I was even more surprised when I saw him climb onto a small private brougham pulled by a handsome black horse. He drove it himself. Keeping a horse and carriage in London was a luxury few could afford.
"India, what an unexpected pleasure." Mrs. Delancey embraced me with more enthusiasm than even Catherine. She ushered me into the drawing room and insisted the butler bring tea, despite my refusal. "You must stay and have tea with me. I'm starved for decent company."
"Oh? But isn't your husband at home?"
"My dear, you are a newlywed, so your mistake is understandable, but when you've been married as long as Mr. Delancey and me, you'll come to realize that decent company is found outside the home. Anyway, he's been at the bank all day."
Perhaps she'd sent Whittaker away after telling him the same thing. But wouldn't Sir Charles have gone to the bank first, it being a weekday?
My mind raced with the possibilities behind his visit, none of which were very honorable. But I pushed them aside. Sir Charles's visit couldn't have been for any reason other than a simple social call on a friend. Servants talked, particularly to masters who paid their wages, and Mrs. Delancey wouldn't be so foolish to conduct anything untoward right under their noses.
She asked me about the wedding and holiday, and I gave her brief answers. I was very much aware that the last time we'd spoken, I'd been cross with her over her support of Mr. Hendry. It made for an uncomfortable meeting, and I was glad when the tea arrived. Sipping gave us both something to do.
"I know about Mr. Charbonneau," she said after a particularly long pause in the conversation.
"What do you know about him?" I asked.
"That he is a magician from France, that he wants to work with you to expand his understanding of magic, and that he was imprisoned for debt." The lines around her mouth pinched. "Tell me, India, how does a man from a family as wealthy as his is purported to be find himself in such a predicament?"
"I'm not here to spread gossip," I said.
Did all the other members of the collector's club know about Fabian's imprisonment or just a select few of the inner circle? And had she heard it from Louisa or Coyle, because surely it had to be one of the two. Coyle might not be a friend to Fabian, like Louisa, but he had his spies.
"But you are here for a reason," she said. "You want something from me, and I'll give it to you when you've answered my questions." She smiled sweetly. "Now, why did Mr. Charbonneau's family cut off his allowance?"
"Why do you think he had an allowance?"
She cocked her head to the side and gave me a knowing look. "India, my dear, I am surrounded by England's wealthiest. I know how families like the Charbonneaus treat their children and ensure their loyalty. I know when loyalty is broken, there are consequences, usually of a financia
l nature such as the one your friend has found himself in. So what did he do?"
I set down my teacup and rose. "I won't be discussing his private affairs with you. Good day, Mrs. Delancey."
"Mr. Delancey would have loaned him the money, you know."
I stopped and allowed her to talk. Perhaps I could turn this situation to my advantage after all.
"But Mr. Charbonneau never came to him," she went on. "Now it's too late. He's in prison, and it's only a matter of time before his family find out. His poor mother. She'll be terribly ashamed, and worried too, naturally. If it were my child, I'd do anything in my power to free him. Anything at all."
So she didn't know he had escaped. That meant she didn't know he was a suspect in his creditor's murder.
"Perhaps I can convince him to ask Mr. Delancey for a loan," I said.
"An excellent notion! Yes, do tell him my husband is willing to help magicians in every way he can."
I nibbled my lower lip. "But we're new friends, and he won't like discussing financial matters with me."
"You're quite right, but there is someone he might listen to. His old friend, Louisa." She winked, as if she'd divulged a secret. I wondered if she knew about Louisa's romantic interest in Fabian.
"Yes, of course." I smiled. "What a good idea. I'll speak to her immediately. Where can I find her?"
She gave me the address quite happily and thanked me for doing everything in my power to bring Fabian and Mr. Delancey together.
The door was answered by a butler as ancient as Louisa's great-aunt was purported to be. The aunt was Louisa's only living relative, and by all accounts, she let her great-niece rule the household. I gave the stooped butler my name then repeated it when he asked again, cupping his ear.
"Lady Louisa is not in," he said in a plummier accent than the aristocracy used. "You may leave your card." He picked up the salver from the hall table and waited for me to deposit my card. I had none. Now that I was married, I ought to have some made up.
I carried a few of Matt's cards with me and placed one on the tray beside two envelopes, one other card, and a small parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with a blue ribbon. Magic warmth washed over my hand. It must have been strong magic because I felt it through my glove. I pulled my hand back and eyed the items. They were all made of paper.
Mr. Hendry was communicating with Louisa! But why?
"I'd like to speak to Louisa's aunt, if I may," I said, hoping my plan proved to be not as mad as I thought. "It's important. Can you see if she's at home?"
The butler hesitated then bowed. I worried he wouldn't be able to right himself, but he managed it with only a slight wobble. He set the salver down then walked steadily and quite slowly away, but not in the direction of the stairs. He was making his way to the bell pull to summon a footman.
I had very little time, even though he was as slow as a snail. I skimmed my fingers over the letters and card on the tray. None sported direct heat, only the residual warmth I'd felt moments ago. I touched the paper wrapped around the parcel and heat flared.
I hesitated then dismissed all doubts about my actions. If Mr. Hendry was communicating with Louisa, we needed to know why, even if it meant peeking at someone's mail.
The butler reached for the bell pull and gave it a hard jerk. He turned, hands at his back, and approached me once more at his slow, unsteady pace. I slipped the parcel behind my back and untied the ribbon by touch alone.
A door hidden in the paneling of the far wall opened and a footman appeared. The butler gave him instructions to see if Louisa's aunt was up to receiving callers.
By the time the footman disappeared up the stairs, I had the ribbon untied and the paper unwrapped. The object inside was hard and long, but as warm as slippers placed before a fire. It held the magic, not the paper. I'd wager it was iron magic, but without seeing the object, I couldn't tell. With the butler now addressing me again, I couldn't even return the object to the tray.
"Pleasant weather, isn't it?" I cringed. If I were to successfully return the object, I needed to distract him, not engage him.
"Yes, ma'am. Very pleasant." He glanced at the stairs. The footman, a younger and more sprightly version of the butler, would be back soon, with or without Louisa's aunt. I had to think of something quickly.
In the end, I didn't have to do anything. The butler became distracted by the rattle of wheels on the street outside, proving his hearing was selective. He squared his shoulders and opened the door. To my utmost surprise, Louisa stepped out of a gleaming back carriage, assisted by Lord Coyle.
I dashed away from the doorway before they saw me. With my back to the door, I studied the object in my hands. It was a silver letter opener with the word Claridge's engraved on one side of the handle in elegant script. On the other side, the number 24 had been etched. The numbers were small and untidy, as if they'd been hastily placed there. They were also the warmest part of the letter opener. The magician had written that number.
It had to be Fabian. He wasn't a silver magician, but the opener wouldn't be solid silver, merely silver plated. He'd manipulated the metal beneath.
"I'm telling the truth," came Louisa's voice from the other side of the door. "And I do not like the implication that I'm lying."
"You must see it from my point of view," Lord Coyle intoned. "You are his only friend in London, the only one he would turn to, so of course I naturally assume you know his whereabouts. You would conclude the same thing if you were in my position."
They must have stopped at the top of the steps, and they didn't seem to mind that the butler overheard them.
"You're mistaken," Louisa countered. "He is not without friends here. There are people in London who would go to great lengths to protect him."
Coyle grunted. "I know who you mean, and I disagree. Her husband wouldn't allow it."
"He would give his wife anything if she asked for it."
Were they talking about Matt and me?
"Not if it endangered her life," Coyle said. "Listen to me. The fact is, he escaped and the police want him. If you do know where he is, be careful. That is my advice."
"Thank you. It's very kind of you to worry about me, but I can assure you, I don't know where he is."
"Then I'll bid you good day." There was a pause, long enough for him to kiss her hand. The butler cleared his throat, but to no avail. No one paid him any attention.
I checked to see that he wasn't looking my way, then with my heart in my throat, I hid the hastily rewrapped letter opener between the folds of my skirt. I couldn't allow Louisa to see it. Not before I'd had a chance to speak to Fabian first. If she helped him, he might be beholden to her, and I doubted he wanted that.
"You have a visitor, madam," the butler said to his mistress. "Mrs. Glass."
Louisa poked her head around the door. "India! How delightful." She led the way inside, followed by Lord Coyle.
He bowed over my hand. I kept my other tucked into my skirts, my fingers gripping the opener tightly in case it should slip.
"I suspect you came here to ask Louisa the same thing I did," Coyle said. "The whereabouts of Fabian Charbonneau."
"Yes," I said on a rush of breath.
"I'll tell you what I told Lord Coyle," she said. "I am not aware of his whereabouts. I wish I was. I want to help him. His lordship has just informed me of his escape and the murder of his creditor. It's a most worrying time and I'm terribly anxious."
"As am I," I assured her. "If you do learn of his whereabouts, please send a message to us immediately. We have a strong interest in clearing his name."
"We all do," Lord Coyle said. He bowed to each of us in turn. "I will leave you two ladies to your tea and gossip."
"Actually," I said, following him out. "I'd like to speak to you."
We both said our goodbyes to Louisa. She watched us leave with a curious frown connecting her brows and a tight smile on her lips.
"Is this about Charbonneau?" Coyle asked. "Or our arrangement?"
"It's about dinner." I stopped at his carriage. My own was parked down the street. They must not have noticed it upon their arrival. Had they been out together or had he met her on his way here? "Matt and I would like to extend an invitation to you to dine with us. Shall we say Thursday?"
His fluffy white eyebrows arched. "This is most unexpected."
"I suspect it is. Is eight o'clock suitable?"
His tuberous lips pursed as he searched my gaze. Looking for my motive? After a moment, he grunted. "Eight o'clock on Thursday." He touched the brim of his hat and nodded at his hovering footman to open the door of the carriage.
I walked off to my own conveyance, my hand and the letter opener buried in my skirts. "Home, ma'am?" the coachman asked.
"No," I said. "Claridge's hotel."
I didn't remove the opener until I was safely inside the cabin then I unwrapped it again. The warmth infused me immediately. It definitely came from the numbers, not the letters. The exclusive hotel must have engraved its name on all its letter openers, but Fabian had added the room number. His room number. It had to be. He wanted Louisa's help and this was his way of sending for her without risking putting his name to a message. Nosy staff or a great-aunt wouldn't know the meaning behind it.
A nosy magician would, however.
I was a little put out that he'd sent the message to her and not me, but perhaps it was understandable. They were old friends and we were acquainted only a few weeks.
I tucked the letter opener into my reticule but it was too long, and the end poked through the drawstring opening. If I held the reticule just so, I could enclose the silver handle in my palm so that it wasn't visible.
Claridge's Hotel was still the grand dame of hotels, despite lacking modern amenities like ensuite bathrooms and elevators that newer luxury hotels boasted. A handful of guests mingled beneath the enormous chandelier in the foyer, their wealth on display in their jewels, fine clothes, and air of self-assurance. I wasn't made to feel out of place, however. The footman greeted me with a welcoming smile and directed me to the counter. Another footman offered me refreshments, and a porter bowed as I passed him. I was no different to their other guests, I realized.
