The Prisoner's Key

by C. J. Archer

  "Want us to try the low-down, meaner accommodations?" Willie asked, propping her booted feet on Matt's desk.

  Duke pushed them off. "Where're your manners?"

  "I think I left 'em in a pub somewhere." She grinned at him and he rolled his eyes. She kept her feet on the floor, however.

  "We could go to the hotels further afield," Cyclops said.

  "We'll abandon the search for now," Matt said. "Without knowing what name he registered under, we'll never find him."

  "What about you two? Where did you go yesterday afternoon?"

  "Chronos's house," I said. "It's possible he's harboring Fabian, but we can't be certain. He's acting rather suspiciously, but that could be because he's being followed by Sir Charles Whittaker."

  "Whittaker?" Duke asked. "Why him?"

  "For the same reason we went to see Chronos. He believes Fabian is there."

  "I want the three of you to watch Chronos in shifts," Matt said. "Look for any suspicious behavior or any indication someone else is living there aside from him."

  Willie put up her hand. "I'll take first shift."

  "Try not to let him see you," I told her. "He knows you well."

  "Want me to search the house if he goes out?"

  Matt hesitated then shook his head. "He's family."

  "You're far too kind," I said. "I wouldn't be."

  We discussed our theories with them, but they agreed that while the suggestions for what might have happened were logical, they were not likely.

  "I reckon we need to look closer to McGuire's home," Duke said. "Seems to me someone else has a better reason to murder him than Charbonneau or one of the collector's club."

  "Agreed," Matt said. "But the problem is Charbonneau's handkerchief. If he didn't drop it there himself—"

  "Which isn't likely," I cut in.

  "Then someone planted it there to incriminate him."

  "So the killer held a grudge against McGuire and Charbonneau," Willie said.

  "I'd wager it's someone indebted to McGuire," Cyclops said. "Money lenders in England are probably as hated as money lenders in America. Find the person who owes him the most money and you've got your biggest suspect. Then you just need to find out why he holds a grudge against Charbonneau too."

  We dispersed with that in mind. Matt and I planned to see Brockwell and ask him if he knew the names of McGuire's customers, but Brockwell called on us before we left. He removed his hat in the entrance hall and clutched it in both hands as he gazed up the stairs.

  "She's not here," I said, biting back my smile. "We'll tell her you called."

  "That's kind of you, but don't go to any trouble," he said.

  "No trouble at all. I'm sure she'd be delighted to know you asked after her." In truth, I didn't know anything of the sort. Willie played her cards close to her chest when it came to her intimate relationships, and this one was no different. I didn't know if she was in love with him or he was merely someone to pass an evening with.

  Brockwell scratched his sideburns. "The truth is, Mrs. Glass, I'd rather you didn't tell her I asked after her."

  "You're avoiding her?"

  "What's she done now?" Matt asked on a sigh.

  "No, no, nothing like that." Brockwell gave a nervous little laugh. "I need to concentrate on my work, and she's a distraction."

  We invited him into the library to discuss the case. He passed his hat to Bristow and removed his coat. "I'm glad I didn't catch you at breakfast," he said idly. "I know that your type sometimes start the day late."

  Matt arched a brow at him. "My type?"

  Brockwell scrubbed his sideburns. "Pardon me, it was just an expression. No offence meant."

  "None taken," Matt muttered as he sat in one of the deep leather armchairs by the fireplace.

  "Since breakfast is finished, would you like tea?" I asked. "And cake?"

  Brockwell all but smacked his lips together in delight. "Tea and cake would be very fine. Very fine indeed. Your cook is a marvel, Mrs. Glass. I tell all my colleagues about how light and airy her sponge is."

  "Mrs. Potter is excellent." I nodded at Bristow, hovering in the doorway. He bowed out of the library.

  "Any luck finding Charbonneau?" Matt asked.

  "None," Brockwell said. "Have you questioned your magical acquaintances, Mrs. Glass?"

  "Yes, and we've also had no luck," I said. "He has thoroughly disappeared."

  He clicked his tongue.

  Neither Matt nor I brought up the letter opener I'd found at Louisa's house, nor our visit to Chronos.

  "What about other suspects?" Matt asked. "Have you found any among McGuire's acquaintances?"

  "We're still making inquiries, but…" He winced, as if he had some unpleasant news to impart. "I don't like to suggest it, but I must. I am suspicious of the widow."

  "Why?" I asked.

  "She has been most unforthcoming with information. She will not answer my questions nor allow me access to her husband's business papers. I explained to her that it is necessary to pry into his affairs if I am to catch his killer. At which point, she broke down in tears. I couldn't get another word out of her. I have tried three times now, and every time I have left empty handed. I am usually an excellent judge of character, if I do say so myself, but Mrs. McGuire is puzzling. I'm not sure if I have a manipulative murderer on my hands or a frightened woman."

  "What would she be frightened of?" I asked. "The killer coming after her?"

  "I am not entirely sure of that either." He didn't meet my gaze, however, and I suspected there was more.

  We were interrupted by Bristow wheeling in the tea trolley. I poured the tea and held the sugar bowl while Brockwell dropped a cube into his cup and stirred. I took my time cutting the cake and placing slices on plates. Then I held out a plate to Brockwell, only to draw it back when he reached for it.

  "If you want to hold things back from one another…" I said with an arch of my brow. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Matt smirk into his teacup.

  Brockwell gazed longingly at the cake then sighed. "Very well. It relates to my reason for coming anyway, and you need to know. The thing is, we had a complaint almost a year ago from the McGuires' neighbor about a disturbance at the McGuire household. She claimed to have heard Mr. McGuire shouting at his wife, and Mrs. McGuire screaming. The constabulary investigated at the time and the sergeant was told by Mr. McGuire that everything was well and that the neighbor mistook a simple marital disagreement for something more. When they insisted on speaking to Mrs. McGuire, she presented herself to them. She sported a bruised cheek and the sergeant suspected the husband had inflicted it. Mrs. McGuire denied he'd hit her, however, even when the sergeant spoke to her alone. She claimed she walked into a door."

  "Did he take the husband to the station for further questioning?" Matt asked.

  "No. Unless Mrs. McGuire accused Mr. McGuire, nothing could be done."

  "So he just left her there with her violent husband?" I asked.

  "He could do nothing more without her accusation."

  "Did the sergeant tell her where to find help? Did he tell her the legal process that would follow if she did want to accuse her husband?"

  "I am afraid not."

  I handed him the cake, since he'd fulfilled his side of the bargain, but he set the plate down on the table without tasting the sponge. "I will have a word with the sergeant in question, and make recommendations to his superiors to educate their men on the best way to handle issues of a domestic nature when they arise. Unfortunately, they arise all too often."

  "Thank you, Inspector. That's good of you to do something."

  "I don't like suggesting this," Matt said darkly, "but Mrs. McGuire is even more of a suspect now. If her husband abused her again, she might have finally snapped."

  "No one could blame her for killing him," I said.

  "Agreed."

  "It is certainly a possibility," Brockwell said. "But it doesn't explain why she'd refuse to hand over his paperwork
. It wouldn't implicate her. In fact, it would expand our list of suspects beyond her."

  "Unless there is something in that list that does implicate her," Matt said.

  The poor woman. She must have been pushed to her limits if she had indeed killed him.

  "Please, eat your cake, Inspector," I said. "Mrs. Potter wouldn't want it to go to waste."

  He took a large bite. Cream spilled out of the layers and the corners of his mouth, plopping onto the plate. Brockwell's eyes fluttered closed in bliss.

  Matt and I ate our slices with more dignity but no less enthusiasm. Mrs. Potter's cakes were worth savoring.

  "That brings me to my reason for coming," Brockwell said after licking his fingers clean. "Mrs. Glass, I need your help with Mrs. McGuire. I think a woman's touch is required if she is to be convinced to hand over her husband's belongings. We could do it forcefully, of course, but I'd rather save that until we've exhausted all other options."

  "I'll see what I can do," I said.

  "Thank you." He rose to leave but remembered something. "We have a witness who saw a figure leaving Charbonneau's residence on the night of the murder, after midnight. He isn't a reliable witness, however." He made a drinking motion with his hand. "If he can be believed, I assume it was either Charbonneau returning to collect something before he disappeared, or someone collecting the handkerchief to place at the scene of the murder."

  "Did the witness identify the figure as man or woman?" Matt asked.

  "Male, but that doesn't mean it wasn't a woman dressed in male clothes." He chuckled. "Now that my eyes are open to such things, I see it more and more. Miss Johnson says she finds men's trousers comfortable. Having never worn women's clothing myself, I can't comment."

  "Naturally," Matt said, sounding a little bewildered.

  "Did anything else appear to be missing from Fabian's residence?" I asked.

  "Hard to say without an inventory of his belongings," Brockwell said. "But nothing seemed out of place."

  "Are your men watching it?" Matt asked.

  Brockwell nodded. "Charbonneau may return."

  I thought there was more likelihood of Willie wearing a corset.

  We were about to leave to visit the widow of Mr. McGuire when a letter arrived from Gabriel Seaford, the magician doctor who'd helped me save Matt's life. His magic flowed through Matt's veins, while my magic extended it beyond its short span through Matt's watch.

  Matt brought the letter in to me in the sitting room where I was making sure Aunt Letitia had everything she needed while we were out. The grim look on his face had me worried.

  "What is it?" I asked on a rush of breath.

  While Matt's immediate future looked positive thanks to the combination of Gabe's and my own magic, there was always the danger that it wouldn't last and we would need to cast our spells into the watch again. It was that longer future I feared would be snatched from us if Gabe were no longer reachable.

  "It's the most curious thing," Matt said. "Lady Louisa Hollingbroke called on him. She turned up on his doorstep yesterday after he'd finished at the hospital. She used your name as an introduction, India."

  I sat heavily on the sofa beside Aunt Letitia. "She knows about his magic."

  "She does," Matt said.

  "Does it matter?" Aunt Letitia asked. "He doesn't have to donate anything to her collection if he doesn't wish to."

  "She didn't ask him for a donation." Matt handed her the letter and she set aside her book. "She asked him if he has a fiancée."

  "He told her he doesn't," Aunt Letitia read. "He goes on to say that she then asked him if he hopes to marry one day soon. She has all but proposed! What a forward little hoyden! If her family knew, they'd be extremely embarrassed. He's not even a baronet."

  "He's a good man," I said defensively. "We owe him a lot."

  "I like Mr. Seaford too, India. All I'm saying is that she ought to put that fortune to use and look higher. There must be an impoverished earl or marquis in need of a wife somewhere in the country."

  I ignored her snobbery. It wasn't the time to point it out, and doing so would achieve nothing. Besides, there was something far more serious to worry about.

  "She wants to marry a magician," I said to Matt. "Fabian wouldn't have her, so she's trying another bachelor magician. Gabe's magic is rare. That must appeal to her."

  "She knew we wouldn't introduce her to Gabe, so she introduced herself," Matt said. "I don't like that she used your name."

  "She's used to getting what she wants."

  "I don't understand," Aunt Letitia said. "Does she wish to have magic at her fingertips for her own private use? Like electric lighting or indoor plumbing?"

  I smiled at her analogy, but it quickly faded. "Perhaps, but it's more likely she wants to marry a magician in the hope she will have magician children. I can think of no other reason."

  "Nor I," Matt said.

  Aunt Letitia folded the letter and thrust it back at Matt. "Then you must warn Mr. Seaford immediately, before he's seduced by her large fortune."

  Chapter 7

  I left Matt to write a letter of warning to Gabe and drove to Mrs. McGuire's home alone. I had pictured an abusive husband and money lender as living in a miserable area known for criminal activity, where the houses were crammed with poor families struggling to pay their rent and children begged on the streets. But the small terraced Chelsea house was well maintained, if unremarkable in appearance, and the neighborhood quiet.

  I introduced myself to the housekeeper, who answered my knock, and requested to see Mrs. McGuire. She told me to wait on the doorstep.

  A few minutes later, a small woman dressed all in black opened the door. A black veil covered her face, making it difficult to gauge her reaction when I asked if she'd answer my questions about her husband. The slamming of the door in my face left no room for misinterpretation, however.

  "Mrs. McGuire," I called out. "I am not with the police."

  No response.

  "I'm an independent inquiry agent hired to find your husband's killer. Will you help me, please, one woman to another?"

  The door reopened a mere crack. I could just make out the eye blinking at me behind the veil. "Go away," she said in a Scottish accent. "I have nothing to say to you."

  "Then do not say anything. All you have to do is show me your husband's ledgers and contracts."

  The eye narrowed. "You are with the police."

  "I'm trying to help my friend, a suspect in your husband's murder. He didn't do it, and I have to prove it or…" I swallowed. "I'll admit that I've spoken to the police and they told me you wouldn't hand over Mr. McGuire's documents to them. I saw my opportunity to see the documents for myself and find evidence to clear my friend. Will you let me in? I'll be no trouble."

  "How can I trust you?"

  Her question caught me off guard. I had no way of proving I wasn't out to harm her, dupe her, or destroy vital clues. "I hope my word is enough. I am who I say I am, a concerned friend of a suspect. He didn't do it. You must believe me."

  The veil billowed with her breath then flattened against her nostrils. "I… I can't," she whispered. "Please, don't ask me to betray him."

  "Betray who? Mrs. McGuire, who are you protecting?"

  She slammed the door again.

  I huffed at it, not yet willing to give up. I'd hardly begun to tell her everything I'd planned to.

  "Please, if you are still there," I said through the door, "I want you to know that I am aware of how he treated you. He was a monster and what he did was unthinkable. But I also know the police failed you when they investigated. They could have done more to help you. You must have felt abandoned and very much alone, so it's no wonder you don't want to help them now."

  Nothing. Not even a squeak of a floorboard or receding footsteps. It gave me hope that she was listening on the other side of the door.

  "If you've done something wrong and are trying to cover it up now, I want you to know I'll do my best to help you
. I can pay for a lawyer," I added lamely. I could make no other promises, not without lying, and I didn't want to do that. If she had killed her husband, I couldn't stop the police arresting her.

  Still no answer from the other side of the door.

  I sighed and returned to the carriage.

  "She was very nervous," I told Matt upon my return.

  He and Aunt Letitia had been out walking in the park when I arrived, and I'd settled into an armchair in the library with a book. I'd read very little of it by the time they returned. My encounter with Mrs. McGuire troubled me too much to concentrate.

  "When she realized why I was there, she completely closed up," I went on. "She wouldn't even let me in."

  "That's odd." He moved his chair closer to mine and indicated I should put my foot on his lap. He then proceeded to remove my shoe and massage my toes.

  I checked the door, worried that his aunt would walk in at any moment. "Not as odd as you might think," I said, frowning at an unpleasant memory. "It might be a reaction to her abusive husband."

  "He can't hurt her now."

  "I know, but her confidence has been shattered. If the abuse was sustained over a period of time and no one helped her, I can imagine it destroying what fight she had to begin with."

  "I suppose," he said, nodding thoughtfully.

  "A distant cousin of my mother's had a husband similar to Mr. McGuire. She didn't tell anyone that he hit her until after he died, and then only her sister. My mother said her cousin had been a friendly girl before she married, but became introverted and anxious afterward. She lost all confidence."

  "Why did she never tell anyone? Her sister would have helped her, surely—and your mother."

  "My mother said her cousin was too afraid of him to speak up, but she was also ashamed. She blamed herself for inviting the abuse, thinking she'd done something to displease him."

  "Did she regain her confidence after his death?"

  "Not really. She remained anxious and unsettled until her own death almost two years later. I remember my mother telling me, after she learned of his abuse, and shaking her head in disbelief. She didn't understand why her cousin couldn't see she wasn't to blame and that his death freed her."