by C. J. Archer
Mrs. McGuire nodded then peeked inside the envelope. "Good lord," she murmured. "So much."
I tried to give her the envelope but she refused to take it.
"You'd best put it back where you found it," she said.
"It's yours now."
"I don't know…"
I returned to the desk and searched through the calling cards. "This fellow is a lawyer. He's probably your husband's lawyer and will have a copy of his will. Pay him a visit to discuss the terms of your husband's will. You are most likely the beneficiary, so all monies owing your husband are now owed to you."
She took the card. "This man called here yesterday. I didn't speak to him."
"He probably read about Mr. McGuire's death in the newspapers and wants to discuss his affairs with you. I think you should see him."
"I will. Thank you, Mrs. Glass. Thank you for everything."
I collected Matt from number sixteen Park Street and together we drove to Scotland Yard. I refused to tell him what I'd learned, on account of not wanting to repeat myself with Brockwell. He crossed his arms and spent the rest of the journey glowering.
I recounted my meeting with Mrs. McGuire to both Matt and the inspector, finishing with the details written on the envelope full of money.
"That's the day McGuire died," Matt said.
"The day before," I pointed out. "His death occurred in the small hours the following morning."
"Did Mrs. McGuire notice her husband return in the evening and go out again?" Brockwell asked.
"She took a sleeping draught at about eleven so can't be certain he didn't return. He could have come home, deposited the envelope in the filing cabinet, and gone out again. The important point is, Fabian's debt was repaid before McGuire's death. I suspect McGuire was going to update his ledger later, but his death prevented him from doing so, and so the ledger in your possession, Inspector, still lists the debt as outstanding."
"The timing is interesting," Matt said, thoughtfully. "We know McGuire was at home for an early dinner, so he either brought the envelope home with him then went out again, or he went out after dinner, met with someone who repaid him, then returned after his wife went to bed before going out a second time to the pub. Either way, India's right. Fabian couldn't have repaid it. The date on the envelope was the tenth, and Fabian was in prison on the tenth, at least until late in the evening."
Brockwell flipped open his notebook and ran a finger down the page. "Last inspection by the guards was at ten o'clock. A witness said McGuire was at the pub from nine until midnight, and he didn't meet anyone there."
"So who paid off Fabian's debt?" I asked.
"Does it matter?" Brockwell said. "Whoever paid it isn't the killer because McGuire was alive when he brought the money back to the house."
"It doesn't matter regarding the murder, but it matters to us, Inspector. Fabian will now owe someone a favor for paying off his debt, and I'd like to know who."
"Find him and ask him."
"Yes, thank you, Inspector," I said wryly.
Matt hadn't been paying attention during our exchange, but now he piped up. "How did Mrs. McGuire seem? Was she upset?"
"A little," I hedged, not wanting to make her sound heartless. "I think she was still in disbelief, and somewhat under her husband's spell, even now. She couldn't meet my gaze when she spoke ill of him."
"Or couldn't she meet it because she was lying?"
"And she murdered him?" Brockwell finished. "Thank you for your insight, Mrs. Glass."
"I don't think she did it," I told them.
He tapped his forehead. "I have taken a note in here of your opinion."
I scowled at him, not sure if he was simply indulging me. "One more thing," I said. "Mrs. McGuire thought her husband was distracted at dinner. It might be nothing, or it might be that he was distracted because of his upcoming meeting that night with the killer."
"Thank you again, Mrs. Glass. Your insights and investigative skills are a marvel."
"You're welcome, Inspector. Oh and I almost forgot. I found Mr. Delancey's card in McGuire's desk drawer."
"Who?" Brockwell asked.
"He's with Rotherby's Bank, and sometimes loans money to magicians in a private capacity. It could be nothing, but I would like to ask him some questions about his connection to McGuire."
"I'll speak to him this afternoon."
"Actually, I'd like to visit him, just Matt and me. If his connection to McGuire has anything to do with magic, he might talk to me but I doubt he will to you."
Brockwell fingered his sideburns. "I don't like it. It's against procedure."
"Very sensitive questions must be asked about magic. He won't talk to you, Inspector, but he trusts me. Think of him as another Mrs. McGuire. You asked me to speak to her."
"Very well. I will allow it. Glass, be careful. Don't let anything happen to your wife."
"I'll do my best." Matt's tone dripped with sarcasm that seemed to slip past Brockwell altogether.
Mr. Delancey wasn't at his Rotherby Bank office. Being lunchtime, we found him at home, sharing his midday repast with his wife.
"Do join us for coffee and dessert," Mrs. Delancey said, inviting us into the dining room. "What a lovely surprise this is, India. And Mr. Glass too, of course."
"To what do we owe the pleasure?" Mr. Delancey asked as he sat at the head of the table.
His wife resumed her seat at the opposite end of the polished table while Matt and I found a place in the middle. The footmen set the table for two more and served desserts of lemon jelly, apple tart, a pudding, and late season strawberries with cream.
"I do apologize for the simplicity of the offerings," Mrs. Delancey said. "When it's just the two of us for luncheon, we prefer to eat light."
If this dessert course was considered light, the servants must eat well off the leftovers. It was too much for four, let alone two.
"You were naughty last time you were here, India," Mrs. Delancey goaded. "You knew Mr. Charbonneau had escaped from prison yet you said nothing."
"I don't like to gossip unnecessarily."
"All gossip is necessary, my dear. Sometimes it's a more valuable commodity than money."
"Steady on," Mr. Delancey said with a good-natured chuckle. "Not even Coyle believes that."
"India and Mr. Glass are here for information, Husband, not money."
"How do you know?"
"Because they've come here to the house, not your office."
Following a conversation with the Delanceys was like watching a tennis match, my head swiveling left and right as each took turns tossing remarks down the table.
"Actually we did go to the office," Matt said. "They informed us that Mr. Delancey had returned home for luncheon."
Mr. Delancey scooped up a spoonful of jelly and raised it in salute to his wife before eating it.
"What do you want to talk to him about?" Mrs. Delancey asked. "Is it regarding Mr. Charbonneau? Have you found him yet? Is he guilty of murdering that scum as the newspapers suggest?"
"Language, my dear! There's no need for it at the table."
"I do apologize," she said to us. "But such people make me angry. They prey on the desperate and weak."
I wasn't sure how McGuire was all that different to Delancey. They were both money lenders, except one worked for a large institution while the other worked alone.
"Your business card was found with the victim's belongings," Matt told Mr. Delancey. "Why would that be? Have you met him?"
Mr. Delancey licked his lips then patted them with the napkin. "I have, as it happens."
"Why didn't you tell me?" his wife blurted out.
"I didn't think it important."
"Not even after reading his name in the newspapers in connection to Mr. Charbonneau? We read the article together," she said with a pout in her voice. "You ought to have mentioned it."
"My humblest apologies, my dear. You're right, I should have mentioned it when I eventually remembered w
here I'd heard the name McGuire. I didn't at the time of reading the article, but some time later it finally clicked." He snapped his fingers. "McGuire came to the bank and was referred to me, because of the large amount of money he wanted to borrow."
"Usually Mr. Delancey's underlings deal with ordinary folk, while he gives the better clients his attention," Mrs. Delancey explained.
"Did you loan him the money?" Matt asked.
"I rejected his application," Mr. Delancey said. "He didn't have any means to repay such a large sum, so naturally I couldn't approve the loan. It wasn't until he died that I read about his own money lending scheme. He didn't mention it to me in our meeting."
"I wonder why," his wife said.
"Because he'd have to declare the names of his debtors," Mr. Delancey told her. "I'd wager many of them do not want it known they owe money to a ragtag lender."
She gasped. "Do you mean they're criminals?"
"Some might be, certainly."
"Not Mr. Charbonneau."
"Why not Charbonneau?"
"Because…because… India said he's a good fellow." She picked up her wine glass. "And I trust her opinion."
"Fabian is a good man," I said. "He borrowed money from McGuire for the same reason others do. He couldn't go to a bank as he had nothing to show he could repay. He was probably hoping his family would reinstate his allowance, but am I right in thinking the bank wouldn't have accepted that?"
Mr. Delancey gave a nod. "Very astute, Mrs. Glass."
"You didn't think to report your meeting with McGuire to the police?" Matt asked.
"I didn't see the relevancy to the murder."
"It shows that he owed money to someone. Most likely his creditor was asking for it to be repaid."
That was why he'd demanded Fabian repay him—the banks wouldn't lend him anything so he'd called in his own debts. Perhaps he'd asked his other debtors to repay too.
"Did he say why he needed the money?" I asked.
"To take advantage of a business opportunity that had come his way. I didn't really believe it, though. He refused to give me details of the venture and seemed rather nervous throughout the meeting. I think he needed the money to repay a debt, just as you say, Glass."
"Can you tell us anything else about your meeting?" Matt asked. "Anything at all?"
Mr. Delancey shook his head and tucked into his jelly.
"Will the information help Mr. Charbonneau?" Mrs. Delancey asked.
"If we can find who killed Mr. McGuire then Fabian can come out of hiding," I said.
"Then we must help." She appealed to her husband. "Ferdinand, are you sure there's not more you can tell us?"
Mr. Delancey had his mouth full but shook his head.
"You know several of London's leading businessmen?" Matt asked him.
Mr. Delancey swallowed and scooped up another spoonful. "Certainly. Why?"
"If I tell you the names of the men who owed McGuire, can you tell me your opinion of them?"
Mr. Delancey waved his spoon back and forth. "I'm afraid not. Professional confidence and all that."
"I understand," Matt said with barely disguised patience, "but this could help find his killer and prove Charbonneau's innocence."
"The answer's no, Glass. I am sorry."
"Do reconsider," Mrs. Delancey said to her husband. "For Mr. Charbonneau's sake. If he's not proven innocent, he'll hang for murder, and the world can ill afford to lose a magician of his caliber."
"My dear, you ask too much of me. My integrity is very important to the bank. Besides, I'm sure Mr. and Mrs. Glass will find the murderer without my help. They're an excellent sleuthing team."
She sighed. "Please try to convince him, India."
I wasn't sure how, until the clock on the mantel chimed one. "Mr. Charbonneau will donate a piece of magical iron to your collection. If your help leads to his freedom, it'll be the least he can do."
"Oh yes!" Mrs. Delancey clapped her hands. "Do accept, Ferdinand."
Mr. Delancey set down his spoon and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "A metal item of my choice?"
"I'm sure he'll agree, as long as it's not a bridge," I said.
He chuckled. "Very well. But it must be understood that any information I give you is not to be traced back to me. If you inform the police, keep my name out of it."
"Agreed," Matt said.
"Tell me a name then. Who was McGuire's largest debtor?"
"Mr. Stanhope, business partner of Mr. Ingles of the Ingles Vinegar Company."
"I know of the company, but I've never met either fellow. They don't bank with us." He looked away and studied his wine glass.
"What do you know about the company?" Matt prompted.
"They make vinegar and wine, I believe."
"You agreed," Matt warned him.
"Ferdinand," Mrs. Delancey barked. "Answer him."
Mr. Delancey drained his wine glass then set it down very deliberately. "I know I agreed to give an opinion, but what I know about the business came from others. I don't want to get my colleagues into trouble. We're not supposed to share information, you see."
"Who are the 'we' you're referring to?" I asked.
"Bankers, Mrs. Glass. Bankers from various banks talk to one another, at gentlemen's clubs and the like." Mr. Delancey put up his hands. "Before you tell me it's unethical, I just want to point out that it's natural for people to gossip. The information isn't used in a professional capacity."
I didn't believe that, but we couldn't judge him harshly when we were asking him to share the information. "If you want the magical ironwork, you have to tell us. We'll keep the information to ourselves, I promise."
He sighed. "The Ingles Vinegar Company is going through a difficult patch. They defaulted on repayments on a large loan taken out some years ago with another bank."
Matt sat forward. "That's not the impression we got on our visit to the factory. It seemed to be thriving. Mr. Ingles in particular was happy with the company's performance."
"They don't have the cash flow right now. I've never met the man and I don't know the structure of the company, but perhaps he isn't aware of all that goes on there. That's often the case. Sometimes when a company grows large, a manager is appointed and given too much authority. He might not inform the owners when the business is facing difficulty, particularly if its failure is his own fault. He might have taken out a larger loan, or tried to expand too quickly, perhaps spent too much on new equipment without doing a thorough analysis first. There are many reasons he might wish to keep the business's failure to himself, but I can assure you, it all comes down to him wanting to protect himself. Find out who controls the purse strings at Ingles and you will find the source of their financial woes."
Stanhope.
We thanked the Delanceys and made to leave, only to have Mrs. Delancey protest that it was too soon. "You've hardly eaten a thing, India."
"It was delicious, but we must go," I said. "Thank you for your hospitality."
"We must invite you both to dinner, mustn't we, Mr. Delancey?"
Her husband agreed with enthusiasm. "We'll invite all our friends, and your Mr. Charbonneau too when this is all over. Everyone wants to meet him."
"He can bring our magical iron piece. What shall we ask for?"
"A sculpture would fill the bare corner in the drawing room where the vase used to be before the maid broke it," he said.
Mrs. Delancey clapped her hands in delight. "Does he work in bronze?" she asked me.
"Iron and bronze are two different metals," her husband said with a shake of his head. "Do you know of a bronze magician, Mrs. Glass?"
"No," I said.
"Pity," Mrs. Delancey muttered. She tugged the bell pull to summon the butler. "I'll send out invitations when this is all over. Do tell Mr. Charbonneau when you find him that he should come to us in future if he requires money. We'll be more than happy to help."
"With the promise of more magical objects?" I asked.
&nb
sp; She patted the lace collar at her throat. "We wouldn't be so vulgar, Mrs. Glass. It would be out of the goodness of our hearts."
Matt and I stopped for a casual lunch at a chop house, although I wasn't all that hungry having already eaten dessert. Over the meal, we discussed our approach and decided to speak to Mr. Ingles first, even though we thought Mr. Stanhope was responsible for any financial difficulties the company might be facing. We wanted to know how much Mr. Ingles knew.
We went straight to the brew house when we arrived at the South Lambeth factory. Thanks to the noise of the machinery, no one heard us and we were able to sneak past the workmen when their backs were turned. We found Mr. Ingles upstairs, inspecting a clear cup containing a liquid substance by holding it up to the light streaming through one of the large arched windows. The whir and thump of machinery came from the enormous metal vats and coppers.
There was more activity here than on the level below, and we were quickly spotted. Mr. Ingles didn't immediately greet us when his worker alerted him to our presence. He continued to study the contents of the cup, swirling the dark golden liquid around the sides then smelling it.
Matt and I approached him. "May we speak with you alone?" Matt said over the sounds of the machines.
Mr. Ingles dismissed his staff and poured the liquid into the vat through a funnel protruding from the side. The vat vibrated from the machine inside which must be either stirring or squashing the contents. "I've told you everything. What more do you want from me?"
"We have some more questions," Matt said.
"About Hubert's movements? I told you, he was here with me until about nine. He's not involved in the murder of that man, Mr. Glass. He's an upstanding fellow. I can vouch for his character."
"These are merely routine questions," Matt assured him. "There's nothing to be alarmed about. If anything, they'll prove Mr. Stanhope's innocence, since you're sure he is innocent."
"He is."
"Then you have nothing to worry about," I said, matching Matt's gentle, reassuring tone.
Mr. Ingles used the cloth hanging over his shoulder to wipe out the cup, which I realized was actually a beaker used in science laboratories. "Very well. How can I help you now?"
