The Prisoner's Key

by C. J. Archer

"You told us that Mr. Stanhope is the company accountant," Matt said. "He controls all the financials, approves purchases, and applies to banks for loans, doesn't he?"

  "He can't take out a loan without my approval, but he does manage the company accounts. He has staff to assist him, but all major financial transactions go through him. Why? What is this about?"

  "Are you aware the company has defaulted on a substantial loan recently?"

  "Wh—what?" he spluttered. "No, no, that's not true. I know the loan you speak of. It was taken out years ago when we expanded. We've never struggled to meet our regular repayments. Never. Who is spreading these rumors?"

  "It's true, Mr. Ingles," I said. "We regret to inform you, but if Mr. Stanhope is solely responsible for the company's finances, then he hasn't told you about the financial difficulties Ingles is facing."

  "That can't be. Business is booming. We've got more orders than ever, thanks to our cordials. We're set to become the third biggest producer of vinegar and related products in the country. What you're suggesting is just not possible."

  Mr. Ingles scrubbed a stained hand down his face. When it came away, he looked like a tired old man. He stared at the vats, shaking his head over and over.

  "This has come as a shock," I said, touching his arm.

  He shook me off. "I'll talk to him and get to the bottom of this. There's obviously been a mistake."

  He went to march off but Matt caught him by the elbow. "I can't let you do that. By authority of Scotland Yard, we have to speak to Stanhope first."

  Matt wouldn't meet my gaze. It was probably just as well or I might have made it too obvious to Mr. Ingles that no such authority existed.

  "You told us you were with Mr. Stanhope until nine on the evening of the murder," Matt said. "In light of what you now know about your partner's cheating, do you still stand by that?"

  Mr. Ingles blinked. "If your accusation of financial mismanagement is true, what does it have to do with the murder?"

  "It explains why he went to Mr. McGuire for a loan."

  "But it doesn't explain why Hubert would murder him as he still owes the man's heirs the money. Besides, I reread the newspaper article about the murder after your last visit, and the man died in the early hours of the morning. Whether I lied to you about him being with me until nine or not is irrelevant."

  "So you did lie?" I pressed.

  "Yes, I lied." He wiped his hands on the towel, once again looking like the strong and sprightly man in his sixties rather than someone who ought to take to his bed. "Hubert asked me to. He said the police would question him over the murder because he owed the fellow money. I was more than happy to give him an alibi, as you investigators call it, because I knew he was innocent. He's a decent man. But I didn't give him an alibi anyway, as the murder occurred much later. Hubert must have thought it happened earlier."

  He marched off, striding toward the stairs. He no longer looked vulnerable, but furious. I wasn't sure if he was angry with us for our questions, or with Mr. Stanhope for cheating the business out of money to pay his personal debts.

  Matt took my arm and lowered his head to mine. "It fits," was all he said.

  He didn't need to say more. We'd discussed beforehand the question of timing. Mr. McGuire had left the house around six o'clock. Most likely he'd met with the person who paid back Fabian's debt, and perhaps others on his list of debtors. One of those could have been Mr. Stanhope, but not if he was still there, as Mr. Ingles originally suggested. It was Matt's theory that Ingles had lied for his friend. He'd been nervous the day we questioned him about it, and he had seemed uncomfortable. If Mr. Stanhope had indeed left the factory much earlier, he could have met with McGuire, who then ordered Stanhope to pay back the money. Panicking, Stanhope met with him again later and killed him to avoid repaying him.

  There were two problems with our theory, however. One, why would he set up Fabian? Indeed, how could he set up Fabian when he didn't even know Fabian had escaped? And two, he claimed to be home with his wife in bed at the time of the murder. We were yet to speak to her and determine if she would lie for her husband as Ingles had done.

  We followed Mr. Ingles as he marched across the courtyard. He didn't acknowledge any of the workers who greeted him, leaving them with bemused frowns as they stared after him. This man who I'd only thought of as an amiable and unassuming gentleman had turned into a lion, fiercely protecting his territory. His territory being the company.

  He pushed open Mr. Stanhope's office door without knocking. "What have you done, Hubert?"

  Mr. Stanhope looked up from his paperwork, sporting a similar expression as the other staff. "Ernest? What's going on? And what are they doing here?"

  "Informing me of your embezzlement," Mr. Ingles said through gritted teeth.

  Mr. Stanhope half rose then fell back onto his chair. He made a small sound of protest in the back of his throat. "Whatever you've heard, it's wrong. I don't know what—"

  "Don't lie to me!" Mr. Ingles thumped his fist on the desk. A pen resting in an ink stand fell out and rolled away.

  Mr. Stanhope swallowed as he picked it up. "There must be a mistake. Tell me what the matter is and we'll discuss it calmly. But those two must go."

  "They have to stay," Ingles bit off. "Police orders."

  Thankfully Mr. Stanhope bought our lie. "Whatever they've told you isn't true. Come now, Ernest. I'm not a liar or cheat, you know that. I would never risk the company by embezzling profits."

  Mr. Ingles crossed his arms, some of the wind taken out of his sails. "The company is in excellent health. Why couldn't we repay the bank loan? Where did the profits go, if not into your pocket?"

  Mr. Stanhope tugged on his cuffs. "It's complicated. Losses are carried over from one year to the next, and then there are suppliers who are paid on differing schedules, and our own customers don't always pay on time. What appears as a profit on paper is not always so in reality."

  It seemed to appease Mr. Ingles somewhat, but not Matt. "Hand over your ledgers, and I'll check them. If what you say is true, I'll know in a matter of hours."

  "It's far too complicated for someone without solid company accounting expertise to understand."

  "I have my own international business interests. The police don't pay enough for us to live in Mayfair."

  Mr. Stanhope paled.

  "We have it on good authority that you defaulted on the company's loan repayments," Matt went on.

  "Who told you that?"

  "An informant at the bank."

  "Bollocks! The bank would never give up that sort of information to you two."

  "We have evidence."

  I cleared my throat. "It would be best if you just admit it, Mr. Stanhope." I nodded at Mr. Ingles. "Better in the long run."

  Mr. Stanhope stroked his moustache and beard, his gaze shifting between us. But it wasn't until Mr. Ingles thumped the desk with his fist again that Mr. Stanhope admitted it.

  "I borrowed some money from the business, but I've paid it back. It was just a temporary loan, but it impacted our bank repayment. It's all in order now and won't happen again. I'm sorry, Ernest."

  Mr. Ingles swept his arm over the desk, pushing off the papers, pens, and ink, and sending the lot onto the floor with a clatter. "This is still my company! I am the largest shareholder. I put hours and hours into the business, out there in the brew house. How dare you cheat me!"

  "I—I didn't cheat you." Mr. Stanhope rose and pressed his hand to his heart. "I paid back the company money. It's all there and our repayments are up to date. Check with the bank."

  "How did you pay it back?" Matt asked. "By borrowing from Mr. McGuire?"

  "Yes."

  "So you owed him instead, exchanging one debt for another."

  Mr. Stanhope pressed his lips his together.

  "Say something!" Mr. Ingles shouted.

  "How did you expect to pay McGuire back?" Matt asked.

  "Through hard work," Mr. Stanhope said, his gaze flicking to
Ingles. "Slowly, over time, out of my own wages. I would never use company money again. Never."

  "But he asked you for the money back sooner than expected," I said, choosing a more soothing tone than the men. "You panicked and killed him, not realizing the debt wouldn't be dissolved, or perhaps hoping McGuire's heir will return to a more regular, slower repayment schedule."

  "I didn't kill him! I'm not a murderer, you have to believe that."

  "Then why ask Mr. Ingles to lie for you and say you were here until nine?"

  "I knew the police would come asking questions. I knew I'd be a suspect, that's why I asked Ernest to vouch for me."

  "When did you leave the office?"

  "About six-thirty."

  "Did you go straight home?"

  "I went for a walk. I doubt anyone saw me. That's why I asked Ernest to say I was here. Anyway, wasn't the murder later? I would have been home then, with my wife. The police have already asked her and she told them I was there, asleep alongside her all night. I assure you, I didn't kill anyone." Mr. Stanhope's eyes filled with tears. "You have to believe me."

  We turned to leave but Matt paused in the doorway. "The company should have been able to pay the bank loan if you hadn't embezzled the funds. Why did you need money? What was it for?"

  "Gambling," he said on a groan. "Horses. Ernest, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

  Mr. Ingles stood very still, his fists closed at his sides, the knuckles white. His eyes blazed with fury. "Take your things and go."

  "Go? I can't go." Mr. Stanhope gave a strangled laugh. "We're partners."

  "I don't want a cheat as a partner. I'll be speaking to my lawyer this afternoon about dissolving the partnership on the grounds of embezzlement."

  "Ernest—"

  "Don't talk to me. I never want to hear your voice again." He jerked the door open and strode off.

  "But Ernest, you can't do this to me! Please. I'm begging you. This company is my life. It's everything to me."

  Mr. Ingles spun around, teeth bared in a snarl. "It's everything to me," he spat. "It's my family business. My name is on the front of this building. Get out before I call the constables and have you arrested for trespassing." He stormed off, watched by open-mouthed employees.

  Mr. Stanhope sat heavily on his chair and buried his face in his hands. "What am I to do? Where will I go? My reputation will be ruined." His shoulders shook and he sounded like he was crying. "I can't believe this is happening. I simply can't believe it."

  I wasn't sure if we should go, but Matt thought it best.

  "See that he's all right," he said to a staff member we passed in the corridor. "Someone should take him home."

  I felt a little raw as we made our way to the carriage. Had we just destroyed Mr. Stanhope's life? It was impossible not to feel as though we were to blame for Mr. Ingles wanting to dissolve the business partnership.

  Matt instructed the coachman to drive us to Scotland Yard. Inside the cabin, he took my hand and rubbed his thumb along mine. "The encounter upset you," he said.

  "I feel awful. Poor Mr. Stanhope."

  "We're not to blame for what he did. He made his own bed."

  "But he paid the company funds back. Mr. Ingles might never have found out if not for us."

  "Until the next time Stanhope embezzled funds. Mr. Ingles had a right to know. If I were in his position, I'd want to know. Perhaps I'd feel like you do if I thought Stanhope innocent of murder."

  I gasped and rounded on him. "You think he did it? He doesn't seem like the type to me."

  "Hendry didn't seem like the type either."

  He had a point, but I wasn't convinced. "Owing money doesn't seem like a compelling enough reason to murder someone. And what of the connection to Fabian? Why set it up so it looks like he did it? There's nothing linking them."

  Matt remained silent. I settled into his side. Being close to him and feeling the thrum of his pulse made me feel a little better.

  Brockwell wasn't in, so we left a message for him to call on us urgently. When we arrived home, we learned that Willie was watching Chronos's house and Cyclops had gone for a walk to Hyde Park with Aunt Letitia. Matt took the correspondence Bristow handed to him into the library and I followed. I tinkered with the black marble clock from the shop, trying yet again to see what could be causing it to lose time.

  Duke joined us a few minutes later and closed the door. If that wasn't a sign that something was amiss, then the worried look on his face certainly was.

  "Can we talk?" he asked.

  Matt lowered the letter he'd been reading. "What's wrong?"

  "It's Cyclops. He won't want me telling you this."

  I set down my beat setting tool and gave Duke my full attention. "We won't tell him."

  He glanced at the closed door. "Rycroft visited him today and threatened him."

  Chapter 11

  "You'd better start at the beginning," Matt said.

  Duke glanced at the door again. "Cyclops was in the stables this morning when Rycroft showed up."

  "You mean Rycroft's man," I clarified.

  "No, his lordship himself. He must have found out that Cyclops was there. He ordered the stable hands to leave but had his own two men with him. I wasn't there and didn't see them, but I'm guessing they weren't the fancy fellows that serve inside the house."

  I pressed a hand to my heart, not liking where this was going.

  Matt went still. "Did they rough up Cyclops?"

  "Threatened him," Duke said.

  I let out a pent-up breath. "What did Lord Rycroft say?"

  "He offered Cyclops money to leave London. Cyclops told Rycroft he'd done nothing to Charity and wouldn't take the money. That's when Rycroft threatened to speak to his friend, the Home Secretary."

  "The Home Secretary!" I cried. "Do you think he really knows him?"

  "They probably go to the same club," Matt said dryly.

  "What do you reckon he wants the Home Secretary to do?" Duke asked.

  "The Home Office is in charge of the police force," I said. "He might want the police to investigate."

  "And risk the public finding out?" Matt shook his head. "I doubt it. He won't want Charity's reputation ruined. My guess is he wants Cyclops deported."

  Duke swore. "Can the Home Secretary do that if Cyclops has done nothing wrong?"

  We all knew the answer to that. The Home Secretary wouldn't care if Cyclops were innocent. If he wanted to appease a friend and deport someone who wasn't a citizen, he could. He wouldn't need proof that a crime had been committed. He could make up a minor violation.

  But he wouldn't expect Cyclops to have a powerful friend to challenge the deportation order.

  Duke and I both looked to Matt.

  He rose. "I'll write to the Home Secretary immediately and pay him a visit tomorrow. You did the right thing in coming to me, Duke."

  The news of Rycroft's threat hung over me like a dark cloud. I found it difficult to pretend to Cyclops that I didn't know, and I threw myself into trying to fix the black marble clock. My mood oscillated between worry and anger, until finally my work began to soothe me.

  That's when the ideas formed. I wasn't sure of the law, but perhaps Cyclops couldn't be deported if he became an English citizen. How long did that process take? Would marrying an English girl speed it up? I even imagined an entire discussion with Catherine in which I asked her to propose to him. She'd do it too, if it meant saving him. The problem was getting Cyclops to agree. He was too honorable for his own good.

  Distraction arrived in the form of Louisa and the man she brought with her. I knew instantly that he must be Fabian's brother. They were of a similar height and build with the same dark shade of hair, but his jawline was softer and he wasn't quite as handsome.

  "I must apologize," Maxime Charbonneau said as we settled in the drawing room. "I should not have pushed you at the hotel, Mrs. Glass. I feel terrible for my actions."

  "It's quite all right," I said.

  "Why did you pu
sh her?" Matt asked, his voice edged with steel. Clearly he wasn't going to forgive as quickly as me.

  "I panicked," Mr. Charbonneau said. "I did not want anyone to know I was in London."

  "Anyone except me, that is," Louisa added. She sat erect and regal on the sofa beside me in an elegant sea green dress with lace panels, hem and cuffs. The matching hat sat forward so that her elaborate hairstyle could be appreciated from the back. I admired her confidence, elegance, and forthright attitude, and yet those very characteristics made me feel uncomfortable too. Perhaps it was because I'd never met a woman like her before. She was very different to anyone I knew, even Catherine.

  "I was afraid the police would find Fabian through me," Mr. Charbonneau went on. "At that time, I did not know that Louisa was not hiding him. I thought he was with her and that if the police saw me go to her, they would find him."

  "It's perfectly understandable," I said. "I know now that it was you who sent the letter opener to Louisa."

  "She tells me you assumed it was from my brother," Mr. Charbonneau said.

  "I felt the magic warmth in the inscription. It didn't occur to me that you could have sent it. I'm sorry I took it."

  "Why did you, if you thought it was from Fabian?" Louisa asked, her voice light and breezy yet her gaze sharp. "Why keep news of him from me?"

  "I simply wanted to speak to him first."

  "But I am his friend. I could help him just as well as you could, India." I didn't like the sweetness in her tone, the smile on her lips. "Or do you not trust me?"

  "Trust you?" I echoed. Perhaps if I stalled, something would come to me. Something that would get me out of the hole I seemed to be digging myself into.

  "We don't trust you," Matt said.

  I almost choked on my gasp. I couldn't quite believe what I was hearing. Yet I shouldn't have been surprised. Matt was not in the habit of being manipulated.

  "And why is that?" Louisa asked, the airiness in her voice gone.

  "In light of your failed offer of marriage to Fabian, there is now doubt that you would help him out of the goodness of your heart."

  Her nostrils flared. "What has that got to do with anything?"