The Prisoner's Key

by C. J. Archer

  "Tap the walls. If a section sounds hollow then there might be a storage cavity behind it."

  We tapped the walls, checked under the chairs, inside the desk and filing cabinet drawers for false bottoms. We rolled up the rug and stamped our feet over every exposed inch of the floor. The only section we couldn't check easily was under the filing cabinet. It was heavy and we couldn't lift it between us.

  "I never heard furniture scraping on the floor," she said.

  "He might have waited until you were out." I eyed the filing cabinet, hands on hips. "It must be under there."

  It crossed my mind to fetch Matt, Duke or Cyclops, but that would only take time. Besides, I wanted to conquer the filing cabinet without their help.

  I placed my shoulder against its side and pushed as hard as I could. The cabinet lifted a little only to fall back again. I grinned. "I don't think he moved it. He tipped it. Help me move the desk over to the other side to stop the cabinet putting a hole in your floor when it falls."

  We maneuvered the desk into position then put our shoulders to the cabinet. On the count of three, we gave an almighty shove, raising the side of the cabinet closest to us. It crashed down on the desk, splintering the wood.

  Neither of us cared. On the floor was a square shaped panel with a ring set into the wood. A trapdoor.

  Mrs. McGuire pulled on the ring and the panel lifted, revealing a small cavity under the floor. Inside were two documents. We unfolded one and poured over it together.

  "It's a contract for a financial arrangement," I said. "It says that your husband owed the lender five thousand pounds."

  Mrs. McGuire gasped. "How will I ever repay such an amount?"

  "It doesn't matter." I pointed to a clause at the bottom. "The debt is null and void if he dies without paying it."

  "That is a relief. Do you think that's odd?"

  "I don't know. The world of money lending is new to me." I searched the document for a name, but there was none. Whoever loaned McGuire the money didn't want to be identified. Perhaps that was why the amount was never to be repaid after McGuire's death.

  "What about this one?" Mrs. McGuire said, unfolding the second document. "It's different. It's not a contract."

  It was a single paragraph of text with a signature at the bottom.

  Mr. Hubert Stanhope.

  Mrs. McGuire read out the paragraph. "'I hereby acknowledge that I embezzled funds from my place of business, The Ingles Vinegar Company of South Lambert, to the amount of one thousand pounds.' That's all it says." She handed the document to me and I reread it. "What does it mean?"

  "It means your husband could produce this signed note if Mr. Stanhope didn't repay his debt. Most likely he would show it to Mr. Stanhope's business partner, Mr. Ingles." It meant Matt was right, and Stanhope had a very good reason to murder McGuire. McGuire must have told him at their early evening meeting that he would show the signed confession to Ingles if he didn't repay the debt in its entirety. Stanhope had met him again later, probably telling McGuire he had the money, but had instead killed him to prevent his business partner from learning his shameful secret.

  It must have been a double blow for Stanhope the day we told Mr. Ingles. Not only did Stanhope lose his position at the company, but he realized he'd committed murder for nothing.

  "Perhaps that's why Stanhope had an asterisk on his contract," Mrs. McGuire said. "It was referring to this, a sort of reminder for my husband."

  I nodded but my mind was elsewhere. I was more convinced than ever that Stanhope had murdered McGuire. But the unanswered questions bothered me too much. I couldn't go to Brockwell with this. Not yet. Not until I knew I wasn't condemning an innocent man.

  We still needed evidence linking Stanhope to Fabian, and there was also the matter of his alibi.

  It was time to talk to Mrs. Stanhope. Matt might be right about that too, and Brockwell couldn't detect her lie.

  I asked Mrs. McGuire to deliver an urgent message to him to meet me at the Stanhopes' address in Hammersmith then proceeded there myself in the carriage. I instructed Woodall, the coachman, to wait a little up the street but within sight of the townhouse's front door.

  I knocked on the basement service door and told the young maid who answered that I needed to know how many staff worked in the house. "The information will be used as part of a statistical analysis on the employment of domestic servants in London conducted by the Foundation for Retired Domestic Workers."

  She wrinkled her nose "I've never heard of it."

  "We're a newly formed charitable institute that raises funds to support live-in domestic workers after their years of servitude come to an end. There's a great need in this city to care for those who've cared for others over many years and who find themselves without a home when they are no longer of use to their employers."

  "Well it's about bloody time someone did something for us. Come in and meet everyone for yourself."

  "I only require numbers, at this point."

  "Come in and have a cup of tea anyway. It's the least we can do for someone on our side. Come on, Mrs.…?"

  "Glass," I said without thinking.

  "Come in, Mrs. Glass, and we'll tell you everything you need to know about the servants on this entire street."

  I glanced over my shoulder and nodded at Woodall. There was no sign of Matt, but I had no plans to speak to Mrs. Stanhope without him. Staying in the service rooms would be a good way to learn if Mr. Stanhope was at home, however, while remaining out of his sight.

  "We're a small group," the maid, Martha, said as she led the way down the dark corridor. "I'm the only live-in staff. Mr. and Mrs. Crupper used to live in but when they married last year, they found their own accommodations and commute every day. He's the butler and she's the cook. I do the cleaning and help out Mrs. Crupper in the kitchen." We reached the kitchen where a woman sat at the table with a man dressed in outdoor clothes. "This is Mrs. Crupper and Reggie, the stable hand, coachman, maintenance man. You name it, Reggie does it. He lives above the stables."

  I gave them my spiel again about the foundation. Mrs. Crupper was as enthusiastic as Martha had been, but Reggie merely hunkered down over his bowl of soup, tucking it close to his chest as if he were afraid someone would take it from him. He didn't seem to be listening at all. When he finished, he placed his bowl into the washing tub then left without a word.

  Mrs. Crupper tapped her forehead. "He's not all there," she said as she poured my tea. "Poor fellow. He's a good man, though, and a hard worker. He'll benefit from your foundation's funds, that's for sure. Long time away, of course, him being only in his thirties, but some day."

  "Are your employers kind?" I asked.

  "Kind enough," Mrs. Crupper said, taking her seat again. "We don't see much of Mr. Stanhope during the day, on account of his work."

  "Where does he work?"

  "A vinegar factory. He's a real important man in the company. Isn't that right, Martha?"

  "It is," Martha said, dipping a biscuit in her tea. "Mrs. Stanhope's very proud of him. She likes to tell all her friends how important too, which is probably why few friends come round nowadays."

  "Martha!" Mrs. Crupper clicked her tongue at the maid. "That's not why they don't come." To me, she said, "Mrs. Stanhope is ill. She doesn't leave the house much on account of the pain in her legs. The poor thing, they give her so much trouble these days."

  "She's still in good spirits," Martha said. "Always cheerful, that's Mrs. Stanhope."

  "You like them both?"

  "She's kind."

  "And Mr. Stanhope?"

  Martha shrugged. "I don't have much to do with him."

  "He's all right, as masters go," Mrs. Crupper said. "He's never hurt any of us, never treated us unfairly, and he's good to Reggie. I've never seen him shout at Reggie, and poor Reggie sometimes needs to be shouted at or he doesn't know what's what."

  It wasn't glowing praise, but I'd heard some horrific stories of the way maids had been treated b
y their employers, so it was no wonder they thought Mr. Stanhope a good man simply because he left them alone. They'd be shocked to learn he was a murderer.

  Footsteps sounded on the flagstone corridor and a man dressed in black coat and tie with white gloves appeared. "Where's Reggie?" he asked. "He needs to bring the carriage around. Mr. Stanhope is returning to the factory now." This must be Mr. Crupper, the butler.

  "In the stables," Martha told him.

  "Who're you?" Mr. Crupper asked me.

  "This is Mrs. Glass," Mrs. Crupper said. "She's with a charitable foundation that helps retired servants. She's just sharing a cup of tea with us before she goes on her way."

  "I hope you're not gossiping."

  "We'd never," Mrs. Crupper said with a secretive smile.

  Her husband gave her a good natured grunt. He turned to go, only to stop again and stand to attention as more footsteps sounded along the corridor. "Sir, I was just about to go in search of Reggie and give him instructions to bring the conveyance around."

  Mr. Stanhope appeared in the doorway.

  I froze. I had nowhere to go. Facing the door meant I couldn't even present him with my back. I could only sit there and hope he didn't bother to look further than the butler.

  "There's been a change of plans," Mr. Stanhope said. "I won't be returning to the factory this afternoon. I have other business in the city to attend to."

  "I'll inform Reggie, sir."

  Mr. Stanhope turned to go and in so doing, his gaze swept around the kitchen. It flicked over me then snapped back.

  I swallowed and tried to look calm.

  His face paled and the slack skin beneath his jaw shook. I waited for him to order me out, but he didn't. He simply stood there, staring, his breaths coming hard and fast. He didn't know what to do, I realized. If he acknowledged me he'd have to explain how he knew me, and it was clear that he hadn't told the staff he no longer worked at the factory. Perhaps he hadn't even informed his wife.

  "This is Mrs. Glass," Mrs. Crupper said quickly with an anxious glance at her husband. "She works for a charitable institute—"

  "This space is for staff use only," Mr. Stanhope said through a clenched jaw. "Not for idle chit chat with friends."

  Martha made a sound of protest. "But she's not—"

  "Martha!" Mrs. Crupper hissed. Martha pressed her lips together.

  I smiled at her. "Thank you for the tea," I said rising. "It was a pleasure to meet you all." I pushed past Mr. Stanhope, half expecting him to grab my arm and haul me to a stop.

  But he let me go without a word.

  Outside, I gave Woodall a signal to indicate that he was to continue to wait, then I took up a position between two neighboring houses opposite and a little up the street from the Stanhopes’ house. Shielded by a set of front steps, I could safely watch their house. With Mr. Stanhope about to leave, it was the perfect opportunity to speak to his wife.

  Matt ought to arrive at any moment too. Together, we could ask her questions about the night of the murder. But everything hinged on Mr. Stanhope leaving. Now that he'd seen me, there was a very good chance he'd decide to stay.

  The front door opened, but instead of Mr. Stanhope emerging, the butler appeared. He glanced along the street toward a lane, perhaps waiting for Reggie to bring around the carriage. Good. Mr. Stanhope still planned on leaving.

  Mr. Crupper scanned the street, his gaze halting when it got to me. I'd thought myself well hidden behind the steps but it would seem not. Damnation.

  I should have left then, perhaps even tossed him a wave. But I did not, and I paid for my hesitation.

  My only warning came in the form of a sudden and inexplicable chime from my watch in my reticule. Finally it worked as my old one had. No, not quite. It chimed but did not save me from the attack.

  Just as I registered the significance of the chime, pain ripped through my skull. My vision blurred and I slumped forward against the steps.

  Chapter 14

  Through the fiery ache in my head and the ringing in my ears, I could make out a man's voice, shouting, and running footsteps. A figure blocked out the light and something lightly slapped my cheek.

  "Mrs. Glass?" came Woodall's panicked voice. "Mrs. Glass, wake up! Blimey, if you're dead, Mr. Glass'll kill me."

  "I'm not dead," I managed to say.

  He helped me to sit up. The poor man looked terribly worried, and I smiled to reassure him, even though my head felt as though it had split open. I touched the back of my skull. No blood, thankfully, although a lump had begun to form.

  "India?" Matt jumped out of a still-moving hansom and raced toward me. "My god, are you hurt?" He cupped my face and searched my eyes. His own were filled with worry.

  "I was hit on the head from behind," I said. "I didn't see his face. Or hers."

  "It was a man," Woodall said. "But I was too far away to see who. He ran off in that direction." He pointed down the street. "He's long gone. I came to Mrs. Glass as soon as I saw her fall."

  "Thank you, Woodall," Matt said. "Your attention to my wife is appreciated."

  "I best get back to the coach, sir."

  Matt checked me over again, inspecting the wound. "Do you feel ill?" he asked.

  "No."

  "Dizzy?"

  "Not anymore."

  "Can you see properly?"

  "Yes."

  He gently drew me into a hug, as if he expected me to shatter. He expelled a deep breath, ruffling my hair.

  "I know what you're going to say," I said.

  "And what is that?" he asked, voice rolling through me like thunder.

  "That I should have waited for you before going inside."

  He drew away and frowned at me. "You went inside?"

  It was too late to take it back and pretend otherwise. "Just to the service area."

  "Christ, India, why couldn't you wait?"

  "I thought it wouldn't matter if I spoke to the servants without you. They might have some information, and there was little chance of coming across Mr. Stanhope down there."

  "So what went wrong?"

  "The odds didn't work in my favor. Mr. Stanhope came downstairs and recognized me."

  "You think he hit you?"

  "It's too much of a coincidence for it not to be him."

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. When he drew it away, the worry in his eyes had been replaced by simmering anger.

  "On the bright side," I said, opening my reticule, "my watch chimed just before I was hit. It warned me, Matt. Isn't that wonderful. My magic worked."

  He grunted. "It didn't save you."

  "The reticule was closed."

  He rubbed his face again. "I'm going to have a word with Stanhope."

  "I think he's already gone. Help me up, Matt. We'll speak to his widow as we intended."

  "You should rest here a moment then Woodall can take you home."

  I cocked my head to the side, bringing on a fresh wave of aches that I hid behind a glare. "I'm going to speak to her with you. In the mood you're in, you might not follow the script."

  "Don't treat this lightly, India."

  "I'm not. I want to catch a killer and that means completing what we set out to do—determine if Mrs. Stanhope is a liar. Now, help me up."

  "You're stubborn." He settled his hands on my waist and lifted me to my feet. Either by accident or by design, I ended up standing very close to him. "But I am very glad to have my stubborn wife with me at all."

  I was about to make a quip about him being overly dramatic but one look at his hard features, his dark swirling eyes, and I decided it was best not to. I kissed him lightly instead then took his hand.

  We crossed the road as Mr. Crupper emerged from the Stanhope house. He looked worried as he trotted down the stairs to meet us.

  "Are you all right, Mrs. Glass?" he asked. "My mistress says she saw you'd fallen."

  "She didn't fall," Matt growled. "She was hit on the head by an assailant. Did you see him?"

  Mr
. Crupper took a step back beneath the force of Matt's ire. "I—I didn't, sir. I saw someone approaching Mrs. Glass but thought it was an acquaintance of hers, so I returned inside. My employer, Mrs. Stanhope, told me just now that she saw Mrs. Glass on the ground."

  "This is Mr. Crupper, the butler," I told Matt. "Mr. Crupper, meet my husband, Matthew Glass. May we speak to Mrs. Stanhope?"

  "She is not receiving callers."

  "She'll see us," Matt snapped.

  Mr. Crupper pulled himself up to his full height, which was far less than Matt's. "I don't think so. Mrs. Glass may go to the basement entrance and receive a cup of tea from the staff."

  Matt's gaze turned icy. "Step aside."

  "I'm not from a charitable foundation," I quickly said to Mr. Crupper. "We are assistants to Detective Inspector Brockwell of Scotland Yard. We have his authority to question Mrs. Stanhope over the murder of Mr. McGuire."

  Mr. Crupper's eyes grew wider with every word, his jaw slacker. "But the inspector has already been here and asked his questions. What can he possibly need to know now?"

  "That is not your affair," Matt said.

  Mr. Crupper swallowed. "Follow me."

  We headed up the stairs and inside to a sitting room. A woman with gray streaks through her hair and deathly pale skin welcomed us. She reclined on a chaise by the window, a blanket covering her from the waist down.

  "Please excuse me for not getting up," she said. "My legs, you see."

  "Mr. and Mrs. Glass to see you, madam," the butler said. "They're with Scotland Yard."

  Mrs. Stanhope's brows arched. "The police again? Whatever for this time?"

  Mr. Crupper backed out of the room, leaving the door open.

  "I don't understand," Mrs. Stanhope said as she indicated we should sit. "Crupper thinks you work for a charity, I saw you crumpled on the footpath, you've been watching the house, and now you're here claiming to work for the police. What is going on?"

  "Did you see who hit my wife?" Matt asked.

  "No. I was reading." She picked up the book on the table beside her. "I looked up for a moment and saw a woman on the ground, a man running towards her. Your coachman?"