by C. J. Archer
I nodded. "You saw no one running off?"
"I'm afraid not. Somebody hit you, you say? That's shocking. You poor thing. Are you all right?"
"I feel fine now, thank you."
"I'll have Crupper bring in tea." She reached for a little bell beside the book.
"It's not necessary," I said before she rang it. "I don't want tea. Mrs. Stanhope, we're here to ask you questions. I admit to lying to your staff to gather information on behalf of the police."
Her lips pinched. "So I gathered."
"I'm sorry, but it was necessary to learn more about the household."
She rubbed her forehead and sighed. "My husband didn't murder that man, Mrs. Glass. I've been through this with the detective inspector. Hubert was at home, in bed. He sleeps beside me. I would have noticed him get up, and I assure you, he did not."
"Forgive us for not believing you," Matt said flatly. "But my wife has just been attacked outside your house after meeting your husband downstairs. That's not a coincidence."
"Why would my husband attack her? It doesn't make sense if she is here to ask a few questions. He'd be mad to hurt anyone in broad daylight. What if he was seen?"
She had a point. Even if he realized I suspected he was guilty of murder, he wouldn't risk assaulting me. He gained nothing from it.
"Those are the facts, Mrs. Stanhope," Matt said. "And I don't like coincidences."
She blinked rapidly and rubbed one of her legs through the blanket. "Yes, of course. This is an awful business. Truly awful. The murder, the suspicion surrounding my husband, and now the attack on Mrs. Glass. I don't understand it. I truly don't."
If she was acting, she was incredibly good at it. My heart softened, and even Matt's dark mood seemed to evaporate. He shifted in the chair and looked away.
"I don't think you know everything there is to know about your husband," I ventured.
She bristled then gave a small wince of pain. "I'd know if he were a murderer or not."
"Did you know he no longer worked at Ingles?"
She stilled. "Pardon?"
"He was ordered to leave by Mr. Ingles after your husband's embezzlement came to light."
"Embezzlement!" She scoffed. "That's ridiculous. You can't say such things about my husband. They're simply not true!"
"Speak to Mr. Ingles, if you like," Matt said. "You wanted facts, madam, and we're presenting them to you."
"But he went to work this morning and came home for luncheon as he sometimes does." She rubbed her leg again. "He's gone back there now."
"No, he hasn't. I don't know where he is going instead, but it's not to the factory. He and Ingles had a falling out over the embezzlement. Ingles is going to dissolve the partnership."
Mrs. Stanhope choked on a sob. Matt handed her his handkerchief and she pressed it to her quivering lips. The veins on her cheeks stood out, deep blue against stark white, and her eyes reddened with her tears.
"Poor Hubert. This will hurt him deeply. The company is everything to him. It's his life." She dabbed the handkerchief to her eyes. "Why didn't he tell me?"
"He's probably ashamed," Matt said.
"This is awful. Simply awful. When news gets out, how will he ever show his face again?"
Matt and I exchanged glances. I nodded at him but he gave a slight shake of his head. He wanted me to ask the questions now.
I crouched next to Mrs. Stanhope and took her hand. "What has your husband's mood been like these last few days since the inspector questioned him?"
She lifted a shoulder. "As you would expect. He's been on edge, worrying that the police will find so-called evidence against him."
"So-called?" I echoed.
"They need to blame someone, so why not him? And now this embezzlement… It'll look like he had a reason to kill that man, won't it?"
I squeezed her hand.
"Now I know why he was acting oddly before the police arrived," she went on.
"He was?"
"Yes. Anxious, harried. He jumped at the slightest sound. He must have been worried Mr. Ingles would find out about the embezzlement." She dabbed her eyes again. "Why did he do it? We have enough money. I've never gone wanting."
"Gambling," Matt said.
She looked as if she was about to protest but thought better of it. I suspected Mrs. Stanhope knew her husband liked to gamble, but didn't know his gambling had become a problem.
"He owed a lot of money to someone," Matt went on. "So he took it from the company."
"With the intention of paying it back," she assured us.
"Of course. But he got caught out at the bank when the company couldn't make a regular loan repayment. He knew if he was going to keep the embezzlement a secret, he had to pay back the company. So he borrowed from Mr. McGuire, but McGuire called in the debt too soon, and your husband found he had no way to fund that repayment."
She rubbed her leg through the blanket again. "So you think he killed the money lender?" She shook her head. "No, Mr. Glass, he couldn't have. I would have noticed him get out of bed. I know you think I'm simply saying that to help him, but I assure you I'm not lying. Ask Martha. She helps me into bed and then out of it again in the morning. I would have told her I'd had a terrible sleep because Mr. Stanhope woke me. But I didn't. I haven't had an interrupted sleep in a long time." She picked up the bell and rang it.
Mr. Crupper entered immediately.
"Fetch Martha," Mrs. Stanhope said, once again rubbing her leg.
"Doesn't the pain keep you awake at night?" I asked.
"I sleep through it, thank God."
I glanced at Matt as I headed back to my chair. He didn't look at me, however. He stared at Mrs. Stanhope, his forehead deeply furrowed.
It was still furrowed when Martha entered. She dipped a curtsy to her mistress, glanced at Matt, and completely ignored me. It was understandable considering the trick I'd played on her and the other staff.
"Martha, tell Mr. and Mrs. Glass about our morning routine," Mrs. Stanhope said.
Martha looked taken aback. "There's not much to tell. After Mr. Stanhope goes to work, I bring your breakfast on a tray. I come back again when you're finished and assist you out of bed, getting dressed, that sort of thing."
"How does Mrs. Stanhope seem in the mornings?" I asked. "Refreshed? Tired?"
"She looks like she had a sound sleep," she said, her gaze dead ahead.
"Has that been the case all week?"
"Yes. And for weeks before this one. Mrs. Stanhope never complains of a poor night's sleep."
I couldn't think of any other questions, and Matt didn't look as though he wanted to add anything. His troubled gaze settled on Mrs. Stanhope and remained. It would have unnerved me, but either she didn't notice or she was pretending not to. She simply slowly rubbed her thigh through the blanket.
"How long have your legs given you pain?" I asked.
"Some months now," she said. "The doctor said there's no cure."
"I am sorry."
"Thank you, Mrs. Glass. Sometimes the pain is…trying."
"Can the doctor give you something to ease it?"
"He prescribed a tonic but I stopped taking it. It affected my mind and I'd rather have my wits about me than be oblivious."
What a difficult choice to make, yet I admired her for it. Indeed, my admiration for Mrs. Stanhope had grown with each answer she gave, and with the way she interacted with the staff. It was clear why they liked working for her.
"It's fortunate your legs don't trouble you during the night," I said.
Her brow creased but she nodded.
Martha shifted her weight from one foot to the other.
"You may go," Mrs. Stanhope said to her.
"Just one moment, Martha." Matt had finally found his voice again, although that troubled look remained in his eyes. "Please stay while I ask Mrs. Stanhope another question."
Mrs. Stanhope nodded at Martha and the maid resumed her position, only this time the hands clasped in front of her
knotted together.
"Can you describe to us your evening routine, please, Mrs. Stanhope," Matt said.
She blinked. "Of course, but I don't see the relevance. I dine with Mr. Stanhope unless he is working late at the factory. Then I read alone or we play cards until I retire at ten. Martha assists me into bed and I read for thirty minutes or so which is when Mr. Stanhope comes to bed too."
"Do you take a sleeping draught?"
"No," she said. "As I've already told you, I don't have trouble sleeping."
Martha's knuckles went white, her eyes huge.
"Do you consume anything in that half hour of reading?" Matt asked.
"A cup of tea. It's Mrs. Crupper's own recipe which she leaves in the kitchen for Martha to make up for me before bed."
"Martha?" Matt prompted. "You have something to add to the conversation?"
Martha chewed on her lower lip.
"Martha?" Mrs. Stanhope asked. "What is it?"
"The tea." Her eyes swam and her face twisted as she tried to hold back her tears. "Mrs. Crupper told me there's something in it to make you sleep better."
Mrs. Stanhope's lips parted with her sharp intake of breath. "You've been medicating me without my knowledge?"
"Mr. Stanhope said it was a good idea when Mrs. Crupper told him about it."
"My husband knew?" Mrs. Stanhope pressed a hand to her stomach. "Martha, why didn't you tell me?"
"We thought you might refuse it." Tears dripped down Martha's cheeks. "We all remember how you were before you drank the tea. You were in so much pain you couldn't sleep and that made the days worse. You were going to fade away from exhaustion. Please, madam, don't blame us for wanting what's best for you." She took a step toward her mistress, but Mrs. Stanhope dismissed her with a lift of her finger.
"I'll speak to you later. Go. I wish to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Glass alone. Close the door."
Martha obeyed, silently crying as she backed out of the drawing room.
Mrs. Stanhope sank into the chaise, her shoulders slumped, her body so thin it seemed to become part of the upholstery. "I don't know what to say," she whispered.
"You don't have to say anything," Matt said gently. "We're deeply sorry it has come to this."
"Thank you, Mr. Glass."
"Forgive me," he said, "but I now have more questions."
She nodded.
"Do you still believe your husband wouldn't harm my wife just now?"
Of all the questions I expected him to ask, that wasn't one of them. I'd expected something that would resolve our final piece of the puzzle—the connection between Stanhope and Fabian.
"He wouldn't," she said. "But I'm afraid I wasn't entirely forthcoming before. Although I doubt my husband could physically harm anyone, Reggie is another matter."
"The servant?" I asked.
"He is my husband's man to his very bones. Mr. Stanhope has always treated him well, kinder than anyone has ever been to poor Reggie. People can be cruel to simpletons, and Reggie suffered more than his share of torment before he came to work for us as a boy."
"He's been with you a long time," I said.
"Twenty years."
I touched the back of my head where the lump had taken on the proportions of a swallow's egg. It throbbed like the devil.
"He used to get into scrapes when he was younger. I saw for myself how good he was at defending himself when he felt threatened. If it weren't for my husband taking him off the streets, he would have ended up in prison."
"Why him?" Matt asked. "There are hundreds of youths in need of a home, so why did your husband employ him twenty years ago?"
"It was a favor for our previous coachman and odd-job man. Reggie is his brother-in-law. He and his wife, Reggie's sister, used to despair of Reggie and worry about his future. Their parents had long since passed, and she was Reggie's only family. When he left our service to work as a guard, he asked Mr. Stanhope to take on his wife's brother. Reggie has been a loyal and valued member of the staff ever since. He dotes on my husband."
Matt sat forward. "Your previous man became a guard?"
She touched her forehead and closed her eyes, as if she too had an aching head. "The wages are quite good, so he told us at the time."
My pulse quickened as I followed the path Matt was taking. "Where does he work now?" I asked.
She lowered her hand and frowned, clearly puzzled by the line of questioning. "Newgate, I believe. Why?"
Matt and I both rose at the same time. "Thank you," he said. "Your candor is appreciated."
"Goodbye, Mrs. Stanhope," I said. "We wish you well." It sounded empty, but I couldn't have been more convincing. Her life was about to be shattered.
She knew it too. "What happens now?"
"The detective inspector will want to speak to Mr. Stanhope when he returns," Matt said.
She pressed the handkerchief to her lips then, remembering it belonged to Matt, held it out to him.
"Keep it," he said.
The butler saw us out, his dislike of us clear in his stony silence and the slamming of the door behind us. I didn't blame him in the least.
"That was awful," I said, taking Matt's elbow.
"Stanhope did it," he said, scanning the street. "Where's Woodall?"
We looked in both directions, but our carriage was nowhere to be seen. It was unlike Woodall not to follow instructions.
"I have a bad feeling about this." Even as I said it, a carriage rumbled toward us at full speed.
The hooves of the four horses kicked up mud and muck and the wheels spun dangerously close to the pavement. The coachman, dressed all in black with a black hood, applied the whip with cruel regularity.
Matt pulled me back out of the way, almost tossing me aside as the coach ground to a halt in front of us. He hardly had a moment to settle into a fighting stance when two men jumped out.
Mr. Stanhope and Reggie.
Reggie set upon Matt, but Matt easily deflected the blow and landed a punch to Reggie's gut. He reeled back but didn't fall, and he came at Matt again. Matt ducked out of the way of Reggie's punch and deflected a swing of his left fist, only to be hit by the right.
"Stop!" I cried.
Matt bared his teeth and landed a blow on his assailant's jaw. Reggie stumbled into the carriage behind him, sending the cabin rocking. He shook his head, dazed.
"It's over, Stanhope!" Matt said without taking his gaze off Reggie.
Stanhope turned flat, dead eyes onto me. "Yes. It is." He pulled out a pistol from his inside jacket pocket and pointed it at Matt.
"No!" I screamed. "Don't!"
"Get in the carriage, Mrs. Glass, or I'll shoot him."
"Don't move, India," Matt said.
Mr. Stanhope cocked the pistol. "I will shoot unless you do as I say."
Oh God, oh God. "This is madness." I hated the tremble in my voice. I wanted to be strong for Matt, I wanted to be defiant in the face of this monster, but every fear I'd ever had during Matt's ill health came flooding back. All I felt was sick to my core.
The door behind me opened. "Get back inside, Crupper," Mr. Stanhope snapped. The door shut again. "Get in the carriage, Mrs. Glass. I won't ask again."
"No, India, don't." Matt's voice was commanding yet I heard the panic edging it. "If you go with him, I can't follow you."
"If you don't go with me, I kill your husband here."
"Matt," I managed to say through the tears clogging my throat. "I have to."
"Don't do it," he ground out through gritted teeth. "I'll be all right. You know I will." He was talking about his watch saving him. But that had only worked in the past because he hadn't died instantly, and I had been able to place the magic watch in his hand. If the bullet pierced his heart, he would be dead. If I couldn't get to his watch in time, he would be dead, and I suspected Mr. Stanhope wouldn't let me get close enough to try without using the gun on me.
"I have nothing to lose, Mrs. Glass," he said. "Nothing at all. You have pushed me beyond the
point of return."
He was right. There was no reasoning with him now. I stepped forward.
"No, India." Matt's voice shook, shattering my nerves altogether.
I couldn't look at him as I climbed into the carriage. Reggie shoved me and I fell onto the seat. Mr. Stanhope climbed in behind me, his back to me, the gun still pointed at Matt.
"Don't hurt her," Matt growled. "I'll do whatever you want, say whatever you want. Just don't hurt her."
Mr. Stanhope shut the door and spoke to Matt through the open window, his pistol still aimed at Matt's head. "Get the police to look elsewhere for their killer. Fail and your wife won't live."
He was a fool if he thought the police would look elsewhere now. The neighbors would have seen this; the staff certainly had, and Mrs. Stanhope too. She stared at us through the window, her eyes full of unshed tears, the blanket pulled up to cover her mouth.
Mr. Stanhope thumped on the ceiling and the carriage rolled away.
I spun around and watched Matt's bleak figure through the rear window. He stood there, face bloodied, fists closed at his sides, looking utterly lost.
Chapter 15
The Royal Victoria Dock workers had finished for the day and the warehouse precinct that spread from the jetties into the surrounding streets and lanes was eerily quiet. Birds squawked overhead, searching for scraps, and somewhere in the distance a train whistle blew. The lamps had not yet been lit, but daylight had already fled from the narrow lane down which I was forced. The brick warehouses looming on both sides of it weren't the giant buildings used to store wool and grain. Those were on the concourse, easily accessible by cranes and carts. These buildings were divided into smaller warehouses, their doors numbered in white paint. It was into one of these that Reggie shoved me.
"Careful. She's a lady," the coachman said.
"Thank you," I muttered. "May I see the face of the man showing me kindness?"
His only response was to pull the brim of his hat lower. I suspected he was the brother-in-law jailor, going by the way he ordered Reggie about.
"Stop talking," Mr. Stanhope said. "Someone might hear us."
His gaze darted back and forth before he followed me inside. He had pocketed the pistol in the carriage, no longer seeing the need to brandish it. He knew I couldn't escape three men.
