by C. J. Archer
“Was the magic in it stronger?”
“I don’t know. But I feel as though I could take on two Mr. Fullers.”
The gleam in his eyes alarmed me. “Don’t you dare try. You may be stronger, but you’re not invincible, and I have enough to worry about without you running around saving the city from villains.”
We left Duke in the carriage and knocked on the guild hall door. When it opened, we pushed past the porter.
“You two again,” he muttered. “Haven’t learned any manners yet, I see.”
“We do apologize,” Matt said amiably. “But it’s raining and we don’t have an umbrella. I didn’t want my wife to get wet.”
Luckily it had begun to rain steadily. The porter dropped his frosty demeanor and welcomed us inside. “It’s Mr. and Mrs. Gaskell, isn’t it? I never forget a name or a face. Would you like another look at our library again? It’s quite popular today. There’s another fellow in there reading, but I’m sure you won’t disturb one another if you promise to keep quiet.” He put a finger to his lips, his eyes twinkling.
“Actually we’ve come to see the guild master,” Matt said.
The porter shuffled to the desk wedged between the door and the coat stand. “Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m afraid not. We’ll wait if there’s someone with him now.”
The porter opened the appointment book and his bony finger traced a line down the page. “He doesn’t have any appointments right now. Let me fetch him for you.”
We watched as the elderly man shuffled toward the staircase, his gait slow and unsteady. This could take a while.
“Why don’t we go up and announce ourselves,” I said. “I’m sure you don’t want to go all the way only to come back down again. What if the fellow in the library needs you in the meantime?”
He glanced along the corridor to the library door. “Quite right, quite right. Do you mind? His office is on the second floor, first on the right.”
“And his name?”
“Mr. Stocker.”
We caught Mr. Stocker just as he was leaving his office. He greeted us warmly and re-opened his office door. Of course, as Mr. and Mrs. Gaskell we were welcome. If we’d given our real names, we’d be thrown out before asking our first question.
“What can I do for you?” Mr. Stocker asked as he settled behind the desk.
He was a middle-aged man, which most guild masters seemed to be, in my experience, with steel gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk surface, and blinked expectantly back at us. He seemed very eager to please. Perhaps he rarely had visitors. The untidiness of the office would suggest as much, with several books on the shelves having fallen over and the desk covered in papers and writing implements. An empty cup perched perilously close to the edge of the desk, and the matching saucer was used as an ashtray for a cigar.
Matt began the questioning, using the ruse we’d established on our first visit, with a slight alteration. “My wife’s father was a rug maker from Bristol. He recently passed.”
“You have my deepest sympathies, Mrs. Gaskell.”
“Thank you.”
“He was friends with another rug maker in London, and my wife would like to notify him of her father’s death in person. We were coming here anyway, for my business. The problem is, we called on him this morning, but his wife informed us that he has disappeared.”
Mr. Stocker’s knuckles turned white as he clasped his hands harder, but his face didn’t change. After a moment, he said, “You must mean Mr. Pyke. Terrible business.”
I pressed a hand to my chest. “So it’s true? Oh dear. We had hoped it was a domestic issue between Mr. and Mrs. Pyke and that he was merely staying elsewhere.” I turned to Matt. “This is dreadful. Just dreadful. We must see what we can do to help.”
“Are the police looking for him?” Matt asked.
Mr. Stocker’s tongue darted out and licked his lower lip. “I… I don’t know.”
“People don’t just disappear,” I said, frowning. “Do you think he left of his own accord, or has something awful befallen him?”
Mr. Stocker looked down at his clasped hands. “I couldn’t say.”
“But you must have an inkling,” Matt said.
Mr. Stocker swallowed.
It seemed he needed some prompting. “His wife suggested it was because he was a magician, and that he recently advertised the fact in a newspaper article,” I said. “Is this true? Could someone have taken offence? Has one of his rivals done him in out of jealousy? Or fear that they’ll lose business?”
Mr. Stocker’s lips pressed firmly together. He was trying very hard not to speak. I suspected there were several emotions battling within him and it took all his composure not to let them out.
Matt recognized Mr. Stocker’s difficulty, but more importantly, he knew how to exploit it to our advantage. “It’s happening in Bristol, too. The magicians there see how things have transpired here in London and want to add their voices to the movement.”
“Movement?” Mr. Stocker bit off. “I’d hardly call it that.”
“What would you call it?”
“Business. That’s what this is about. It’s just business.” The bitterness in his voice implied otherwise. Now I began to see what Matt was seeing. Mr. Stocker felt personally slighted by Mr. Pyke.
“Is it?” Matt said, equally bitter. “I have a tannery in Bristol. My closest friends are other tanners in the area. We dine at the guild hall once a week. Mere days ago, our newspapers reported what was happening here in London—the magicians announcing themselves, the subsequent anger and even riots from other craftsmen who aren’t magicians.” Matt shifted his weight, as if he were reluctant to say the next part. “I spoke about it to my good friend, who then confided in me that he is a magician.” He all but spat the word. “I’m still reeling from the news. I’m devastated. It’s as if he betrayed me, when I know it’s not his fault. He can’t help what he is. And yet…”
“You can’t help how you feel,” Mr. Stocker finished for him. “And now you feel you cannot be his friend.”
“I’ve been grieving for that friendship ever since.”
I eyed Mr. Stocker, worried that Matt had laid it on a little thick. But Mr. Stocker nodded sympathetically.
“I, too, lost my friend when he told me he was a magician. That friend was Mr. Pyke.”
“Oh. I didn’t realize you were close,” I said.
“We’ve known one another since we were children.”
“Then his disappearance must be particularly difficult for you.”
“I am…conflicted. He told me some weeks ago that he was a magician, and we hadn’t spoken since. I became angry with him and told him I never wanted to see him again.”
“Did you throw him out of the guild?”
“Nothing like that. Not then, anyway. I was the only one who knew he was a magician at that time. But now, after he gave his name to the newspapers, it’s no longer a secret, and I was pressured to expel him from the guild. It was a difficult decision to make.”
“Because you knew it would destroy his livelihood,” I said quietly. “You didn’t want to hurt your dear friend, but other members weren’t as considerate and didn’t care.”
He cleared his throat. “That’s why I hesitated, but you’re wrong about the source of the pressure. Some of it came from other guild members, that’s true, but many are friendly with Mr. Pyke and didn’t want to expel him. No, the pressure came from another source. Someone with no stake in the wool guild specifically, but explained to me the broader, longer view of allowing magicians in guilds. All guilds, that is, not just ours.”
Matt and I exchanged glances. “Someone wanted you to betray your friend?” Matt asked.
“Not betray. That word is so cruel, so final. He said magicians like Mr. Pyke had to be expelled for the greater good. The future of businesses operated by non-magicians depended upon it.” He removed a handkerchief from
his pocket and wiped his sweaty brow. “It’s warm in here,” he mumbled.
“Is it fair that this man would ask you to revoke your friend’s guild membership when he has no stake?” Matt asked.
“He has a stake, just not in this guild. He belongs to the Watchmaker’s Guild.”
Even though I’d expected it, I still felt ill knowing that Mr. Abercrombie was actively petitioning each guild in the city. Without that influence, Mr. Stocker probably wouldn’t have done anything about magician members. Despite his personal falling out with Mr. Pyke, I didn’t think he had the heart to punish his friend so thoroughly.
“What is this agitator’s name?” Matt asked, somewhat bluntly.
“Abercrombie. Why?”
“Perhaps he had something to do with Mr. Pyke’s disappearance.”
Mr. Stocker shook his head. “He wouldn’t be involved. What does he gain by Mr. Pyke’s disappearance?”
“There’d be one less magician in the world,” Matt said darkly.
Mr. Stocker focused on Matt. He looked visibly shaken by the implication. “He wouldn’t. He’s not…” His voice faded and his gaze fell away. “I’m sorry I can’t help you. Hopefully Mr. Pyke will show up at home unharmed and we’ll all laugh about this.” He did not laugh. He scrubbed a hand over his mouth and beard, looking more worried than ever.
Matt and I saw ourselves out and headed down the stairs. The porter looked up from the desk near the door and smiled. Before he could get a word in, a voice from the corridor behind us called out.
“Mr. Glass? Mrs. Glass, is that you?”
We both spun around, prepared to tell the person that he was mistaken and that we were the Gaskells.
“It is you.” Professor Nash hurried forward, a leather document wallet under his arm, as he pulled on his gloves. “What a coincidence this is. I never expected to see you both here.”
My heart sank. Beside me, Matt had gone still. Even he wasn’t sure how to react.
“Glass?” The porter stamped his hands on his hips. “I thought your name was Gaskell.”
Matt pressed a hand to my back and ushered me toward the front door. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“Are you India Glass?” The porter’s brow plunged into a frown. “I was warned about you. I was told not to let you in.”
“Oh dear,” Professor Nash muttered.
Matt opened the door just as Mr. Stocker came down the stairs. “Is there a problem?”
The porter wagged a finger at us. “These people are not the Gaskells. It’s India Glass and her husband.”
Matt grabbed my hand and we hurried to our waiting carriage, where Duke stood with the door open. He climbed in after us and was about to close the door when Professor Nash rushed out of the building.
“May I request a ride to Mr. Charbonneau’s house?” he asked, pushing his glasses up his nose.
“Of course,” I said. “Although you’ll be tainted by association.” I nodded at the guild hall door where Mr. Stocker and the porter stood together, arms crossed, identical scowls on their faces.
The professor gave Woodall instructions and climbed in. “That’s all right with me. They only had one book of interest, and I finished it today. No need to go back.” He sat on the seat beside Duke, the document wallet on his lap. “I am sorry for my gaffe. I wasn’t thinking. I should have realized you were in disguise.”
“False pretenses more than a disguise,” I said. “And don’t worry. We probably have no need to return either. It doesn’t matter that our real identities are exposed.”
Professor Nash looked to Matt and swallowed heavily.
“Isn’t that right, Matt?” I asked, nudging him sharply in the ribs with my elbow.
“Hmmm,” was all he said.
The poor professor looked as though he regretted getting into the carriage now.
“What were you doing there?” I asked to diffuse the tension. “You mentioned a book.”
He pushed his spectacles up his nose. Behind the glasses, his eyes gleamed. His research enthused him. “They have an old book about wool magic in their library.”
“But the guilds loathe magicians. Why would they keep a text in their own library on the subject?”
“I don’t think anyone knows it’s there. The book was quite dusty and shelved high up. I’d say it’s been undisturbed for years.” He smiled. “I told the porter I was researching the history of the guild. I didn’t mention magic.”
Matt had been lightly stroking his finger across his top lip, but now lowered his hand. “What did you learn from the book?”
“It mentioned a flying carpet.”
I inhaled sharply.
“Anything else?” Matt asked idly.
“That’s not exciting enough for you? Well then, listen to this.” He leaned forward, just as the coach slowed. We were nowhere near Fabian’s house yet.
Matt leaned out of the window. “Woodall?”
I couldn’t hear the coachman’s response, but I didn’t need to. With the window open, I could hear the angry shouts up ahead. It sounded like hundreds of voices joined together in a chorus of abuse.
Abuse directed at magicians.
Matt got out, while Duke peered through the other window. He quickly pulled his head back in. “We should turn around,” he said.
The road was too narrow for that to be possible. There was just enough space for two vehicles to pass each other, as long as the pedestrians kept to the pavements. We had to go forward through the advancing mob or turn into a side street before reaching it.
I tugged on Matt’s jacket. “Get back in. It’s not safe for you out there.”
“It’s not safe for you, Mrs. Glass,” Professor Nash said. “Some magicians know you.”
It wasn’t what I meant, but I didn’t inform the professor of the attempts on Matt’s life.
Matt spoke to Woodall and climbed inside, firmly shutting the door. He closed the curtains. “This could get rough.”
We all grasped the nearest strap. Matt also took my hand.
The carriage moved forward at a steady but sedate pace. The shouting grew louder and the cabin rocked with the jittery steps of the horses, but I resisted the urge to lift the curtain and peer out.
Duke watched through the gap in the curtain on the other side. “The police are here.”
My heart dove. “Cyclops?”
Matt squeezed my hand. “It’s not his jurisdiction.”
Thank God. “What else can you see?”
Duke angled his head to get a better look. “They’re marching this way.”
“Is the road blocked?” Matt asked.
“I think so. Wait.” He pressed his cheek to the glass. “There’s a lane up ahead. We might make it before the mob blocks it.”
“Woodall will take it if he can.”
Professor Nash clutched his document wallet to his chest. “Isn’t this thrilling.” He didn’t look thrilled. He looked terrified. “It’ll be all right, Mrs. Glass. Don’t fret. They don’t know you’re in here. You’re perfectly safe.”
I gave him a reassuring smile. “Of course.” I squeezed Matt’s hand even harder.
Outside, glass smashed. The horses balked at the sound then stopped altogether. I could just make out Woodall’s attempts to get them moving again over the shouts of the mob.
Then his voice was drowned out by the crowd, baying for the blood of a magician named Woods.
“They seem focused on a particular shop up ahead,” Duke said, peering through the window. “They’re crowding around it, banging on the door, throwing whatever they can at the window. The police are making some arrests, but they’re outnumbered.”
Even as he said it, the crowd erupted into a furious cry.
“They’re turning their violence onto the police and the police are responding in kind. This won’t end any time soon, and it won’t end until someone is badly hurt.”
Thankfully Cyclops wasn’t there, but would he be called to assist?
The carriage moved forward again, slowly, the horses clearly reluctant. Another shout erupted, louder than the last. It was so close now, mere feet in front of us. The carriage stopped and Matt peered out. Men surged around us. They shook their fists at the furniture shop and brandished tools of their trade—hammers, fire irons, saws, scissors—as well as anything else they could get their hands on. They shouted at the shop, their faces red with the effort and eyes feverishly bright. We were not the focus of their attention but a pack like this didn’t need much incentive to turn against us if we got in the way.
One voice rose above them, starting up a chant that the rest repeated. “Stop magic! Down with magicians! Stop magic! No magicians!” His voice was clear above the others and it made the horses shift with fright.
Duke reached for the door handle. “I have to help.”
“No!” I cried.
“The horses are too scared. They need to be guided, and Woodall can’t do it. If he doesn’t stay on the seat with the reins, he’ll completely lose control and if those animals rear or bolt, someone will get hurt.”
He opened the door and jumped down. On the pavement, the man with a brass speaking trumpet to his mouth stopped shouting. He lowered the trumpet and stared at me.
I gasped. It was Mr. Abercrombie!
His top lip lifted with his sneer. He pointed at the carriage. His mouth moved, forming my name, but no one heard over the chorus of the mob. He hadn’t used the speaking trumpet.
Matt slammed the door shut and thumped his fist on the ceiling. “Go!”
Woodall wouldn’t have heard him over the crowd noise, but we did move forward, no doubt thanks to Duke comforting the horses and leading them through the mob.
But it was so slow. So very slow.
Matt pulled out the box of pistols from the compartment under the seats. He loaded one and held it out to Nash. The professor sat wide-eyed, clutching the wallet to his chest, his face pale.
“Do you know how to shoot?” Matt asked.
“No!” The professor’s voice was a mere squeak.
I took the pistol from Matt. “I do.” Willie had taught me, but I was hardly an expert.
Matt loaded the other one and pointed it at the door.