by C. J. Archer
The coachman tugged on his forelock and the lad touched the brim of his cap. “All this for a dirty old carpet,” Jimmy muttered.
“Well?” Brockwell asked once we were outside. “Were the locks tampered with?”
Matt shook his head. “I couldn’t see any signs of a break-in.”
“The thief must have entered after the boy fell asleep at nine and before Mr. Ogilvie returned at twelve-twenty while the doors were unlocked.”
Matt looked one way along the mews then turned to look the other, back toward Duke, Willie and our waiting carriage. That way was a much shorter distance to the end. It was also where the constables had begun their inquiries. They now walked toward us.
“Nothing, sir,” one of them reported to Brockwell. “None of the staff up that end saw or heard any unusual comings and goings from the Charbonneau outbuildings.”
“They were not asked by strangers which stables belonged to Charbonneau?” Matt asked.
“No, sir.”
Brockwell indicated the other, longer section of the lane. “Continue down that way.”
We watched them go but I, for one, wasn’t hopeful they’d discover anything useful. “If the thief didn’t ask the location of Fabian’s outbuildings, then he already knew which belonged to him. He would have come and gone from that end.” I indicated the shorter way.
Matt followed my gaze and looked back at the stable door. “The rug is large and heavy. It wasn’t dragged, so there must have been at least two men to carry it then load it onto a vehicle. Someone must have seen something.”
We stepped out of the way as a carriage rolled past. A lad sitting on a barrel outside a coach house got to his feet to greet it and offer help to the coachman. Just as he opened the doors, another vehicle emerged from a neighboring coach house and drove off. It didn’t go past us but headed in the other direction. It was just as well, because the mews wasn’t wide enough for both vehicles to safely pass one another.
“The traffic goes in one direction,” I said. “They leave that way and come back this way so that they don’t have to pass.”
“It would seem so,” Brockwell said, watching the carriage drive off. “But I don’t see how that matters. Not if our thieves carried the rug between them to a waiting vehicle at the end.”
“It’s true they could have done that. But with coaches arriving back at all hours of the night, at unpredictable times, it would be less conspicuous to load it onto the back of a wagon that waited here.” I indicated Fabian’s coach house and stables. “They could carry it out, load it up, and be gone in two or three minutes.”
“And they could cover the rug in the back of a wagon so no one would notice it,” Matt finished. “You’re right, India. If they carried it all the way to the end, they risked being seen and witnesses would remember something as unusual as two men carrying a large rug between them. They would not take particular note of a wagon or other vehicle driving off, however. Not in a mews as busy as this one.”
Brockwell stuck up his thumb. “So we can assume they knew which of these outbuildings belonged to Charbonneau.” A finger joined the thumb. “Secondly, they used some sort of vehicle to aid their departure.” He counted off the other points on his remaining fingers. “Thirdly, there were at least two of them. And fourth, the theft occurred between nine and twelve-twenty.”
Matt turned to study the back door that led to the service rooms of Fabian’s townhouse, located opposite the stables. “That indicates they knew something of the household routine—what time Charbonneau usually arrives home and what time the stable boy goes to bed.”
“A member of staff,” I said. Poor Fabian, to be betrayed by his own servants.
“Or a professional,” Brockwell said. “One who learned the household routine.”
Matt approached the door to the townhouse. “And the quickest way to do that is to make inquiries.”
I felt a little better knowing it might not have been Fabian’s servants. But if it were professionals, then they must have been employed by someone. Someone with enough money and the right contacts. And the person who was top of our list of suspects had a lot of money and a network of spies.
Coyle.
The maid named Jane answered Matt’s knock. I recognized her from the time we’d questioned the staff after the spell had been stolen. She alluded to being in a relationship with Fabian, if that’s what a liaison between master and maid could be called.
She recognized us too and bobbed a curtsy. “Do you wish to see Mr. Charbonneau, sir?”
“We want to ask you and the other staff some questions,” Matt said. “May we come in?”
She hesitated before stepping aside. “Come this way.”
She led us past a larder, store room and kitchen where the cook and a maid were busy at work, slicing and stirring. They didn’t look up as we passed through to the small dining room used by the staff. A footman suddenly stood upon seeing us, knocking the newspaper he’d been reading to the floor. He hurriedly gathered it up, clasped it under his arm, and stood to attention.
“Please round up the other servants,” Brockwell said to Jane.
“Round up?” Matt muttered.
Brockwell scratched his sideburns. He looked more awkward down here in the service rooms than he did seated at our dining table. This was a domain even more alien to him than upstairs. I knew the sensation well. One assumed that people such as Brockwell and me would be more at home among those who worked for others, but in truth, there was a set of rules among servants in grand households that were as foreign as the rules governing their masters and mistresses. At number sixteen Park Street, I’d always felt more comfortable upstairs than down. Mrs. Potter was mistress of the kitchen, while Bristow and Mrs. Bristow ruled over the rest of the staff. Matt and his friends made me feel more at ease.
Fabian arrived with the servants, which only added to the awkwardness, not to mention the squeeze in the servants’ dining room.
Matt began in the same way as he had done with the outdoor staff, by telling them no one was in trouble and we only wanted to find out more about the theft. “It appears as though the thief knew precisely which stables belonged to Mr. Charbonneau, as well as when the stable boy would be asleep and what time Mr. Ogilvie would return.”
The butler stiffened. “Are you suggesting one of us did it?”
“No. I’m suggesting the thief may have made inquiries about these things. Perhaps someone answered unwittingly, thinking it wasn’t important.”
Some of the staff exchanged glances or shrugged.
“It weren’t me,” Jane said, looking at the housekeeper.
The housekeeper peered down her nose at the girl. “Nobody said it was.”
Brockwell cleared his throat. “Might I remind everyone this is a police investigation.”
The kitchen maid bit her lip and stared down at her feet.
“What’s your name?” I asked her gently.
“Edna.”
“Edna, did someone come to the back door and make the sort of inquiries Mr. Glass is suggesting?”
She nodded. She was young, probably no more than seventeen, with milk-white skin and blue-gray shadows beneath her eyes. The poor thing looked exhausted. “There was a delivery yesterday. He came to the back door and handed me a box from Goodes the grocer.”
“Oh, aye, the delivery we never ordered,” the cook said. “Now it all makes sense. Edna came in with a box from Goodes, but I didn’t have an order in with them yet. We just chalked it up to a mistake, and I sent it back. It must have been him. The delivery man.”
Jane gasped. “Goodes employs a thief?”
“No, silly girl. He wasn’t a delivery man at all, and he doesn’t work for Mr. Goodes.”
Edna wrung her hands in her apron, on the verge of tears. “I didn’t realize. I thought he was just being friendly when he asked me all them questions.”
Matt dismissed the other servants and indicated Fabian should leave too. Once we were a
lone, he pulled out a chair for the maid. She blinked up at him through damp lashes. She’d probably rarely had a man offer her a seat before, and certainly not a gentleman.
He sat beside her. “It appears you may have been duped.”
Edna pressed her apron to her mouth.
Matt touched her arm to encourage her to lower it. “It’s not your fault. The man was likely a professional thief and liar. I’ll tell Mr. Charbonneau as much. You won’t get in trouble for speaking to him.”
“What did the delivery man look like?” Brockwell asked.
Edna sniffed and appeared to rally. “He had short dark hair and a beard. He weren’t big but he weren’t small either.” She shrugged. “He just looked normal.”
Brockwell wrote that down in his notebook, even though the description was of little use. “And what did he want to know?”
“He told me I looked tired and that I must work long hours. He asked if I have to stay up for the master to return home at night to make hot chocolate for him. I said I don’t, the footman does that if he wants something.” She bit down hard on her lip. When she released it, an indentation remained. “I think I might have mentioned the time Mr. Charbonneau usually gets in—between twelve and one.”
“And did he ask about the stable boy?”
She nodded. “He leaned against the door frame and, all friendly like, told me he reckons house maids, scullery maids and stable boys work the hardest. I told him our Jimmy doesn’t, and he made up a joke about them getting to bed earlier than the house staff. That’s when I told him Jimmy is in bed by ten at the latest. And I pointed to the coach house across the way.” Her face crumpled and she sobbed into her apron.
I rubbed her shoulder while Matt and Brockwell filed out of the servant dining room. “It’s all right, Edna,” I said gently. “You won’t get into trouble.”
“But I feel such a fool.”
“You’re not a fool. You’re an innocent girl who has never done anything wrong in her life, that’s why you can’t see men like that for what they truly are. Now, buck up and enjoy a cup of tea before you go back to work.”
“I can’t. I’ve got to prepare a cake for Mr. Charbonneau’s afternoon tea.”
“That seems like a lot of effort for just one man.”
“It’s for that professor too. He comes here most days and they read books together.” She made a face as if she thought that was the dullest thing in the world. At least she seemed to have cheered up a little.
Instead of leaving by the same door through which we’d entered, we headed upstairs to the main part of the house where Fabian was waiting for us in the entrance hall.
“Did you get the answers you needed?” he asked Matt.
“The maid was tricked by a skilled liar. It’s not her fault.”
Fabian put up his hands. “I do not blame her. I am told she works hard.”
“A little too hard, perhaps,” I said. “You might want to employ another kitchen maid to ease her workload.”
We promised to keep him apprised of any more developments and left through the front door. We joined Duke and Willie, who quickly bundled Matt into the carriage and urged me in too. Willie gave my bottom a shove when I took too long, and I landed on Matt’s lap.
“There’s no one about,” Matt growled at them.
“And I am not going to be kidnapped with all of you here,” I said, taking a seat opposite Matt.
Duke shut the door but remained on the pavement with Willie.
Matt opened the window to speak to them. “Was that necessary?”
“Aye,” Willie said, folding her arms. “Jasper, here’s your men.”
The two constables joined us but had nothing to report. No one had seen or heard the thieves. Brockwell asked them to wait out of earshot.
“I don’t want to confront Coyle yet, even though he is the most likely suspect,” he said to us. “He won’t admit anything, and we have no proof against him. So the question is, where to now?”
Matt tapped the window frame, that nervous energy manifesting itself again. “While this appears to be a professional theft, we need to rule out the possibility that Mr. Pyke orchestrated his own disappearance as well as the theft of the spell and the rug. We’ll start by finding out if he has access to another property where he could be hiding. A warehouse or rented rooms, perhaps.”
“I’ll see what I can find in official property registers,” Brockwell said.
“And we’ll ask Mrs. Pyke.”
“What if he kept it secret from her?” Willie asked.
“There’s nothing we can do about that.”
“I’ll also look through the records of known perpetrators for someone who looks like the man Edna described, but I doubt it will help. The description she gave could fit almost any man.”
Duke opened the door and climbed in, but Brockwell caught Willie’s hand. “Can I have word, Willie? In private?”
“I ain’t got more to add,” she said, as if they’d just been having a conversation.
“I don’t expect you to, but I’d like to…clear the air.”
She glanced uncertainly at me. I gave her an encouraging nod.
“Make it quick,” she said.
They walked a few feet away, Willie with her arms crossed, her gaze lowered to the pavement, and Brockwell scratching his sideburns. He said something to her and lifted a shoulder in a shrug.
“India, give them some privacy,” Matt chided.
“I can’t hear them.”
“Watching them is bad enough.”
“It doesn’t matter. Willie is returning.” I sat back and fidgeted with the hair at the nape of my neck. “Act as if nothing is amiss.”
“Nothing is amiss,” Matt said.
Duke grunted. “Everything is amiss. Something’s upset her, and she won’t tell me what. She’s acting like she don’t care about him but she does. If she ain’t careful, she’s going to lose him.”
I blinked at him. When did he become so insightful about Willie’s love life?
She climbed in and shut the door. The silence invaded the small space like the smell of rotting meat. It was unbearable, and after a few minutes, I had to speak.
“Well? Would you like to tell us what that was about?”
“Nope. I just want to get on with the investigation. Why’s Woodall driving so slow?”
“He ain’t,” Duke said.
She opened the window and shouted up to the coachman. “Go faster! Miss Glass could drive quicker than this.”
Woodall could not go faster, thanks to the traffic, and it took some time to reach the Pyke residence. Mrs. Pyke was not alone. Mrs. Fuller Senior was there, having tea. Mrs. Pyke asked Matt and me to join them. Willie and Duke remained outside to keep an eye out.
Mrs. Pyke carried a tray into the parlor and Matt took it from her. He set it on the table while she sat, wringing her hands in her apron. She looked too anxious to even ask if we had news.
I thought it best to get the worst out of the way. “We have no firm information about your husband’s whereabouts, I’m sorry to say.”
Her face fell. “Oh.” She stared at the teacups as if it were just too much effort to pour.
Mrs. Fuller filled our teacups and handed them to Matt and me. “But there is a development? Is that why you’re here?”
“We have a theory which could give some hope. A couple of theories, actually.” I looked to Matt, unsure which one to begin with. The one where we thought Mr. Pyke was alive, or the one where we assumed he’d taken himself into hiding, deliberately keeping his whereabouts a secret even from his wife?
“Did your husband tell you about the flying carpet?” Matt began.
“The what?” Mrs. Fuller barked. When she saw Matt was serious, she apologized for her outburst.
“He did,” Mrs. Pyke said.
“Both the spell and that rug have been stolen. We think the thief has kidnapped your husband to force him to replicate the rug’s one and only flight.”
She blinked watery eyes. “Oh. I see.”
“So there is hope that he’s still alive. Indeed, there’s a lot of hope. We just need to find him.”
“Before the kidnapper discovers he’s of no use to them,” Mrs. Pyke muttered. “He told me he could never do what Mrs. Glass did. He could never control the rug’s flight with any accuracy. And when the kidnapper realizes…” She pressed her lips together but her chin wobbled nevertheless.
Mrs. Fuller patted her friend’s hand. “And your second theory?”
Matt shuffled his feet and rubbed his jaw. I thought perhaps he’d want me to tell her, but he continued. “Mr. Pyke may have gone into hiding of his own accord. He might be the thief.”
“No.” Mrs. Pyke’s voice was choked with tears and anger. “No, he wouldn’t do that. I don’t believe it. He’s not a thief and he’s not greedy. You’re wrong, Mr. Glass.”
“He told the newspapers he was a magician,” I said. “Why do that if he wasn’t going to capitalize on the reputation of magicians?”
Mrs. Pyke’s lips firmed. “He wouldn’t put me through this if he could help it. He is not greedy.”
I glanced at Mrs. Fuller, but she remained silent. If she had agreed with her friend, I might not have continued with our line of questioning, but her silence was telling. “Mrs. Pyke, does your husband own any other properties?”
“No.”
“Does he lease a warehouse or storeroom?”
She shook her head. “I told you. He’s not hiding somewhere, Mrs. Glass.”
We were getting nowhere and only making her more upset. I indicated to Matt that we should go and we made to leave.
“I’ll show you out,” Mrs. Fuller said, following us into the corridor.
She did not open the front door, however, but rested her hand on the doorknob. She glanced back toward the parlor. Mrs. Pyke had not emerged. “I know you have to ask those questions,” she whispered. “I can see how it looks after Mr. Pyke gave his name in the newspaper. And the truth is, he has become more passionate about his work lately.” She glanced again at the parlor then leaned closer. “But I don’t think it’s the money that drove him to speak to the newspaper. It’s his reputation. Well, I suppose the two are linked. A good reputation leads to more customers which allows his business to thrive. But…it’s something more, too. Something that has little to do with how much he sells his rugs for.”