by C. J. Archer
“Is it possible he wants to leave behind a legacy?” I asked, recalling Mr. Pyke’s words when we first met.
“Yes, that’s more likely the reason behind him going public.”
“So you think he might have stolen the rug and gone into hiding?”
“It’s possible he plans to use the stolen rug somehow, although I don’t see why. To sell it? Make more magical rugs and sell them? It just doesn’t ring true. Not for Mr. Pyke.”
“Perhaps he has other plans that don’t involve selling them,” Matt said.
She bit her lip and I suspected she had more to say. Neither Matt nor I hurried her, however. But we didn’t leave either.
Our patience was rewarded. “He was very good friends with Mr. Stocker, the guild master.”
“I thought they fell out when Mr. Pyke told Mr. Stocker he was a magician,” I said.
“They did, but before that, they were close.” The sound of china cups being gathered came from the parlor. Mrs. Fuller opened the front door. “Ask Mr. Stocker about rented rooms and the like. If anyone knows whether Mr. Pyke is hiding, it’ll be him.”
The porter would not allow us entry into the wool guild. Neither Matt nor I were surprised after our last visit, but it was a disappointment. Not even Matt’s charms could convince the porter to give Mr. Stocker a message. The porter sent us away with a stern glare then slammed the door in our faces.
I ushered Matt back to the safety of the carriage where we discussed what to do next.
“We’ll go to Scotland Yard,” Matt said. “Brockwell will have to call on Stocker. The porter can’t refuse the police entry.”
Willie slouched into the corner, a petulant pout on her lips. “Do we have to see him again?”
“We do,” Duke told her. “You better fix whatever’s going on between you because we’re going to keep seeing him. We can’t avoid him to suit you.”
“It ain’t my fault! It’s his!” She kicked the seat opposite. “It’s his.”
Matt blocked her foot with his own before she kicked the seat again. “It’s certainly not the fault of this carriage. Kindly refrain from punishing it.”
“What’s he done?” I asked her.
She hitched her crossed arms higher up her chest. “I don’t want to talk about it. Let’s get this over with so I can get back to ignoring him.”
I sighed.
Matt took my hand and squeezed. The squeeze was meant to mean something, but I couldn’t determine what. He asked Duke to give Woodall orders to drive to New Scotland Yard. Twenty minutes later, Woodall stopped at the front of the grand police headquarters on the Victoria Embankment.
“Willie, stay here,” Matt ordered. “Duke, come with us.”
“Why?” both Duke and Willie asked.
Matt didn’t answer, and Duke trailed behind him as we crossed the pavement and entered the building. Before approaching the sergeant on the front desk, Matt turned to face us.
“The more you press her for an answer, the less likely she is to tell you,” he said.
Duke sighed. “I know, but…” He finished the sentence with a shrug.
“Wishing she could be something other than stubborn is not going to make it so.” Matt clapped Duke on the shoulder. “I know you’re worried about her ruining things with a good man like Brockwell, but have faith in her. She has a big heart and sometimes she doesn’t know what to do with it, but she will do what’s best for her in the end. It’ll just take longer if we interfere. The more we push her, the more she’ll push back.”
He was right. Whatever their dispute was about, Willie wanted to keep it to herself for now. She was too proud to hear criticism, too stubborn to take advice, and too independent to be steered. As Matt said, we had to have faith in her.
Duke emitted another sigh. “I’ll back away. But you might want to give Brockwell the same advice.” He clicked his fingers as an idea struck him. “Maybe he can tell you what they’re arguing about.”
“Duke,” I chided. “We won’t interfere.”
He reluctantly agreed then left to return to the carriage while Matt and I approached the front desk.
“We could ask Brockwell,” I said. “Willie would never find out.”
He eyed me sideways. “I think we should stick to investigating and leave Willie’s private life alone. She won’t thank you for meddling.”
I didn’t argue with him, but I didn’t necessarily agree either. Willie’s past was littered with discarded lovers of both sexes who didn’t truly understand her or accept her. Brockwell did and that was rare. If he’d said something to upset her, she needed to give him the chance to apologize and make amends or she was in danger of losing him forever.
Matt was in the process of asking the sergeant if we could see Brockwell when the detective inspector himself emerged from the corridor that led to his office.
“Good,” he said, striding up to us. “I was just on my way to find you.” Something must be wrong. Brockwell never strode anywhere.
“What is it?” Matt asked, sounding wary.
“I just received a telegram.” He waved a strip of paper in the air. “An unidentified male was found in Hampstead Heath and taken to the Royal Free Hospital. He’s badly injured and unconscious. A description of the victim was sent to all metropolitan stations.” He flicked the paper with his finger. “It matches that of Pyke.”
Chapter 11
Mrs. Pyke’s tears were the confirmation we needed that the bruised and battered man lying in the bed at the Royal Free Hospital was indeed her husband. Given that his entire head was wrapped in bandages, with only his eyes, mouth and nostrils exposed, I didn’t recognize him. She knew him by the pattern of freckles on his hands.
Matt handed his handkerchief to Mrs. Pyke and she dabbed at her eyes.
“Will he be all right?” she asked the doctor.
The doctor hesitated. “It’s too soon to tell. He regained consciousness briefly an hour ago, but only for a few minutes.”
“Did he say anything?” Brockwell asked, pencil hovering over a fresh page of his notebook.
The doctor shook his head. “He was confused. He couldn’t remember his name or the events leading up to his accident.”
The doctor left to attend to another patient. A nurse offered Mrs. Pyke a cup of tea while she sat with her husband. Brockwell jerked his head, indicating we should discuss the situation out of her hearing. He instructed one of the local policeman who’d accompanied us to stay with Mr. Pyke and to notify us immediately if he regained consciousness.
Brockwell signaled for the other, a sergeant, to join us in the hospital foyer. “It seems he is our missing man,” the inspector said with a nod back at the ward. “Tell us everything about his discovery.”
The sergeant, a red-faced man with a luxurious black moustache, pushed out his barrel chest. “He was found by myself and Constable Tully on Hampstead Heath at a quarter past one this morning. We immediately brought him here where he has mostly lain unconscious since.”
“Was anything found near his body?”
The sergeant frowned. “Nothing out of the ordinary, sir.”
“Where in Hampstead Heath was he found exactly?”
The sergeant offered to show us the precise spot.
“Come with us,” Matt said as he strode off.
I raced to catch up to him, worried he’d walk into gunfire. He crossed Gray’s Inn Road and climbed into our carriage without incident, however.
“You need to be more careful,” I said, settling beside him. “The gunman is still out there.”
He kissed my temple. “I am being careful. I didn’t even wait to give Woodall his instructions.” He opened the window to do just that when Brockwell joined us.
“The sergeant suggests we collect a constable to help us search the vicinity where Pyke was found,” Brockwell said. “The local station isn’t far from the Heath.”
“I prefer a man we know and trust,” Matt said.
Brockwell gave
Woodall instructions to drive to the Shoreditch police station where the detective inspector used his authority to borrow Cyclops for the day. We then headed to Hampstead Heath.
My immediate reaction upon arriving at the open parkland was one of reluctance and dread. It was too exposed. A gunman would have a clear shot at Matt as he crossed it. He would not listen to reason, however, and remain in the carriage.
“No one has followed us,” he said as Woodall pulled to the curb. “It’s safe.”
“It’s not.”
“I’m coming with you, India, and that’s final.” He jumped out before the coach had come to a complete stop. He put his hand out to assist me, smiling warmly. “You look pretty when you’re scowling.”
“Your charm won’t work on me this time.” I accepted his hand and he kissed my knuckles before I alighted.
“Do I need to kiss you on the mouth right here to stop your scowl?”
I gasped. “You wouldn’t dare.”
He gave me one of his wicked smiles.
I clicked my tongue and walked off, keeping alert to our surroundings.
The sergeant led the way along the muddy path. Brockwell joined me ahead of the others, keeping up with my brisk pace. I seethed in silence until the detective inspector piped up.
“He’s right. No one followed us here.”
“I know but I still worry. It’s so open.” My heart quickened as a carriage rumbled past on the road. In warmer weather, this area was much busier, but today the icy winds and dark clouds kept people away. I clutched my coat collar tighter at my throat.
Brockwell waved toward a woodland ahead. “The pond is somewhat sheltered by the trees.”
“Not at this time of year.”
The bathing pond was quite large with grassy banks rolling to the water’s edge on the near side and the bare trees surrounding the rest. A shed for bathers to change had been built on the bank near the short pier off which swimmers would jump in the summertime. There were no intrepid bathers braving the ice-cold water today.
When we caught up to the sergeant further along the path, he was already inspecting the ground. “Mr. Pyke was found here.” He indicated the grass near the path before it sloped toward the pond.
Matt crouched to inspect the ground. “If there was any blood, it’s been washed away by the rain.”
Brockwell clasped his hands behind his back and studied the vicinity. “It’s impossible to tell if Mr. Pyke was attacked here or was brought here after being attacked elsewhere.”
Matt stood and looked around too, his expression unreadable.
Duke came to stand beside me. He kept his voice low. “If he was going to launch a flying contraption, this would be a good place to do it. Open space, no one about on a winter’s night.”
“There wasn’t much wind last night,” I added. “Or rain. That came this morning. But I don’t see how we can prove Mr. Pyke attempted to fly the rug here and fell off. There’s no sign of it anywhere.”
“The kidnapper took it with him and left Mr. Pyke here to die, maybe.”
“Perhaps,” Matt said, joining us. He didn’t look convinced, however. After turning a complete circle on the spot to scan the area, something near the shed caught his attention. “Duke, keep the sergeant here. Cyclops, with me.”
I headed to the shed with Matt and Cyclops. As we drew closer, I saw what they’d seen. Being taller, they’d spotted it first.
“The rug!” I picked up my skirts and rushed toward it. It was definitely Fabian’s rug, but it was covered in mud and leaf matter. A closer inspection revealed there were even twigs stuck in the pile. “It crashed through the bushes.”
Cyclops inspected the bank of bushes nearby and shook his head. “Not these. They’re not damaged.”
“So it was brought here and dumped? Mr. Pyke too?”
Matt shook his head. “No, it landed here after its flight, but it didn’t fall through these bushes. It came through those.” He indicated the hedgerow lining the path, past where the body of Mr. Pyke had been found. There was a large gap clear through the hedge. “It crashed into the shrubs, Mr. Pyke fell off, and the rug landed here.”
I was impressed he’d managed to get it off the ground, with himself as a passenger. By the look of the damaged bushes, it had not risen very high, however. Mere inches only. That explained why Mr. Pyke had survived. A fall from a great height would have killed him.
Brockwell barked an order at the sergeant to take his attention away from us. A moment later, the sergeant and Duke headed off, back the way we’d come. They progressed slowly, inspecting the ground as they walked. We returned to where the body of Mr. Pyke had been found where the detective inspector met us.
“He was getting curious, asking questions about what you were looking at over there by the shed,” he said. “So is it the carpet?”
Matt told him about the rug and the bushes. Brockwell agreed with his assessment of how the flight had transpired, and how it had ended.
“But we’re no closer to determining if Pyke was kidnapped and was forced to fly it or if he did it of his own accord,” the inspector said. “The ground here is churned up, but it’s that way everywhere. We’ve had so much rain lately, this area is a quagmire. I can’t determine any single set of footprints.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Willie waving her arms above her head. She’d gone down the slope to the water’s edge when we headed for the shed. We hurried toward her, me holding onto Matt’s arm to ensure I didn’t slip.
Willie stood a foot from the water, her boots caked in mud. She looked pleased with herself as she pointed to something in the shallows, half submerged. “See that?” She was too excited to wait for us to inspect it or even make a guess. “It’s a bomb,” she blurted out.
“Get back!” Brockwell shouted, reaching for her.
She shrugged him off. “It ain’t going to explode. It’s in the water.”
Cyclops stepped closer and inspected the device. “She’s right. It won’t go off.”
“Told you. It’s too wet.”
“It doesn’t have any explosive in it.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
Cyclops pulled the metal contraption out of the water and showed her the housing. Inside were several rods of iron, not explosives. “It’s fake.”
Brockwell scratched his sideburns. “Why would someone plant a fake bomb here?”
Matt glanced back up the slope. “It wasn’t planted here. This is where it landed after it fell off the flying rug. It probably fell off at the same time as Pyke and rolled down here.”
“The question is, why a fake bomb?” Cyclops asked.
“They were testing the strength of the magic,” I said. “They were attempting to see how much the flying rug could carry.”
Cyclops cradled the device, estimating its weight. “One man and one bomb.”
We all stared at the metal casing with its fake explosives. An oppressive silence fell, as smothering as any of London’s fogs. My breathing became ragged, my chest tight. This was no longer a matter of a collector wanting to own the most precious magical artefact. Nor was it about magicians versus the artless. It was serious.
Deadly.
“Thank God Pyke failed,” Matt muttered.
“His magic could never hold his weight as well as that of a bomb,” I said. “We have no fear on that score. If the plan is to drop bombs from the sky, it will never work. Mr. Pyke’s magic simply isn’t strong enough.”
“But yours is,” Brockwell said. “Do I have that correct?”
I swallowed, nodded. “But there needs to be a support beneath the rug—iron or wood, that sort of thing. I can control both but a magician like Mr. Pyke can’t. There needs to be two magicians on the rug, each speaking the flying spell for their magical specialty. Mr. Pyke didn’t know that, nor does it seem his kidnapper did.”
Matt circled his arm around my waist but he offered no words of comfort. He looked troubled, his gaze dista
nt. Perhaps he too was thinking of Pyke lying in the hospital, his body bruised. If I wasn’t always surrounded by Matt or one of the others, would I have been kidnapped instead?
“This wasn’t Pyke’s idea, was it?” Cyclops asked.
“It might have been,” Willie said, not sounding convinced.
“But doubtful,” Matt countered.
Brockwell nodded, scrubbing his sideburns. “Coyle. It must be.”
It was looking more and more like it.
We trudged back to the carriage then returned to the hospital, but Mr. Pyke had not regained consciousness. Matt brooded for the entire journey, his silence throwing a shroud over our group. I knew he was thinking about me being a potential target for the kidnapper next time, but I also knew there was little I could say to lighten his mood.
Brockwell decided to stay at the hospital to be there to question Mr. Pyke when he woke up. He walked with us to the carriage but did not get in. “Return Cyclops to his station then go home and wait. If Pyke wakes, I’ll send a message immediately.”
I eyed Matt sideways. Waiting was not his strong suit. He sat with a rigid back and didn’t even acknowledge Brockwell.
The detective inspector knew Matt well enough to know this was a worrying sign. “Do not call on Coyle. Is that understood, Glass? We don’t have enough evidence to confront him. If Pyke can point to Coyle as his kidnapper then we will act, but only then.” When Matt didn’t respond, he rapped his knuckles on the door. “Glass!”
“Understood.” Matt closed the door and thumped on the ceiling. He’d already given Woodall his instructions before we climbed into the carriage. I had assumed we would head home, but as we turned into Wilton Terrace, I realized Matt was prepared to defy Brockwell’s orders.
We stopped outside Lord Coyle’s residence.
Matt did not try to stop me from joining him as he stormed up the front steps, as did Willie and Cyclops. Duke remained on the pavement to keep watch.