The Kidnapper's Accomplice (Glass and Steele Book 10)

by C. J. Archer

  “So I see,” he said in his usual precise monotone as he read.

  “A simple yes from me is all that is required to release her.”

  “So the letter states.”

  I waited, my hands clasped in my lap, and nibbled my lower lip. Brockwell leaned back in his chair and scratched his sideburn as he re-read the note.

  It was an excruciating wait. “Well?” I prompted. “What are you going to do about it?”

  He set the letter down and regarded me from the other side of the desk. “First of all, I am going to urge you to do nothing. Let the police handle this.”

  “I tried telling Matt that, but you know what he’s like. He’s fetching Duke and Cyclops now but agreed to meet me here rather than hare off to Mr. Bunn’s workshop and demand Willie be released.”

  It hadn’t been easy to coax that agreement out of him, and I still worried he would take Cyclops and Duke with him to confront Mr. Bunn.

  Brockwell picked up the letter again.

  I balled my hands into fists and fought for patience. “You don’t look worried,” I said.

  “I know Willie well; perhaps better than you. She won’t be a victim.”

  “She might not have a choice. If you know her well then you would also know that she’s just as likely to dig a bigger hole for herself with that sharp tongue of hers.”

  He set the letter down and clasped his hands on the desk. “Tell me about this Bunn character and the woman with him.”

  I told him all that I knew, which amounted to very little. I didn’t even know what relation the woman was to Bunn, let alone her name. “She is definitely a magician though. She referred to herself as such. I assume she’s another leather magician, perhaps a family member of Bunn’s. Although, on second thought, they look nothing alike. He’s fair while she’s dark.”

  Finally he rose. “I’ll pay Mr. Bunn’s workshop a visit with some men. We’ll have Willie back safely in no time.”

  I let out a breath. “Thank you, Inspector. It’s a great comfort to know that someone who cares for her is on the case.”

  He pressed his lips together and opened his office door for me. He scratched his side whiskers and opened his mouth only to shut it again without speaking. I suspected he wanted to ask me something, but was perhaps too embarrassed. I decided to put him out of his misery.

  “She still cares about you,” I said quietly. “But she’s afraid you now think her…too strange.”

  “She has an odd way of showing she cares. She called me all sorts of things last time I saw her. Some of them I don’t even know what they mean.”

  “That’s just her way. In fact, calling you names means she cares. If she disliked you, she would probably just…” I waved my hand, not quite sure what Willie would do if she lost interest in Brockwell.

  “Shoot me?” he offered.

  I smiled. “I’m glad you understand her.”

  He followed me out of his office and escorted me back to the Yard’s front desk. “Just one more question,” he said before I left. “What would happen if you used your extension spell with Mr. Bunn’s leather one?”

  “On the surface, it would simply extend the life of his magic and make its quality last. It would mean he could gain a reputation that would see him able to increase his prices and earn more custom. But the implications could be further reaching if word got out. Other magicians would want me to repeat the exercise for them, and the artless would feel threatened. No one really knows what would happen then. I suppose the tension between the artless and magicians would boil over.”

  “I see.” He held up the letter. “May I keep this?”

  “Of course. Please do keep us informed.”

  Brockwell’s gaze shifted. I looked behind me to see Matt, Cyclops and Duke striding up to us. Brockwell sighed. “I suspect I won’t need to inform you of anything. I assume you will be coming with me to Mr. Bunn’s workshop, Glass?”

  “I’m glad to see you’re amenable to the idea of company,” Matt said. “If we work together, we can get faster results than separately.”

  It would seem Matt was never going to concede such an important operation to the police, and Brockwell seemed to have expected it.

  We traveled at a good clip but the denser traffic in Soho slowed us down. Mr. Bunn’s workshop was located very near Soho Square, a rather upmarket precinct where the rents must have been high. No wonder he’d needed a large loan.

  Thanks to Woodall’s rather nerve-wracking driving, we arrived moments ahead of the police. Matt wouldn’t wait and stormed into the shop. Cyclops went with him while Duke remained outside on guard.

  A youth sitting on a stool behind the counter greeted us cheerfully, but his smile quickly withered beneath Matt’s ferocious glare.

  “Where’s Bunn?” Matt growled.

  “Mr. Bunn is not here at present,” the lad said in an attempt at an upper-class accent. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen.

  I placed a hand on Matt’s arm and took over the questioning. “Do you know where he is?” I asked, employing a softer tone.

  “Are you Mrs. Glass?”

  I was taken aback and didn’t answer immediately.

  Matt slammed his hands on the counter, making the lad jump. “Where is Bunn?”

  “Step away, Glass,” Brockwell said from the doorway. “He’s just a boy.”

  “Old enough to answer the question,” Matt growled.

  The detective inspector ambled in with two constables at his heels. I drew in a steadying breath, drawing the scent of leather into my lungs. The small shop was neat, with some fine boots displayed on the counter beside a pyramid of stacked shoe polish. Women’s boots of different colored leathers were displayed on pedestals in the window along with an artfully placed fan here and a pair of gloves there. It was just the sort of shop that would attract an exclusive clientele.

  Brockwell introduced himself and the lad’s eyes widened even further.

  “I ain’t done nothing wrong, sir!” He dropped the affected accent altogether, and reverted to a Cockney one. “Mr. Bunn asked me to wait here for Mrs. Glass. He didn’t tell me where he was going. I swear, I don’t know where he is. Don’t arrest me!”

  “I’m not going to arrest you if you are honest. Tell me, how were you going to give Bunn the message that Mrs. Glass passed on to you?”

  The lad pointed to a tall wrought iron candlestick in the window. “I’d light the candle after dark. If it were lit, it meant she’d said yes.”

  Cyclops peered out of the window.

  “Do you know what she was saying yes to?” Matt asked.

  The boy shook his head quickly. “I swear, I didn’t. Mr. Bunn told me nothing. I just work in the shop sometimes, when Mr. Bunn goes out. Usually I run errands. He told me nothing about Mrs. Glass, just that she would come here, probably with her husband.” He looked to the constables standing by the door. “He said nothing about bobbies.”

  “Where does Mr. Bunn live?” Brockwell asked.

  The lad hesitated then pointed to the ceiling.

  Brockwell signaled to his constables and they left through the door behind the counter that led through to a workshop. Cyclops followed. I caught a glimpse of the stairs leading up to the second-floor residence before the door closed again.

  “Who lives with him?” Brockwell asked.

  “No one,” the lad said. “He lives alone.”

  “What about his family?”

  The boy shrugged. “I don’t know if he’s got a family. He hasn’t mentioned a wife or parents or nothing.”

  “Does Mr. Bunn have another workshop?” Matt asked. “Perhaps a storeroom or warehouse that he uses?”

  The boy shook his head.

  “Are you certain?” Brockwell said.

  The lad shrugged again. “He’s never sent me to fetch anything from a warehouse. Everything he needs is back there.” He jerked a thumb at the door leading to the workshop. “All deliveries come here.”

  “Does
he ever have visitors who aren’t customers?” I asked.

  “Particularly women,” Matt added.

  “I’ll ask the questions,” Brockwell said. He turned to the youth. “Has a young woman called on Mr. Bunn here, but not for footwear?”

  The lad lifted a shoulder. “What does she look like?”

  “Small, dark hair with pencils poking out of her arrangement,” I said.

  The boy’s eyes brightened. “That’d be Miss Amelia Moreton.”

  “What do you know about her?” Brockwell asked at the same time that Matt said, “Are they courting?”

  The lad pointed at Matt. “Don’t know. They didn’t seem like sweethearts, if you know what I mean.” He pointed to Brockwell. “I know she works at a fireworks factory in Wandsworth. Her family owns it.”

  “Where precisely?” Matt pressed.

  The lad shrugged again.

  Cyclops returned to the shopfront with the two constables trailing behind. He shook his head.

  Brockwell thanked the lad and opened the door for me to exit first.

  “What should I do?” the youth asked. “Light the candle or not?”

  “My answer is no,” I said. “For now.”

  “I’ll be here until midnight, ma’am, in case you change your mind.”

  Outside, Cyclops pointed to the shops opposite. All were two levels. “To see a lit candle in the shoe shop window, he has to be stationed in one of these buildings or on the street itself.”

  “He might not wait for the signal himself,” Matt said, scanning the upper windows opposite. “He might be paying someone to watch and deliver him a message.”

  Brockwell ordered his men to search the buildings. “Not much we can do if he is paying someone.”

  He was right. There were people up and down the street, many of whom were just youths like the one inside the shop, who’d do anything for a few coins in their pocket. They wouldn’t tell us anything unless they felt threatened.

  “Then we pay a call on Miss Amelia Moreton’s fireworks factory,” I said.

  “Fireworks!” Duke cried. “You mean to say she’s an explosives magician?”

  Brockwell scratched his sideburns. “I suppose she must be.”

  “Bloody hell. What do you reckon a fireworks spell can do, India?”

  “I hate to think,” I said heavily.

  “Let’s hope her magic is dormant,” Matt said.

  But we all knew it mustn’t be, or Amelia Moreton wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to force me to use my magic.

  The journey to Wandsworth from Soho was a rather long one, particularly with the late afternoon traffic clogging the roads. Pedestrians seemed to be as active as ants at a picnic, hurrying through the drizzling rain to catch their train or omnibus. Public and private coaches jostled for position on the approach to Westminster Bridge but once we were across, Woodall picked up the pace again.

  “What would a fireworks magician want with your extension magic, India?” Duke asked as we passed Wandsworth Common. “You can’t extend a firework. It goes off when it goes off.”

  “It depends on what her magic does, I suppose,” I said. “We’ll ask her when we get to the factory.”

  “She won’t be there,” Cyclops said.

  Matt agreed. “She’ll be in hiding, probably with Bunn, at the location where they’re keeping Willie.”

  “Like back at the shop so they can see if the assistant lights the flame.” Duke clicked his tongue. “We should have stayed to see if they showed up.”

  The constables had reported no sign of anyone watching the bootmaker’s shop from the buildings opposite, but Brockwell had ordered both to remain behind to keep an eye out. He then left, following behind us in his own conveyance.

  A steady stream of women filed out beneath a brick archway at the Moreton Explosives firework factory on Garratt Lane. They looked tired and a little dirty, but in good spirits as they chatted and walked after a ten-hour working day. I could have been one of them, working in a factory much like this one, if not for becoming Matt’s assistant all those months ago. It was a rather sobering thought. If not for our chance encounter, my life would have been so different.

  I smiled at him, but he was too focused on the office entrance to notice. He strode off as Brockwell alighted from his carriage.

  A man sitting at a desk looked up upon our entry. He took in all of us and his eyes widened behind his spectacles. I suspected Matt’s angry face alarmed him. He hurriedly stood, scraping his chair on the floorboards. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  “I’m Detective Inspector Brockwell from Scotland Yard.”

  “Scotland Yard! Good lord.”

  Brockwell put up his hands. “I merely want to make some simple inquiries. Is Miss Amelia Moreton present?”

  “Miss Moreton? I, uh, no. I haven’t seen her all day.”

  “Is that unusual?” Brockwell pressed.

  “She comes and goes as she sees fit. Perhaps she’s at home.”

  The door at the back of the office opened and a short man with gray hair combed back over his bald pate filled the doorway. A thick gold watchchain disappeared into his waistcoat pocket. “Teele? What’s going on? Who are these people?”

  Brockwell repeated his introduction and the newcomer’s bluster faded upon hearing it. The words Scotland Yard had that effect on people.

  “Dear God, what’s happened?” he asked.

  “We want to speak to Miss Amelia Moreton in regard to a particular matter of great urgency.”

  “Amelia?” The man’s gaze flicked to the clerk. “Teele, you may go. Mr. Brockwell, come with me.”

  “It’s Detective Inspector Brockwell.” Brockwell followed the short man through to the office and the rest of us trailed behind.

  This office was as large as the outer one but lacked its utilitarian appearance. There were no filing cabinets or drawers, no open ledgers on the mahogany desk. A drinks trolley had been wheeled to within reach of the desk and a crystal tumbler half-filled with amber liquid took pride of place on the desk itself.

  A family portrait hung on a wall. I recognized a younger version of Amelia with a brother and both parents. Mr. Moreton was thinner, his hair less gray, and Amelia smiled sweetly. Both had changed since they’d sat for the picture.

  “Are you Mr. Moreton?” Brockwell asked.

  The man lifted his chin. “Orwell Moreton. I own this factory. Who are they?”

  “My name is Matthew Glass,” Matt said.

  Mr. Moreton’s jaw dropped. “Glass?” His gaze slid to me. “Mrs. Glass?”

  “Yes.” I extended my hand. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  His cheeks pinked. After a moment, he seemed to realize my hand was still extended. His cheeks grew redder as he shook it. “I am very pleased to meet you too, Mrs. Glass. Very pleased indeed.”

  “You know who I am,” I said matter-of-factly.

  He glanced at Brockwell.

  “You may speak freely in front of the detective inspector. He knows about magic.”

  Mr. Moreton angled a spare chair towards me and invited me to sit. He did not invite the others as he sat down on the chair behind the desk. “Forgive my staring, Mrs. Glass. I expected you to be rather more…” He waved his hand in my general direction then must have realized anything he said would not sound flattering. He lowered his hand and cleared his throat. “What a surprise to have you in my office. Would you like a tour of the factory? I’d be more than happy to show you how we make fireworks. Did you know that Moreton’s have a regular pyrotechnic display every Friday night in the summertime here at Wandsworth Common? It’s free, of course. The people enjoy it very much, particularly the children.”

  “Is there magic in the fireworks?” I asked.

  His enthusiasm waned. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “Only sometimes. It would be too conspicuous if I used magic for every display. I haven’t used magic for some months now, ever since the guild became suspicious and began to sniff
around my factory.”

  “What does your magic spell do to the fireworks?”

  “It doubles the explosive effect of each firework case. It makes our displays twice as thrilling as artless pyrotechnics. That’s why we’re the official suppliers of fireworks to several cities both here and abroad.” He frowned. “What does this have to do with my daughter?”

  “She kidnapped my husband’s cousin.”

  Mr. Moreton paled.

  “She came to my house yesterday with Mr. Bunn and demanded I use my extension spell to lengthen his leather magic. I refused.”

  Brockwell placed the letter on the desk. “Is this her handwriting or Bunn’s?”

  Mr. Moreton glanced at it. “It’s not Amelia’s.” He passed a hand over his face.

  “Where can Amelia be?” Matt demanded. “Where has she taken my cousin?”

  Mr. Moreton clutched the arms of his chair. “I don’t know, Mr. Glass. I swear to you, I don’t know. I haven’t seen her today.”

  “She’s your daughter!”

  “My grown daughter with a mind of her own. A very strong, willful mind.” Mr. Moreton leaned his elbows on the desk and buried his head in his hands. When he looked up again, he seemed to have aged ten years. “She used to be a sweet girl, but ever since learning of her magic in her late teens, she has become more…difficult. She doesn’t like having to hide her magic. She doesn’t understand the need for discretion and for using spells sparingly in the factory.” He picked up the letter. “I wasn’t aware she had become more of an activist.” He put it down again and fixed a glare on Brockwell. “I blame the bootmaker. Without him, she would never have become an advocate for magical freedom. She would never have learned about you, Mrs. Glass.”

  “He is certainly to blame for leading her to my home,” I said.

  “I am very sorry for that. For all of this.” He stabbed his finger on the letter. “But Bunn is to blame. This handwriting proves it. He has taken advantage of Amelia. You should be making inquiries about him.”