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

by C. J. Archer

  “Can I at least get a ride home?”

  “No,” Matt said at the same time I said, “Of course.”

  “Catch a cab,” Matt told him. “Or better still, stay at the Gazette and leave with colleagues. Being home alone is probably not wise right now.”

  Oscar heaved a sigh as he gazed at the Gazette’s office. “I don’t particularly want to be here now, either. Journalists ask too many questions.”

  “I cannot believe Sir Charles sent someone to shoot you!” I cried.

  “Nor can I,” Matt said heavily.

  Oscar sighed again. “He must be getting more desperate. When beating me up didn’t work, he had to employ more drastic measures.” He rubbed the back of his neck above his collar. “Now that I think about it, it’s unlikely he wanted to kill me just now. That’s why the shot missed. Whittaker told the shooter to send me a warning, not kill me. Well, I consider myself warned.”

  “You’re giving up on the book?” I asked.

  “I’ll give it serious consideration.”

  “You’re taking your own life in your hands if you don’t,” Matt said.

  Oscar sighed once more.

  Matt snapped his fingers at him. “The names and addresses of the two Bloomsbury magicians, if you please. India and I’ll pay them a call now.”

  Oscar didn’t have the precise addresses, but he gave us the street name where they both lived. “The thing is, neither are open about being magicians, nor are they activists for the cause,” he said.

  “That doesn’t mean they don’t want other magicians to take up the cause,” I said. “They could be quite happy to shelter Bunn and Amelia but not wish to rattle cages themselves.”

  “You’re probably right, as usual.” Oscar smiled at me. “I am sorry to drag you into my problems, India. You too, Glass.”

  “Kind of you to worry about me,” Matt said with sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “If you’re truly worried about India, you’d stop writing the damned book. She’ll be harmed by it. All magicians will be.” He took my hand and led me to the carriage without waiting for a response from Oscar.

  I had to take brisk steps to keep up with his pace. As I stepped into the cabin, I glanced back at Oscar. He hurried back to the Gazette’s office, casting frequent glances over his shoulder.

  “Poor Oscar,” I said when Matt sat beside me. “He’s very anxious.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “I cannot believe Sir Charles sent someone to shoot him.” It had been difficult enough to reconcile the debonair gentleman with the sort of fellow who paid thugs to beat someone up, but it was almost impossible to imagine him as the sort who paid gunmen to shoot people.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Matt said quietly.

  “I agree. Sir Charles is a liar and probably a spy, but a killer? I don’t think so.”

  He shook his head quickly as if shaking off his thoughts. “It’s easy to kill someone when you are not doing the act itself. But that’s not what I mean by it not making sense.”

  “Oh?”

  He turned to face me. A spark lit his eyes and his face brightened. This mystery intrigued him. “Barratt received a warning in the post only yesterday. Today he was shot at. Why not give him more time to think it over then allow him to get the word out that he’d given up?”

  “Perhaps it was just a warning shot, as Oscar thought.”

  “Then why both the message and the gunshot?”

  I frowned as I tried to follow where Matt was leading. Then I frowned harder. He was right, it didn’t make sense. If the message was the warning, why shoot at him too? “Are you saying Whittaker didn’t hire the gunman?”

  He nodded.

  “If that’s the case, then who did? And why?”

  Matt’s lips flattened and his eyes lost their spark. His gaze slid away.

  “Matt?”

  He lifted a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.

  I gasped as I finally realized what he was thinking. He didn’t want to tell me because he didn’t want me to worry. “Oscar wasn’t the intended target, was he? We were. Either Mr. Bunn or Amelia fired that shot at us.”

  His thumb caressed mine through our gloves. “Not at you, India. You’re too valuable to them.”

  I gasped again and clutched his hand. “You. You were the intended target. Oh God, Matt.”

  “It was probably just a warning shot. It missed us all.”

  “The shooter was rushed! He, or she, had no time to aim properly! If they did, it would be a different story. Good lord, Matt, we have to go home. You can’t go strolling into their lair now. You’re a sitting duck.”

  “They don’t know we’re heading to Bloomsbury so they won’t be prepared.”

  I withdrew my hands and crossed my arms. “No.”

  “I’ll be prepared.” He reached under the seat and pulled out the pistol case from the storage compartment.

  “You think that’ll stop them when they could be watching our arrival from their hiding place? Matt, be sensible. This is far too dangerous. Let Brockwell deal with it.”

  He opened the case and inspected the pistol. “Will it make you feel better if we collect Brockwell and some constables?”

  “Then will you go home?”

  “No.” He opened the window and shouted an order to Woodall to divert to Scotland Yard.

  We traveled there in silence until Matt finally broke it when Woodall pulled into the curb. “The silent treatment won’t work on me,” he said. “I’m not changing my mind. I haven’t done enough to help Brockwell, and I can’t sit idly by and wait for them to do something. Besides, I’m more vulnerable at home than here. They won’t expect us.”

  “I disagree,” I said snippily. “You haven’t been sitting idly by; you went to Hyde Park and helped the police keep the public away.”

  “That was nothing. I can do more. Like this.”

  “And anyway, I wasn’t giving you the silent treatment. I was thinking about something you said earlier. If you never once thought it was Whittaker who shot at Oscar, why didn’t you disabuse him of the notion? You let him believe it.”

  The corners of his mouth lifted. “Because now he’s going to seriously consider giving up writing the book.”

  I clicked my tongue. “That’s deceptive, Matt.”

  “Actually, I thought it clever.”

  We found Brockwell in one of the meeting rooms reading through the reports brought in by his men after their shifts. He looked up upon our entry only to immediately continue reading.

  “There is no news,” he said, turning a page. “I wish I could tell you more, but alas, Bunn and Miss Moreton are proving difficult to locate. I have men crawling all over Bloomsbury, so I’m certain they’ll be found, sooner or later.”

  “We can help find them sooner.” Matt picked up a pencil and wrote down the street names Oscar had given us. “There are two magicians in Bloomsbury who could be harboring them.”

  Brockwell had looked annoyed when Matt commandeered his pencil and paper but now he looked pleased. “Excellent work. Where did you get the names?”

  “Oscar Barratt of The Weekly Gazette,” I said. “We were visiting his place of work when we were shot at.”

  “Shot at!” Brockwell rose. “Did you catch the gunman?”

  “Unfortunately not,” Matt said. “He ran off.”

  “Who do you think it was?”

  “Mr. Bunn or Amelia, of course,” I said.

  Brockwell frowned. “Why would they shoot you?”

  “To harm Matt to get to me, just like they kidnapped Willie. If Matt is shot they will threaten to do it again to another of my loved ones to coerce me into using my magic.”

  Brockwell paced the room, his hands at his back, his gaze on the floor. He suddenly stopped in front of Matt and shook his head. “I don’t think it was them.”

  “Why not?” Matt asked.

  “Why not simply set another bomb as we assume they’re going to do? Why do they have to shoot y
ou too? It seems unnecessary when a bomb threat could prove incredibly effective.”

  The shooting could prove very effective too. I was already considering how to get word to Amelia and Mr. Bunn that I was prepared to do as they asked as long as they left my family alone.

  “You could be right, Inspector,” I said. “They haven’t given me instructions. When Willie was kidnapped I was told to go to Bunn’s workshop. When the bomb was set to go off in Hyde Park I was told to show up at Oxford Street. But this time there has been no note, no demand, nothing.”

  “The note could be on its way,” Matt said.

  Brockwell narrowed his gaze. “Do you believe that, Glass?”

  Matt threw his hands in the air. “I don’t know, but somebody shot at us. If not Bunn and Amelia, then who? And why?”

  “Perhaps Oscar was the intended target after all,” I said.

  “Oscar Barratt?” Brockwell snorted. “I imagine he has offended a few people who’d want to shoot at him.”

  “More than a few,” Matt said.

  They both gave appreciative grunts, bonding over their mutual dislike of Oscar.

  “Shouldn’t we go and question these magicians?” I asked.

  “You’re coming, Mrs. Glass?” Brockwell asked as he gathered his hat and coat. He may have posed the question to me, but he looked at Matt.

  “Yes,” I snapped. “I am.”

  Matt and Brockwell shared another knowing look which only irritated me more.

  “Matt is my husband, not my keeper, Inspector.”

  “And as your husband, I’m worried about you walking into a dangerous situation,” Matt shot back.

  “You are walking into the same situation. I’m worried about you but I’m not telling you to leave this to the police.”

  He smirked. “Actually, you did.”

  I strode off and joined Brockwell in the corridor. “Are you riding with us, Inspector?”

  “If that’s agreeable to you both, yes. Scotland Yard has a tight budget with little left over for transport.” He signaled to two constables to join us and briefed them as we walked outside.

  The constables sat with Woodall on the driver’s seat while Brockwell sat in the cabin with us. He eyed my lap blanket with envy but politely refused it when I offered to share it with him.

  Our first stop was not the addresses of the two magicians, but the Bloomsbury police station. The entire constabulary was out looking for Bunn and Amelia, and the sergeant on duty was little help. He didn’t know the two men on Oscar’s list. At least that told us the men had never been in trouble with police before.

  “Be respectful,” Brockwell said as we drove to the first address. “If the local constabulary don’t know them, they must be good men.”

  “Good men who could be harboring dangerous criminals,” Matt countered.

  The first name on the list lived in a respectable looking row house. Mr. Carpenter was of middle age and somewhat portly with thick gray hair and a beard to match. He rolled his eyes when Brockwell introduced himself.

  “Your lot have already been here asking questions,” he said. “I haven’t seen the people you described. I’ll come to the station if I do.”

  “We have reason to suspect you might be harboring the fugitives.”

  He thrust his hands on his hips. “I bloody well am not! I haven’t seen them. Good day.” He went to shut the door, but both Matt and Brockwell stopped him.

  Brockwell gave Matt a nod of appreciation, but Matt wouldn’t have noticed. He was glaring at Mr. Carpenter.

  “The two people we’re searching for are magicians,” Matt said.

  Mr. Carpenter stilled.

  “We know you are also a magician,” Matt went on.

  Mr. Carpenter lowered his hands to his sides. “That doesn’t mean I’m helping them. I’d never do that.”

  “We need to search the premises.”

  “My wife won’t like it.” Mr. Carpenter stepped aside. “But go ahead.”

  His eagerness to comply was answer enough for me, but not Brockwell or Matt. I did not search the premises with them, but remained in the kitchen where Mrs. Carpenter was preparing a stew for dinner.

  “Appalling,” she said, chopping up potatoes with violent cuts of the knife. “We’ve done nothing wrong. This is an invasion of our home. They have no right coming in here and looking through our personal things. It’s humiliating.”

  “They’ve got to look or we’ll be suspects,” Mr. Carpenter told her.

  “Why?”

  “Magic,” he said simply.

  Mrs. Carpenter eyed me and I realized I hadn’t introduced myself. They might feel a little less persecuted if they knew I was a magician too. “My name is India Glass,” I said. “I’m also a magician.”

  “Watch magic, I know,” Mr. Carpenter said.

  “Watch magic?” Mrs. Carpenter echoed. Some of her anger faded, thankfully, replaced with curiosity. “What can watch magic do?”

  “Make time pieces keep perfect time,” I said.

  “I hear you can do more than that,” Mr. Carpenter said. “I hear you extend the life of magic performed by other magicians.”

  Mrs. Carpenter lowered her knife to the table, her eyes wide. “Oh. That’s wonderful. Will you extend my husband’s magic?”

  “No.”

  “But you don’t even know what he does yet.”

  Perhaps introducing myself had been a mistake.

  Mrs. Carpenter gathered up the pieces of potato and dropped them in the pot on the stove. “It’s the least you can do considering you’re barging in here accusing us of hiding criminals.”

  I sighed. “What magic do you do, Mr. Carpenter?”

  “Wood. Hence the name, Carpenter.” He gave a sheepish smile. “I’m a cabinet maker. I’ve got a workshop nearby. I was there this morning, but I close at midday on Saturdays. It’s not large and I don’t use my magic on anything.” He eyed his wife as he said it.

  She picked up her knife again and sliced through a potato with such force both halves rolled off the table.

  Mr. Carpenter collected them and glared at her as he returned them to the chopping board. “There’s no point using my magic at the workshop,” he went on. “It doesn’t last long. Barely even a week. If I had to rely on it to keep my pieces together, my business would have failed years ago. I just use it sometimes for myself. Making toys and doll house miniatures for my children when they were small, and now for the grandchildren. I’ve also made fruit bowls, chair legs, statues, that kind of thing.” He pointed out a few pieces around the kitchen. They were all beautiful and some seemed quite intricately carved. “I like to create nice things like that. Do you understand, Mrs. Glass?”

  “I do,” I said. “A magician needs to use their magical craft or they become restless.”

  “We do.”

  “My husband is a hard worker, Mrs. Glass,” Mrs. Carpenter said. “He’s a good father and husband. It’s not fair that he’s being persecuted like this. Not fair at all.” She drove her point home by pointing the knife at me.

  “He’s not being persecuted,” I said.

  She pointed the knife at the ceiling as the floorboards overhead creaked. “Isn’t he?”

  “You mentioned children,” I said. “Are they all grown up now?”

  “A son and daughter,” Mr. Carpenter said.

  “Do they work for you? Are they magicians?”

  “My son works for me, but he’s artless. They both are.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you accusing them of harboring these magicians?”

  “Of course not.” I was getting a little tired of the defensiveness, although that was perhaps unfair. I would have reacted the same way. “And they’re fugitives, Mr. Carpenter. Let’s call them what they are. Blackmailers and bombers.”

  “Bombers?” Mrs. Carpenter’s eyes widened. “Good lord.”

  “One is,” I said. “You didn’t know?”

  “We haven’t been informed.” She pressed a
hand to her stomach. “Have they harmed anyone?”

  “Not yet, but we’re afraid they will next time.”

  “Oh my.”

  “Didn’t the police tell you who they were looking for the first time they questioned you?” I asked.

  “They refused,” Mr. Carpenter said. “They reckoned we didn’t need to know.”

  “This is terrible,” Mrs. Carpenter muttered. “What horrid people.”

  “Now you see why we’re going to such desperate lengths to find them before they can set another bomb,” I said.

  Mrs. Carpenter’s gaze shifted to Matt and Brockwell as they entered the kitchen.

  “Thank you for your co-operation,” the inspector said. “We’ll leave you be now.”

  Mr. Carpenter saw us out. “Good luck. We hope you find them. We truly do.”

  “Well?” I said as we trudged off through the drizzling rain, the constables following a little behind out of earshot.

  “Nothing,” Brockwell said. “No sign of another person or persons living there aside from those two.”

  We headed to the house of the next magician, a young man with a high forehead and slightly protruding front teeth by the name of Mr. Carroll. His reaction was the same as Mr. Carpenter’s when Brockwell introduced himself.

  “Your men have already been here asking about two fugitives,” he said with a slight northern accent. “I haven’t seen them then or since.”

  “We have reason to believe you might be harboring them,” Brockwell said.

  “Me? Why?”

  “They’re magicians, and you’re a magician too.”

  Mr. Carroll swallowed heavily. “I—I…”

  “It’s quite all right,” I said gently. “I’m also a magician.” I put out my hand and introduced myself. Unlike Mr. Carpenter, there was no recognition at the mention of my name. “What’s your magical craft, Mr. Carroll?”

  He wiped his hand down his trouser leg then shook mine. “Cotton. But I don’t use my magic. I’m a clerk for a bank in the city.”

  “Do you live alone?” Matt asked.

  “I have a wife and two children.” As he said it, a small child appeared beside him. She only came up to his hip and remained half-hidden behind his legs.