The Toymaker's Curse (Glass and Steele Book 11)

by C. J. Archer

  “Of course. The thief must be caught.” He frowned. “Why aren’t the police investigating?”

  “Due to the magical nature of the crime, we’re not involving the police at this point. But we will, when an arrest needs to be made.”

  “Good, good.” Mr. Trentham let his fingers run over the spine of the train carriages. He breathed deeply, no doubt taking comfort from the toy as I did when I touched a timepiece. “You ought to investigate Nicholas Mirnov. If anyone would covet one of Mrs. Glass’s spells, it would be him.”

  “Mr. Trentham!” his wife scolded. “You can’t accuse him of everything.”

  “Not everything, just this crime. He probably heard about the work of Mrs. Glass and Mr. Charbonneau and, like many other magicians, assumed a spell was indeed created. The man is from thieving stock; it’s no stretch to assume he broke into Mr. Charbonneau’s house. If I were you, I’d look at him.”

  Mrs. Trentham threw a censorial glare at her husband and he simply shrugged in return. It was she who showed us out through the shopfront to the door, giving us the opportunity to ask her questions without her husband being present.

  “What do you think of Mr. Mirnov being the thief?” I asked her. “What’s he like?”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never met him.”

  “Oh?”

  “Mr. Trentham and I have been married just shy of two years. The curse was put on my husband’s magic several years beforehand, and it’s safe to say they’ve had little to do with one another since, except for a few guild meetings.”

  “The guild don’t know either of them are magicians?”

  “Goodness no. Neither would be allowed to sell their toys if they did. I don’t know about Mr. Mirnov but my husband keeps his magic well hidden. Indeed, he rarely uses it.”

  We thanked her and climbed into our waiting carriage. Matt directed Woodall to take us home rather than to the Toymaker Guild’s hall. He wanted to speak to Duke first.

  “I’m sure Mr. Trentham’s alibi is solid,” I said as the carriage jerked to a start. “He didn’t look particularly worried about telling us after he got over his embarrassment.”

  Matt gave me a wry smile. “How strange that he was worried you would think less of him for staying out all night drinking and gambling.”

  “He isn’t to know I’m used to it.”

  “I think Trentham’s a little in love with you.”

  I laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  He grunted but he was still smiling.

  “What do you think of him blaming Mirnov for the theft?” I asked.

  “A man who happens to be his rival and who he claims put a curse on him? It’s very suspicious.”

  “You still don’t believe in curses, do you?”

  “I’m on the fence.”

  I wasn’t entirely sure I believed either, but Mr. Trentham certainly did. “Setting aside his quick accusation, we can easily find out if Mr. Trentham is lying about his whereabouts last night.”

  “Indeed. We’ll call on the guild this afternoon, and then we’ll go in search of Mirnov.”

  “You think Mr. Trentham’s accusation has merit?”

  “None whatsoever, but I’m wildly curious about the curse.”

  After giving Duke instructions to subtly question Jane, Fabian’s maid, Matt and I departed again for the Toymaker’s Guild. Squeezed between modern, taller buildings, the thin, half-Tudor timber structure on a lane near St Paul’s looked like the creation of one of its member’s young customers. Each level leaned a little more than the one below it so that the entire structure resembled a stack of blocks. The effect was rather charming.

  The white-whiskered porter who answered Matt’s knock invited us inside with a welcoming smile. He was dressed in the scarlet tunic of a redcoat soldier complete with tricorne hat. The livery made him look like a toy soldier, which was probably the intention.

  “My name is Matthew Glass and this is my wife, India,” Matt said. “Will you—”

  “Glass? Mrs. India Glass?” The porter gave me a thorough inspection. “You don’t look like a magician.”

  Matt tensed, and I thought it best to speak before he said something cutting that put the fellow in an unhelpful mood.

  “Magicians come in all shapes and sizes,” I said. “Very few of us carry wands or have warts.”

  The porter’s whiskers twitched with his fleeting smile. “I was told not to let you in.”

  “Why? Are they worried I’ll turn you into a frog?”

  “The guild master says you’re a danger to the integrity of the guild and its members, and if you happen to come here, you’re to be turned away.”

  “What does he think I’m going to do?” I posed the question to Matt rather than the porter. Neither had an answer for me, however.

  Matt dug some coins out of his pocket. “You seem like a reasonable fellow who wouldn’t jump off a cliff just because his employer told him to. We have a few questions about one of your members. Answering them won’t get you into trouble. No one else in the guild will even know we were here asking them.”

  “And we don’t need to step a foot inside,” I added.

  The porter hesitated before taking the coins. “Answering a few questions never hurt anybody.”

  “Is Mr. Trentham a member here?”

  “He is.”

  “Was he here last night?”

  “He was.” He pointed to the top of the staircase behind him. “He was in the hall with the others from about eleven to six this morning.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I was stationed on the door last night, like I always am when they have their social evenings once a month. No one gets in or out without me seeing them.” He rocked back on his heels, pleased with himself. “Mr. Trentham arrived late and was one of the last to leave this morning.” He indicated the open ledger on the small desk near the door. “I can check if you like, but my memory’s excellent.”

  Matt asked him to check anyway. He did so and showed us the entry for Mr. Trentham. It stated he arrived at 10:54 PM and left at 6:07 AM.

  “You keep precise times,” I told him. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  He closed the ledger. “Is that it?”

  “Yes.”

  “That was easier than I expected.”

  “I reserve my frog spells for the weekends.”

  The porter chuckled. He touched the brim of his hat and gave me a nod. “You’re not as troublesome as Mr. Abercrombie made out.”

  “Abercrombie!” both Matt and I cried.

  “Was it he who warned your guild master not to talk to my wife?” Matt asked.

  The porter looked as though he regretted mentioning the name of the former Watchmaker’s Guild master. “I, er, I’d rather not say.”

  Mr. Abercrombie had been the bane of my existence before the guild had removed him as master. He’d tried to block my entry into the guild when I worked for my father, and that was before he or anyone knew I was a magician. He had suspected, however, long before I became aware of my family’s history.

  Since he’d been forced to resign as master, he’d almost disappeared from my life, only reappearing recently when we learned he told Mrs. Mason about Cyclops and Catherine’s relationship.

  It seemed he was still warning people against me, too; specifically other craft guild masters. The only reason I could fathom was that he was trying to hinder our investigations. Fortunately it wasn’t working.

  We thanked the porter and departed. Woodall already had his instructions and we set off immediately when the carriage door closed. We’d decided earlier not to ask about Nicholas Mirnov at the Toymaker’s Guild, and I was doubly glad now that we hadn’t. By asking after Mr. Trentham, we’d associated his name with mine. If word got back to the members that I’d asked after him, they might suspect him of being a magician and cause him all sorts of problems. I felt awful that I’d implicated one man; I would feel even worse if I implicated two.

&n
bsp; “Damned Abercrombie,” Matt growled.

  I placed my hand over the top of his balled fist, resting on his thigh. “Don’t worry about him. His attempts to blacken my name have come to naught. That porter didn’t care, and I suspect others wouldn’t either.”

  He uncurled his fist and turned his hand over to clasp mine. “You’re right.”

  “I wonder if his reaction is indicative of how the wider public will react to magicians.”

  “He’s one man, India. I wouldn’t wager your life on his reaction.”

  Nor would I. But it was gratifying nevertheless.

  Woodall drove through the streets of Bethnal Green to Brick Lane but could not drive along it. The narrow thoroughfare was made even narrower by the many food stalls and carts positioned at the front of the shops. A throng of pedestrians moved between them, adding items to their baskets or stopping to talk to neighbors. Hawkers bellowed, each trying to be heard over the others. They watched Matt and me with open curiosity as we alighted from the carriage, making me feel conspicuous in my burgundy velvet trimmed coat and matching hat. We were an oddity, in our sleek conveyance and fine clothes, in an area where the residents were one ladder rung away from the pit of poverty.

  We were prepared to ask as many stall holders as necessary if they knew where to find Mr. Mirnov, but the first costermonger we asked directed us to the end of Brick Lane. There, we spotted the toymaker with the side of his cart open and his toys laid out for the dozen or so small children to play with while they waited for their mothers to finish shopping.

  “That cart is a lot bigger than I expected,” Matt said.

  It was as large as the cabin of our carriage, and painted in bright colors of red, yellow, blue, and green with bold lettering. The sides flipped down to form benches, however only one side was set out that way. The toys were similar to those in Mr. Trentham’s shop, and the children delighted in playing with them.

  A man crouched down to show a little boy how to wind up the toy court jester. The boy’s fingers had trouble with the mechanism, but he eventually managed it with the man’s encouragement. When he set it down on the pavement and the jester clapped its hands, the boy squealed with delight and clapped along.

  “Mr. Mirnov?” Matt asked.

  The man stood. He was as tall as Matt but very thin, with a thick black moustache and narrow, sharp face. He wore a long coat that skimmed his shins and a faded cap pulled low over his forehead. He’d been smiling at the boy, but it vanished upon seeing us.

  “Who’re you and what do you want?” he asked.

  Matt introduced us, mentioning that Mr. Trentham had given us his name. He showed no recognition at hearing mine, but his eyebrows crashed together upon hearing Trentham’s. “What is he accusing me of now?”

  “Theft.”

  Mr. Mirnov waved a hand in the air as if batting off the suggestion. “Why would I steal from him? His toys are ordinary. Mine are better.”

  Matt took a step closer and glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear. “A spell was taken from the house of Mr. Charbonneau. Do you know him?”

  “No.” He frowned. “This is about magic?”

  I was pleased to see he whispered the word, and Matt looked relieved too.

  Mr. Mirnov wagged a finger at Matt. “Now I understand. Trentham stole the spell to make his magic stronger and when suspicion falls on him, he blames me. He’s jealous of me. He’d like me to go to prison so he can become the best toymaker in London. He hates that I’m the best. Hates it!”

  “He says you placed a curse on him,” Matt went on.

  Mr. Mirnov huffed out a humorless laugh. “Do you believe that?”

  “So your wife didn’t curse him?”

  Mr. Mirnov shrugged. “Maybe she did. She was Romany gypsy, and the Romany like to believe they can curse people, but I’m not sure. I’m only half-Romany on my mother’s side, so I was never immersed in their culture.”

  “You said your wife was Romany,” I pointed out.

  “She died three months ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He studied the toys in the cart for a moment before turning back to me. “Trentham should look to his own lack of skill and not blame a curse for his poor work.”

  “Actually his work is very good,” I said. “His toys are marvelous.”

  He indicated his cart full of toys and games. “Mine are better. My automatons work for longer, the spinning tops spin longer. Children love them. Look at their happy faces.”

  The child sitting on the ground was struggling with the toy jester again, so I bent and wound it for him. He giggled as it clapped and waddled along the pavement.

  The toy’s magical warmth had been so strong I felt it through my gloves.

  I stood and inspected the other toys in the cart. Even with a light touch, I felt their warmth. It was in all of them. Not a single spinning top, wooden soldier, skipping rope or jack-in-the-box lacked magic.

  “Was your wife a magician?” Matt asked.

  “No.”

  “Why would she curse Mr. Trentham?”

  “I didn’t say she did. You said it.” Mr. Mirnov grinned, revealing crooked brown teeth.

  “Did you ask your wife to place a curse on him?”

  “No.”

  “I’d like to learn more about curses,” Matt said, his tone turning conversational. He sounded genuinely interested. “Do you know someone who can teach me?”

  “Any Romany can tell you what you need to know, but that doesn’t mean they will. Expect to pay for the information.”

  “Where will I find a Romany at this time of year?”

  Mr. Mirnov picked up a small mechanical drummer from his cart and wound it up. “Here and there.” He crouched and set the drummer next to the child and smiled as the boy squealed with delight as the drumsticks hit the drum.

  “Do they camp in London over winter?” Matt pressed.

  “Not usually.”

  I was about to thank him and leave, but Matt hesitated. A small frown connected his eyebrows. He had detected something in Mr. Mirnov’s answers that didn’t sit well with him.

  “Come now,” Matt urged. “There is a group camping here, isn’t there? One that would usually be elsewhere at this time of year?”

  Mr. Mirnov stood and continued to watch the child and the toy drummer.

  “It must be your wife’s family. Am I correct in thinking you have no contact with other Romany?”

  “I don’t have contact with her family, either. Not anymore. They’re mad. Don’t believe everything they tell you.”

  Matt thanked him and we departed. His determined step cut a path through the crowded market to our carriage. I picked up my skirts and raced after him.

  “Why didn’t you press him for a location?” I asked as he held the door open for me. “Or are you not interested in learning about curses anymore?”

  “Not right now. We must find the spell thief first.” His eyes twinkled as he assisted me into the carriage. “But I don’t need to ask him where to find them. I can just ask Brockwell. He’ll know where to find the only Romany group to camp in London this winter.”

  “Very clever. But you’re right. Curses must wait. Magic first.” I moved my skirt out of the way so he could sit next to me. “Why are you so interested? Is there someone you wish to curse?”

  “You never know when it might come in handy. Besides, I need a special power to keep up with you.” He kissed my cheek.

  “You already have a special power, and it’s better than magic. You know how to get the best out of people, how to talk to them and gain their trust so they’ll do what you want.”

  He grunted. “Not always.”

  “You also know how to handle Willie. Now that is a monumental feat in itself.”

  He chuckled. “Very well. You win. But I still want to learn more about curses.”

  Chapter 5

  Willie was restless at breakfast. She kept glancing at the clock or the door
and took little notice of her food. It was just the three of us seated at the table—her, Matt and me. It was too early for Aunt Letitia, Cyclops had already left for his police training, and Duke hadn’t come home all night. I suspected the latter bothered Willie.

  “Did you go out with Lord Farnsworth last night?” I asked her.

  “No. I went to see Jasper.”

  “Brockwell? How lovely. How is he?”

  “Fine.”

  Bristow entered, carrying a pot of coffee. Willie clicked her tongue when she realized it was him and got up to pour herself a cup from the sideboard where the butler set it down.

  Matt held out his cup. “Thanks Willie,” he said from behind his newspaper. I wondered if he’d noticed her distracted state this morning and was ignoring her, or whether the newspaper had taken up his entire attention.

  “Is something the matter?” I asked Willie as she sat again, coffee cup clutched between both hands. “Did it not go well with Brockwell last night?”

  “Well enough.”

  “Then it’s Duke, isn’t it?”

  “He ain’t been home all night, and I know he was out seeing Charbonneau’s maid, not his merry widow.”

  “So?”

  “He’s a one-woman man. He doesn’t flit from flower to flower like me.”

  I nodded. “His heart is constant.”

  She slumped down in the chair and muttered, “I didn’t think his heart had anything to do with it.”

  I sat forward. This conversation had suddenly become more interesting. Even Matt had lowered his newspaper and peered over the top of it at Willie. “But now you’re not so certain?” I prompted. “Do you think Duke has taken a deeper interest in Jane the maid than you expected, hence him not returning yet?”

  She lifted a shoulder in a morose shrug.

  Matt folded up the newspaper and set it on the table beside his plate. “Willie, you can’t have your cake and eat it too.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means you claim to have no interest in Duke and yet you get jealous when you think he developed true feelings for someone. You can’t have it both ways.”