by C. J. Archer
Matt signaled for the barman to pour Mr. Mirnov another drink.
“We’ve just been speaking to your late wife’s mother and brother,” Brockwell began.
Mr. Mirnov’s lips pinched. “Liars, all of them. Which brother? Lancelot? He’s a no-good character. Been in and out of prison his whole life.” He accepted the tankard of ale from the barman and saluted Matt with it before taking a sip.
“We know you said they can’t be trusted, but we needed to speak to them anyway,” Matt said.
Mr. Mirnov swung around to face us fully. “Let me guess what Mrs. Mirnov said. Did she say I killed my wife? That I used to beat her and abuse her?”
“Your neighbors confirmed that you and your wife argued.”
Mr. Mirnov blinked rapidly. “Did my neighbors also tell you I received abuse from my wife in return?”
Matt didn’t answer.
Mr. Mirnov grunted. “Well I did. She shouted at me, I shouted at her…it was just part of being married to a woman with a fiery nature. But I can assure you, I never harmed her. I never beat her or pushed her, and I certainly didn’t kill her.” He pointed his tankard at me. “You believe me, don’t you, Mrs. Glass?”
“I don’t know you,” I said. “What happened, Mr. Mirnov? Your relationship with your wife wasn’t always such a fractured one, was it? The problems came later?”
He took a long sip of his drink before setting it down and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “l discovered my wife wasn’t faithful.” It was spoken so quietly that I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly at first.
Not until Brockwell asked what evidence Mr. Mirnov had to substantiate the claim.
Mr. Mirnov gave me an apologetic glance. “It was her smell. She’d come home reeking like a man. Then one evening I followed her and saw her meet a fellow at the Blue Anchor. They left together and I followed them to a place not far from there. When I asked her later where she’d been, she said she’d visited a friend.” He shook his head. “I called her a liar, we argued, and things never improved after that. On the day she died, we’d been having another one of our arguments.” He cradled the tankard between both hands and stared at the contents. “She shouted herself to death.”
“We’re sorry for your loss,” I said gently.
He gave me a grim smile. “I did love her once, Mrs. Glass, and I believe she used to love me too. I don’t know why her feelings towards me changed. Maybe it was because her family never liked me. They’d say things to her about me, make things up, poisoning her against me. Maybe she eventually believed them.”
“Did your wife have heart problems before her death?” Matt asked.
He shook his head. “I know it seems suspicious. She was young and healthy. If I hadn’t seen her die myself, I wouldn’t believe it either. But she died of natural causes. I only wished her family would believe it and stop accusing me. The problem is, they don’t like to admit she was an unfaithful wife. They’d rather think me a murderer than she was a whore.”
The vehemence with which he spoke the word startled me after hearing the sorrow in his voice. Just when I thought I’d made my mind up about Mr. Mirnov, he gave me reason to change it again.
He turned to Brockwell. “I didn’t kill her, Inspector. I’m a toymaker. I like to make people smile. I couldn’t hurt her, or anyone.”
Brockwell’s face gave nothing away. He was unperturbed by Mr. Mirnov’s pleas, or his changing tone. He was used to speaking to suspects who were excellent liars.
So was Matt, and it was he who took over the questioning. “Was Trentham one of your wife’s lovers?”
Mr. Mirnov’s eyes widened. “No! Well, not that I know of. I certainly doubt it. Trentham doesn’t strike me as the type to interest Albina. He was too quiet, too much of a mouse for her. She preferred lions and bears.”
He would say that if he wanted to avoid suspicion in the murder of Mr. Trentham. If his wife was having a liaison with the rival toymaker, it would give Mr. Mirnov a solid motive to kill him.
“You also told us you didn’t know a man named Lord Coyle,” I said.
“I don’t.”
“He was seen at your place of residence.”
Mr. Mirnov scoffed into his ale. “That doesn’t mean he was there to see me.”
“Who else would he call upon?”
He drained the cup and stood. He peered down at me, his teeth bared in a snarl. “Who do you think?”
I refused to be intimidated by this man. Indeed, I suspected he didn’t want to be intimidating, he was merely upset at having his wife’s infidelity openly discussed. It must be doubly humiliating to talk about it in front of a woman.
“My wife asked you a question,” Matt said, his tone as harsh as Mirnov’s.
Mr. Mirnov looked away. “He must have been visiting Albina.”
Ever the policeman, Brockwell wasn’t satisfied with that answer. “Are you certain they knew one another?”
“No, Inspector, I’m not. It’s speculation. However, my wife was an adulteress. It’s a reasonable assumption that a male visitor to my residence when I’m not home would be there to be intimate with her.”
“No, Mr. Mirnov,” I bit off. “It’s not a reasonable assumption at all.” I turned and walked off, pushing my way through the crowd, not caring if Matt and Brockwell followed. It bothered me that men assumed a woman who’d been unfaithful once would be unfaithful again and again, even with a man as revolting as Lord Coyle.
Matt had followed me and he assisted me into the carriage. “Are you all right?” he asked as we waited for the inspector.
“I’m just a little riled by Mirnov’s opinion of his wife.” I picked up the fur muff I’d left on the seat and dug my hands inside. “What do you think of his suggestion that Albina was having an affair with Coyle?”
Brockwell entered the carriage and sat opposite. He’d heard my question and seemed quite interested in Matt’s response too.
“I think it’s nonsense,” Matt said. “Coyle has never shown much interest in women until Hope came along. I suspect his interest in her went beyond the physical.”
I pulled a face. The notion of Coyle and Hope being intimate was very unappealing.
“He also wouldn’t call on Albina at her home,” Matt went on. “If Coyle had a mistress, he’d meet her in nice rooms in a good area that was easy for him to get to. Visiting her in her Shoreditch tenement is not Coyle’s style.”
Brockwell nodded. “You know him best, Glass, so I will bow to your judgement in this. So if Coyle wasn’t there to visit Albina, Mirnov must have lied. Coyle was there to see him.”
“The question is, why?” Matt’s gaze connected with mine. “Because of your flying spell? Perhaps he asked him to steal it.”
“But the neighbor said Coyle visited months ago,” I pointed out. “Fabian and I only created the spell a few weeks ago. We weren’t even creating spells until a few weeks before that.” Something else was going on here, I was sure of it. Something that had nothing to do with my flying carpet spell.
But I couldn’t fathom how Mirnov, Trentham and Coyle were all connected.
Fabian called on me the following morning, but I could tell him very little about our progress. Indeed, we hadn’t progressed far at all. Trentham’s murder had become more important than the theft of the spell, but when I admitted as much to Fabian, he gave me a dubious look.
“The theft is very important,” he said. “We do not know what the thief intends to do with it.”
“I’m sure the theft and murder are linked. If we find the murderer, we’ll also find the thief. Have faith in us, Fabian. Please.”
He clasped my hand and gave me a grim smile. “I do, India. I do.”
We sat in the drawing room while Matt was in his study, writing letters to his man of business. Brockwell was due to arrive soon and together we would continue with the investigation. Willie had spent the night with him and I suspected would insist on coming, as would Duke. With Cyclops out every day, he was growing
increasingly restless. Indeed, before this investigation, he’d mentioned returning home to America. Having received an unenthusiastic response from the others, even Willie, he’d not brought the subject up again.
“Tell me, have you found evidence that Coyle is involved?” Fabian asked.
“He was seen at Trentham’s shop as well as at the home or our main suspect, Mr. Mirnov, the other toymaker magician. We’re going to question his lordship again this morning.”
Fabian’s lips pinched. “It must be him.”
Brockwell and Willie arrived, and Fabian took his leave. Duke and Willie did indeed want to join us, and we five set off for Lord Coyle’s Belgravia townhouse. I spent the short journey trying to determine if Willie and Brockwell had discussed Mrs. Shaw’s predictions for Willie’s matrimonial prospects, but neither appeared any different this morning. Brockwell was as expressionless as ever, and Willie filled the silence by disagreeing with Duke about a point of American Civil War history. I was rather glad when we arrived at our destination and they called a ceasefire.
We waited in the drawing room for Lord Coyle. It would seem Hope was out or possibly in another part of the house where she preferred to remain to avoid seeing us. The drawing room was showing signs that a lady now resided there. A sofa and chairs upholstered in buttercup yellow had replaced the dark furniture with the thick legs, and a painting of a hunting scene was missing. A gilt-edged mirror now occupied the spot above the fireplace. A vase on the sofa table was filled with pink and peach hothouse roses.
Thankfully Coyle didn’t keep us waiting long. He walked with a slight limp to the chair by the fireplace, passing by the sofa where I sat with Duke on one side of me and Brockwell on the other. The smell of cigar smoke trailed him.
“You’ve brought along the cavalry today, Glass.” He groaned as he eased himself into an armchair. “Or should I say the fairground freaks?”
Willie, who’d been inspecting a painting of a sour-faced woman, bristled. “Are you calling me a freak?”
Duke snickered.
Lord Coyle’s gaze didn’t waver from Matt, standing on the other side of the mantelpiece. “So what do you want to accuse me of now?”
“You previously denied any knowledge of Mr. Nicholas Mirnov,” Matt said.
“And I continue to deny it.”
“You were seen at his place of residence by a witness.”
Lord Coyle’s heavy brow plunged. “Where does he live?”
Matt gave him the Shoreditch address.
Lord Coyle’s jowls settled into bulldoggish folds and his gaze shifted to the burning coals in the grate. “Well, well,” he muttered.
“So you were there,” Brockwell said.
Lord Coyle looked up. “It seems someone wants you to think I’m guilty.”
Matt folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the mantel. One corner of his mouth lifted with his sneer. “Is that so?”
“Go on, my lord,” Brockwell said.
“Some months ago, I did indeed travel to that address. I was sent a message to meet an acquaintance there. My acquaintance didn’t show so I left. When I inquired into why, I was informed the invitation didn’t originate from them.”
“So who did send you the message?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
Matt’s eyes narrowed. “Can we have the name of your acquaintance?”
“No. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m busy.” He pushed himself up from the chair and bellowed for his butler.
Brockwell rose, clearing his throat. “Just one more question. You were also seen at the victim’s toyshop. Were you—”
“I was purchasing a toy for the grandchild of a friend. It was several weeks ago.”
“What about last week?”
“No. I believe it’s still legal to go shopping, Inspector?”
Brockwell swallowed. The poor man had shown backbone until now, but Lord Coyle’s intimidating glare appeared to be working. Brockwell knew that Coyle could destroy his career if he chose to.
Willie, however, didn’t have a career to worry about. She pointed her finger at Lord Coyle’s chest. “It ain’t illegal, but your story is just that, ain’t it? A story.”
Lord Coyle gave a harsh chuckle. “And why is that?”
“You ain’t got no friends.”
Lord Coyle’s nostrils flared and his jowls shook. “You need to keep your cousin on a tighter leash, Glass. You don’t want her biting innocent people.”
Willie charged toward him, only to be caught by Duke and Matt. Duke bundled her out of the drawing room under the disdainful eye of the butler. She swore at the top of her lungs all the way to the carriage.
It was not a peaceful journey to Trentham’s shop with Willie spitting angry words about Lord Coyle most of the way. Duke, Brockwell and I tried to calm her down but she ignored us. The only person she would potentially listen to—Matt—was too distracted to notice. He continually turned to look behind him out of the rear window.
“What is it?” I asked, following his gaze. All I could see was a black growler pulled by two horses.
“That same carriage has been following us since we left Coyle’s,” he said.
Brockwell, Duke and Willie all tried to look until Matt ordered them to sit down and act normally.
“Do you think it’s one of Coyle’s spies?” Duke asked.
“It’s possible.”
Willie reached for the window. “I’ll tell Woodall to speed up and lose it.”
“No,” Matt said. “Let them follow. They’re not going to learn anything important by doing so. Besides, it gives us a better chance of seeing who’s in that vehicle. If Woodall succeeds in losing them, we might never discover their identity.”
“Darn it.” Willie slumped in the seat, pouting. “I’m in the mood for a chase at high speed.”
When Woodall pulled to the curb outside the toyshop, the other vehicle passed by without slowing. The curtain was pulled across the window and the driver had a scarf covering his lower face. It continued on and turned the corner.
I released a breath and stepped across the threshold into the shop. Mrs. Trentham stood behind the counter, but her smile slipped upon seeing us.
“I thought you were customers,” she said, picking up a cloth and wiping over the counter.
“Business is slow?” Matt asked.
She nodded. “No one wants to bring their child to a toyshop where a murder took place.”
I approached the counter along with the others, but stopped. I turned around slowly, taking in my surroundings. Something was amiss. Not missing, just different.
“Of course!” I strode up to the knight automaton standing at the back of the shop. “This wasn’t here last time we visited, although it was the time before that.”
The knight dressed in a full suit of armor was just a little shorter than me but taller than Willie. It stood sentinel by the doll’s house as if protecting the damsel inside. It was covered in metal from head to toe; even the hands were made of metal. The face, however, couldn’t be seen behind the helmet’s visor.
I traced a small indentation with my finger. “The visor is damaged.”
Mrs. Trentham joined me and lifted the visor. There was nothing inside, just a dark cavity where the face should have been. It was an empty suit of armor, albeit one that could move when wound up.
“Someone found it in an alley yesterday and returned it,” she said. “They’d seen it in here before and knew it was one of my husband’s creations.” She closed the visor on the void. “I hadn’t noticed until then that it was missing. My husband moved a few things around on the day of his death, and then in the chaos I failed to notice it wasn’t here. It must have been stolen that night but the thieves couldn’t carry it far and decided to leave it behind.”
Matt moved up behind us. “You think the murderer stole it?”
“Who else could it be?”
“Are any other toys missing?” Brockwell asked.
&nb
sp; “Not that I know of, but I haven’t done a full count of the stock. I’m still…out of sorts.”
“May I ask you to check when you’re feeling up to it?”
“Of course, Inspector. That seems like a wise thing to do. It might help your investigation.”
Duke peered behind the automaton. “Does it work?”
“Yes. The key is in a drawer behind the counter, away from inquisitive little fingers. I’m afraid it will knock things off tables if it was wound up in here.”
Duke backed away. “Did your husband install his magic into it?”
Mrs. Trentham shrugged. “I don’t know.”
I touched the knight’s arm. The metal was warm. “Yes, he did.”
“What would the magic do to it?” Matt asked.
“Make it move a little longer,” Mrs. Trentham said. “His magic was too weak to make it work for any length of time.”
Matt’s gaze connected with mine and he gave a small nod. I took that as my signal to ask the question that needed to be asked. We had decided in the carriage that I must be the one to do it. Matt moved out of earshot, and the others followed. Even Willie, who’d argued that she was a woman too and therefore it was entirely appropriate for her to ask Mrs. Trentham about her husband’s infidelity.
I studied the automaton before turning to her. “I have to ask you something delicate, Mrs. Trentham. Please forgive me.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Go on.”
“Was your husband having a liaison with another woman?”
She blinked hard. “No.”
“Not even a few months ago?”
“No! Why?”
“It’s a routine question in these sorts of unsolved murders. It means nothing. The inspector wanted me to ask you as he finds it awkward to talk to women.”
A fleeting smile touched her lips. “While I cannot be perfectly sure, of course, I doubt it. My husband was either here, in the workshop or at his guild’s hall. He didn’t have time for other women.”
I thanked her and signaled to others that we could go. We were about to exit when Mrs. Trentham called out.
“I almost forgot. I wanted to tell you that I was wrong about something the other day.”