by C. J. Archer
"Like the fact that Dr. Hale's miracle patient wasn't dead and he used a medicine?"
"Precisely." He picked up a copy of the latest edition from the desk and flipped through the pages.
I sighed.
He looked up from the paper. "Is something wrong?"
"I don't read the newspapers much, but I've always considered them factual, to the best of the reporter's ability. It's a little disconcerting to think they're not. I'll never believe another thing I read in the papers again. Mr. Barratt has gone down considerably in my estimation."
The door behind the desk burst open and a man strode through. His cheeks were slightly flushed and his breathing uneven. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting," he said. "I raced to get here from the back room." He thrust out his hand to Matt. "Oscar Barratt, at your service."
Mr. Barratt spoke with the accent of an educated London gentleman but without the rounded vowels of Miss Glass's peers. He was about my age, or a little older, which surprised me. I'd expected a man of middle age with a lot of experience under his belt. He was handsome too, with dark brown hair, smooth skin, and a short goatee beard. Deep brown eyes missed nothing as he gave Matt the once over and then turned his attention to me. He smiled and shook my hand firmly, as if I were his equal. It was refreshing.
"My name is Matthew Glass," Matt said, "and this is Miss Steele.
"Glass and Steele! I know those names. You were involved in discovering the body of the mapmaker's apprentice. And Miss Steele, you were influential in the capture of the Dark Rider several weeks ago."
"You've heard of us," I said, rather stupidly. Who would have thought that I'd become a well-known figure?
"I read about you in the newspapers but did not report on the incidents myself. I'm delighted to meet you—and a little in awe. You are quite remarkable, Miss Steele. Quite remarkable."
My face flamed, and I wished he wouldn't look at me with such bright eyes and a curious smile. "Oh," I murmured. "Thank you, but my role wasn't important."
"Nonsense," Matt spat out. "It was very important on both occasions. Now, to the matter at hand. We want to ask you about your article in the latest edition of the Gazette." He pointed to the page open on the desk. "You do know that Dr. Hale has been murdered?"
Barratt nodded. "I heard."
"How did you hear?"
The front door opened and a man pushing a trolley laden with large packages wrapped in brown paper entered. The opening of the door triggered a little bell above it. The spotty lad emerged from the back room.
"Come with me to my office," Barratt said to us. "It's quieter there when the press isn't running."
"You print the Gazette here?" Matt asked as we passed through the door into a large chamber piled with more bundles. Some were open, revealing stacks of blank paper.
"In the cellar." Barratt waved at a door behind a man who did not look up from his desk. "You can't talk in here when the press is running. It operates mostly at night, though, ready for the morning's delivery, and only once a week. I was just down there talking to my editor and the paper's head compositor." He led us through another door, along a short corridor, and into a small office. A large map of London directly opposite the desk provided an interesting change to the stack of newspapers, piles of books, and torn articles pinned to a cork board. "You're lucky you caught me," Barratt said. "I was about to head out and see what I can learn about Hale's death. I just heard of it myself."
"How?" Matt asked again.
Barratt hesitated, as if surprised by Matt's intensity. "Through one of my informants at the hospital."
"You have informants at the hospital?"
Barratt gave him a curious little smile. "Of course."
"But you're a reporter, not a policeman," I said.
Barratt's smile widened. "We reporters also want to find the truth, Miss Steele."
"Is that so?" I studiously kept my gaze on him so as not to glance at Matt. "That's very noble of you."
Barratt gave a little bow. "Thank you. You're the first person to ever call a journalist noble in my hearing. Please tell me you believe that and aren't merely saying it because you want something from me."
"Oh, I, er…"
He winked and didn't look at all disheartened. "It's all right, Miss Steele. I have a thick skin. So tell me, do you have information regarding Dr. Hale's death?"
"If we had information about the murder we'd go to the police," Matt said. "We want to discuss another matter which may or may not be tied to Hale's death."
Barratt indicated the chairs. "Then you'd better sit."
Matt held out the chair for me. "We were going to speak with you before Dr. Hale's death," I told Barratt. "You see, yesterday we read your article about Hale's medical miracle and decided to find out for ourselves whether it was true or not."
"Why wouldn't it be true?" Barratt asked, spreading out his hands.
"Journalists have been known to sensationalize reports to sell more papers."
"I don't."
Matt grunted. "Don't play the innocent with us, Mr. Barratt. You're no different."
Why was Matt being so cross with him? We needed Barratt to answer our questions.
"What Mr. Glass is trying to say," I said, "is that we learned you withheld some facts from your story. For instance, the patient probably wasn't dead at the time, and Dr. Hale used a medicine. It was not a miracle."
Barratt didn't look at all concerned that he'd been caught out. He simply nodded. "The witness I spoke to swore that the patient was dead when Hale tended to him. Another witness had said that he wasn't, but couldn't be completely sure, so I decided not to pursue that route. I was on deadline, you see, and the story had to be filed to get it to print in time. As to Dr. Hale using a medicine, I included that point in my story. My editor took it out without my knowledge. I wish he hadn't, but he's my employer and can do as he pleases."
"That's not fair," I said. "It's your name in the byline, not his. He shouldn't be allowed."
Barratt merely shrugged. "I must try to report the truth as I see it, Miss Steele. It's my editor's job to sell more newspapers. Sometimes that means he changes parts, here and there, to make the story more interesting to the public. Now, may I ask you a question?" He directed this to Matt, not me. "Why were you so interested in Dr. Hale's medical miracle?"
I bit the inside of my cheek and glanced sideways at Matt. I couldn't imagine him admitting to Barratt that he was ill.
"We're interested in magic." Matt's words dropped heavily into the silence.
I sucked in a breath and held it.
Barratt had also seemed to stop breathing. "Go on." He had not scoffed, laughed or denied the existence of magic. This man knew. I was certain of it now.
"You've written a few articles that allude to magical events," Matt said.
"Only in vague terms."
"Dr. Hale's so-called miracle was the latest."
"And?" Barratt prompted.
"Why?" Matt pressed. "What are you trying to achieve?"
Barratt stood and came round the desk. He perched on the edge near Matt and folded his arms over his chest. For a moment, I thought he did it to intimidate and force Matt to withdraw his question, but then he answered. "I want to draw people out. People with an interest in magic, like yourselves, who are looking for signs that magic exists. My reports act as those signs."
"Again," Matt said, his voice a low growl, "why?"
Barratt unfolded his arms, knocking a stack of papers piled on his desk. They fluttered to the floor near Matt's feet. One fell between Matt and me. Matt picked some up and handed them back to Barratt.
"Well?" Matt asked. "Tell us what interest you have in drawing out people curious about magic."
Barratt stared at the papers in his hand. A small frown appeared between his brows. He glanced at Matt, glanced at the papers again, and sighed. Perhaps the one he needed was the one that had fallen between Matt and me. I picked it up only to let it go again with a gasp.
> The paper was warm. The room, however, was cool.
"India?" Matt asked. "What's the matter?"
Barratt watched me with an intensity that I'd only ever seen on Matt's face before. It was as if the world had closed in and it was only he and I in the room.
"Miss Steele?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "What is it?"
I picked up the paper again. This time the warmth infused me, gently washing up my arm. It was magical heat, the kind that responded to my magic. "You're a magician." The words tumbled out before I thought them through; before I realized what conclusion he would come to. I quickly dropped the paper on the desk then tucked my hand into my skirt folds.
Barratt's gaze followed it then lifted to my face. "Yes, Miss Steele. I am. And I see from your reaction that you are too."
Chapter 4
"I have some magical ability," I said before Matt could stop me. Before I could stop myself. I wanted to tell Barratt but fear might cripple me if I let it. "Timepieces," I added.
Mr. Barratt smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile. "Thank you for telling me, Miss Steele. I can see that you're concerned about imparting such personal information to a stranger."
"With good reason," Matt said. "If it's mentioned outside this room, you'll be receiving another visit from me. With much less civility."
Barratt held up his hands in surrender. "I can see that you're very protective of her."
That seemed to diffuse Matt's temper somewhat. He tapped his finger on the paper I'd picked up. "You're a paper magician?"
"Ink. Miss Steele felt the warmth of the ink magic, not the paper."
"What does ink magic achieve?"
Barratt sat down and pulled a piece of blank paper to him then dipped his pen in the inkwell. He began to write. 'Watch these words, Miss Steele' he wrote. 'They're remarkable words for a remarkable woman.'
"Nothing's happening," Matt growled.
Barratt began to recite poetic words in another language. I couldn't understand them, but they sounded dreamlike when spoken in such a rich, modular voice. They mesmerized me.
Until the words lifted off the page.
I sat back and stared. The words rose from the paper as if they were leaves caught in a breeze. The letters swirled in the air, keeping position within their word and sentence so that they looked like twirling ribbons.
"Beautiful." I reached out and when Barratt merely moved some papers to the side of his desk without warning me to stop, I touched one.
The ink broke and the sentences collapsed, splashing over my fingers, the desk surface and some of the papers. "Oh! I'm so sorry," I said.
Barratt smiled and handed me a cloth from his desk drawer. "It's quite all right, Miss Steele."
"That was lovely," I said, wiping the cloth over my gloves. Not just how the words floated, but the spell you cast, too. It's pure poetry. I could listen to you recite it for hours."
He chuckled. "You flatter me."
When I realized how my gushing sounded, I swallowed the rest of my praise. That was not the message I wanted to convey to him.
"Pretty indeed," Matt said with that low growl still in his voice. "But what use is it?"
"The floating is not very useful, but it does make an impact." Barratt grinned, and Matt scowled more. "I know another spell that dries the ink faster so that I don't smudge it. I still write longhand, you see. A few of my colleagues have switched to mechanical writing, using a typing machine, but I prefer this way." He shrugged, palms up. "It's not the most useful magic, unfortunately. My family have manufactured ink for generations. They make the finest ink in the world. My brother runs the company now, and I decided to make my own way, outside the family business." He took the cloth from me and mopped up the splashed ink. "But I was unable to get away from ink. It calls me, you see. I feel compelled to be near it. You understand, Miss Steele."
"Yes," I said quietly. "Yes, I do."
"My father told me there's a spell to make the ink magician write faster, but he didn't know it. No one does, anymore. Ever since magicians stopped openly practicing their magic, they lost touch with one another and no longer shared spells. Some magicians went into hiding and stopped practicing altogether, others only taught their children basic spells, afraid the guilds would find out about them if they did anything too elaborate. And so the art of magic has been lost. I find this a tragedy. Don't you, Miss Steele?"
"I…I am uncertain how I feel. I've only recently discovered my magic, you see. I know no spells. My father was artless and never told me about it. I don't know how many generations I need to go back in order to discover which ancestor I inherited this from."
His frown deepened with every word I spoke. "I'm sorry for you. Perhaps we can work together to learn more about your magic. I'm afraid I don't know any timepiece magicians, but you never know when one will come out of the woodwork. As you two have done today."
"Is that why you're reporting on magic?" Matt asked. "To draw magicians to you?"
Barratt nodded. "I want to create a safe community for us, a place where we can once again discuss our magic and practice where no one fears us."
"As the guild members fear us," I said.
"You've had run-ins with guilds?" He cocked his head to the side. "I have a suspicion that the young mapmaker who was found murdered was magical."
Matt nodded. "Killed by a jealous rival."
"Do you think the guild master put him up to it? I've heard rumors that the guild members used to kill magicians, centuries ago, hence the need for magicians to remain secret. Rumors only, of course."
"We've heard those rumors too," I said. It was deeply troubling, if true.
"The Mapmaker's Guild master orchestrated the kidnapping but not the murder," Matt said. "It's possible the Watchmaker's Guild master was also behind the apprentice's kidnapping. The murderer acted alone, however."
Barratt glanced at me. "The Watchmaker's Guild have caused problems for you, Miss Steele?"
"They would not let me into the guild," I told him. "My father tried to convince them, before his death, but they refused. Once he was gone, I couldn't get work." I did not mention the role Eddie Hardacre, my fiancé at the time, played. The less I thought about him the better. "None of the guild members would employ me. Indeed, they all seemed wary of me. They never told me why, but I suspected it was because they learned about my magic somehow."
"How did you discover it?"
"It was pointed out to me that I have a knack for fixing watches and clocks. Matt knew a little about magic and suggested that I could be magical. From there, I learned about the warm residue left by magic. Much of what I learned came from the mapmaker's apprentice's family and a suspect in the case." I did not tell him that my watch and a clock had saved my life, nor did I mention how combining my magic with another's could extend the time for that magic, as it had done with Matt's watch. Some things were best left unspoken on a first meeting.
"Fascinating," Barratt said. "I'm so glad you came today, Miss Steele. May I call upon you to discuss your experiences further? Perhaps, if I can gather more magicians, we can all meet."
I glanced at Matt only to see him already staring at me, dark and forbidding shadows in his eyes. Did he not want me to meet other magicians? Was he worried about having magicians call on us at his home? Perhaps he worried that his aunt would find out something that would confuse her frail mind.
"I'll call on you when I am ready," I said to Mr. Barratt.
He glanced at Matt too and sighed. "I'm glad my article worked," he said. "It's a pity Hale died before we could speak to him further about his magic."
"More than a pity for Hale and his family," Matt said.
"He had no family. I asked him that when we met, because I was curious about his magic. His parents died when he was young and a grandfather raised him. It was he who taught him about his apothecary magic."
"Do you know who inherits his estate?" Matt asked.
Barratt shook his head. "Not a clu
e. You sound as if you want to discover who killed him. Is this a new venture for the two of you, after your previous investigative successes?"
"No," I said at the same time that Matt said, "Yes."
Barratt laughed softly. "Whatever your reasons, I'll try to help if I can." He leaned forward. "As long as I am the only reporter you speak to once you learn who killed Hale."
"If we learn who killed him," I said.
"Mr. Glass?" Barratt asked. "Do you promise?"
"That'll depend on how helpful you are to us," Matt said.
"That's only fair. What else do you wish to know about Hale?"
"Did you speak to Dr. Wiley at all?"
"The doctor who declared the patient dead? Not at all, but we did pass him in the corridor as Hale walked with me. If looks could kill, he would certainly be a suspect."
"What about Dr. Ritter, the principal?"
"I didn't meet him. Hale did imply that the hospital board wouldn't be happy with his story making it into the newspapers, but he laughed it off. He mentioned no names."
"Was Hale eager for you to mention his magic in the article?" I asked.
Barratt nodded. "He thought gathering all the London magicians together was a good idea. He doesn't—didn't—want magic to disappear from the world altogether, even rather useless magic, like mine. He thought my articles were as good a way as any to draw magicians out." He rubbed his forehead. "I still can't believe he's gone. He was the only openly magical person I'd met."
"He had nothing to fear," I said. "Since he didn't work as an apothecary, he didn't need the guild's approval."
"Even I have to be careful to keep my magic secret from the guilds," Barratt admitted. "If the Inkmaker's Guild learned about me, they would trace my magic back to my family and throw them out of the guild."
"And they'd have to give up their business," I said quietly. No guild membership meant no license to create and sell. It was the law. "Hale had no family so it was not a concern for him."
"The English system of guilds is archaic and unfair," Matt said. "It should be changed. Any man and woman should be allowed to manufacture goods or own shops, not just guild members."