by C. J. Archer
His threat was followed by several seconds of silence, then: "If you'll wait there, sir."
Matt leaned one shoulder against a column and crossed his arms and ankles. He looked as if he were waiting for a friend, not someone he needed to interrogate.
I checked my watch. It was five minutes past eleven. A minute later, I checked again.
"Time won't go faster, no matter how much you look at it," Matt said with a smirk.
I snapped the case closed and slipped the watch back into my reticule. "You're in a cheerful mood this morning."
"I had a good sleep and, more importantly, I feel as if we're finally getting somewhere. There's a piece of the puzzle still missing but perhaps Clark holds it."
"I hope so." I checked along the street, looking for someone who may threaten us, but none presented themselves. "Coyle seems to have given up."
"Nobody followed us from home," he agreed. "That's a good sign, but it pays to remain vigilant."
I pulled my watch out of my reticule again and hung the chain around my neck. Matt nodded his approval.
The door finally opened and Mr. Clark stepped out. "What do you want?" he snapped. "I'm busy."
"You wish to discuss this here on the street?" Matt asked.
"I have nothing to hide."
"Then why tell your porter to keep us out?"
"Because you're a liar, and I don't trust you. I know your name is not Wild. You're Glass and Steele."
"Did you learn that from Abercrombie after you told him that an American and Englishwoman came to your guild hall asking about magic?"
Mr. Clark bristled. "What do you want?"
"We want to ask you some questions about the medicine bottles you bought from the London Hospital."
Mr. Clark smoothed the side of his head with his palm, although his hair was already in place thanks to the oil slicked through it. "It's not a crime to purchase the belongings of the deceased."
"Not if sold by the heir, no, but you bought those from Dr. Ritter. They were part of Dr. Hale's private collection and didn't belong to the hospital. He sold them to you illegally."
"Then the police ought to speak to him, not me!"
Matt lifted his hand to warn Clark to lower his voice as a passerby eyed him warily then hurried on his way. "Are you sure you want to remain out here for the rest of this discussion?"
"I'd rather be in a public place where there are witnesses."
"What has Mr. Abercrombie told you about us?" I asked.
"Everything, Miss Steele."
I smiled but it was hard and bitter. "I doubt that very much, since Mr. Abercrombie doesn't know us at all. He made his mind up about me before he even met me. I'm not a villain, Mr. Clark. If Abercrombie has told you I am, then perhaps he is the villain."
Two men wearing woolen caps walked toward us and Matt stiffened. He edged closer to me. "What do you want with Hale's medicines?" he asked Clark.
"That is none of your affair." Mr. Clark backed toward the door. "Now, if that's all—"
"You want to test them," Matt went on. "Am I right? You want to know what ingredients he has used to make them so good."
"If you say so."
Matt waited until the two men were out of earshot before speaking again. "You won't find the secret ingredient, Mr. Clark. Magic cannot be seen, smelled, touched or extracted."
Mr. Clark glanced nervously at the men's backs. "Are you mad?" he hissed, stepping toward Matt. "They could have overheard you."
"Magic is bound to the medicine," Matt said. "The spell makes it part of the medicine, but it fades in time. It's likely the magic infused into the medicines in your possession has dispersed and lost effectiveness. Even if that is not the case, an artless apothecary will learn nothing from testing them. A magician can, perhaps. I don't know. I'm no expert."
Mr. Clark's nostrils flared, but I didn't know if it was in anger or disappointment. "Is that what you came for? To tell me my efforts are wasted?"
"And to ask you to tell us what you and Abercrombie argued about the other day." Matt held up his finger when Mr. Clark opened his mouth to speak. "Before you deny it, I'll point out that you were seen. Oh, and if you refuse to tell us, I'll go to the police about the stolen medicine bottles."
"They're not stolen! I bought them!"
"I doubt the police will care how you acquired them, only that you did."
Mr. Clark appealed to me, but I merely shrugged. "We could send the police to Mr. Abercrombie's shop, if you like," I said, "and have them question him."
"Our discussion had nothing to do with Hale's murder," he whispered harshly as two women walked by.
"A visit from the police will be terribly inconvenient for Mr. Abercrombie," I went on. "They might frighten his customers away."
His expelled breath hissed between his teeth. "We argued about what to do with magicians. There. Satisfied?"
"And what did you decide ought to be done?" Matt growled. "Burning at the stake? Hanging?"
Mr. Clark screwed up his face. "Don't be absurd. What do you take us for? We simply argued about whether banning them from their respective guilds was enough. I say yes, he thinks not. He used you as an example, Miss Steele."
"Me?"
He nodded. "He thinks if nothing is done about the problem, magicians will begin to see themselves as…as invincible."
"Invincible? Is that the word he used?"
"Not quite." His gaze drifted away. "He said you would see yourselves as gods, far above the rest of us mortals."
"We are mortal, Mr. Clark, like you." Good lord. The misinformation was bordering on the ridiculous. "Perhaps Mr. Abercrombie ought to actually speak to a magician about their powers rather than read medieval stories designed to scare people."
"India doesn't think she is invincible," Matt said. "You can tell Abercrombie that."
"According to him, she has become rather a…difficult woman since learning of her ability."
"She has come out of her shell, that's all."
"Abercrombie says she used to be a good, agreeable sort of girl, and now she speaks her mind and doesn't listen to her betters."
Matt grunted. "Abercrombie is not her better. Be sure to tell him that too when next you see him. And add that she should speak her mind since she's an intelligent woman with interesting things to say. Perhaps if he, or you, got to know her, you'd see that. Good day, Mr. Clark."
Matt stepped away and waited for me, but I didn't move. "Mr. Clark," I said, "what did Mr. Abercrombie propose should be done with magicians if banning them from the guilds is not enough?"
He backed up and rapped sharply on the door. "Dear me," he said, hands in the air. "I can't recall."
The porter opened the door and Clark slipped inside. The door slammed shut.
Matt took my hand. "India, you're shaking."
"With fury."
His hand tightened. "You need a treat. Would you like a bun? Scone? Pie?"
I spluttered a laugh. Of all the things I expected him to say, that was not one of them. "What I need is to pay Abercrombie a visit and turn him into a toad. Since my magic isn't that useful, I'll settle for confectionery. There's an excellent shop on Piccadilly."
He did not let my hand go as we drove off, and I felt grateful for the contact. I stopped shaking after a few minutes and thought over the discussion again. Mr. Clark had not told us anything that we didn't already know, including Abercrombie's thoughts on the matter of magicians. It had been a wasted effort that had only served to fluster me.
Matt kept his gaze locked on the street out the window and announced that we had not been followed when we reached Piccadilly. He sent Bryce home and bought a selection of petit fours from The Family Confectioner. We sat at a table in the corner with the delicacies and I quite forgot to speak as I devoured my share of the little cakes and tarts.
"You enjoyed that," Matt said when I finished.
I touched my napkin to the corners of my mouth. "I did, thank you. These haven't changed
since I was last here, quite some time ago."
"You came regularly?"
"With my mother."
"Ah, yes, the daughter of a confectioner."
"You remembered."
"Of course. Your maternal grandfather had a shop and your father used to buy sweets every day just so he could see your mother."
I smiled. "She worked as my grandfather's assistant, mostly in the shop front, while my grandfather made his confectionery out the back. He didn't sell buns, petit fours and other pastries like this place, but his sweets were very popular with the local children."
The Family Confectioner catered to a more well-to-do class of customer, particularly ladies wanting to pass the time with a friend over a cup of tea and a pastry. Nothing had changed since my mother used to bring me before her death, some ten years ago. The rose pink and white striped curtains matched the cushions, and little cakes were set out in enticing displays under glass domes on the counter. A boy no more than four years old ogled the glass jars filled to the brim with colorful hard sweets and pointed out his selection to the shopkeeper while his mother or nanny withdrew coins from her reticule.
"You don't talk about her much," Matt said quietly.
"Don't I? I suppose it's been so long now since she died. I'm ashamed to say I don't think of her as much as I ought."
"I'm sure she'd want it that way. No parent would want their child to mourn them for long. Your parents would want you to get on with your life and live for the future, not the past. Mine would be the same."
"You're probably right." Even so, I must visit my parents' graves as soon as Matt could spare me from the investigation.
We handed our plates and cups back at the counter and were about to leave when Matt changed his mind and bought a bag of bonbons. I suspected it was because I'd been eyeing them.
He offered me one as we exited but I refused. "I couldn't possibly fit another thing in."
"Not even one?" He shook the bag.
I caught a whiff of the chocolate and breathed it into my lungs. "Perhaps just one."
He watched me eat it. "Feel better?"
"Infinitely. But put those away or I'll eat the entire bag before we get home."
He stuffed them into his jacket pocket and smiled at me. "I've noticed that sweets seem to ease your anger."
"One can't possibly be angry when one is eating chocolate or a sweet. That's why confectioners are in demand. And anyway, I wasn't angry with you, Matt."
"For once."
"Matthew Glass, I am never angry with you. Not truly."
He narrowed his gaze. "Ever?"
"Sometimes you vex me, but you never anger me. You couldn't possibly anger anyone."
"Except Clark and Abercrombie."
"And Doctors Ritter and Wiley," I added. "Detective Inspector Brockwell, too, and Lord Coyle."
"And quite a few people from the Mapmaker's Guild. You're building up an impressive list."
"I think I spoke out of turn." I clutched his arm tighter. "Let's change the topic."
"Very well." He looked to the sky. "It looks like rain is on the way."
I studied the gray pall hanging so low it seemed as if the church spire pierced it. "Those aren't rain clouds but merely London's miasmic air."
"Why do the authorities not do something about it? Surely it must spread disease."
"All the more reason for me to purchase that cottage in Willesden," I said. "Did you notice how clean the air was there? I think it'll be a lovely place to live, and not too far to travel to the city."
"The family who rents it will no doubt think the same way." He chose his words carefully, his gaze on me. He seemed to have guessed that I was considering living in the cottage myself.
"You must be eager to return to California," I said quickly. "Away from London and our putrid air."
We walked on a few paces before he answered. "I find I'm in no hurry."
"You must miss it."
"Only the weather." He smiled. "Certainly not my Johnson relatives."
"Surely they're no worse than your Glass ones. Or do you have cousins over there who want to marry you too?"
He laughed. "My Johnson cousins are made in the same mold as Willie, except most of them hate me since I became a turncoat. They'd rather kill me than marry me."
"Then you must stay here." My tone was more serious than I intended. It was hard not to be serious when talking about his death. "Don't ever go home, Matt."
His step slowed and he looked down at me with smoky eyes. "London is my home at the moment."
Until I move on, his unspoken words said. Matt had traveled extensively as a child before his parents died. He'd lived much of his life in various European countries. After their deaths, he'd returned to America at age fifteen. It was understandable that he considered himself a citizen of no single country. He was a man with wandering in his veins. After Chronos was found, and his watch fixed, he may not return to America, but he wouldn't remain in England either.
That cottage was looking more and more attractive.
Matt approached Park Street cautiously, walking in front of me until he was sure that no one waited to jump out at us. Someone was waiting for us to return, as it happened, but inside the house. Detective Inspector Brockwell sat in the drawing room.
"He insisted on waiting, sir," Bristow whispered as he took our hats and the bag of bonbons.
"Is he alone?" I asked. "Or are there constables with him?"
"Alone, ma'am. I put him in the drawing room."
He hadn't come to arrest Matt then, thank goodness.
"It's more likely he's here to warn us off his investigation again," Matt told me.
He was correct, as it turned out, but only in part. "I've had another complaint from Dr. Ritter." Brockwell pronounced the T in complaint with crisp precision. "He claims you've been badgering him with questions and that he had to throw you out of his hospital."
"I asked him one question," Matt said, "and he did not have to throw us out of anything. By the way, do you know he's been tampering with the scene of the crime?"
Brockwell cocked his head to the side, the movement quite jerky for a fellow who favored slow, deliberate words and actions that always seemed carefully thought out first. "Go on."
"He sold off Hale's medicine bottles."
Brockwell seemed to have recovered his composure because he took his time answering. "Then he is a thief unless Mr. Pitt, Dr. Hale's heir, gave his consent."
"Not only that, Dr. Ritter sold them without the hospital's knowledge and pocketed the money. The hospital board is most likely aware of the situation now."
"Ah. That explains why Dr. Ritter visited me in an agitated state early this morning blaming you for his ill luck. He wouldn't elaborate, however, merely ordered me to ‘put my dog on a leash.’ Those are his words."
"I've been called worse," Matt said.
Brockwell's mouth stretched into a flat smile. "I don't doubt it."
"Consider me chastised," Matt said, standing.
"That's not all."
Matt huffed out a breath and sat again.
"Thank you for the information about Dr. Ritter," Brockwell said. "Is there anything else you'd like to pass on? Anything about Mr. Oakshot, for example?"
"Nothing," Matt said. "Why? What do you know?"
The inspector scratched first one sideburn then the other. The seconds ticked by, stretching my nerves thin. Matt did a remarkable job of looking unruffled, but I suspected he was as frustrated as me with Brockwell's delaying tactics.
"Oakshot's company bought all remaining stock of Hale's Cure-All from Mr. Pitt."
"He moved quickly," Matt said.
That was all he had to say? "We can guess why Mr. Pitt sold it," I said. "The Cure-All's reputation has been damaged for its role in Hale's death. But why would Mr. Oakshot buy it? He'll be stuck with something he can't sell."
"He didn't say," Brockwell intoned. "I wondered if he you'd learned anything."
> Matt shook his head. "As to why he'd do it, I suspect he'll simply change the label and market it as something else. It might be cheaper to buy the stock than make his own."
"That must be it." Brockwell stood and buttoned up his jacket, an ill-fitting garment that looked as old as the man himself. "Good day, Miss Steele, Mr. Glass. Please inform me of any progress you make."
"You actually seem amenable to us continuing with our investigation," Matt said. "Indeed, you shared something of your own investigation with us. Why?"
"I've come to the conclusion that it's best if we pool our knowledge. We both want the killer caught, and three heads are better than two or one. Besides, I cannot force you to stop. Not while you have the commissioner's favor and I suspect you'll have that for some time. He did seem very grateful to you both for finding Daniel Gibbons's killer. Very grateful indeed."
Did he know Daniel was the illegitimate son of Commissioner Munro or was he guessing and trying to gauge from our reactions if it were true? I studiously kept my gaze on him, trying hard not to blink or glance at Matt and give anything away.
"As he was grateful that Miss Steele captured the Dark Rider," Matt said lightly. "Indeed, our success doesn't make his force look particularly competent. Perhaps that will all change with this investigation, now that you are on board, Detective."
Brockwell linked his hands behind him. "And now that we are sharing information."
Matt tugged on the bell pull and Bristow appeared to show Brockwell out. Matt stifled a yawn.
"Perhaps you ought to ask Mr. Pitt or Mr. Oakshot for a medicine for your condition," Brockwell said.
"My condition?"
"You look unwell." Brockwell put up his hands in surrender. "My apologies if I am mistaken. Perhaps you're merely showing the effects of a late night and early morning."
So Commissioner Munro hadn't told his detective that our reason for visiting Dr. Hale in the first place had been to find a miraculous cure for Matt's illness. He was a decent man, the commissioner, and knew how to keep a secret.
Matt gave Brockwell a tight smile. "We gentleman of leisure tend to burn the candle at both ends."