by C. J. Archer
"Indeed."
Bristow indicated Brockwell should walk ahead of him and, a moment later, we heard the front door open and close. Matt sat and rested his elbows on his knees. He raked his hands through his hair then down his face. He caught me watching and dropped his hands away.
"I know, I know," he muttered, unbuttoning his inside jacket pocket. "I'm getting it."
I closed the drawing room door and stood by it as his watch's magic soaked into his skin and his coloring returned to a more healthful hue. His eyes, however, remained shadowed, the bruise inflicted by Cyclops darker than ever. He returned his watch to his pocket and I stepped away from the door.
"Shall we visit Oakshot after you've rested?" I asked.
He nodded. "Hopefully he'll tell us more than he told Brockwell."
"I'm sure he will, particularly once we inform him we know that Hale was a magician and that the Cure-All might still hold some magic." I shot him a smile.
He did not return it. "And what if he asks how we know that?"
"We'll make something up. You're good at that, Matt, thinking up things as you go."
He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. "High praise indeed."
I smiled and picked up a book. He slept in that position for an hour. He would have slept longer but his aunt woke him when she entered.
"There you are, India," she declared. "I've come to ask you to read to me."
"Not this afternoon," I said. "We've got too much to do."
She clicked her tongue. "You're working her too hard, Matthew. And yourself. Look at you! You ought to be abed."
"I just rested," he said.
"It did nothing for you. Tell him, India."
I did not tell him anything. Matt wouldn't want to hear it. Besides, he was well aware that his watch wasn't working as efficiently as it used to. "I'll make sure he doesn't exert himself too much this afternoon, Miss Glass," I assured her.
"Good girl. If you weren't so sensible I would worry more." She turned her back to Matt and rested a hand on my shoulder. "But I trust you to do the right thing by my nephew." She squeezed my shoulder before letting go and walking out of the room.
I caught Matt watching me out of the corner of my eye, a frown disturbing his handsome features. "I don't need luncheon after those petit fours," I said. "I'm ready to leave when you are."
"Then we'll go now."
"That is no business of yours," Mr. Oakshot snapped in response to Matt's question about the purchase of the Cure-All. He turned away and marched back to his desk. "See yourselves out."
Matt strolled to the window overlooking the factory floor. The occasional shouted order or clinking of glass bottles could be heard over the grind and whir of the machinery. Mr. Oakshot's office provided no sanctuary from the incessant noise and I wondered how he could concentrate on his paperwork. There seemed to be more of it than the last time we visited.
"Are you removing Pitt's labels and replacing them with your own?" Matt pressed.
Mr. Oakshot glared at him. "Did you not hear me? Get out!"
"Did you purchase the remaining stock of Dr. Hale's Cure-All because you think its magical properties will make it a success for your company?"
The color drained from Mr. Oakshot's face, along with his temper. He slumped in his chair, suddenly looking like a man floundering in the depths of misery. "Pardon?" His whisper could barely be heard over the machinery. "Magic?"
"You heard me," Matt said. "And don't pretend you know nothing about magic. You're on the Court of Assistants at the Apothecary's Guild and the guilds are well aware that magic exists. Are you a magician, Mr. Oakshot?"
"Pardon?" he said again, his voice trembling. "No, of course not. I know nothing about magic." He did not meet our gazes and pretended to take great interest in his paperwork.
"You have a flourishing business here." Matt indicated the factory through the window. "You're considered the most successful apothecary in London. A singular trait of magicians is the exceptional quality of their work. Even I, who knows nothing about medicine, would assume you're a magician."
"Your logic is lacking, Mr. Glass." Mr. Oakshot thrust out his chin. "You accuse me of being a magician and yet assume that I bought the remaining stock of Hale's Cure-All because it contains magic. Wouldn't I be able to put magic into my own medicine if I were a magician?"
"Perhaps the particular spell in the Cure-All eludes you and you wish to study it."
Mr. Oakshot dropped the papers back onto the desk. They scattered, some falling to the floor. He scrubbed his hand across his jaw where gray whiskers had begun to sprout. The brief flare of defiance in his eyes extinguished, and he looked miserable again. "Don't spread those sort of rumors, Mr. Glass. I beg you. If the guild so much as think I'm a magician, they'll set out to ruin me."
"I won't tell the guild if you tell us the truth. You have my word. Why did you buy the remaining stock of Cure-All from Mr. Pitt if not to place your own label on it?"
He smacked his palm on his desk, knocking more papers off. "I don't want to sell it," he hissed. "I don't want that doctor's medicine here, or anywhere! Pitt is ceasing production since sales have all but stopped, so I bought the remaining stock off his hands and crushed every last bottle, burned every label, and tipped that bloody medicine into the sewers."
Matt paused, apparently as surprised by Oakshot's admission as me. "But why?" he asked. "You deliberately lost money on it."
"Because that so-called doctor—that bloody murderer—killed my wife. His name doesn't deserve to live on in his Cure-All. He doesn't deserve to be remembered, not even on a label. He doesn't have children; he left behind no family, and I rejoice, because that makes it easier to obliterate his name forever. He took away the one thing I cared about…" He choked back a sob and his mouth twisted as he fought to control himself. "So I took away the thing he cared about—his legacy. Now he is truly, unequivocally, gone."
He sat back in his chair again, all the fight gone out of him. He was nothing more than a middle-aged man staring into the pit of despair.
Matt thanked him for his time and we hurried down the stairs and out to the street.
"That poor man," I said once we settled into the carriage.
"That poor man just climbed to the top of my suspect list," Matt said. "There is a lot of hate in his heart. That much hate can drive a man to murder."
"Destroying a few hundred bottles is not the same thing as taking a life, Matt. It takes quite a different man to kill." But I didn't speak with much conviction. What if I was wrong about Mr. Oakshot? What if my sympathy for him affected my judgment? "Perhaps you're right," I muttered to the window. "I don't know."
"Or I might be wrong," Matt said.
I met his gaze in the reflection. It looked troubled.
"You're doubting your instincts again," he said.
And with good reason. I didn't tell him so, however. It would only make him feel guilty for the argument over Oscar Barratt again. "So why are we going to Mr. Pitt's shop now?" He'd directed Bryce to drive there before assisting me into the carriage. "What do you hope to learn?"
"I have no idea." He sighed. "But I don't know where else to turn. Perhaps he'll know if Oakshot lied about destroying the Cure-All."
"You really do think Oakshot's a magician and wishes to study it?"
"I'm not discarding any possibility yet."
"I wanted to get rid of it," Mr. Pitt said without looking up from the brass and timber scales he was using. "I've ended the Cure-All's production and couldn't move the remaining stock. Mr. Oakshot offered to buy it, and I was keen to sell. We both benefit."
"Do you know what he did with it?" Matt asked.
Mr. Pitt tipped a small amount of brown powder onto the scales then added another spoonful. "No. You'd have to ask him."
"He destroyed every last bottle and label."
"So he's going to sell it as his own, eh?" He tipped more powder onto the scales, balancing them. "That's typical of him. Oakshot believes in quantit
y not quality. He sells his medicines cheaply but because he makes so much of it, he still makes a handsome profit. He was able to buy the Cure-All at a vastly reduced sum. Even with the cost of putting it into his own bottles with his own labels, he'll still save on production."
"He emptied the medicine into the sewer."
He glanced up from the scales. "Why?"
"Because he hated Dr. Hale and wants there to be nothing left of him."
Mr. Pitt blinked. "Good lord. I knew he was upset over his wife's death, but I always thought business came first with him. It appears I was wrong." He swept the powder off the scales with a piece of thin wood and into a bowl that he set aside.
I wandered around the shop. It was rather an interesting place, with its colored bottles, jars and sleek polished wooden counter and drawers. It also smelled divine. Matt didn't ask any more questions so I glanced back at them to see why. Mr. Pitt watched me and Matt watched him. I felt my face heat so turned back to the stack of face cream pots forming a pyramid on the table in the middle of the shop.
"Do you have any plans to replace the Cure-All?" I asked. "It was such a success that it would be a shame not to try and make something just as successful."
"It was a success because it had Jonathon's name on it," Mr. Pitt said. "He's gone and I can't use his name again."
"He's gone and so is his magic," Matt said with a sigh. "No doubt that had something to do with the Cure-All's success."
"You can assume all you want, but I don't know for certain. The only person who could tell you if he put magic in some of the Cure-All bottles is Jonathon himself. As to any plans to replace it with something else, the answer is no. You might find this hard to believe, in this day and age of businesses seeking profits at any cost, but I want to keep my operation small. I have my loyal customers and that's all I need. I don't need the fame that Jonathon craved or the profits Oakshot strives for. I just want to live a quiet, content life here, serving my customers."
"Then that makes you a unique businessman," Matt said.
"Indeed." Mr. Pitt picked up the mortar and pestle and began grinding the contents. "Did Oakshot tell you he offered to buy the shop from me?"
"You're not selling?" I asked.
"Not to anyone. What would I do with myself, Miss Steele?" He smiled but it faded quickly. "I wonder why Oakshot didn't mention it."
Perhaps because he thought it might incriminate him further. Buying the rest of the Cure-All was one thing, but buying out a rival's business was quite another.
Matt inspected the medicine chest near his elbow. He opened the lid and drawers, and inspected the medicine bottles placed there for display. "Perhaps you should have considered it," he said to Mr. Pitt. "Without the Cure-All, and the damage Hale's death has done to your reputation, you might find your profits dwindling." He pulled a powder packet from one of the drawers and read the label.
Mr. Pitt snatched it off him and gave Matt such a fierce glare that Matt put up his hands and backed away.
The little bell above the door tinkled and a woman dressed in a simple black and white dress walked in. She paused just inside the doorway, her startled gaze on Matt. Then she bobbed her head and performed a shallow curtsy.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Glass," she said.
"Good afternoon," he said as he passed her. "You don't need that, India," he said to me.
"Pardon?" I had been concentrating on the woman and forgotten I'd picked up a pot of the cream until he pointed to a line on the label that read IMPROVES THE COMPLEXION.
"Your complexion doesn't need improving." He took the pot from me and returned it to the top of the pyramid. "Good day, Mr. Pitt."
Mr. Pitt waved at us from the counter where the woman now stood, inspecting a cluster of blue bottles. The bell above the door chimed as we exited.
"Who was she?" I asked.
Matt frowned at the closed door. "I can't recall but she does seem familiar."
"She certainly knew you. Perhaps she's one of your past liaisons," I said, knowing perfectly well it wasn't. I was quite sure Matt had not had so much as a dalliance since I'd met him, which was almost the entire time he'd been in London.
My teasing had little effect, however. He continued to frown. "I usually remember those," he said, sounding distracted.
"Usually?"
His cheeks pinked. "I mean always. I always remember my past liaisons."
"What? All of them? My, my, you must have an excellent memory."
He opened the carriage door and put out his hand to assist me up the step. "Very amusing, India. There aren't that many. In fact, hardly any, and not all that serious."
"I think the gentleman doth protest too much."
He folded up the step and climbed in. His face drew close enough to mine that I could see the wicked gleam in his eyes. "And I think the lady is trying to trick me into discussing my past when all she has to do is ask." He sat opposite and tossed me a smile. "I'll tell you anything you want to know."
I tried to affect the same devil-may-care air as him, but I suspected I failed. "Of course I don't want to know. Why would I?"
His smile widened.
Bryce drove into Park Street and Matt turned to the window and scanned the vicinity. My watch chimed.
We both stared at it, hanging from its chain around my neck. It chimed again and throbbed.
Matt thumped on the ceiling. "Don't stop!" he shouted.
But Bryce couldn't have heard him with the window up. The coach began to slow as we approached number sixteen. Matt went to open the window, but I caught his arm.
"It's too dangerous," I said.
As if it agreed with me, my watch chimed. I clutched it tightly. Its pulse warmed my palm, the regular beat counting out the seconds.
"I'm not getting out," Matt said. "Just telling him to drive on so we can see who's there. You keep watch through—"
A gun fired.
Wood splintered, and the horses squealed.
"Get down!" Matt went to dive across me but the frightened horses took off and the coach hurtled forward. He fell back and I tumbled onto the seat beside him.
Bryce shouted orders at the horses but our speed only picked up. Matt helped me to sit then looped his arm around my waist, anchoring me. Bryce's shouts became more frantic, his panic doing nothing to calm the animals. The end of the street must be near. Oh God.
"Brace yourself!" Even as Matt said it, the coach lurched to the right.
The cabin tipped. It happened so fast that I hardly registered Matt pulling me across his lap so that our positions swapped. He took the full force of the impact, using his body to cushion my fall.
But his body was hard and the impact profound. My right side took the brunt of it, slamming into Matt, the seat, walls. Pain pierced my shoulder and hip, and my heart felt as if it would burst out of my chest. I couldn't breathe.
The deafening crash of the coach hitting the road rang in my ears, drowning out my cries and Matt's groans. Glass shattered, wood splintered. And then the awful, relentless grind as the carriage was dragged on its side, the horses still trying to flee. Bryce… Oh God.
Someone outside screamed.
I pushed up and collapsed again as pain spiked from my shoulder across my back and down my arm. Matt lay beneath me, his eyes closed. He didn't move.
"Matt?" I managed to roll off him despite the shuddering movement of the cabin. I bent my ear to his lips. Nothing. He wasn't breathing. "Matt!" I pressed my hand to his chest over his heart. It was utterly still.
"MATT!" I clasped his face, turning it to me.
Blood oozed out from behind his head, smearing the broken shards of window glass underneath.
Chapter 15
Something dripped down my face. Blood? Tears?
I stared at Matt's lifeless form and a well of sorrow opened up inside me. It swallowed me whole, taking all my courage and hope and even my soul into its depths.
The carriage slowed and came to a stop. I lost my balance and fo
und myself on top of Matt again. I sobbed into his chest.
My watch chimed, then chimed again. It still hung around my neck where it now burned so hot I could feel it through the layers of clothing. Another warning? Had the killer come back to make sure his work was done?
And then I felt another warmth, not from my watch, but beneath me. It came from the inside pocket of Matt's jacket. My watch chimed again and again, so loud that I could hear it clear above the shouts outside.
Matt's watch! I scrabbled at his jacket and waistcoat, but my shaking fingers couldn't manipulate the buttons. I wrenched the clothes open and the buttons scattered. The heat from both his watch and mine combined within me, raging like a furnace as if they were communicating through me.
I felt the carriage rock and heard someone inquire if anyone was inside, but I didn't answer as I flipped open the watch case, removed Matt's glove and pressed the watch into his hand. The purple glow flowed from the watch into his skin, racing along his veins, shooting out again above his collar, up his throat and over his face.
His chest expanded with his gasped breath. His eyes flew open and stared wildly back at me.
I burst into tears and clasped his hand in mine so that he did not let go of the watch too soon.
"Ma'am?" a man behind me said. "Ma'am, are you all right?"
I shielded Matt and smiled down at him through my tears. It must have looked crooked and wobbly but I didn't care. I laid my hand over his chest and silently thanked God, Chronos and Dr. Parsons that his heart beat steadily.
He lifted a hand to my face. "You're bleeding," he said.
His first words after coming back from death were concern for me? I cried even harder.
"Ma'am, let me help you." I felt a hand on my shoulder and hissed in pain.
"India?" Matt snapped his watch case closed and his veins cleared. He sat up and that's when I realized I was still sitting on him. "India, you're hurt."
I peered up at the two men perched on the carriage's side, the door open between them. I took their hands and they helped me through and passed me down to someone standing on the road.