by C. J. Archer
"We need to discuss what happened," he finally said.
I let out my pent up breath. "Thank goodness! I agree. So Pitt is the magician we've been looking for all along. His exclusive customers don't know he's using magic in his medicines, of course, although Coyle probably does. I suppose the magic lasts long enough in some bottles to have an effect on headaches and the like. But why would Mr. Pitt murder his business partner? His motive eludes me. Any thoughts?"
His dry laugh held no humor. "You win, India."
"Win?"
"We'll discuss the case." He squared his shoulders and sat up straighter. The cabin felt smaller, the air close. "Pitt's weapon of choice may be magic poison, but he might not be averse to using more violent means if we confront him. We need to approach this very carefully and gently."
"I'm quite capable of being gentle, but are you, at the moment?"
"I'm fine," he said, part pout, part defiance.
"You'll need to be at your most charming. Your present state is a little fierce. It wouldn't do to get angry with him and blurt out our suspicions. We need to trick him into confessing."
"I can manage," he ground out.
"See what I mean? Fierce."
The coach stopped and I took my watch out of my reticule and clutched it tightly.
"Wait here," Matt ordered the coachman as he alighted. He scanned the vicinity then kept me close as we traversed the few steps from the carriage to the shop door.
It was locked. A sign on the door said Mr. Pitt would be back soon. Matt knocked but there was no answer. He swore under his breath.
"Cover me," he said.
"Pardon?"
"Stand there and shield me from view. I'm breaking in."
"Matt!"
But he was already fidgeting with the door, inserting two slender tools like needles into the lock. It clicked open. He entered, tucking the tool back into his pocket.
"You must teach me how to do that," I said, following.
I shut the door behind us. The shop was dim but not completely dark, and once my eyes adjusted, I could walk through it without bumping into things.
"Check the medicines behind the counter for magic," Matt said. He inspected the countertop then bent to look in the drawers and cupboards underneath.
I rounded the counter and skimmed my hands across the bottles and jars on the rear wall. They all felt normal, not warm. I opened the back door and peered into the workshop. The scent wafting out was even stronger than in the shop. It clung to the roof of my mouth and clogged my throat. The tight space of the workshop contained a bench, stool, and dozens of small drawers stretching almost to the ceiling down one length of wall. Shelves on the other wall held bottles, pots and jars of all sizes and shapes. Their magical warmth drifted toward me as if on a breeze and my watch pulsed in response. I touched a dozen or so bottles to make sure.
I returned to Matt in the shop. "There's magic in the back room," I told him.
He didn't look up from the ledger opened in front of him. No, not a ledger, a dated diary. His finger tapped on the entry for today that read: Barratt, Gazette, 12:30.
My knees buckled. I clutched the countertop for balance.
"India?" Matt caught my elbow. "Are you all right?"
"I was wrong," I whispered, "and you were right. Barratt and Pitt are working together." I'd been a silly fool, believing a man who flattered and flirted with me over my own common sense. I was making a bad habit of it. "Clearly they know one another. It's not a great leap from there."
Matt shut the diary and slipped it back onto the shelf under the counter. "This doesn't prove anything. It could just be an innocent meeting. There are no other entries in recent weeks mentioning Barratt."
He was defending Barratt? So that I didn't feel too awful? I sniffed and blinked back hot tears.
"Don't presume until we know for sure." He pressed his hand to my lower back and steered me out of the shop. "Let's find out, shall we?"
He gave orders to the driver to take us to the office of The Weekly Gazette, post-haste.
The rhythmic clank clank of machinery grew louder upon entering the Gazette's building. They must be printing the latest edition.
No one met us in the front reception room so we headed through the door to the main room. Two men, one young, the other ancient, bent over a newspaper spread out on the desk before them. Neither had heard our entry over the press.
Matt inquired after Oscar Barratt and was told he'd taken a friend down to see the machines working. "May we see them too?" Matt asked.
"Be our guest," said the young man. "Just don't touch anything and tell the foreman you're friends of Oscar's."
Matt went to open the door the man pointed out to us, but it was locked. The younger of the two men frowned and tried the handle himself.
"It shouldn't be locked now," he said. "Not during a press run and hardly ever from the other side."
"Do you have a key?" Matt asked.
The man shook his head. "The foreman has it."
The older fellow joined us, trying the handle too. "Blast it. What's going on?"
"Go to Scotland Yard," Matt urged. "Ask for Detective Inspector Brockwell and tell him Matthew Glass sent you. He needs to come here immediately. Go!"
The young man ran nodded quickly and ran off. The older one tried the handle again and thumped his fist on the door. "Open up!"
No one could have heard him above the din. It seemed to me as if the presses grew even louder, the rumble and grind rising from the depths like a mechanical monster.
Matt reached into his pocket for his tools. "Who else is in there?" he asked.
"Just Jones, the foreman, and a packer," the elderly man said. "Once the presses start, only the two of them are required. Why? What are you going to do?"
Matt had the door unlocked in seconds but he didn't open it. He put his tools away and unbuttoned his jacket. He removed two pistols from the waistband of his trousers and handed one to the whiskered man. The old man hesitated then took it, holding it in his gnarled and knotted fingers.
"Stay here," Matt directed us both. "Use that if you need to."
The old man stared at the pistol. It shook in his hands. "Why? Who's down there with Oscar?"
Matt didn't answer but opened the door a fraction. Heat blasted through the gap as if it had been waiting for the opportunity to escape. I caught a glimpse of reams of paper slipping along a conveyer belt and a giant metal mouth opening and closing. Steam hissed and spat from the pipes, mushrooming in the air. The noise was too loud to speak over.
Matt gave me a weighty glance then disappeared inside. He shut the door.
I hadn't even told him to be careful.
The old man and I watched the door. I didn't want to look away, afraid that if I did, something bad would happen. After a moment, he lowered the gun as if it were too heavy to hold.
"Name's Baggley," he said. "I'm the editor."
"Miss Steele," I said. "I'm a friend of Mr. Barratt's."
"I saw you the last time you were here. He spoke about you afterward, and again this morning."
"He did?"
He gave me a wan smile. "He asked if anyone knew what was playing at the Savoy this Friday night as you'd agreed to see a show with him."
"Oh." Tears burned my eyes again, but this time I couldn't be sure why.
My watch, hanging on its chain around my neck, chimed.
"What is all this about anyway?" Mr. Baggley asked.
I removed my watch just as it chimed again. I stared at it, wishing I understood it better. The door suddenly burst open and crashed back on its hinges. Mr. Pitt stumbled out then stopped. He pointed a gun at my head.
I swallowed my scream but it escaped as a whimper.
"I say!" the editor said, raising his gun, but only half way.
"I knew you wouldn't be far away, Miss Steele!" Mr. Pitt shouted above the machines. He edged away from the door just as Matt raced up behind him.
He halted too
as he spotted me at gunpoint. His face drained of color.
"Put your weapons down!" Mr. Pitt shouted. "Both of you!"
Mr. Baggley set the pistol on the desk to his side and put his hands in the air. He begged me to do the same. "Please, sir, let us go," he said. "Or at least allow the lady to walk free."
Pitt ignored him—or perhaps didn't hear him, such was his focus. He shuffled to the side, keeping us and Matt in his sights. Matt lowered his weapon to the floor without taking his eyes off Pitt. Cold fury banked in their depths and kept his body rigid. He looked ready to spring at the first opportunity.
But Pitt gave him none. "Come with me, Miss Steele," he commanded. "Walk in front of me to the door. Anyone come after us, or try any heroics, I'll shoot her dead. Understand?" He pushed my sore shoulder. Pain from my bruises flared and I hissed air between my teeth.
Matt stepped toward us. "Let her go!"
Pitt pressed the gun to my temple and Matt stilled. His chest heaved with deep breaths and his nostrils flared. But he did not come after us. I stumbled forward, uncertainty gripping me. Was Pitt bluffing? Would he really kill me? Why didn't my watch do something more than merely chime? Perhaps I wasn't holding it right.
And where was Oscar Barratt, the foreman and packer? I didn't dare wonder.
"This is madness." Matt's words could be heard clear across the room. "Let her go!"
"And allow you to catch me? Not a chance, Glass." Pitt urged me forward, through to the front reception room then outside. Our hack driver gasped and gathered up the reins.
"Belgrave Square," Pitt ordered, pushing me into the carriage. "And fast."
Belgrave Square! Did he mean to visit Lord Coyle?
I landed awkwardly across the bench seat, almost letting go of my watch. Pain ratcheted up my side, momentarily distracting me from thoughts of escape. The door slammed shut and the hack sped off. For one brief moment, Pitt lost his balance and fell on the other seat. He sat up quickly, however, and trained the gun on me again.
I glanced behind me through the rear window, just in time to see Baggley, the editor, watching us, looking desperate and in despair. Matt was nowhere to be seen. My stomach rose to my throat, and I choked out a sob.
"He won't risk coming after us." Pitt wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. His forehead glistened with sweat. "I'm sorry about this, Miss Steele, but it's necessary. If you hadn't stuck your noses in, none of this would have happened. You should have left well enough alone."
I loosened my grip on my watch and smoothed my thumb over the warm silver instead. It throbbed to my touch, but did not leap out and wrap itself around Mr. Pitt. I silently willed it to choke him. "The police accused Mr. Glass of murdering Dr. Hale," I told him. "We had to intervene or he could have been arrested."
The cabin rocked as we slowed, the traffic ahead thickening. "Blast it," Pitt snarled. He thumped the cabin roof. "Move!"
"What have you done to Mr. Barratt and the other newspaper men?"
"The two workers are simply knocked out and tied up. I had no beef with them. Barratt, however, is a fool. He wanted to interview me today, about Jonathon, for an article that will reveal the existence of magic. Can you believe the stupidity of the man? I was prepared to let him go if he agreed not to write it, but he refused." He shook his head. "He had to be silenced or the whole bloody world will find out, and then where would we be? Chaos, Miss Steele, that's where."
My mouth went dry. "You killed him?"
"I don't even know if I hit him, to be honest. He fell, I know that much. The machines were too loud to hear his reaction. That's why I took him down there. That hellish noise even drowns out gunshots. I would have checked his condition if Glass hadn't surprised me."
I closed my eyes and prayed Mr. Barratt was all right. But he had not followed Matt out of the printing room. Bone-chilling cold crept through me. Mr. Pitt was far more ruthless than we imagined.
"Why did you kill Dr. Hale?" I asked.
He relaxed his grip on the gun a little. Perhaps it was my trembling voice that put him at ease, or the fact that no one followed us and we'd picked up speed again. Belgrave Square couldn't be far away. "He was also a fool. The world is full of them, Miss Steele. We'd known about each other's magic for years, and one day we got to talking about combining our magic into a medicine in the hope that a double dose of spell casting would make it last longer. It did not. Still, the magic lasted a little while in some bottles of Cure-All and we managed to do quite well out of those so that the medicine's reputation quickly spread. I wanted to leave it at that and end our experiment. He did not. He grew greedy, not for the money but the attention. With his name attached to the Cure-All, he became the public's darling. He got the job at the hospital on the back of it, I suspect. And then Barratt came sniffing around." He sneered at the name, as if he could hardly bare to speak it. "He wanted to write about Jonathon. He showered praise upon him, flattering him, and Jonathon lapped up every word. And then, when that patient seemed to come back to life, both Barratt and Jonathon had their angle for the article. It was the opening Barratt needed to get his editor to print it."
"But the article only alluded to magic. Only people who are aware of magic would have read anything into it, not the general public. The article didn't share any secrets. Why did it make you fear exposure?"
"You forget that the guild is aware of the existence of magic. Mr. Clark read the article and he too came sniffing around Hale. It is only a short leap from Jonathon to me. Too short."
"You were worried they would discover you were a magician." I understood now. It wasn't greed that had driven him to kill Hale but fear. Fear of having his apothecary's license revoked, at the very least.
"I would never work again," he said. "All my hard work, all the years of building up a reputation among London's elite....gone. I could not allow it. I could not let Jonathon's greed and stupidity ruin me."
"And yet here you are, running from the law, and all that you feared would come to pass is about to. If you are caught, you will be hung. If you are not caught, you still cannot return to London and keep shop. You've become a wanted man."
"I'll start again, elsewhere. This is England, Miss Steele. There are other cities where London's guilds don't reach. Cities large enough where a fellow can disappear without the police noticing." His words may have sounded brave, but his thin voice told the real story—the thought of starting again overwhelmed him.
"And what will you do to me?" I asked.
"That depends on how easily I get away. I have no qualms about shooting you if it helps me escape."
"Shooting me will achieve nothing. It will only anger Mr. Glass. With me gone, you'll have no leverage, no bargaining chip with him. He'll see you are arrested for your crimes."
He merely lifted one shoulder and tightened his grip on the gun.
"Did you shoot at us yesterday and frighten the horses?" I asked.
"I haven't been anywhere near you."
"Coyle, then?"
"Lord Coyle is his own man. I have no influence over him. If he decided to protect me from scandal and suspicion, then that is not my affair."
"Why would he want to protect you?"
"I am a magician, and he likes magic things, particularly my medicine. It eases his biliousness for a few days."
"Is that why you're going to him now? For protection?"
He did not answer.
The coach slowed. We had arrived at Belgrave Square. Pitt thumped on the roof. "Stop here!" He pushed open the door and ordered me out. "Act normal. If you make a sound, I'll shoot." He wrapped the flap of his jacket over his hand and the gun.
He threw some coins at the driver as we exited the hack. The driver didn't even check them before driving off at speed. Pitt marched me up the steps to Lord Coyle's residence, the gun barrel pressed against my spine. A cold sweat trickled down the back of my neck.
"Knock," he ordered me.
The butler opened the door, saving me the trouble. He
lifted woolly eyebrows, first at me then at Pitt. "Yes?"
Pitt ushered me past the butler then kicked the door closed. "Get me Coyle," he demanded.
"Sir!" The butler's face turned an unhealthy shade of puce. "This is an outrage.
"Get Coyle now." Pitt whipped his jacket back, revealing the gun.
My lower lip wobbled. I caught it between my teeth and tried to convey urgency with my eyes.
The butler nodded and hurried away. A moment later, Lord Coyle emerged from the library, where he kept his magic collection hidden behind a false wall. His butler did not reappear, but another fellow, just as substantial in girth as Coyle with an equally impressive mustache, followed him out. He gasped when he saw Pitt's gun and backed up to the library door again, although he didn't disappear altogether.
"What is the meaning of this?" Coyle demanded. "Who are you and why are you pointing a gun at that girl?"
"Sir," Mr. Pitt said, licking his lips. "I'm your pharmacist. Pitt. Remember? You usually send your man but you've been to my shop once."
Lord Coyle merely grunted. I suspected that was an acknowledgement because he didn't look confused by Pitt's claim. "Answer my other questions."
"I need your protection, my lord." Pitt's voice rose an octave and sweat beaded on his brow again. He wasn't certain of this part. He was gambling with his life and the odds were not yet clear.
"Who is this man, Coyle?" the other gentleman asked. "What's going on here?" He spoke with a measure of authority and an unmistakable haughty tilt of his chin. He must be Coyle's equal, not another servant. Unlike Lord Coyle, he kept a wary eye on the gun. Coyle paid it no mind, keeping his steady gaze on Pitt.
"A good question," Coyle said. "What do you mean you need my protection?"
"From the police," Pitt said. "They want to arrest me for murdering my business partner."
"My god," the gentleman muttered. "Murder!"
"And did you kill him?" Coyle demanded of Pitt.
Pitt wiped his sweaty top lip on his shoulder, leaving a smear on his jacket. "I had to." I suspected if anyone else had asked, he would not have answered. But with Lord Coyle, he was like a naughty child, eager to make up for his mistake beneath the critical gaze of his father. "He was going to reveal everything about magic to a reporter. My magic."