by C. J. Archer
"I don't agree."
He turned sharply. "Go on."
"She said Jack fixes things. A doctor fixes people, in a way. Could that be what she meant? Could the shop where he works be a surgery or center for patients who aren't too discerning about university degrees?"
"Perhaps. It's a tenuous connection but it is still a connection. We have so little else linking Dr. Millroy to her. All we know for certain is that he was murdered outside her building. The location could be mere coincidence."
When he put it like that, our evidence was sparse. I was beginning to think he was right and we'd learned almost nothing today. Perhaps we should have questioned more of the Bright Court residences.
"Did you notice how Mary called her Miss Sweet?" I said. "A slip of the tongue, or do you think Nell never married?"
"The latter, but it seems she did remember the boy's father."
"She called him useless. And what do you think about her brother?"
He shrugged. "He either left or died before the murder, so he's not a suspect."
"Unless he came back and she's protecting him."
"Good point." A small smile crept across his lips. "I like that theory."
I smiled back and allowed the rocking coach to lull me into contemplative silence. Matt did too, his handsome features schooled in thought.
"Nell's life must have been hard," he said to the window's reflection. "She brought up her son alone. It's not easy for a woman on her own."
"Only for those without independent means." I had independent means, thanks to the reward money. With it invested in the cottage, I shouldn't need to worry about marrying.
The thought opened up a hole in my chest. I may not need to marry, but I wanted to. To the right man, of course. I turned away from Matt and studied my own reflection in the other window. I wasn't young anymore, and if I wanted children, I had to marry within a few years. Since marrying Matt was out of the question, if I wanted to do the right thing by him and his aunt, I must turn my attention elsewhere.
I wasn't sure I could stomach it.
"Have you put any more thought into whether you'll stay or go?" Matt asked softly.
My gaze connected with his in the window's reflection. It was as searing as looking at him directly. "When this is over, I'll make my decision. For now, I'll stay in your house." And keep an eye on his drinking and gambling habits.
"When this is over, everything will be different," he said. "In a good way."
I finally turned back to face him and smiled, even though it hurt to do so. I didn't want him thinking I hoped he wouldn't be healthy again. Of course I did, and yet it meant a difficult discussion would need to be made, hard truths brought to the surface, and he would most likely leave England angry with me.
But I was getting ahead of myself. He had to get healthy first. That was our priority. It was also possible the feelings he alluded to having for me would dampen by the time we found a doctor magician.
It was a short drive to the Society for Affording Shelter to the Homeless in Bethnal Green. Like Whitechapel, Bethnal Green crammed London's poor into as many of its nooks and crannies as it could. Duke drove right past the non-descript entrance to the shelter and had to turn back after Matt thumped on the cabin ceiling to alert him. The shelter looked to be part of a long building with a plain brick façade and regularly spaced windows. There was nothing striking about the building at all, but it looked solid, and that was perhaps its single most redeeming feature for the homeless in search of shelter.
It was quieter than I expected inside. Female voices drifted to us from the back of the building but there were no signs of the miserable poor coming and going through the door. Matt opened the next door to see where the voices came from. Beyond was a large room filled with row upon row of rectangular boxes laid out on the floor, each lined with a flat hessian sack. There must have been hundreds. It took me a moment to realize the boxes were the so-called beds and the hessian sacks used as pallets to sleep on. The beds weren't long enough to fit a man of Matt's size, that was for certain.
The left part of the room was sectioned off with faded old curtains. A woman flipped a curtain back, and I caught a glimpse of a wash stand. Cleanliness was valued here, but comfort was not, it seemed.
Another woman broke away from two companions rearranging the beds. "May I help you?" she asked, pushing a pair of spectacles up her Roman nose.
"Are you in charge here?" Matt said.
"Mr. Woolley is." She pointed at a closed door to the left. "I'm one of the volunteers who comes in each morning to set the place to rights again."
"Before tonight's batch of men come looking for shelter?" I asked.
"Not just men, madam. We have women and children too, on the other side of Mr. Woolley's office."
"How many each night?"
"That depends on the weather. On a fine evening, only a quarter of these beds will be filled. In winter, we simply don't have enough room."
"Do you turn people away?"
She nodded, causing her glasses to slip. She pushed them up her nose again. "If you're here to make a donation, it will be greatly appreciated. We're always in need of clean linen, carbolic soap and food."
"You feed them too?" Matt asked.
She nodded and smiled. She had a pleasant face, if unremarkable, and I was glad there were people like her willing to do such work here. London needed her.
"Are there any staff members who've been here for twenty-seven years?" Matt asked.
She blinked at him, surprised by the question. "Mr. Woolley may have, but no one else. May I ask why?"
"We're trying to trace the movements of a homeless man who died twenty-seven years ago. We hoped he may have spent a night or two here at the time and someone would remember him. We want to learn more about him."
She pressed her hand to her stomach. "I see. This used to be a doss house in those days."
"Doss house?" Matt asked.
"Poor unfortunates with nowhere to go paid a small fee for a bed. Times have changed though, and a charity took over. No fee is required now, but the beds only go to the deserving."
"Wastrels need not apply?" I mocked.
"Definitely not," she said, all seriousness. "Perhaps Mr. Woolley will remember the victim or he can look him up in the records for you."
"There are records that far back?" Matt asked.
She smiled again. "Most likely. He's a meticulous record-keeper. Our benefactors require it, you see, so that they can tally the numbers. I believe the government pays a stipend for each person who seeks shelter here."
That sounded like a system rife for corruption but I didn't say so.
"Nor does Mr. Woolley like to throw anything out," she went on. "It makes the cellar quite crowded, but despite our requests for more storage space, he won't destroy anything. He says the benefactors or government may require the information one day and it isn't his place to destroy it. Come with me. I'll introduce you."
Mr. Woolley welcomed us into his office with an enthusiastic greeting. The office was as uninspiring as the building itself. Other than a large portrait of the shelter's founding benefactor, the walls were barren. Paperwork and ledgers decorated most of his desk's surface, and I suspected the filing cabinets off to one side were filled with records of those who'd sought shelter recently. My hopes swelled as I anticipated rummaging through the records in the cellar and finding our Mr. Wilson.
"How may I help you?" Mr. Woolley asked, steepling his fingers. He was rather nondescript too, with his balding pate and trimmed beard. The faint smell of carbolic soap drifted from him, or perhaps it came from the dormitory room. It gave the impression the entire building, as well as its occupants, had been scrubbed clean.
Matt introduced us and repeated the reason behind our visit. He finished with, "Since you have been here longest, perhaps you remember him."
"I wasn't here twenty-seven years ago, although it does feel like it sometimes." Mr. Woolley laughed. "Besides, we hav
e so many people come through our doors that it's impossible to remember all their names. Some spend only one night here and we never see them again. We've housed thousands over the years if you include the days of the doss house."
"Perhaps your records are more revealing."
"They may be, but I cannot let just anyone look through them." He parted his hands and shrugged. "I am sorry, but that's my rule."
"Then why keep the names at all?" Tension edged Matt's voice. He gripped the chair arms so hard his knuckles whitened. I resisted the urge to lay my hand over his to show my support.
"To know if those who come here are truly worthy of assistance or are simply lazy." At our blank looks, he added, "Too many requests for assistance usually mean the resident is taking advantage of our charity, and not trying hard enough to find employment and permanent lodgings."
"Or it means there is no employment or affordable housing available," Matt countered.
Mr. Woolley pressed his lips together. "In my experience, which is extensive, these people will take something for nothing if they can. Hence the records. I write their names in the ledger then at the end of the week, I transfer the dates of their stay to their individual file. One must keep score or suffer the return of the undeserving night after night. They must be forced to help themselves, sir, or they become their own worst enemy."
"You turn people away even if you have available beds?" Matt said, incredulous.
"Of course."
"Widows with children too?"
"Naturally."
"How many nights do you deem enough?" Matt said hotly. "Is there a number that separates the deserving from the so-called undeserving?"
Mr. Woolley paused. "With respect, sir, you do not know these people. You don't know how readily they'll take advantage of charity. I do."
"We're here on police business," I said before Matt forgot his manners altogether and ruined our chances. "Commissioner Munro has asked us to investigate the murder of a Mr. Wilson in sixty-three."
"As I already said, I cannot just let anyone see the records." He opened his hands again then flattened them together as if in prayer. "Do you have a letter of introduction from the commissioner stating that you're assisting with his investigation?"
"You don't believe us?" Matt growled.
Mr. Woolley's lips pinched. "I hope you understand that I cannot give away private—"
"You made your point." Matt stood abruptly.
I rose too. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Woolley. We'll return with the letter from the commissioner."
"Thank you for your understanding, Miss Steele. I look forward to seeing you again." He gave my hand a weak shake. Matt didn't offer his, and I admonished him for it on the way out.
"He went out of his way to be difficult," he said as he opened the front door for me. "He could have let us into his cellar today. Now he has a chance to remove any record of Wilson."
"You think he lied about being here back then and knowing Mr. Wilson? You think he has reason to destroy Wilson's records?"
"It was the impression I got."
I'd got no such impression, but I wasn't the best at recognizing when people lied to me. "Should we go to Commissioner Munro now and return immediately?" It grew late and Matt needed to use his watch again before too long.
Duke thought the same as me. When Matt ordered him to drive to New Scotland Yard, he refused at first. "You need to go home."
"Don't tell me what to do," Matt snapped.
I bit my tongue and did not make the same mistake as Duke. I remained quiet on the journey to New Scotland Yard and did not enter the building with Matt. I sat with Duke on the driver's seat and watched the passersby on the Victoria Embankment until Matt rejoined us, in a blacker mood than when he went in.
"He's out all day," Matt said before we could question him. He assisted me down from the driver's seat and back into the cabin. "We'll return home for luncheon. We've wasted enough time. After lunch we'll visit Mrs. Millroy."
"What about returning to the shelter?" I said. "Do you think it's not worth it after all? It's not a certainty that Mr. Wilson spent the night there or that his records will reveal personal information about him that will be of any use to us."
"I will return." He stretched his arm along the window sill and drummed his fingers on the frame. "You're staying home, India."
"Why?"
"Because I plan on going back tonight."
I gasped. "You're going to break in?"
"I'm going to seek shelter there and locate the cellar."
I stared at him and waited for him to tell me he was joking. He did not. "Don't be absurd, Matt. Mr. Woolley knows your face as does at least one member of the staff. They'll recognize you."
"Then I'll go in disguise."
He was mad. There was no other explanation for it. Mad and desperate. "Alone?"
"Yes."
"No."
He turned to me. "Pardon?"
"I said no. I'll go with you."
He huffed out a laugh, as if I'd said a pathetic joke. I arched my brow at him. "You don't think I'm capable of disguising myself as a woman in need of shelter? Perhaps I ought to remind you that I was very close to sleeping in a place like that the day I had tea with you at Brown's. If you hadn't taken me in, the only roof over my head would have been a charitable one."
Matt drew in a breath and held it. His gaze lowered to his lap. "You're not coming."
We would see about that. His idea was wild and his mood foul. He needed someone to accompany him and insure he kept his wits about him. Cyclops, Willie and Duke were all too conspicuous with their accents, and I didn't trust Willie to be discreet anyway. Matt needed a steadying influence. A pocket watch that chimed when danger neared was a good alarm to have on side, too.
We drove home in strained silence but Matt was all gentlemanly again as he assisted me from the coach outside number sixteen Park Street.
"I'm sorry for snapping at you, India."
"It's all right. You're under enormous pressure."
"There's no excuse for it." He folded his other hand over mine. "I'm glad you snap right back at me. I deserve nothing less." He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed the back of my glove. He raised his gaze to mine and watched me through his long lashes. It nearly broke my heart to see the misery in the depths of his eyes and for a moment I couldn't speak through my tight throat. "Do not let me get away with that kind of behavior," he murmured.
I was saved from attempting a response by the front door opening. It was not Bristow who greeted us, however, but my friend Catherine Mason, wringing her hands and looking wretched. What was she doing here? And where was everyone else?
"Catherine?" I raced up the steps, Matt at my side. "What's the matter?"
"Oh India," she moaned. "It's all my fault."
"What's happened?"
"He's gone! Your guest—Chronos—is gone! And it's all my fault."
Chapter 8
Matt grasped Catherine's shoulders. "What do you mean, gone? Cyclops was supposed to keep an eye on him."
Catherine's face paled and her lips trembled. "He and I were talking in the sitting room," she wailed. "We had tea and cake and were deep in conversation. And I'm afraid Chronos slipped out."
"Didn't Bristow or one of the other servants see?"
Catherine shook her head, sending the tear hovering on her eyelid sliding down her cheek. "Bristow and the footman are helping Nate search now."
It took me a moment to remember Nate was Cyclops's real name and how he preferred Catherine refer to him.
"It's not your fault," Matt said, scanning the street. "Cyclops should have been paying more attention."
"Matt!" I scolded. "That's not fair. Chronos could have gotten away from Cyclops at any time if he chose to do so."
"Cyclops does not get easily distracted, India. He wouldn't have if not for…" He shook his head and headed back down the steps. He climbed up beside Duke and after a few curt words, they drove off a
t speed.
"It's not your fault, Catherine," I said, steering her back inside.
"Matt seems to think it is, despite what he said." She sniffed and wiped away her tears with her handkerchief. "And now he's going to be angry with Nate. I wish I hadn't come today."
"And miss out on a chat with Cyclops?" I put my arm around her slender shoulders and directed her into the drawing room. "They'll find Chronos soon, I'm sure. But even if they don't, it no longer matters. I know his spells."
She blinked watery eyes at me. "Pardon?"
"Cyclops didn't tell you all about him?"
"No. He said you had a houseguest but that was all. Who is he?"
"My grandfather."
She clutched her handkerchief to her throat. "But both of your grandfathers are dead."
"My parents lied to me." I told her how Chronos had disappeared after getting into trouble with the guilds and authorities but did not mention the death of Mr. Wilson the vagrant or Dr. Millroy, his co-conspirator. "We wanted him to stay here to teach me his spells. He has done that so it's not such a great disaster if he leaves."
In my opinion, Matt had overreacted and made Catherine feel awful for no good reason. He may be ill, but his behavior had gone too far.
She asked a dozen questions, many of which I couldn't answer or didn't want to. So I asked her some questions about her conversation with Cyclops instead. She blushed and told me they'd hardly noticed the passing of time.
Miss Glass joined us, inquiring about lunch. Mrs. Bristow brought in a tray of sandwiches that we three nibbled. Miss Glass didn't have a big appetite, and neither Catherine nor I felt like eating. We continuously glanced at the door and jumped at every sound.
Fortunately Miss Glass didn't seem to notice. "Where is Willie?" she asked.
"Out," I said. "She didn't say where she was going."
"I thought you were with Matthew this morning, India."
"I was, but he brought me back and had to go out again with Cyclops and Duke."
"Ah yes, to search for Chronos. I heard the servants talking," she added. "So he truly is our prisoner?"