by C. J. Archer
It would seem he was going to threaten after all. It yielded the desired result. Mr. Sweeney took one glance at the approaching man pushing a cartload of books along the corridor and ushered us inside his office.
"You shouldn't use that word around here," he hissed as he shut the door. "Ever since those ridiculous articles appeared in The Weekly Gazette, the members have been on edge. Nobody knows who to trust anymore."
"Why should anyone not be trusted?" I asked. "If one or more of your members turn out to be magicians, what of it? They are still the same people."
He looked at me through two very blue eyes. His age was indeterminate. He was slender and short, with straight brown hair and smooth skin. There was not a wrinkle or whisker in sight. "You would say that, Miss Steele. I hear you are a watch magician."
"No doubt Mr. Abercrombie told you that I'm trying to ruin his business and that of all watchmakers."
His gaze shifted away.
"Let me assure you," I said, "I do not make or sell timepieces, nor do I have any intention of doing so. I have good friends in the trade and don't want to see their business suffer because of me."
"How noble of you." He smiled tightly. "Can you say the same about every other magician? What if there is a bookbinder magician? He could ruin me. He could ruin all of the good, honorable members of our organization."
I sat on the chair opposite him, even though he had not invited me. "By creating books that never fall apart? How diabolical."
He folded one hand over the other and settled them on his desk in a very deliberate and slow act. "I will not support magic businesses, in any shape."
"Then you'll want to answer our questions," Matt said.
Mr. Sweeney frowned, and his lip started twitching again. He wasn't expecting us to turn the tables on him. "What questions?"
Matt took out a piece of paper from his pocket. It was a blank section cut from Oscar's threatening letter. "Do you know who made this?"
"It's paper, Mr. Glass," Mr. Sweeney said. "You can't possibly expect me to determine who made it simply by looking at it."
Matt placed the paper on the desk. "Then touch it."
Mr. Sweeney picked up the paper, fingered it, turned it over, held it up to the light then sniffed it. "It's good quality paper."
"Do you know who manufactured it?" Matt asked.
"Why do you want to know?"
"It was made by a magician," I said.
He dropped the paper. It fluttered onto the desk then slipped off altogether. He wiped his fingers on his trouser leg. "How do you know?"
"I just do. Who made it, Mr. Sweeney?"
He held up a finger. "Why do you want to know who the magician is? So you can reward him? Recruit him for some magical scheme you're concocting?"
I sighed. This was hopeless. We should have used false names.
Matt, who'd remained standing, slowly skirted the desk and stood over Mr. Sweeney. Mr. Sweeney leaned back. His upper lip resumed trembling. "Contrary to rumors spread by Mr. Abercrombie, Miss Steele is not an evil mastermind determined to take over the world, one trade at a time."
I pressed my lips together to keep my smile from breaking free. Fortunately Mr. Sweeney didn't look my way, and Matt managed to keep a straight face.
"There's no watermark," Mr. Sweeney said, pointing to the paper on the floor.
"But it's very distinctive paper. You know who made it."
"I do but…I still don't understand why you need his name."
Matt moved and Mr. Sweeney scooted back in his chair. Matt bent and picked up the piece of paper. He returned it to his pocket and rejoined me on the other side of the desk.
"An acquaintance is being blackmailed," Matt said. "The threatening letters were sent using this paper."
"I see." Mr. Sweeney folded his hands on the desk again. "You think the magician's paper was used by the blackmailer? Or the magician is the blackmailer?"
Matt said nothing.
"There's no identifying markings on the paper," Mr. Sweeney said.
"The name," Matt ordered.
Mr. Sweeney's lip twitched. He bit it but it didn't stop. "His name is Melville Hendry."
"How well do you know him?"
"Not at all well, as it turns out. I didn't know he was a magician until those articles came out. He told me then." His thumb rubbed the knuckles of his other hand. "We've hardly spoken since."
"Is he the sort of person who would blackmail someone by sending threatening letters?"
Mr. Sweeney studied his folded hands as the thumb continued its slow slide across his knuckle. "A few weeks ago my answer would have been certainly not." He pulled the inkstand closer and plucked out the pen. "This is where you can find him. He's always there, either in the shop, the workshop, or in the rooms upstairs."
Mr. Sweeney insisted on seeing us to the front door, no doubt to make sure I didn't perform a magic feat on the guild's hall clock to slow it down.
We went directly to the Smithfield address of Mr. Melville Hendry. Just as Mr. Sweeney said, the paper magician was there, working in the small workshop located behind his even smaller shop. We heard the thump thump of machinery before we saw the man himself. Despite our repeated ringing of the counter bell, he did not appear, so we pushed open the door at the back of the shop.
The noise came from a large hammer-like device that repeatedly pounded pulp in a vat of liquid. A middle-aged man with thick gray hair slicked back from his high forehead stood over a rectangular wooden mold on a long counter top, talking to himself in low tones I couldn't hear over the machine. Behind him, dozens of rectangles of paper in varying stages of drying hung from washing lines. They were all pristine white and looked smooth. The room didn't smell of anything much, and that gave me the answer we needed. Melville Hendry must be a paper magician. To turn the pulp white, bleach would need to be added to the process, and its distinctive odor would linger. A paper magician didn't need to use chemicals.
"Mr. Hendry?" Matt asked.
The man jumped, startled. He pressed a hand to his chest and offered a shaky smile. "I am sorry. I didn't hear you." He moved away from the counter and the machine slowed to a halt. He must have been operating it with a foot pedal. "How may I help you?"
"My name is Mr. Matthew Glass, and this is Miss Steele. You have some fine paper in your shop, Mr. Hendry. Very fine."
Mr. Hendry indicated we should return to the shopfront ahead of him. "I pride myself on my work, Mr. Glass. I produce everything on these premises. My small operation allows me to give particular attention to every individual commission." He indicated the examples of invitations and calling cards displayed in a glass cabinet. They looked thick and smooth, with the lettering in gold, silver or black. There were other examples of his work too, including books opened to particular pages to show off the quality of the paper. He encouraged us to touch the blank sheaves stacked on the counter as well as the posters glued to the wall.
"Very fine indeed," Matt said, passing a piece of paper to me.
It felt warm. I touched another piece and it too held magical warmth. I smiled at Matt.
"Dare I ask if you wish to announce a happy event to your friends?" Mr. Hendry asked. "I don't write the text but I know a fine calligrapher who uses only the best quality ink from a superior English ink manufacturer."
"Would that be Barratt's?" Matt asked.
"You've heard of them?"
"In passing. The family members are ink magicians."
Mr. Hendry's eyes widened. His mouth worked but no sound came out.
"It's all right," I told him. "I am a horology magician, and we know you're a paper magician."
Mr. Hendry stroked his hair at his ear, as if he were tucking it back, although not a single well-oiled strand strayed from its place. "Steele. I think I know your name."
"Oscar Barratt's articles in The Weekly Gazette have mentioned my grandfather. Mr. Barratt belongs to the Barratt family you just spoke of."
"But you already kn
ew that," Matt said. "Didn't you, Mr. Hendry?"
Mr. Hendry locked the front door and flipped over the sign to say CLOSED. He glanced at the street through the window before finally responding. "What do you want?"
Matt removed the piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket and handed it to Mr. Hendry. "Did you make this? And don't try to tell us that all paper looks and feels alike. We know it doesn't. This paper has been infused with magic."
Mr. Hendry rubbed the piece between his thumb and forefinger but barely looked at it before handing it back to Matt. "It's mine, but I suppose you already guessed that. How did you know to come here?"
"Your name was given to us by your friend, Mr. Sweeney."
Mr. Hendry's shoulders slumped and his spine lost some of its rigidity. "He no longer considers himself my friend. I'm sure he told you that too, since he seems to want to make it widely known."
"Because he doesn't want to associate with a magician?" I asked gently.
He gave a slight nod. "I should never have confided in him, but he asked me directly after reading an article written by that bloody fool, Barratt. I couldn't lie to Patrick's face."
"You were very good friends."
Another nod and he moved away to rearrange the stack of papers on the counter, hiding his face from us.
"Perhaps you'll be friends again one day," I said. "Once this blows over and he realizes you're not a threat to his business or that of the other Stationers’ Guild members."
"That's what I don't understand. I'm a paper magician, Miss Steele, not a binder. I'm not even sure what kind of magician would be a threat to his publishing business."
"Leather or cloth?" I suggested. "For the book covers? Glue magic?"
"Did he ever use your paper in the books produced by his company?" Matt asked.
"My operation is too small. His supplies are manufactured by a paper mill in Norfolk."
"Did he ever use your paper for more personal items?"
"I made all his personal calling cards, note paper and letterhead." He set the stack of papers down and bowed his head. "After I admitted to being a magician, he said he was going to throw them all out and advise all of his friends to do so too. He was so angry with me. I still don't understand why. It's not my fault I'm a magician any more than it's his fault he has blue eyes."
"Perhaps he'll understand in time," I said. "Knowing that magicians exist is still quite new to most folk, and it’s very strange. Everyone is adjusting, and on edge, but I do believe it will calm down and things will return to normal."
"As long as no one takes it upon themselves to persecute magicians," Matt added stiffly.
"And no magicians try to use their magic to steal business from their artless rivals." I thought that the more likely scenario than persecution, but Matt would not agree. "To whom did you sell that particular paper?" I asked Mr. Hendry.
"Why?" he said carefully.
"It was used to send threatening letters to Oscar Barratt, the journalist. The author ordered him to stop publishing his articles."
Mr. Hendry stroked his hair again then dropped his hand suddenly and met my gaze. "I don't know who bought that particular sheaf. My customers are generally from the upper echelons of society and wouldn't stoop to such a tactic. Now, if you don't mind, I have work to attend to."
"Come now, Mr. Hendry. I think you know," Matt said, in that way he had of sounding like a friend yet demanding an answer.
"I don't! I swear to you! I sell so much blank paper, it's impossible to track."
"Do you keep records?"
"Not specific enough to identify who purchased a particular sheet or sheets. That's absurd, Mr. Glass. Why do you want to know, anyway? What does it matter if someone sent that Barratt fellow threatening letters? Good on him, I say. I hope it works and Barratt realizes his mistake. He is, after all, a magician too. His brother must be furious. His customers will abandon him if they believe magic is a form of cheating, which it seems so many artless do. Magicians operating on a smaller scale, like myself, will tend to escape notice, thankfully. I may lose a few customers who suspect, but not enough to cause me difficulty."
"Except when friends abandon you," Matt said.
Mr. Hendry glanced away. "I ask again, why do you want to know who is sending Mr. Barratt threatening letters? What does it matter to the two of you?"
"Mr. Baggley is dead."
"Who?"
"The Gazette's editor."
Mr. Hendry's brows shot up. "The editor? Not Barratt?"
"Does that surprise you?"
"Barratt seems to have quickly gained some enemies."
"Threatening letters would imply as much," Matt agreed, tucking the paper back in his pocket. "It's possible the killer mistook Baggley for Barratt."
"Or perhaps this Mr. Baggley had enemies too. Was he a magician?"
"No," I said.
He stroked his hair at his ear again. "Is there anything else? I have to get back to my work." He scuttled about the shop, flicking dust off the counter and adjusting a stack of cards, all the while watching us from beneath lowered lashes until we finally left.
"Do you think he sent the letters?" I asked Matt as we settled into the carriage.
"Perhaps. Anything's possible, at this point, but if he did, I would expect him to throw suspicion onto someone else by giving us the name of one of his customers."
"Perhaps he's too honorable."
"He did give us a clue." His lips curved into a curious smile. "He mentioned that his clients were from the upper echelons, and we know some wealthy and titled persons who like to collect magical things."
I smiled too. "Those same people dislike Barratt's articles and wanted him to stop writing them. Shall we visit Lord Coyle first?"
"Directly after lunch."
My friend Catherine Mason was at the house when we arrived. I invited her to stay for luncheon, and she eagerly accepted, even though I couldn't guarantee that Cyclops would be back from the convent where he and the others had decided to do some final repairs after all.
"That's perfectly all right, India," she said cheerfully. "I don't mind seeing you and Matt. I mean, I'm happy to see you. That's why I came." I wouldn't have believed her even if she hadn't blushed.
I hooked my arm through hers and led her into the dining room ahead of Matt and Miss Glass. We were just getting seated when Cyclops, Duke and Willie arrived. Cyclops paused inside the door to the dining room upon seeing Catherine. His one eye took in her appearance from her blonde hair to her slender fingers. I could swear I saw heat in it.
"Apologies, Miss Mason," he said. "If we'd known you'd be here, we'd have changed."
"Bah," Willie said, pulling out a chair. "You might have, but I wouldn't."
Miss Glass clicked her tongue.
Willie waggled her fingers. "We did wash up."
"India would have changed, wouldn't you, my dear?" Miss Glass said. "You're such a good girl like that."
"I didn't change," I told her.
"But you would have, if you were working all day."
"India? Work out of doors?" Willie snorted. "She's too lily fingered for real work." Willie winked at me, and I rolled my eyes.
Miss Glass leapt to my defense. "She's a very hard worker, as well you know, Willemina. Apologize at once."
Willie picked a chicken leg off the platter using her fingers. "Why should I?"
"It's all right," I said.
"Willie," Cyclops hissed from across the table. "We have a guest."
"So?"
"So use your cutlery."
"Please don't on my account," Catherine said, sounding amused. "I have brothers. I'm used to cutlery being an afterthought."
"Brothers," Duke said with emphasis, "not sisters. I know it ain't easy to tell, but Willie here's a woman."
Willie used her fork to stab a boiled potato and add it to her plate. "And Duke's a quitter."
"Don't listen to her. I only quit the—" He clapped his mouth shut.
&nbs
p; "Quit the what?" Miss Glass asked.
Willie sat back with a grin. "He and Cyclops quit riding horses because they fell off. That's why they both got them bruises and cuts."
"You fell off a horse?" Catherine asked Cyclops.
"Both of you?" Miss Glass said.
Catherine glanced between the three but made no further comment. Miss Glass, however, gave them a lecture on riding sensibly in the city. We all regretted Willie's white lie by the end.
Peter the footman brought in lemon ices in glass bowls to complete our luncheon and we subsequently retreated to the drawing room. Miss Glass stopped me before we entered, however. I found I couldn't quite look her in the eye. I was far too aware of my last words to her the night before. I'd been harsh, but I would not back down from my position. I would not allow her to talk me into remaining as her companion.
"Will you come to my room, India?" she asked. "I have a little surprise for you."
"Perhaps later," I said. "I'd like to spend time with Catherine while she's here."
"She doesn't need you as much as I need you. Come to my room so I can give you your gift."
I extricated my arm from her grasp. "Thank you, Miss Glass, but I don't want any gifts. I won't change my mind. You and I don't see eye to eye on one very important matter and unless that changes, I don't think I can serve as your companion."
She touched the hair at the nape of her neck as she stared into the middle distance. "Veronica, have you seen Harry?" she asked weakly.
I sighed. Her turns may be a result of her inability to cope with the conversation at hand, but this time it seemed a little too convenient.
"India? Aunt? Are you coming?" Matt asked, rejoining us.
"She's suffering from one of her episodes," I said, eyeing her carefully. "I was about to fetch Polly."
"I'll take her upstairs."
I watched them go, my heart feeling heavier than I expected, and entered the drawing room to a charged silence. Only Willie looked pleased. Duke seemed curious, while Cyclops avoided Catherine's hard glare.
"I was just telling Nate that I fell off a horse once," Catherine said to me. "My injuries did not look like his. I also have brothers who used to get into all sorts of scrapes. A punch in the mouth would split a lip like that."