The Ink Master's Silence

by C. J. Archer

  I pushed it back into her hand. "It's not right to accept it if I am no longer your companion."

  "Come now, India, let's set aside our differences and be friends again."

  "Some things cannot be set aside. We will only argue again, and that's not how I want to spend my days. Do you?"

  She clasped the brooch to her chest. "Matthew? Will you talk to her?"

  "I agree with her decision," he said gently. "This is too important to the both of us to sweep aside. Can I fetch Polly to keep you company today? We have to go out."

  She pulled a face. "Polly is so dull. I want India. Her conversation is much more lively."

  "Polly will have to do until I employ someone else to be your companion."

  "I don't want a stranger. I want India."

  "I'd rather that too," I told her. "But we can't agree on an important matter, and both of us will end up miserable. I won't back down on this, Miss Glass."

  "Nor will I," Matt said. "You need to accept that India and I will marry."

  "It's too late, Matthew," she said, her voice frail. "The announcement has been published. I am sorry it happened this way. Really, I am. But nothing can be done now. The dinner won't achieve what you want. Lord Cox is far too proud and Patience is simply not that appealing. You'll be married to her within weeks and that's that."

  Bristow fetched Polly just as a hack pulled up outside. Our own carriage had not yet arrived from the mews, and we were not expecting visitors. The long legged form of Oscar Barratt stepped out and trotted up to the front door.

  We ushered him in out of the drizzle and Matt took his coat. His aunt, still waiting for Polly, clicked her tongue at her nephew performing a servant's task.

  We waited for Polly to collect Miss Glass and for Bristow to return. Matt asked him to bring tea into the library, but Oscar insisted he couldn't stay.

  "I needed to tell you something in person," he said as Matt shut the library door behind him. "Two things, actually. First of all, I discovered who owns The City Review."

  "I'm still not convinced it matters," Matt said. "The owners don't want you to stop writing your articles for the Gazette. They're good for business."

  "Not that good. From my inquiries, I've deduced that the Review isn't getting any more circulation than it was before. I'm persisting with my theory that the owners are men of business who would rather see magicians suppressed to maintain the successes of their own companies. They're powerful men of commerce. They won't stand idly by while magicians take over."

  "Go on," Matt said. "Who owns The City Review?"

  "A consortium of three bankers. The main investor in the consortium is an extremely wealthy man by the name of Delancey."

  "Delancey!" Matt and I both cried. "We dined with him at Lord Coyle's recently," I added.

  "We were just on our way to see him," Matt said. "Like the rest of Coyle's collector friends, he and his wife want to keep magic a secret. That already made them suspects in the shooting."

  "But it does rather fly against your theory that all businessmen want to persecute magicians," I said to Oscar. "Delancey doesn't want to harm us. He is actually fascinated by magic and values magical objects. He's not afraid of us."

  "Not when you were hiding away, performing magic in secret," Oscar said. "But things have changed, and businessmen like Delancey want to return to the status quo."

  "Not by killing you, surely."

  He didn't respond.

  "We'll talk to him," Matt said. "Even if he isn't the killer, he might know something."

  Oscar agreed. "The other thing to note is that he's not highly educated. His father came from humble beginnings before making the family fortune in the wool trade. He didn't believe his son required higher learning. We already suspect the author of the letters is not well educated in the traditional sense, and Delancey fits that profile."

  "His grammar errors," I noted, not sure that I agreed. Mr. Delancey certainly sounded like he was from the upper classes, but I supposed the accent could have been affected over the years to fit in with the powerful men around him, like Lord Coyle.

  "There's one other thing," Oscar said, scrubbing his short goatee. "Someone visited my office on the day of the murder and asked after me. He was told I was not in but would be working late."

  "Was he told you would be alone?"

  Oscar shook his head. "It may or may not be the killer, but I thought it worth mentioning."

  "Do you have a description of the man?" Matt asked.

  "Slender build, thinning fair hair, glasses. He had a quiet manner of speaking, sounded educated and his clothing was a little shabby. He left on foot."

  "It could be Professor Nash," I said to Matt.

  "Do the police know about the visitor?" Matt asked Oscar.

  "Yes, but they have probably dismissed it as unimportant, since they don't believe I am the target." Oscar rubbed his hand over his eyes and down his face. He sighed heavily. "Will you confront the professor?"

  "I have someone watching him now. We'll consider what to do next."

  "How are you coping, Oscar?" I asked gently. "You look worn out."

  He offered me a smile that fell flat. "I admit that I'm worried."

  "Then you shouldn't have come here," Matt said. "For the sake of my family and friends, as well as your own."

  "No one followed me," Oscar said. "I made sure of that. Besides, I'm not in any danger in broad daylight, and I needed to get out of the house and away from the office too."

  "I imagine it would drive you mad to be cooped up all the time," I said.

  "I can manage that. I always have something to read or write. I had to get out because those are the two places my brother knows where to find me, and he has a rather persistent nature when it comes to ordering his little brother about."

  "Your brother is in London?" Matt asked. "Why didn't you tell us?"

  "Because he's not a suspect, Glass. An irritant and a bore, yes, but he's not trying to kill me. We're brothers, for God's sake."

  Later, when we were alone in the carriage, Matt said, "Everyone is a suspect. Being family doesn't exclude his brother. My grandfather wanted to kill me."

  While I hated to admit it, he had a point. Family members made the most dangerous enemies.

  Being a Saturday morning, Mr. and Mrs. Delancey were at home. Their Belgravia house echoed Lord Coyle's in many ways, although it didn't face Belgrave Square and was painted all white. The red door made a bold statement and the entrance hall was equally bold with its pink marble floor and staircase. The footman invited us to wait in the drawing room, where the eclectic nature of Mrs. Delancey's style reigned in the deep red wallpaper, pale blue upholstery, the gold piping on the cushions, and gold tassels on the curtains.

  She swanned in, all toothy smiles and a warm welcome. "What a thrill it is to have you in my humble home, Miss Steele." She indicated we should sit, and she too sat, only to spring up again. She went to lift a clock set onto an onyx base off the mantel but, finding it too heavy, put it down again. "What do you think of this piece? Is it not very fine? My husband bought it only last week from an auction at Marlcombe House. A very unfortunate business, being forced to sell one's treasured possessions. I'm sure Lady Marlcombe would be happy to know the clock looks well on our mantel. Would you like to touch it, Miss Steele?"

  I blinked rather stupidly at her. "That isn't how my magic works," I said.

  She laughed musically. "I know. I thought you might like to feel it anyway. Come on. Up you get." That smile of hers never wavered, and I felt I ought to reward her for her effort.

  I flipped open the clock's glass case and ran my thumb along the brass minute hand. It was warm.

  She clapped her hands. "Marvelous!"

  "What is it, India?" Matt asked, coming up behind me.

  "It's warm," I told him, inspecting the clock. It was old, perhaps fifty years or more, and beautifully made. "Would you mind turning it, Matt? I want to see the maker's mark on the back."
/>
  "No need," Mrs. Delancey said, sounding smug. "It has your grandfather's mark. Lady Marlcombe says she bought it off a man who bought it from your grandfather's shop, many years ago."

  Matt turned it and I traced my finger over the engraving. Chronos had made this, all those years ago. Or perhaps it was my grandmother's hands that had crafted the fine piece. She'd been a horology magician too, and more dedicated to the work of watch and clockmaker than her husband. I wanted to ask Chronos and was tempted to visit him. It could be for the last time.

  "That's why you bought it," I said. "You saw the mark and assumed it held magic."

  "We wanted it for our collection," Mrs. Delancey said. "When we learned about your family history in horology magic, we decided to find something a Steele had worked on. Your shop had closed, but we didn't want to buy anything from it anyway. What if we purchased something that artless man had worked on instead?"

  Eddie Hardacre, also known as Jack Sweet, hadn't worked on much, by all accounts. The shop and all its contents would most likely become mine again soon. Matt's lawyer was working on the legalities, but with Eddie guilty of duplicity and other crimes, and my grandfather still alive, it would surely belong to my family again soon. I hoped I would still be in London to see it transferred back to Chronos's name.

  "Why do you not keep your collection locked away like Lord Coyle?" Matt asked.

  "Because we want our guests to admire our things," Mr. Delancey said from the doorway. "Otherwise, what is the point of owning them?" He entered and greeted us as warmly as his wife had.

  "You're not like Lord Coyle in that respect." I indicated the clock. "Do you tell people it was made by a magician?"

  "No. At least, we haven't yet." He looked at Mrs. Delancey. "My wife would like to, but I think it unwise."

  "Because of your position in commerce?" Matt asked.

  The butler pushed in a wheeled table with a silver tray and teapot. He left discreetly, and Mrs. Delancey filled the dainty Wedgewood cups. Her smile had slipped but it widened again as she handed me a cup and saucer.

  "Mr. Delancey?" Matt prompted. "Are you worried how your magic collection will be perceived by your friends? I assume they won't look too kindly upon someone who appreciates the very thing they believe will put them out of business."

  Mrs. Delancey took a very long sip of tea and avoided looking at us. Her husband, however, met Matt's gaze with his own steady one.

  "I think it's wise to keep the unique nature of our collection to ourselves, for now," Mr. Delancey said.

  "If it became known that you do collect magical objects, your friends would abandon you. Some would even grow angry and accuse you of supporting their business rivals."

  Mrs. Delancey whimpered in protest.

  "Our friends will always be our friends, Mr. Glass," Mr. Delancey said coolly. "But my colleagues and business partners might take a different view. Because of that, I think it's wise to keep quiet on the topic of magic. My wife agrees with me, don't you, my dear?"

  She nodded quickly and sipped again. I suspected the topic was much discussed in the household, and her wishes had been overruled by her husband. I had to agree with him. They were better off not mentioning magic to anyone in the current climate, particularly to powerful businessmen who traded in the very goods competing with magical objects.

  "Speaking of maintaining silence, that's why we're here," Matt said. "You're part owner of The City Review."

  "What of it?"

  "The City Review is involved in a war of words with Oscar Barratt and The Weekly Gazette over the existence of magic."

  "I may be owner, but I have no influence over what is published."

  Matt scoffed. "No one believes that."

  I glared at him; we were guests in the Delanceys’ house. But Matt paid me no mind, and I shouldn't expect him to. He wasn't a man who held his tongue simply because it was the gentlemanly thing to do.

  Mr. Delancey set down his tea untouched. "I think it wise to let the two newspapers fight it out. The Gazette and Barratt need to be challenged by a respected source. If not, then the truth will be more widely accepted and we've just discussed why that would be bad, Mr. Glass, not to mention we want to maintain the value of our collections through their exclusiveness. What of you, Glass? Where do you stand on magic being openly discussed as a result of Barratt's articles?"

  "I'll keep my opinions on the matter to myself," Matt said.

  "Miss Steele?"

  "As will I," I said.

  Mr. Delancey smiled tightly. "Do I detect some discord between you? I can see why you would side with Mr. Barratt, Miss Steele, but I wasn't sure where you fell on the matter, Glass. I admit that the other evening at Coyle's I thought you two were…together. However, my wife informed me this morning that an announcement has appeared in The Times. Congratulations on your engagement to your cousin."

  "Congratulations," Mrs. Delancey echoed. "How lovely."

  Matt did not thank her. He didn't correct them and tell them he wasn't marrying Patience, either. "The reason we came here was to ask where you buy your personal stationery."

  "Why?" Mr. Delancey asked at the same moment his wife said, "Hendry's. He does very fine work."

  "Why?" Mr. Delancey asked again.

  "Someone has been sending threatening letters to Oscar Barratt at the Gazette's office, ordering him to stop writing his articles. The letters were sent on paper made by a magician named Hendry."

  Mrs. Delancey gasped. "I knew it! I knew his card stock was too good to be made by an artless." She clapped her hands. "I pride myself on my good taste."

  Her husband wasn't as excited by the revelation but he was equally interested. "Are you implying that we sent those threatening letters?" he asked. "And, by extension, are you also implying that we would harm Barratt if he didn't stop writing for the Gazette?"

  Matt stared coolly at him.

  Mr. Delancey went quite still, and I suspected he was thinking through the implications of Matt's suggestion. It didn't take long for him to come to the same conclusion as we had. "You think Barratt was the intended victim, not the editor. Don't you?"

  Mrs. Delancey took a few moments to connect the facts, but when she did, she set her teacup down with a loud clank and pressed a hand to her chest. "It…it wasn't us. We didn't send those letters, did we, darling? Nor did we kill that poor editor. Tell them, Ferdinand."

  "It's all right, my dear. Of course we didn't kill anyone. How could we, when we were dining at Coyle's when it happened? Mr. Glass and Miss Steele were there themselves."

  It was a very good point, but he could have paid someone to kill for him. A rich banker like Delancey didn't need to get his own hands dirty. I didn't voice my theory, and nor did Matt.

  "Besides," Mr. Delancey went on, "why would I kill Barratt when the articles in The City Review are doing a serviceable job of discrediting him?"

  "Perhaps 'serviceable' doesn't bring fast enough results for you."

  "Neither I nor my wife killed that editor, Mr. Glass. Kindly refrain from insinuating as much or we cannot be friends. And I would dearly like to remain friends with Miss Steele and, by extension, yourself."

  The two men exchanged stiff nods, and Mrs. Delancey looked pleased they'd come to an agreement.

  "You are our friend, aren't you, Miss Steele?" she said. "Please say that you are."

  I nodded.

  "Excellent. And of course we can't be suspects, can we? You dined with us at Lord Coyle's. I suppose that also means the other guests are innocent too. That's fortunate for Lord Coyle and Sir Charles Whittaker."

  "Why?" Matt asked.

  She waved a hand. "They've become quite secretive of late. Before you arrived that night, they spoke in whispers in the corner. Sometimes those whispers became quite loud and heated. I caught your name, Miss Steele, but I couldn't tell you in what context they spoke about you." Her smile was as eager as ever but the spark in her eyes caught me by surprise.

  We made our excu
ses and directed our driver to continue on to Lord Coyle's house next. "Mrs. Delancey isn't as silly as she tries to make us believe," I said, watching the Delanceys' butler close the front door as we drove off.

  "It's her husband I don't trust," Matt said. "He's too smooth. He had an answer for everything and never seemed particularly ruffled."

  "If that was a reason to arrest someone then you'd be in prison."

  "Some things ruffle me. Aunt Beatrice's action, for one. My uncle's blackmail, for another." He leaned forward and rested his hands on my knees. "Not being with you."

  I swallowed past the lump rising up my throat and didn't respond, nor give him any sign of encouragement. It was dangerous being alone and intimate in the confines of the carriage. Matt was not a free man, and if we were seen, it would not go well for him with his family.

  Lord Coyle dismissed our questions about his whispered exchange with Sir Charles Whittaker. "It was merely a discussion about whether we should invite you to meet our other collector friends," he said. "He wanted you to give a lecture on your magic, and I said it was too soon. Not only would you say no, it might jeopardize the trust we've begun to develop." He tapped his pipe on the edge of the table then bit down on the stem. "I couldn't risk that."

  "You are quite right, sir," I said. "I would have refused."

  "As to the trust," Matt said darkly, "I think you're overstating your relationship with India, somewhat. We trust no one with such a deep interest in magic."

  Lord Coyle pointed his pipe at Matt. "You may not, Mr. Glass, but allow Miss Steele to make up her own mind. You are not, after all, her husband. I see from this morning's announcement that you never will be. It seems I was quite wrong about you two, and Miss Steele means nothing more to you than the doctor magician who saved your life. I apologize for my error."

  Matt's jaw hardened, and I almost expected to see steam rise from his nostrils. I'd never seen him put in his place like that before. The worst of it was, we could not correct Lord Coyle. Not when the announcement of his engagement to Patience was in black and white.