The Convent's Secret: Glass and Steele, #5 Page 17

  Matt grabbed Abercrombie's arm so hard that Abercrombie squeaked. Matt shoved him through the door and slammed it in his face. "I'm going to have breakfast," he said, dusting off his hands. "India, will you join me?"

  "I, er, that is…yes. Thank you. I could do with a strong cup of tea."

  We did not speak about Abercrombie, or what he'd said, but of the box and what it meant. The brisk conversation allowed me to shut Abercrombie's words out of my mind, though only briefly. While Matt spoke to his aunt alone in her rooms before we left, and I waited for him in the entrance hall, I could think of nothing else. Abercrombie could not possibly be right. To think the government would be interested in something that I could potentially do but hadn't proven possible, was ludicrous. He was scaremongering in an attempt to alienate me from my friends and employment. It was his newest scheme to ruin me.

  And it wouldn't work.

  Matt took longer than I expected. After seven long minutes, he still hadn't come down. The coach waited outside, and Bristow hovered nearby to see us off. I was about to see what kept him when Mrs. Bristow, the housekeeper, emerged from the back of the house.

  "Excuse me, Miss Steele," she said. "There's a man here to see you. He's waiting in the kitchen."

  "To see me? Why?"

  "I couldn't say, miss."

  "Show him to the drawing room, Mrs. Bristow."

  "The drawing room!" The Bristows exchanged glances. "But miss, he's wearing workman's boots." Poor Mrs. Bristow spoke as if workman's boots were made by the devil himself. "He can't wear them into the drawing room. They're filthy."

  "I can't speak to a guest in the service area, Mrs. Bristow. This man deserves to be received in the drawing room, just like anyone else. Please show him up."

  The Bristows exchanged another speaking glance then Mrs. Bristow disappeared back to the services stairs. I waited for the man with the dirty boots in the drawing room.

  Peter the footman escorted in a shoeless man holding his cap in his hand. He couldn't have been more than twenty, with a mass of dark blond hair that curled around his ears and cascaded over his forehead to meet his eyebrows. He dipped his head and smiled tentatively. Peter introduced him as Mr. Bunn before standing by the door with Bristow. They must suspect the young man would run off with the silver.

  "Where are your shoes, Mr. Bunn?" I asked.

  "Kitchen, ma'am. The housekeeper made me take 'em off before coming upstairs. I didn't want to argue with her."

  "Very wise," Bristow intoned.

  "I see," I said. "How can I help you?"

  "I'm a leather worker, ma'am." He cocked his head to the side and studied me to see what impact his words had.

  I made sure not to bat an eye even though my heart sank. I had expected this, but not yet. The article had only been published the evening before.

  "Fossett, please leave us," I said, using Peter's surname as was the proper way in the presence of company. "Bristow, you will stay." Although I was certain all the servants knew about my magic now, after reading the papers, I did not want to be the latest downstairs gossip. Bristow would be more discreet.

  "You're a magician," I said when Peter closed the door behind him.

  "Yes, ma'am." Mr. Bunn screwed the cap tightly in his hands.

  "How did you find me?"

  "A friend pours drinks at the Cross Keys on High Holborn. Your grandfather used to be a regular there, and my friend remembers when you and Mr. Glass came looking for him. Mr. Glass gave his address to my friend to send your grandfather this way. Course, he didn't know he was a magician 'til later, when he read it in the papers."

  "I see. And what do you want from me, Mr. Bunn?"

  "I want to start my own shoe factory. I'll make men's shoes first then introduce women's when I've got enough capital. I've experimented using my magic on the leather and it makes the shoes sturdier and last longer, but only for six months. Then they wear out, just like any other shoe." His speech became faster as he became more comfortable expressing his idea. His enthusiasm couldn't be faulted. "I wanted to ask you to use your magic to extend mine, Miss Steele."

  "I'm afraid that's not possible, Mr. Bunn."

  "Course it's possible. I read about it in the Gazette. You're a time magician, aren't you? The granddaughter of the fellow what tried to extend a doctor magician's magic?"

  I rubbed my forehead. I'd been a fool to speak to this man. Next time a stranger asked to see me, I'd find out his profession first. Any craftsmen would be sent on their way without an interview.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Bunn, but you've wasted your time. I cannot do as you ask."

  I nodded at Bristow and he opened the door. I was glad to see Peter waiting just outside.

  "But ma'am!" Mr. Bunn advanced toward me and I stood quickly. In my panic, I skirted the sofa, putting it between him and me. He stopped and had the decency to look ashamed. "You have to try, ma'am," he went on, with a softer voice that was no less earnest. "I know you can extend my magic. I know it!"

  "Bristow, will you see that Mr. Bunn is reunited with his boots in the kitchen."

  Bristow and Peter took one each of Mr. Bunn's arms and marched him toward the door.

  "I'll give you a share of the profits!" Mr. Bunn cried over his shoulder. "Sixty-forty! That's more than fair."

  His voice grew further away as he continued making me offers to partner with him. I flopped onto the sofa with a sigh.

  "India?" Cyclops came racing in, followed by Duke and Matt. "Everything all right?"

  "Fine," I said, giving them a smile.

  "You seem rattled," Matt said, eyeing me closely. "Who was that and what did he want?"

  "He was a leather magician. He wanted me to extend his magic so he could manufacture better shoes."

  He drew in a deep, measured breath. "So it has begun."

  * * *

  The encounter with Mr. Bunn, coming so soon after Mr. Abercrombie's visit, overwhelmed me. I felt like I was being barraged by both disappointing and bad news lately. It was difficult to put on a positive front, but I was determined, for Matt's sake.

  He was looking particularly unhealthy as we traveled to Abigail Pilcher's place of work. While his face was as gray and pinched as it usually was of late, there was a self-containment about the way he walked and held himself. It was as if he were holding himself together through sheer force of will. I suspected he was as determined to put on a brave face for me as I was for him.

  Who would succumb first?

  I felt the slight tremor in his hand as he assisted me from the coach, but did not let on how worried it made me.

  We found Abigail in the workroom at Peter Robinson’s. Her supervisor did not appreciate our visit so soon after the last, and Matt had to slip more coins into his palm than last time to convince him to let her speak to us. Abigail was not pleased to see us either.

  "What now?" she grumbled once outside in the corridor.

  "You weren't the only magician at the convent," Matt said, his charm nowhere in evidence.

  A flicker passed through her eyes but she quickly schooled her features. "Why do you say that?"

  "We found a wooden object on the convent grounds. It had been infused with magic."

  Her gaze met mine then fluttered away. She lifted a shoulder in a shrug.

  "I felt its warmth," I told her.

  "So? I haven't lived there for years. A new nun might be the magician."

  "This box was made years ago." There was no point telling her that Father Antonio, her old lover, had told us he'd seen it when he'd been waiting for her one night. She might close up at the mention of him. "Who made it?" I asked.

  "I don't know, and that's the truth." She tugged on a strip of old leather fastened around her neck and pulled out a small crucifix pendant from beneath her clothing. It was made of wood. "This was given to me by the reverend mother when I took my perpetual vows. When I became a full nun, after my novitiate was complete," she explained. "Touch it, Miss Steele."

  I di
d. It was no longer than my little finger and considerably thinner, but the workmanship in the figure of Christ was exquisite. I could make out the hairs in his beard and the thorns in his crown. "It's made from a single piece of wood," I murmured. To carve such detail on a tiny canvas like this would require exceptional skill. Or magic. "It's warm," I told Matt.

  "Mother Alfreda gave it to you?" he asked as Abigail tucked the crucifix away.

  "Aye, but I don't know who made it. It could have been any of the nuns, or none."

  "You never asked?" I said. "Weren't you curious when you felt the magic in it?"

  "I wanted to forget I was a magician back then. I'd been brought up to believe it was evil, and I thought dedicating my life to God would cleanse me, cure me. It weren't until I left that I realized how wrong I'd been. So no, I didn't ask. I thought the nun who made it mad for exposing her magic like that. It was a big risk in the convent, a stupid risk. If she wasn't careful, they'd excommunicate her."

  Perhaps they had. Perhaps it was Mother Alfreda herself who'd made the crosses and the box, and she'd been discovered, along with the baby magicians, and forced out of the convent in secret. Or worse.

  Or perhaps she'd left of her own accord, taking the boys with her when it became clear she couldn't live without her magic. She could have buried their records to obliterate all trace of the boys having been at the convent. She could have taken them to safety and they all lived happily ever after. I liked that notion better.

  "Do they still give those crosses to the nuns?" I asked.

  "I don't know. I ain't been there for twenty-seven years." She clicked her tongue and glanced over her shoulder. "I have to go. I've got work to do."

  We returned to our waiting conveyance on Oxford Street. After Matt gave the coachman orders to drive to the convent, he frowned at something up ahead.

  "What is it?" I asked.

  He ran off without answering. I leaned as far out of the carriage as I could, clamping my hand down on my hat to stop it blowing away. Up ahead, Matt stopped then returned.

  "Did you see Payne?" I asked.

  He settled opposite me, wincing as he sat. "I think I saw him about to get out of a hansom, but when he spotted me, he stayed put and the cab drove off."

  "So he is following us."

  "I think so."

  "What do we do now?"

  "We go on to the convent. If he follows us, I confront him and render him unable to follow us anymore."

  "I see."

  He winced again and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Sorry, India, that was uncalled for. My baser instincts are getting the better of me at the moment." He did not retract his statement about rendering Payne unable to follow us, however.

  Matt got his watch out, closed the curtains, and drew the magic into his body without me having to suggest it. He looked a little better afterward, not quite so tense across the shoulders, but the pallor of his skin remained the same. I didn't mention that. I didn't mention anything about his health, the use of his watch after so short a time, or any other sensitive topic that would see one or both of us becoming upset. That left only the matter at hand.

  "Do you think Mother Alfreda was the magician?" I asked.

  "I don't know, but I intend to find out today. Someone at the convent knows who made those crucifixes and the box, even if they don't know that person is a magician. It's time we got answers."

  "I agree. I think we should ask Sister Clare. She's the one who approached us about the missing mother superior and babies. She's the only one we can be sure is not responsible for their disappearance or know who is."

  Unfortunately, Sister Clare did not collect us from the sitting room. A young novice showed us to Mother Frances's office, and Sister Clare was nowhere in sight. The assistant's outer office was empty.

  The mother superior greeted us cordially but coolly. "I do hope your visit has nothing to do with searching for that baby, Mr. Glass," she said. "My stance has not changed. I will not divulge personal information to you." She clasped her hands on the desk and offered what I suspected was supposed to be a conciliatory smile, but it came out strained. She looked overbearing and sour, ensconced behind a large bare desk in the austerely furnished room. Despite several flowers blooming in the garden, she did not have a single one on display. In Sister Clare's outer office, I'd counted three vases full of roses and peonies.

  "Who makes the small crucifixes you give to your nuns when they take their perpetual vows?" Matt asked.

  She blinked rapidly, the question clearly taking her by surprise. "The boys who attend St. Patrick's charity school. They make them in woodwork class. Why?"

  "Is that where yours came from?" I asked, nodding at the heavy wooden cross around her neck. While it appeared well made, it was a simple cross, not beautifully detailed like the one worn by Abigail.

  "It is."

  "What about the crucifixes given to the nuns years ago?" Matt asked. "Before you became Mother Superior?"

  "I don't know. It was so long ago."

  "You must remember them. They were small and beautifully made."

  "I do remember," she said, not bothering to hide her impatience. "I still have mine. But I cannot tell you who made them. Mother Alfreda issued them. When she left, and I became Mother Superior, Father Antonio suggested we get all crucifixes from St. Patrick's to support the charity. Is that all, Mr. Glass? If you don't mind, I have work to do. Of course, I'd be happy to discuss that donation you've been promising the sisters every time you ask them a question."

  "Let's be clear," Matt said quietly. "I will not be donating until I find out what happened to Phineas Millroy. But I think you already knew that."

  The mother superior's mouth worked but nothing came out. She stood and directed us to the door. "Then I'll ask you to leave without creating a scene and without speaking to anyone else."

  "I can't promise that." Matt stood and held out his hand to me.

  I took it but kept my gaze on the cross on the wall above the bookshelf. Like Abigail's crucifix, it was beautiful, the carved figure of Christ depicted in superb detail. I let go of Matt's hand and approached the cross.

  "What are you doing, Miss Steele?" the mother superior asked.

  "It's crooked. Let me straighten it for you." I reached up and touched the wood. It was warm.

  My blood throbbed in response. I opened my reticule and pulled out my watch. It gently pulsed too.

  "India?" Matt said quietly.

  I turned to face him, but I did not have to say anything. He must have read my expression because he looked pleased.

  "Reverend Mother, who made this?" I asked, indicating the crucifix.

  I heard her grumble from several feet away. "I don't know. It was put there in Mother Alfreda's day."

  Then it was time we found someone who did know. "Thank you for your time, Reverend Mother. We'll leave you to your work now."

  "You have a plan?" Matt whispered as we headed for the door.

  "Yes. We walk slowly through the convent and back outside," I whispered back. "And we hope we come across a nun who can help us."

  "It's not much of a plan." He softened the barb with a quirk of his lips. He opened the door and waited for me to go ahead of him.

  I entered the outer office and couldn't contain my smile of relief. "Sister Clare. How delightful to see you too."

  "Miss Steele, Mr. Glass, it's a pleasure to see you too." Her smile suddenly drooped upon seeing the mother superior behind us.

  "Sister Clare has work to do," Mother Frances said briskly. "She hasn't got time for silly questions about crosses."

  "Oh, but the one on your wall is lovely," I said. "The person who made it should be applauded. Indeed, I think I'd like to commission one just like it."

  "If someone from the convent made it," Matt added, "I'll pay handsomely and all the proceeds will remain here. You cannot object to that, Reverend Mother."

  Her eyes flashed. I suspected she didn't want us to find out the maker just s
o she could win. I doubted she was keeping the information from us for any other reason except sheer stubbornness. She had something against us but not necessarily against us knowing the truth.

  "Nobody remembers," she snapped.

  "I do," Sister Clare said.

  "Who?" Matt and I blurted out.

  "Sister Bernadette."

  "The Irish nun who does the maintenance work?" I looked at Matt and smiled. He smiled back.

  We had our magician woodworker. It made sense. All the pieces fitted together. Sister Bernadette was good at fixing things and knew how to use tools. She also did not want her friend, Sister Margaret, to talk to us about the disappearance of the babies and Mother Alfreda.

  She had also been present when the large wooden crucifix fell off the wall and nearly hit me in the meeting room. She had made that cross move, just like my magic made clocks and watches I'd worked on move to save my life. Her magic must be strong indeed. Too strong for us to confront her. We couldn't risk another wooden object flying at us.

  But Matt was already striding off, his broad shoulders set. He was determined to get answers today. I could only trail along in his wake.

  Chapter 12

  "Wait," Sister Clare called after us. I slowed to allow her to catch up, but Matt did not.

  "I'm afraid you can't stop him," I said. "Nor will I allow you to try. We need to speak to Sister Bernadette. It's more important than you can ever imagine."

  "I understand." Sister Clare glanced behind her to the mother superior, drumming her fingers on the desk and glaring daggers at her assistant. "You'll find Sister Bernadette in the coach house," Sister Clare whispered. "Promise me you'll tell me what happened to Mother Alfreda if you learn the truth."

  I nodded and hurried after Matt. I caught up to him on the staircase where he finally stopped to wait for me. "The coach house," I told him.