The Ink Master's Silence Read online

  "Brockwell dined with us," I said.

  She pulled a face. "So your night was as exciting as mine."

  "What did he want?" Duke asked.

  "To tell us the gun we found in Hendry's shop was the same type as that used in the murder."

  "So Hendry's the killer?" Cyclops asked.

  "Perhaps," I said. "Or someone really did hide it in his shop, perhaps even to implicate him."

  "Abercrombie," Duke said, shoveling lettuce into his mouth.

  I shook my head. "It wasn't him."

  "So now what?" Willie asked. "Confront Hendry and accuse him?"

  "Or ask him who he's protecting," Matt said. "My money's on Sweeney."

  "He won't admit it, if he is," I said. "Not if he still cares for Sweeney."

  One side of Matt's mouth lifted. "He'll admit it. Just leave the questioning to me."

  Chapter 15

  Mr. Hendry's shop was closed, and despite our knocks, he did not answer.

  "I wonder why he's not open today," I said as we drove off. "It's mid-week."

  "Wait!" Matt thumped on the cabin ceiling and the driver pulled to a stop. "I saw the upstairs curtain flutter. He's home."

  "He won't open the door to us," I said, following him back to the shop.

  "Then we won't go through the door. Not the front one, anyway."

  "We can't break into his shop!"

  "We can if we're concerned for his wellbeing. Indeed, we should. It's our duty as his acquaintances." He took my hand and we raced to the laneway.

  "No wonder you got into so much trouble in America," I said, pressing my hand to my hat to stop it falling off.

  "Excepting Payne, the law loves me in America."

  "As much as our police do here?"

  "Brockwell only dislikes me because I'm in his way to get to you." He pushed open a gate off the back lane to reveal a courtyard filled with potato sacks and crates.

  I kicked one of the sacks. It wasn't filled with potatoes. More likely it carried the rags that Hendry used to make his paper.

  Matt went to work on the lock and had the back door open before I even joined him. He entered but I didn't dare.

  "Hendry!" he called out. "Hendry, it's us, Miss Steele and Matthew Glass. We've come to check on you."

  Well, since he announced himself, I supposed it was all right to enter. I followed him into the workshop. "We're worried about you and thought you might need company," I called out. I wished I'd brought a pie or some of Mrs. Potter's cakes. Food would lend more authenticity to our visit.

  Mr. Hendry was not at all quiet and we heard his footsteps coming down the steps well before he appeared in the workshop. "How dare you!" he shouted. "I'm fetching a constable."

  "Don't do that," Matt urged. "We only want to talk."

  "I'm not interested in talking to you. That detective was here yesterday, and he assured me he'd warn you to stay away."

  "So we heard. Detective Inspector Brockwell dined with us last night."

  Mr. Hendry's face fell. I understood how hopeless he must feel, how powerless and alone. If Brockwell was on our side, he really had no way of getting rid of us.

  I pushed past Matt and approached Mr. Hendry. It was dull in the workroom without any lamps lit, but I could clearly see his red, swollen eyes. "You haven't slept well, have you?"

  He turned his face away. "Please leave."

  "I don't think that's wise. Let's have a cup of tea and talk. We need to tell you something."

  His gaze snapped back to mine. "What is it? What's happened?"

  "We know you lied about the man who left the gun here," Matt said.

  Mr. Hendry's face went blank. He stared straight ahead, his face expressionless. Then he burst into tears.

  I glared at Matt. He blinked back, looking somewhat lost.

  I steered Mr. Hendry to the chair by the bench and urged him to sit. He followed my instructions as if he were an automaton winding down. His crying eased and stopped altogether when Matt held out his handkerchief. Mr. Hendry paused before taking it and dabbing at his eyes.

  "Was Mr. Abercrombie even here that day?" I asked gently.

  Mr. Hendry studied the handkerchief, his head lowered. "No."

  "So why implicate him?"

  "I don't like him. He turned Patrick against me."

  "Patrick Sweeney?"

  He nodded. "If it weren't for him…" He lifted one shoulder and didn't finish.

  "While I certainly understand why you dislike Mr. Abercrombie enough to implicate him in the murder, it hasn't helped our investigation."

  "I'm sorry." He wiped his eyes again then offered the handkerchief to Matt.

  "Keep it," Matt said.

  Mr. Hendry gave him a watery smile. "Thank you."

  Matt moved a wooden box mold aside and sat on the bench near Hendry. "Who put the gun on your shelf?"

  "I don't know."

  "You have a suspicion, though."

  Mr. Hendry shook his head.

  "It was Sweeney, wasn't it?"

  Mr. Hendry swallowed. "I don't know."

  "But you suspect him," I said. "As do we."

  He looked away. "I've told you everything I know."

  "That may be the case," Matt said, "but you haven't told us everything. So let me encourage you."

  Mr. Hendry grunted. "Impossible."

  Matt stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. He leaned forward, close to Mr. Hendry, and said, "Sweeney told the banks about your magical abilities."

  Mr. Hendry looked away.

  "He also informed your creditors," Matt went on. "He's the reason your debts were called in. He's the reason the bank won't lend you more money."

  Mr. Hendry nibbled his lower lip but didn't seem shocked by the news.

  "You have the power to make life difficult for him," Matt went on. "We know you suspect him of the murder. We know you're protecting him. We just want to know why you think he tried to kill Oscar Barratt. We can't find a motive."

  Mr. Hendry swallowed. "Do you have proof he told my creditors?"

  "Indirectly."

  I didn't like that Matt made it seem as if we did indeed have some proof when we only had our suspicions. I changed my mind, however, when Mr. Hendry gave a faint nod. In this instance, the ends justified the means. We would get nowhere in our investigation if Hendry continued to protect Sweeney.

  "You're right," he said as fresh tears filled his eyes. "I do think he's guilty, and I have been protecting him." He huffed out a humorless laugh. "Or I was trying to. I did a poor job of it. You knew I lied; the detective inspector knew I lied."

  "Had you seen the gun before the day we found it?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "That was the first time, but I remembered Patrick coming here soon after the murder. I caught him near those shelves. He was empty handed. I just assumed he wanted to talk, but he made up some excuse and left."

  "He set you up to take the blame."

  He nodded, and his face crumpled. I rubbed his shoulder and waited for his tears to abate.

  "I'd told him about the letters I wrote to Barratt," he went on, his chin wobbling. "I made it easy for him."

  "So you did send the letters."

  He nodded. "But I didn't try to kill him—or anyone else."

  "We never thought you did," I assured him.

  He sniffed. "Thank you, Miss Steele."

  "But you believe Sweeney is the killer," Matt said. "Why are you protecting him?"

  "Why do you think?"

  "Love," I said on a sigh. "It makes us do mad things."

  Matt frowned at me.

  "I thought Patrick loved me," Mr. Hendry said. "But now… How could he betray me? He's trying to ruin me financially."

  "And get you arrested for the murder," Matt added.

  Mr. Hendry sobbed into the handkerchief. "He's conflicted over his feelings for me. I know he's had difficulty accepting our relationship. He despised himself for having feelings for me. Perhaps that self-loat
hing is making him want to hurt me. He wants to punish me, to blame me. I'm not mad at him. How can I be when…?" He broke down and deposited more tears into Matt's handkerchief.

  Matt looked at me and indicated I should do something. I mouthed, "What?" and he merely shrugged.

  I crouched beside Mr. Hendry and patted his arm. When his tears finally subsided again, I asked, "Why does Mr. Sweeney want to kill Mr. Barratt? To stop him writing the articles?"

  Mr. Hendry nodded.

  "Then that's something," I said hopefully. "He's worried about how the public will treat magicians. He's worried about you."

  "I would like to think so, but…" His face fell. "I think it has more to do with his investments."

  "Investments?" Matt echoed, leaning forward. "What investments?"

  "Patrick invested heavily in a paper manufacturer after he learned that I was a magician. The company is my closest competitor, producing high quality paper and card stock but without magic. He made a point of coming here and telling me, and he said he'll make sure the company flourishes while I fail."

  That certainly wasn't the act of a man in love, not even one who couldn't come to terms with his emotions. That was an act of pure spite.

  "He was so angry when I told him I was a magician," Mr. Hendry went on. "If he loved me, he would accept me for what I am." He lifted his watery gaze to Matt. "Wouldn't he, Mr. Glass?"

  "Yes," Matt said. "He would."

  We escorted Mr. Hendry up to his rooms above the shop, and I made him a cup of tea. Clutching the cup in both hands, he seemed calmer, although misery was etched into every line on his face.

  "What happens now?" he asked in a small voice.

  "We warn Oscar Barratt to be careful of any man matching Sweeney's description," I said.

  "And inform the police," Matt added.

  Mr. Hendry clutched the cup to his chest and stared at the tea. "I've sent Patrick to his death."

  "You mustn't think like that," I said. "He would have been caught anyway. It was only a matter of time."

  "We'll make sure he never finds out that you spoke to us," Matt said. "We'll look for other evidence to give to Detective Inspector Brockwell that won't involve informing him of your relationship."

  "Thank you," Mr. Hendry mumbled. "But it's on my conscience now, and I must learn to live with it."

  We left him to his troubled thoughts and returned to the carriage. Matt gave the driver instructions to take us to The Weekly Gazette's office.

  "Sweeney told us he had no stake in this matter," Matt said as we took off at a brisk pace. "He led us to believe he didn't care what was written about magic, since the publishing industry doesn't have any magicians."

  "He didn't mention his investment," I said. "He must have thoroughly hated Hendry to want to use his investment to ruin him."

  Matt's fingers drummed on the windowsill. "What I still don't understand is how Sweeney thought killing Barratt would stop the articles and save his investment. Baggley could simply assign another journalist to take over."

  "What if Baggley was the intended target after all?"

  His gaze locked with mine and his fingers stilled. He considered my question for a moment then his fingers started up again. "He couldn't have known the replacement editor would be against the articles."

  "Are you suggesting Sweeney didn't do it? That stopping the articles isn't the killer's motive?"

  "No, I think he did it, but we're missing something. If we can’t uncover what it is, we'll have to break our promise to Hendry and tell Brockwell he convinced us of Sweeney's guilt."

  That would devastate Mr. Hendry. He was at his wits' end, and I didn't want to cause him any more suffering. "Sweeney is horrid. He's full of spite. I cannot believe he'd hate poor Mr. Hendry so much that he tried to have him blamed for the murder, as well as trying to ruin him financially."

  "I tend to agree with Hendry. Sweeney hates himself for his involvement with Hendry. He thinks getting rid of Hendry will cure him or absolve him in some way. Self-loathing can make a person do terrible things to others. I've seen it before."

  We spent most of the remainder of the journey in silence, but just before we arrived, Matt said, "I think you're right, India."

  "About everything or something in particular?"

  "I'd be a fool to say everything this early in our relationship."

  "But a happy fool."

  His lips twitched but he didn't break into a smile. "I was referring to Barratt not being the intended victim after all. Considering there have been no more attempts on his life, I think it's safe to say Baggley was meant to die that night."

  "And perhaps Pelham was meant to replace him. That points to Delancey being the killer, though, not Sweeney." I rubbed my forehead. "Perhaps we're wrong about him, Matt. We can't accuse Sweeney without more evidence."

  The carriage pulled to a stop outside the Gazette's office and he opened the door. "So let's find it."

  We found Oscar at his desk, head lowered, his fingers buried in his hair. He'd re-arranged the furniture to ensure he wasn’t sitting with his back to the window. From his position against the far wall, he could see both window and door if he looked up.

  Matt's knock on the open door made Oscar jump.

  "Oh, it's just you two. Come in." He looked like he hadn't slept a wink.

  "Is everything all right?" I asked as I sat.

  "Fine. Everything's fine. My brother wants to punch me every time he sees me, someone wants to kill me, and no newspapers will touch my articles on magic. So yes, everything's perfect, India, thanks for asking."

  "Don't speak to her that way," Matt growled.

  Oscar slumped back in the chair with a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry. I'm not at my best, at the moment."

  "Then allow us to take one of your troubles away," I said. "We don't think you were the intended victim after all."

  His brows shot up. "Truly?"

  I nodded. "There have been no more attempts on your life."

  His sighed again. "The killer may be lying low for a while."

  "Or Baggley had to be removed so that another editor could replace him, someone who doesn't want to publish articles about magic. Someone you can’t persuade."

  "Then…Delancey is the killer? Pelham worked for one of his other papers." Oscar sprang up. "It must be him!"

  "Sit down," Matt said. "It might not be Delancey. He was dining with us when the murder occurred."

  "He could have paid someone."

  "Or he's not the murderer."

  Oscar sat again and pulled the inkstand closer. He dipped the pen in the ink pot and wrote Delancey's name on a notepad. "Writing in ink helps me think," he said, making notes beside the name. "Do you know, all the other newspapers I approached are refusing to even talk to me? My meeting yesterday was canceled. My letters are being returned unopened. It's a concerted effort to block me and my articles." He no longer spoke in harried, angry tones, and sounded calmer. Working with his magical element must soothe him as working with timepieces soothed me.

  "Who do you think is orchestrating the campaign against you?" Matt asked.

  "Delancey, in light of what you've just told me."

  I opened my mouth to tell him our thoughts on Sweeney, but Matt spoke first. "Might I remind you that your brother was seen visiting Delancey."

  Oscar's head jerked up. "I've told you, my brother wouldn't try to kill me."

  "But we've just told you we don't think you were the intended victim."

  Oscar's pen formed a blob of ink on the paper. "He's not a murderer."

  "Did you ask him if he got a loan from Delancey?" I asked.

  Oscar nodded. "Delancey helped him out of a bind."

  "Then perhaps he also enlisted Delancey's help to—"

  "He's not a murderer!"

  "I was going to say that he enlisted Delancey's help to turn other newspapers against you. Neither man wants magic to become a topic for public debate. They both want it to remain hidden, albeit for diff
erent reasons. Is it unreasonable to think Delancey contacted other newspapers and asked them not to publish your articles if you approached them? He has influence with several owners."

  "Delancey has that kind of influence; my brother doesn't. Nor is he a murderer."

  "We tend to agree," Matt said. "We think it's Sweeney."

  "The Stationers' Guild master? Why?"

  "We're still gathering evidence, but we wanted to warn you to be careful."

  "But you just said that I wasn't the intended victim. Baggley was."

  "We can't be certain," Matt said. "Not until we have the final piece of the puzzle. In the meantime, it's best to be careful."

  Oscar looked down at the paper and saw the mess he'd made with the ink. He returned the pen to the inkstand. "And what are you going to do to find this puzzle piece?"

  "Speak with your new editor," I said.

  "He's not in."

  "Then we'll wait."

  We waited in Oscar's office for fifteen minutes before Mr. Pelham finally arrived. Oscar signaled for him to join us, but Mr. Pelham refused to enter.

  "I'm busy, Barratt," he said. "Something you should be too. We have an edition to get out." He hung his hat and jacket on the coat stand outside Oscar's office and proceeded to roll up his shirtsleeves. He might be past middle age but he was strongly built, with muscular forearms and a thick neck. He looked more like a bruiser than a newspaper editor.

  "Before you go," Matt said, "I need a word, Mr. Pelham."

  Mr. Pelham eyed Matt up and down. "Who're you?"

  "Matthew Glass, and this is Miss Steele. Mr. Barratt engaged us to find the author of the threatening letters."

  Mr. Pelham grunted. "Nothing to do with me. Before my time here. Good day."

  "It'll just take a moment."

  Mr. Pelham walked off without a backward glance.

  "Let me try," I said.

  Before I could, a staff member approached and addressed Matt. "There's a man named Duke here for you, sir. He's waiting outside."

  We found Duke patting Matt's horses and talking to our coachman. Cyclops was nowhere in sight. Duke indicated we should walk with him, away from the coach and the Gazette's office, up a narrow side alley where it was quieter. A strong breeze whipped my skirts and caught the edge of a discarded newspaper. It flipped over and over until it joined other newspapers piled against a stack of crates at the alley's end.