Gabe had made sure that I didn’t slam into the ground by circling his arm around me and shielding me from the worst of the impact. I wasn’t winded, but I was certainly left breathless. I suspected that was more from the close proximity of the handsome man whose athletic body pressed against mine than any physical exertion.
Gabe’s breath quickened too, warming my cheek. He stared at me, unblinking. Very few people hold one’s gaze, let alone with such intensity, so when it happens, it can feel like the ground is shifting. Usually it’s an unnerving experience, but with Gabe, it was intoxicating.
“Sylvia.” His whisper brushed my lips.
“Gabe!” That was Willie’s voice, shrill and demanding. “Gabe, get up!”
Gabe momentarily closed his eyes then pushed himself to his feet. He reached down and assisted me to stand too. That’s when I saw Willie a few feet away, hands on hips. Alex was speaking to an older gentleman at the door to the solicitor’s office, his gestures calming. Professor Nash had emerged from the library.
Mr. Scarrow was on his knees, arms over his head. He tentatively peeked out. Seeing no immediate threat, he got to his feet and scampered out of the lane, glancing over his shoulder at Willie as he did so.
“Have you gone mad?” Gabe snapped at her. “You can’t shoot at people!”
She wasn’t holding a gun, so I wasn’t sure how he knew it had been her. “I didn’t shoot at him. I aimed at the sky.”
“There are former soldiers still shell shocked from the war!”
Willie nibbled on her lower lip, her shoulders slumping. “I forgot about that.”
“Apologize to Sylvia.”
Willie’s spine stiffened. She crossed her arms again, flattening the jacket at her hips and revealing the outline of a gun tucked into the waistband of her trousers. “That man wasn’t leaving you alone, Gabe.”
“I had it under control.”
“He was annoying you.”
“You can’t shoot every time someone annoys you.”
“The world would be a better place if I could.” She sighed and put up her hands in surrender. “I’m sorry I fired my Colt, but I ain’t sorry for scaring him off.”
Gabe scrubbed a hand over his face. His nerves looked more shattered than mine. His comment about former soldiers and shell shock may have been more personal than he made out.
“Why was he bothering you, anyway?” Willie asked. “Is he her man?” She nodded at me.
“I don’t have a man,” I said.
“Woman?”
I blinked at her. She blinked back. “No.”
“He was a journalist,” Gabe said.
Willie spat on the cobblestones.
“What are you doing here anyway?” he went on.
“You were gone by the time I got home this morning. I wanted to ask you if there’s anything I can do for you today on the case. Bristow said you were taking Sylvia to work so I drove the Hudson to meet you here.”
Alex joined us just as Daisy entered the lane wheeling her bicycle. She paused, taking in the scene, then approached.
“You all look a little stunned,” she said. “Did I miss something exciting?”
“Only Willie shooting at a journalist,” Alex said, regarding Daisy coolly.
“I didn’t shoot at him!” Willie cried.
Daisy gasped. “You’ve got a gun? Where is it?”
Willie parted her jacket to reveal the firearm.
Daisy’s eyes lit up. “I’ve never used one before.”
Alex groaned. “This meeting is a bad idea.”
“No one asked your opinion.” Daisy turned her back on him. “Sylvia, why are your bags on the ground?”
Gabe picked them up, handing the hat box to me. Thankfully the suitcases had remained closed. Having my underthings strewn over Crooked Lane for everyone to see would be humiliating beyond words.
“I had to move out of the lodging house. I stayed at Gabe’s last night. He was bringing me to work this morning when a journalist made a nuisance of himself. Gabe’s cousin, Willie, scared him off by shooting into the sky.”
“I hate journalists,” Willie told her. “They’re vultures.”
“Not all of them,” Daisy said. “I didn’t know her when she was one, but I’m sure Sylvia was an excellent journalist.”
Gabe, Willie and Alex all turned to me. Gabe looked disappointed. The other two looked as though they wanted to aim Willie’s gun at me.
Daisy’s gaze flicked between them. “What have I said?”
Willie stepped closer. We were a similar height and size, but I suspected she could tear me to shreds if she wanted to, despite being twice my age. My mother’s combat lessons would be useless against Gabe’s fiery cousin. “I can’t believe we let you into our home!”
“I’m not a journalist anymore. I’m a librarian.” I gestured to the Glass Library. “I stopped being a journalist after the war. All the men came home and there was no longer any more work for me, so I changed careers.” I was aware of my rambling but couldn’t stop. Willie made me nervous.
She jutted her chin forward. “So how do we know you’re not trying to be a journalist again by reporting on a big story?”
“I’m not!”
“What big story?” Daisy asked.
Willie took another step toward me. “If I find out this is all a ruse to get Gabe to trust you, I’ll—"
“Willie!” Gabe grabbed her arm and jerked her back. “That’s enough. Sylvia’s not lying to us.”
“You’re too trusting.”
He let her go and strode toward the library, one of my bags in each hand. Daisy and I followed, she still wheeling her bicycle.
“What story?” she whispered to me.
“I’ll tell you later,” I whispered back.
“She can carry her own bags, Gabe!” Willie called out.
He ignored her and I heard Alex scold her for being rude.
Daisy leaned her bicycle against the library wall and followed Gabe and me inside. Professor Nash greeted us at the front desk with a nervous little smile. I suspected he’d heard the entire exchange but was too polite to comment on it.
Gabe set down the bags behind the desk. He looked harried. I had a sudden urge to stroke his hair and massage the tension from his shoulders, but I couldn’t even bring myself to meet his gaze.
“I’m sorry about Willie,” he said on a sigh. “I feel like I’m always apologizing for her, lately. She’s usually difficult but not always like this. Something’s bothering her.”
“Sylvia’s former career,” Daisy said.
“It’s more than that.”
“I’m not a journalist anymore,” I blurted out. “Nor do I want to return to that profession. I like being a librarian. It suits me. I wasn’t trying to ingratiate myself with you to spy on you for a story or anything like that.”
He smiled sadly and touched my elbow to stop me talking, only to quickly let go again. The smile vanished. He rubbed his jaw. “You don’t have to explain yourself.”
“I do,” I said earnestly. “I don’t want you to think I deliberately kept the information to myself to trick you.”
He clasped my shoulders and dipped his head. “I believe you, Sylvia.”
A rush of relief made me feel giddy.
His grip tightened to steady me. “I’ll have a word with Willie. I’ll make sure she believes you too.”
Nobody could make anyone believe something they didn’t want to, no matter how compelling. I suspected Willie was determined to continue to dislike and distrust me.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I won’t be seeing her again.” The unspoken implication being that I wouldn’t be seeing him again, either.
He knew it, too. He let me go and stepped back. He looked away and, with a stiff nod, bade us goodbye and left.
I released a pent-up breath when the door closed behind him. “Well, I didn’t think it possible but today has been even more nerve-wracking than yesterday.”
“Why?” Daisy asked. “What happened yesterday?”
“I’ll tell you after I finish work at midday.” I glanced at the door.
She didn’t take the hint. “Why can’t you tell me now?”
“Because I have to work.”
“Professor Nash won’t mind. Will you, Professor?”
“Not at all,” he said cheerfully. “Your company is most welcome, Miss Carmichael.”
Daisy beamed. “See? Now, tell me everything. What’s Gabe’s house like? Is it enormous? Is the furniture made of gold?”
I laughed. It felt good to laugh. I needed it. Daisy knew just what to say to make me feel better. She giggled too.
“Go through to the reading nook,” Professor Nash said, ushering us toward the main part of the library. “I’ll make tea. I think we could all do with a cup.”
“But I have work to do,” I said.
“It’ll still be here on Monday.”
Daisy took my hand and dragged me toward the nook as Professor Nash headed up the stairs. “Your new manager is a vast improvement on your old one.”
We drank tea as I filled Daisy in on the events from the previous day and told them both about the dinner party. The professor was not concerned with me socializing when I ought to be working. He was concerned for my wellbeing and insisted I go with Daisy to begin looking for somewhere to live.
I insisted on staying in the library until midday. I sent Daisy on her way after she finished her tea and said I’d come to her place later. Then I headed into the stacks to re-shelve some books.
They were on all manner of topics, from witchcraft in the Middle Ages to a cult based on metal magic in ancient Persia. I flipped through the pages of each one before slotting them into place on the shelves according to the code Professor Nash had given me. Since the Dewey Decimal System wasn’t granular enough, he’d invented his own cataloguing code. I’d planned to take the list home with me to memorize it but had not yet had the chance. Hopefully things would settle down once I found new lodgings.
I re-shelved the last book on a bottom shelf and, as I straightened, a collection of books caught my eye. They were all about art magic, from modern art to ancient and even cave paintings. My fingers skimmed across the spines as I read until I reached one focusing on modern painter magicians.
I took it to the reading nook on the first floor and settled on the sofa. The light streaming through the enormous window bathed the alcove in a soft glow. I scanned the contents page then skipped to the chapter on paintings. Indeed, there were two chapters. That in itself was revelatory and the reason for the division became more obvious as I read the Introduction.
According to the author, magical paintings could be separated into two categories. One type was for art painted by artists whose magical talent lay in the process of mixing the paint itself. Paint was made from mixing pigments with a resin that allowed the paint to adhere to a surface, and solvents to bind the resin and pigment together. The painter magician’s magical talent lay in the combining of these ingredients. They could use a spell to create the perfect color and sheen. They could also apply it to the surface with perfect strokes to create the desired outcome, although no spell was needed for that. The magician’s innate talent achieved a beautiful result with or without a spell. The book likened this type of art magician to a watchmaker magician. Time pieces are made up of different metal components, but the magician is not a copper or steel or other type of metal magician. They are a magician who puts it all together in a way that makes it run smoothly and efficiently. A paint magician mixes the ingredients and applies paint in a way that is eye-catching.
The second type of magical painting was quite different. In fact, the magicians that created this type of art were not considered paint magicians at all. Their talent was in the surface the paint was adhered to. Usually it was a canvas, but it could be any type of surface, such as plaster, metal, ceramic or enamel, to name just a few. The stolen Delaroche was painted on canvas, so it was possible Delaroche was a canvas magician and not a paint magician at all. We didn’t know because he was long dead, and he’d kept his magical specialty a secret out of fear of persecution.
I flipped the pages until I reached the detailed section on canvas magicians. I knew a painter’s canvas was made from cloth stretched over a frame, but that was the limit of my knowledge. According to the book, canvas is a woven fabric mostly comprised of cotton with a heavy thread weight. The magician who makes a magical canvas is actually a cotton magician. They could theoretically make magical objects of any kind where cotton is used, such as clothing, but they tended to specialize in canvas as a result of family tradition. Cotton was an old magic with many branches of specialty.
I didn’t see how knowing about the two different types of magic would help solve the theft, but it may be relevant.
I tucked the book under my arm and went in search of Professor Nash. I found him at the front desk on the telephone. He signaled for me to approach then gave up the chair and handed me the receiver. “It’s Gabe. He wants to speak to you.”
I leaned closer to the mouthpiece. “This is Sylvia.”
His greeting crackled down the line. “I wanted to see if you’re all right after this morning’s episode.”
“I’m fine.” I glanced at the desk clock. It was almost midday, time for me to finish work. It would be easier to show him the book rather than try to explain the different magics over the telephone. “Will you be home this afternoon?”
“I’m at Burlington House. There was an attempted theft of the seascape overnight. The attempt failed.” I heard a voice in the background then Gabe came back on the line. “Sylvia, I have to go. Are you sure you’re not injured from when you hit the ground?”
“I’m all right, thank you.”
“Good. Well, goodbye.”
“Wait!”
But he’d already hung up. I returned the receiver to its hook. “Professor, may I borrow this book until Monday?”
“Of course. Does it hold a clue?”
“I don’t know, but it’s worth showing it to Gabe for his opinion.”
“You should leave now to catch him at Burlington House.”
“It’s still ten minutes to midday.”
He waved off my concern. “Leave your suitcases here and collect them later. And be careful.”
With the book still tucked under my arm, I grabbed my purse, hat and jacket and headed out the door.
Despite the attempted theft, visitors to the exhibition were still allowed in and out of Burlington House. Policemen stood at the entrances to each gallery, keeping a watchful eye on the artwork. I paid the entry fee then asked a constable where I could find Gabe. He directed me to Mr. Bolton’s office.
The door to the exhibition manager’s outer office was open, but the door to his office was closed. The assistant, Mr. Driscoll, had taken that as an invitation to plant his ear to it to listen in.
I cleared my throat.
Mr. Driscoll jumped. He hurried toward me, his cheeks flushed at being caught eavesdropping. “Miss Ashe! What are you doing here?”
“I need to speak to Mr. Glass. Is he in there?”
“Yes. I mean I believe so. I’m not sure, that’s why I was trying to hear. I couldn’t make out their conversation, and if I could, I would have instantly backed away.” The more he protested, the more I didn’t believe him.
“I’ll wait out here for him.”
Mr. Driscoll seemed to make up his mind about something. He signaled for me to walk with him. “I’m sure they won’t mind an interruption if it’s very important.”
I hadn’t said anything of the sort, but I kept my mouth closed. I was as keen to hear what they were discussing as Mr. Driscoll was.
Mr. Driscoll didn’t wait for his knock to be answered. He simply opened the door. The unexpected act allowed us to overhear Mr. Bolton mention a name. Tommy Allan.
Gabe and Alex both swiveled in their chairs to see who interrupted them. Gabe rose and offered me his chair. “Is everything all right? Did something happen at the library?”
I refused the chair. “Nothing happened. Everything’s fine. I discovered something in this book that I wanted to show you. It might be relevant. I was willing to wait outside…”
The three men looked to Mr. Driscoll, lingering in the doorway. He stammered an apology and backed out of the room, closing the door.
Gabe patted the back of the vacant chair, but I refused again. “I don’t want to intrude.”
“You’re not. Mr. Bolton was just telling us that he saw Tommy Allan running away from the crime scene. You might as well stay to hear what he has to say since you’re heavily involved in the case now.”
I sat, and Gabe remained standing beside me. He nodded at Mr. Bolton to proceed.
The exhibition manager sat forward, hands clasped firmly on the desk. “As I was telling Mr. Glass and Mr. Bailey, I was doing my rounds last night after the public left when I saw a figure near the seascape. Indeed, he had it off the wall.”
“I thought the police were watching it,” I said.
He separated his thumbs before tapping them together again. “The constable on duty was in the adjoining gallery, checking on another sound he thought he heard there. The figure was alone in the main gallery. As I said, he was holding the seascape in his hands. I assumed he was about to make off with it. I must have made a sound or gasped because at that moment he turned. It was Tommy Allan. He dropped the painting and ran out of the gallery. I was re-hanging the picture when the constable returned.”
“You didn’t try to stop Tommy Allan?” Alex asked.
“I would have if I’d had my stick with me.” Mr. Bolton picked up his pointing stick and whipped it through the air, practicing the strike he never got to make. “I didn’t want to risk trying to stop him without a weapon on me. I informed the constable, and he went in search of the culprit, but to no avail.”
“The constable has already given us his account,” Gabe told me.
A brisk knock on the door was followed by Mr. Driscoll re-entering. He’d probably been eavesdropping again. He opened his mouth to announce the arrival of the magician sculptor, but Freddie Duckworth pushed past him.
“Good afternoon, all.” He went around the room, shaking our hands heartily. His trembled slightly. “I wasn’t expecting so many people, but this is an excellent turnout. It’s good to see Scotland Yard taking this investigation seriously.”
“Why wouldn’t we?” Alex asked.
Freddie drew a flourish in the air with his fingers, answering with a non-answer. He seemed excitable today, like an active boy cooped up inside too long. The wisps of hair he’d so carefully combed over the bald patch on our last visit now stood up on end as if he’d repeatedly run his hand through them. He perched on the edge of the desk and smiled. Considering the reason for our presence at Burlington House, it was out of place.
“Can we see the painting now, Mr. Glass?” he asked. “I am so looking forward to it. I do hope it proves to be magician-made. I know the artist. Not very well, mind, but we have some friends in common.” He shot to his feet. “Shall we, gentlemen? And lady, of course.” He smiled at me as he extended his hand.
I took it as I rose. Freddie exited the office first, unable to wait for me. I quickened my strides to keep up with him, passing the watchful Mr. Driscoll.
Mr. Bolton accompanied us to the main gallery and instructed his staff to move the public away from the seascape. More people milled around it than any other painting.
Freddie stood in front of the painting and stroked his chin as he studied it carefully. “Take it down. I want a better look.”
Mr. Bolton pointed his stick at two of his staff who carefully removed the painting from the wall and held it between them. It was the size of a card table surface.
Freddie slowly circled it. He got up close, crouching to inspect it from all angles. He reached out as if to touch it but stopped a few inches away. He was feeling for magic. “Interesting.”
“What is?” Gabe asked.
Freddie circled the painting again, stopping behind it. He waved a hand at the back of the canvas. “It’s only magical from the front.”
“What do you mean?”
“It also feels different to the Delaroche.”
“Go on,” Gabe pressed.
“I can feel the magical warmth in this painting from the front. The other one, the stolen Delaroche, was magical all over, front and back.”
“What does that mean?” Alex asked.
Freddie shrugged.
But I think I knew. “The Delaroche was done on a magical canvas, but this one is done with magical paint.” I opened the book to the relevant chapter. “I found this in the library. It describes two types of painter magician. One has a talent for the paint itself, mixing it, creating it and applying it. The other type has a magical talent for the painting surface. In the case of the stolen Delaroche, perhaps the reason you could feel the magic all over is because the canvas itself held the magic, not the paint. In the case of this seascape, the paint is magical.”
“That’s why you could only feel it on the front, Duckworth,” Gabe said. “Because the paint is only applied to the front.”
We all turned to look at the seascape being carefully hung back up on the wall for all to admire.
Mr. Bolton asked for the book.
Alex scratched his head and frowned. “I don’t understand. Was Delaroche a magician or not?”
“Unlikely,” Gabe said. “Unless he was a canvas magician, and he made them as well as painted on them.”
“It’s probably cotton, not canvas,” I pointed out. “Cotton is the primary component of canvas.”
Gabe looked impressed. “You’ve learned a great deal about magic already.”
“I think I’ve learned more about raw materials than anything.”
Alex studied the painting, frowning in thought. “So the artless Delaroche painted on a magical canvas, raising his picture from ordinary to extraordinary.”
“I wonder if he knew,” Freddie said.
Alex wagged a finger at the seascape. “But this had to have been done by a paint magician. Is that right?”
Gabe, Freddie and I nodded.
Mr. Bolton handed the book to Alex. “The magic in the paint means Mr. Duckworth here could only feel the magic in the front, not all over as with the Delaroche.”
Freddie wiggled his fingers and grinned. “I’m so glad I could help solve the case.”
“It’s not yet solved,” Alex pointed out.
I joined Gabe, staring at the seascape. “You definitely felt magic in both paintings, Mr. Duckworth?” I asked.
Freddie nodded. “If I were a paint magician, the seascape would have felt stronger to me than the Delaroche, and if I were a canvas magician, the Delaroche would have been more compelling to me personally.”
“Cotton magician,” I corrected him.
“But I am neither so, although I was drawn to the magic in both, neither artwork felt very intense to me, merely mildly so.”
The way magic worked was fascinating, although I still didn’t quite understand what he meant by “felt.”
Alex handed Gabe the book and he read as we walked away. At the exit to the main gallery, he mumbled an excuse and told us to go on ahead. Alex continued on with Mr. Bolton and Freddie, but I slowed my pace and lost them in the crowd. I doubled back and watched as Gabe stood in front of the seascape again.
He reached out but quickly withdrew his hand before touching the painting, his fingers curling into a fist.
I ducked out of sight and hurried for the exit before he saw me. I found Alex waiting by the main exit and joined him. Moments later, Gabe arrived. He seemed lost in thought and even a little troubled.
Was that because he’d felt nothing when he’d been near the painting? As the son of a powerful magician, the expectation on him to be special must have been enormous growing up. Had his family hoped and prayed that his magical ability would reveal itself in time, only to be disappointed as the years passed and it did not? Or was the pressure entirely of his own making?
Being the artless son of Lady Rycroft could have negatively affected him as he grew up with the weight of expectation on his shoulders. It was possibly still affecting him now. The hopes and dreams of family cast long shadows that weren’t easy to escape.
Or so I’d heard. My mother never voiced her hopes for James or me, if indeed she had any. She wanted us to remain in the shadows where it was safe.
But she never told us what she wanted us to be safe from.