Daisy and I spent Sunday afternoon looking for a lodging house. We gave up at dusk. Those that did have rooms available did not like the fact I had no reference from my previous lodging house matron nor one from my last employer. My employment at the Glass Library wasn’t long enough to qualify. Without references, the reputable lodging houses wouldn’t take me. I didn’t want to try the disreputable ones. Even Daisy turned her nose up at those, and she was far more intrepid than me.
She insisted I stay with her until I found something more permanent. “I’ll enjoy the company,” she told me over dinner at a cheap Italian restaurant around the corner from her flat. “When I lived with my family, all I wanted to do was get away from them so I could spread my wings and live life as a free bird. But after a few months, I miss them. Well, not them so much as the noise they made, the chatter, laughter and even the arguments and lectures. Living alone is so…lonely.”
“Perhaps you need to get out more. It must be hard living and working in your flat.”
Her eyes lit up. “Shall we go to a club? I heard of a new one that plays ragtime and jazz.” She did a little jig in her seat, as if she could hear the music.
I wondered if it was the club on Kingly Street where Willie and Alex had gone last night. Thoughts of them inevitably led to thoughts of Gabe, and I didn’t want to be reminded of him. “I think I’ll stay in, but you should go.”
She leveled her gaze with mine. “Have you ever been to a nightclub, Sylvia?”
“I’ve been to pubs and dance halls. Nightclubs are just a combination of the two, aren’t they?”
She rolled her eyes. “They are not. Perhaps there weren’t many where you used to live, but they’re popping up all over London these days. You simply must come with me one evening. We’ll have a marvelous time, drinking cocktails and dancing the night away.”
“I will go with you but not tonight.”
“That’s settled then.” She gave me an innocent look but spoiled it with a wink. “It’s like being with a man. You simply have to experience a club at least once in your life.”
It was my turn to roll my eyes. “Both experiences will have to wait. I have to work tomorrow.”
“If you get tired, you can nap in one of those lovely armchairs. Professor Nash won’t mind. He seems very sweet.”
“He is which is why I won’t take advantage of him.”
“I don’t want to go out alone.” She pouted then filled her mouth with a forkful of lasagna.
“Why not take Horatio?”
She pulled a face. When she finished her mouthful, she said, “Men won’t ask me to dance with him hovering. They’ll think we’re together.”
“Would you like to be together?”
“You are not serious.” Her tone was flat.
“I suppose not.”
After more deliberation, she decided not to go to the club. I suspected she was somewhat frustrated when I declared I wanted to go to bed early, however. After a poor night’s sleep the night before, I was too tired to stay up late. Daisy insisted I take half of the bed while she slipped under the covers on the other side. She kept the light beside her on while she read, and I decided to read a few pages too. It wasn’t until I had the green book from Gabe’s library in hand that I realized my error. I would have to return to his house, after all. I needed to give the book back.
Perhaps I would send it by post or take it to the service door. Whatever method I chose, I knew avoiding him was the right course of action.
My resolve to avoid Gabe was completely ruined the following morning when I arrived at the Glass Library to see him chatting to Professor Nash at the front desk. I paused on the threshold and merely blinked stupidly at him as I tried to sort through my scrambled thoughts. I wanted to see him. I was glad to see him. And yet I was not at the same time. It didn’t make sense.
He’d been perching on the edge of the desk, and he now stood to greet me. “May I take your coat?” He helped me out of it and hung it on the stand by the door.
“Is this about the book?” I asked.
“What book?”
“The one I borrowed from you.”
“No. Keep it. I don’t mind. This is about the investigation. I wanted to tell you how the interrogation went last night. Cyclops telephoned me this morning.” He released a heavy sigh. “It’s not good. Bolton didn’t confess. He denied involvement in everything—the thefts and the murder, as well as my attempted kidnapping. Not that I’m convinced he was involved in that, but there’s a possibility it was linked to this case so the question had to be asked.”
“Did a search of his house find any evidence?”
He shook his head. “Cyclops said they’ll have to let him go if they don’t find more definitive proof soon.” He sat on the edge of the desk again and his thumb tapped out a rapid rhythm on his thigh. He frowned in thought. “There was one thing Bolton did take pains to mention and that is to point out he is merely employed by the Royal Academy as an administrator, not because he has any art experience. He claims to have no connection to the art world, magician-made or otherwise.”
Professor Nash had been listening in and he now cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Excuse me for interrupting, but I’ve studied criminal behavior. It’s a hobby of mine.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. “If the only deviation from his denials was to point out that he has no connections to the art world. That means it’s probably significant.”
Gabe nodded. “Cyclops and I agree. We think he’s guilty but didn’t act alone. His partner has the art connections. Whether Bolton was merely the identifier of the magic art, like Mr. Ludlow was for Lady Stanhope in their scheme, or he was the mastermind remains to be seen.”
“The puppet master,” I murmured.
“Precisely. Whether he was or wasn’t the one pulling the strings.”
“I don’t think he was. He looked quite deflated when he realized we’d guessed he was a magician. At the time, he reminded me of a puppet whose strings had been released. He was adrift. He didn’t know what to say without someone guiding him. I think he was merely the accomplice in this crime, not the leader.”
We fell into silence, considering who the puppet master could be.
Professor Nash spoke up first. “Cyclops should put more pressure on Mr. Bolton. If he applied enough pressure, he could make him confess. Mr. Bolton won’t know he’s actually a kind-hearted soul, so Cyclops should use that to his advantage.”
Gabe and I both stared at him. He smiled back, quite chuffed with himself.
“I think Cyclops prefers to use non-violent ways of getting answers,” Gabe said.
The professor merely shrugged. “It will take longer, but so be it. I commend him for his morals. So…” He removed his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief. “Who are your other suspects? Which ones knew Bolton?”
“An employee is my guess,” Gabe said. “While Bolton would have met the artists, he would have had more dealings with the staff.” He turned to me, eyes bright. “The person he dealt with the most was his assistant, Driscoll.”
I smiled, unable to contain it. “Mr. Driscoll was lying to us about his illness, I’m sure of it.”
“What does that have to do with the theft?” Professor Nash asked.
“I don’t know, but we’re going to find out,” Gabe said. “May I borrow Sylvia for a while?”
“Of course.”
I didn’t insist on staying. I wanted to go with Gabe. I wanted to see the investigation through. If my manager didn’t mind, who was I to argue?
We found Mr. Driscoll standing at Mr. Bolton’s desk in the manager’s office, papers spread out before him. He picked one up, scanned it, and tossed it away. It slid off the desk onto the floor. Mr. Driscoll rifled through the others, creating a bigger mess.
Gabe cleared his throat and the assistant looked up. “What is it? Oh. It’s you two.” He straightened with a self-conscious glance at the paperwork. He shuffled some of them together into a pile.
“Leave the documents,” Gabe ordered.
Mr. Driscoll’s fingers recoiled as if Gabe had rapped him across the knuckles. “The police have already been here, going through his things. I don’t know what you expect to find.”
“We’re not here to look at documents. We want a word with you.”
I gathered up some of the papers. They were financial statements and receipts. Mr. Driscoll made no attempt to stop me. He focused on Gabe, not me. If he was searching for evidence that could incriminate him to destroy it, it wasn’t amongst these papers.
Gabe indicated the paperwork. “Are you looking for something in particular?”
Mr. Driscoll released a heavy sigh. “The board want to know how much the exhibition has made so far. They want it today! They know Mr. Bolton has been arrested. They know I’m on my own here. I asked for an extra day’s grace and they won’t give it to me. They’re furious with him for bringing the Royal Academy into disrepute, but that doesn’t mean I should be punished!”
I handed him the papers I’d gathered. “I took your place here when you were feeling unwell.”
His gaze lowered. A sign of guilt perhaps?
“You weren’t really sick, were you?”
He touched his collar. “I had a sore throat.”
“This is the first mention of a sore throat. Last time, you claimed you had a cough.”
Mr. Driscoll tugged on his collar and eyed the exit.
Gabe moved to block it. “Why did you stay away when you weren’t ill?”
Mr. Driscoll swallowed heavily.
“Why are you lying to us? What are you hiding?”
“Nothing,” he squeaked.
“We don’t believe you. You’re involved in the theft somehow. Either explain it to us here or go to Scotland Yard and explain it to them. I doubt they’ll ask as nicely.”
“All right! I give in. I’ll tell you.” Mr. Driscoll pushed a hand through his great wave of fringe, forcing it off kilter. “Close the door.”
Gabe did as requested then approached the desk. We faced off the assistant on the other side.
Mr. Driscoll drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I had nothing to do with the theft. But you’re right. I wasn’t ill. Someone paid me to take a few days off.” He shrugged. “It was money for doing nothing. How could I refuse?”
“Who paid you?” Gabe asked.
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true!” Mr. Driscoll’s gaze flicked back and forth between us. “He sent me a note to meet him in Green Park where he’d pay me. It was dark and he wore a hooded cloak. I didn’t see his face.”
“You seem to know it was a man.”
He nodded. “It was. He didn’t try to disguise his voice. He wasn’t tall or fat, just regular sized.”
“It wasn’t Mr. Bolton?”
“No. I’d recognize his voice.”
Gabe’s thumb tapped against his thigh.
The longer the silence dragged on, the more Mr. Driscoll fidgeted with the papers. “You have to believe me! I was paid not to be here. I don’t know what that has to do with your theft. The Delaroche was stolen before my absence, and the attempt on the seascape was after my return. Nothing untoward happened during my absence, so how is it relevant?”
It didn’t make sense to me either. I’d been employed in his stead, so if something was due to happen then, had my sudden employment thwarted it? Had my presence hindered Mr. Bolton’s plans? If so, why employ me? Why not simply tell me to go away, that he didn’t need a temporary assistant?
Gabe’s thumb suddenly stilled. He turned to me. From the look on his face, I knew his thoughts followed the same path as mine. And he’d jumped to the most obvious conclusion.
My mouth went dry. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t pay Mr. Driscoll to be sick. I’d never met him or Mr. Bolton.” The words tumbled over themselves in my eagerness to deny it. At that moment, it wasn’t the fear of arrest that forced my denial. It was the fear that Gabe thought me guilty.
He gently grasped my arms and dipped his head to look me in the eyes. “I know it wasn’t you, Sylvia. I know you’re innocent in all this.”
Mr. Driscoll folded his arms over his chest, looking relieved that no one had continued to accuse him. “How do you know?”
Gabe pointed to the photograph on the wall, the one showing Mr. Bolton in uniform beside six soldiers with their arms around one another. I took it down and studied the faces. I didn’t recognize any of them. I read the names written on the bottom, but they weren’t familiar.
“I don’t understand. Is one of these men Mr. Bolton’s accomplice?”
Gabe pointed to a word at the end of the caption. “Passchendaele.”
“The Battle of Passchendaele was in 1917, wasn’t it? We lost so many men there.” Gabe had been there too. I remembered him saying as much. But where had I heard him say it?
“Sylvia, who got you the job here?”
“Mr. Bolton.”
“Not who employed you. Who suggested you apply?”
My heart plunged. Oh God. “Horatio.” He’d painted a scene from the Battle of Passchendaele on the wood panel partition in his flat.
Gabe nodded grimly. “I’m sure if we checked the military records, we’ll find Bolton was Horatio’s sergeant. They probably got to know one another well in the trenches.”
“And they found a way to combine their respective talents and make some money upon their return to civilian life,” I added, thinking it through as I spoke. “Mr. Bolton could identify magic and he was already working here at the Academy, most likely guaranteed the position of manager upon his return from the war. And Horatio knew the art world inside and out. He had the connections with the black market, where a stolen painting could be auctioned off in secret to the highest bidder without the authorities ever finding out.”
Gabe nodded along, agreeing with everything.
“What I don’t understand,” I went on, “is what role I played in all of this? Why did I have to take Mr. Driscoll’s position here?”
“We’ll ask Horatio that after he’s arrested.” Gabe handed the photograph to a rather stunned Mr. Driscoll. “Thank you for your time. You were most helpful. May I use your telephone?”
Gabe telephoned Cyclops at Scotland Yard and told him to meet us at Horatio’s flat. From the glance Gabe gave me as he listened, I gathered Cyclops was telling him I shouldn’t be included.
“Thank you for your advice,” Gabe said. He hung up the receiver. “He doesn’t think you should go. I tend to agree. Horatio could get violent when he realizes he’s cornered.”
“Don’t take me back to the library,” I said as we left Burlington House. “It’s out of your way. Take me to Daisy’s. Her flat isn’t far from Horatio’s so you won’t lose much time.”
Despite the Monday traffic, Gabe’s speedy driving got us to Bloomsbury in a short time. I asked him to keep me informed before I alighted. I knocked on Daisy’s door, unable to contain my excitement. Blood coursed through my veins. I could hardly stand still. If this was how it felt to defeat a criminal, I could understand the appeal of becoming a policeman or a consultant detective.
My mood dampened when Daisy opened the door. I was about to tell my friend that her friend was a thief and a liar. I needed to remember that lives were about to be shattered. There was a very real possibility she might hate me for my role in uncovering Horatio’s crime.
“You don’t have to knock, silly,” she said. “You live here now.”
“Daisy, I have something very serious to tell you.”
“Is it about the scarf?” She pointed to the orange and red silk scarf wrapped around her head and tied at the side, the ends draped across her left shoulder. “I saw a model in the latest edition of Femina who wore a scarf this way and we decided to try it.”
My blood chilled. “We?”
She walked ahead of me to the sitting room. I stopped dead.
Horatio sat on the sofa, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. He smiled brightly but it quickly vanished. He must have guessed that I knew by the look on my face.
“Are you all right, Syl?” Daisy asked. “You’ve gone pale. Come in. Sit down and I’ll make you a cup of tea. Is that why you came home early? You’re not feeling well?”
She tried to usher me further into the room, but I resisted. I didn’t want to get anywhere near Horatio. He’d recovered from his surprise and now his eyes darkened. Gone was the affable man, replaced by a desperate one. Desperate and dangerous.
He sprang to his feet and rushed toward us, grabbing the bronze sculpture of the basset hound off a table as he passed. He raised it to strike.
Daisy screamed and threw her arms over her head. I dodged out of the way, slamming into the wall. The edges of my vision blurred and the room tilted.
Footsteps pounded up the staircase outside. “Sylvia!” It was Gabe.
But he would arrive too late. Going by the sound of his voice, he was too far away to reach me before Horatio struck. He towered over me, the veins in his neck standing out, his face red and growing redder. He wasn’t a big man, but he was big enough and the statue looked solid.
I focused on it, preparing to dodge out of its way again at the last moment when it was too late to change the angle of his swing. It was another thing my mother taught me—use the larger attacker’s momentum against him.
But I didn’t need to move. Gabe was suddenly there, the statue in his hand after he’d wrenched it from Horatio’s grip. Horatio stood there, arm still raised, blinking stupidly up at his empty hand.
Then he tried to flee.
Gabe shoved the statue into Horatio’s stomach, winding him. Horatio bent over, gasping and coughing. Gabe caught his wrist, twisted it behind his back and pushed him forward into the wall. I scrambled to Daisy’s side. We clutched each other.
Gabe breathed just as heavily as Horatio but without the wheeze. He must have sprinted up the stairs to arrive in time. It was a Herculean effort. He’d sounded too far away when he called my name. “May I borrow your scarf, Daisy?” he asked between breaths.
Daisy’s fingers shook too much to manage the knot, so I helped her and handed the scarf to Gabe. He tied Horatio’s wrists together behind his back.
“I noticed a telephone in the foyer,” Gabe said. “Daisy, would you mind telephoning the local constabulary.”
I wasn’t sure she’d be capable. She was speechless as she stared wide-eyed at Horatio. But she nodded and raced out the door.
Gabe sucked another gulp of air into his lungs. He seemed to be regaining his breath, albeit slowly. It reminded me of one other time I’d seen him like this, drawing air in as if he’d been the one winded, not the assailant. It had happened in the kidnapping attempt, when he’d freed himself and captured the thug who’d tried to push him into the vehicle. He hadn’t exerted as much energy that time and he’d regained his regular breathing pattern faster. Then, as now, he’d suddenly and unexpectedly turned the tables.
How?