Secrets of the Lost Ledgers (The Glass Library #5)

Chapter 8

H uon had arrived at Petra’s shop before us. The ledgers we’d retrieved from the Whitechapel cellar lay open on the counter with some papers beside them, but neither he nor Petra were studying them. True to form, they were squabbling.

“Look at it!” Huon dipped a pen into one of the sample pots of ink Petra sold in her shop and drew some squiggles on a piece of paper. “It’s watery, the color is weak. I wouldn’t buy it.”

“You don’t have to,” she shot back. “Your father supplies you with all the ink you need.”

“Don’t be so sure about that. He doesn’t give me much.”

She scoffed. “The use of the townhouse isn’t much?”

“It comes with strict conditions.”

“Which I doubt you’re obeying. Does he know you laze about all day and party all night?”

“That’s why he enforced conditions. Anyway, I’m more responsible now. I’m a businessman, like you.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a woman.”

“Oh, I noticed,” he purred.

Petra’s eyes widened in alarm. She snatched the sample pot off him, causing ink to splash onto her hand. “Now look what you’ve done.”

He caught her wrist and took the inkpot from her. “Let me clean that up for you.” He spoke a spell while keeping his gaze locked on Petra.

She stared back at him, mesmerized by his warm voice and the lyrical sounds of the strange words. She only tore her gaze away when the ink rose into the air from her skin. It lifted off her hand, drifted in the air like a ribbon on the breeze, then hovered a moment before pouring into the open ink bottle. He removed his handkerchief from his pocket and gently stroked her hand where the ink had dampened it.

Willie cleared her throat. “Should we leave you two alone and come back later?”

Petra jerked free. She touched her hair, her neck, and finally her wrist where Huon had held her. “Now is an excellent time. There are no customers and Huon is being particularly annoying. The sooner he leaves, the better.”

He leaned an elbow on the counter and gave her a smug smile. “You didn’t seem annoyed a moment ago when I cleaned your hand.”

“It wouldn’t have needed to be cleaned if you hadn’t caused me to spill ink in the first place.”

“You’re right. Allow me to apologize. I’m sorry you were distracted by my handsome face and overwhelmed by my magnetism.”

She made a sound of disgust and rolled her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

His smile widened. “You’re all witnesses to the fact she didn’t disagree with me about my handsomeness and magnetism.”

Alex clapped him on the shoulder. “Give up before you make a fool of yourself.”

“Too late,” Petra muttered.

Huon shrugged then stepped aside to allow us closer to the ledgers. “I wanted to meet you here because I thought I should check with Petra as to whether there is any invisible graphite writing on these. There isn’t,” he added before we could ask. “Apparently the writer thought invisible ink superior and didn’t bother with pencil.”

“It’s no surprise considering the writer was an ink magician,” Petra shot back.

Huon picked up the loose papers covered with his untidy scrawl. “I transcribed as much as I could, but a lot has faded. The magic has weakened considerably over the years.” He fanned the pages on the counter, each ruled with vertical lines to form columns. Each page listed dozens of entries with amounts in the final column. Huon had left a number of gaps where he couldn’t read the original. He pointed to three of the pages. “These are copied from the expenses ledger, showing money going out.” He tapped his finger on the remaining pages. “And these are from the income ledger, showing money received.”

Gabe picked up one of the pages while Alex picked up another. “There are several expenses with names beside them. Just surnames, not full names.”

“At least we’ve got some now,” Willie said. “Recognize any, Gabe?”

“Coyle appears regularly with the same amount. The bookmaker must have been paying him for some reason. It doesn’t say why.” He ran his finger down the column, pausing at one entry near the bottom. “I think I know this name. I need to check something at home before I can be sure.” He meant his parents’ list of magicians, but he didn’t want to say it in front of Huon and Petra.

“Do any of the entries note what the expenses are for?” I asked.

“Shoes,” Gabe read.

Willie frowned. “Shoes?”

“I think it’s referring to horseshoes. Other entries just say ‘Ride’ beside the surname, along with what I think are horse names. ‘Lightning Bolt’, ‘Tiger Eye’, ‘Queen’s Revenge.’”

“Payments to jockeys?” Willie suggested.

“Names of horses appear beside several surname entries, but without the word ‘Ride.’ I wonder what service they rendered the bookmaker if it wasn’t riding.”

“There are a lot of people a bookmaker can bribe at a racetrack,” Huon said with a note of authority.

Alex, peering over Gabe’s shoulder, pointed to another entry. “I know this one. He was arrested just before I left the force to enlist in ’16. The government had started growing concerned about addiction among the army, so they prohibited the sale of cocaine and other substances under the Defense of the Realm Act. He was caught selling cocaine to troops.”

“What does cocaine have to do with horses?” Petra asked.

“It’s injected into them to make them run faster,” Gabe said.

“How cruel.”

“Is he still in prison?” Willie asked. “We can ask him which bookmakers he worked for.”

“He died in incarceration. He wouldn’t have given anyone up anyway.”

Huon handed Gabe the transcribed pages for the second ledger. “These payments are from the other ledger, which is labeled ‘Income’. Many names appear several times, alongside amounts and horse names. They must refer to bets placed with the bookmaker because odds are given, too.”

The names weren’t familiar to any of us.

“All entries in both ledgers are dated between early July 1890 and February ’91,” Huon said.

Gabe scooped up the documents. “From shortly after Daniel lost his job, up until his wife and children going into hiding, two months before his death.”

“Entries from those two months could be in other books,” Alex said. “He didn’t need to hide all evidence, just enough to give Oscar something to give to the police if Daniel died.”

Gabe tapped the documents. “What happened in February? Why did he become afraid at that point?” He shrugged, unable to think of an answer. “Send me the bill and I’ll pay you for your time, Barratt.”

Petra picked up one of the ledgers and squinted at the page. After a moment, she shook her head and closed it. “Why did Daniel work for this man?”

“It’s likely he owed someone a lot of money,” Gabe said. “Perhaps even the bookmaker himself. Daniel kept the books for him, using invisible ink to keep the transactions secret, since it seems the bookmaker was paying jockeys to throw races, as well as doping horses, and most likely using numerous other illegal methods to cheat. In an act of defiance or desperation, Daniel hid the evidence in Whitechapel, and sent a clue to the whereabouts of these ledgers to Oscar. We can only assume that he asked Oscar specifically because he could read the invisible ink and perhaps because he was friends with my parents.”

“The link to Matt and India implies it’s a crime that involves magicians,” Alex clarified.

It was an interesting point, and not one I’d considered until now, although it was clear Alex and Gabe had. I’d thought the only magical connection was the invisible ink, but the close association between Oscar Barratt and Gabe’s parents gave the investigation a new angle. A magical angle.

Petra placed a hand to her throat and swallowed heavily. “Did Daniel start working for the bookmaker when magicians were still being persecuted?”

Gabe nodded. “ While at Harrods, he was forced to hide his ability like all magicians, although it wouldn’t have led to his persecution even if it became known, since he wasn’t manufacturing ink.”

“It is a rather useless magic if?—”

“Useless!” Huon picked up the sample pot of ink. “I’ll spill this again to prove just how useless, shall I?”

“Don’t you dare.” Petra went to snatch the pot off him, but he moved out of her reach.

“Admit that ink magic has its uses, or I’ll tip it out on the floor.”

“You are such a child!”

He flipped open the lid and began to slowly tilt the bottle.

“All right! Ink magic is useful for cleaning up ink spills.”

“And?” He nodded at the ledgers.

She blew out a breath. “And writing in invisible ink.”

“And?”

She frowned. “And what?”

“And it’s superior to graphite magic.”

She thrust her hands on her hips. “I’m not saying that. It’s not true. You can’t sketch with ink.”

“You can.”

Gabe reached between them to retrieve the ledgers from the counter. It broke the standoff.

Huon returned the inkpot to the display alongside the others. “I’ll bring you some samples from my father’s factory.”

Petra lifted her chin. “I don’t want Barratt ink in my shop.”

“You don’t want to sell superior quality products?”

“I wish I didn’t have to sell ink at all, but the customers expect it. So, I choose ink from a manufacturer I trust, whose son isn’t a buffoon with an over-inflated sense of self.”

“You forgot handsome and magnetic, but I’ll forgive you since I know you’re thinking it.”

She rolled her eyes again.

A customer entered, our cue to leave the shop. Gabe offered to drive Huon home, but he declined, saying he had a potential client to meet. He cast a look through the shop window before sauntering off with a small smile on his face.

“They make a handsome couple,” Willie said as Gabe retrieved the crank handle from the floor of the Vauxhall’s front passenger seat.

Alex slid into the driver’s seat. “They’re chalk and cheese. They’d be terrible together.”

“Sometimes the best relationships are between opposites. Look at me and my first husband.” She turned to me as I settled into the back seat alongside her. “You should find someone like Huon, Sylvia. Someone who challenges you. Someone you can fix.”

“I don’t want to fix anyone,” I said.

“Why not? You ain’t that broken yourself.” She placed her finger and thumb close together. “Just a little bit.”

I didn’t think I was broken at all, but her words had me wondering. My mother’s controlling nature had ensured I led a sheltered life. I’d had few friends before arriving in London, no real home and no ancestral roots. I’d been afraid of men before meeting Gabe, and afraid of rocking the boat, although when pushed too far, I often couldn’t contain an outburst.

I remained quiet for the rest of the journey to Gabe’s Park Street house. It wasn’t just me who fell silent, however. We all seemed lost in thought as we battled through the traffic.

When we reached our destination, Gabe opened the motorcar door for me, but Willie clambered over me to climb out first. She shooed Gabe out of the way before allowing me to emerge from the Vauxhall.

Bristow met us at the door, greeting us individually with his usual formality. When it came to me, he politely told me that Mrs. Bristow would be thrilled to know I’d called.

“Is she in the kitchen?” I asked. “I’ll pop down and say hello.”

I headed into the basement service area with the butler, while Gabe took the stairs to the office where his family kept the records of known magicians. I found Mrs. Ling in the kitchen, her hands dusted with flour. Murray the footman had been seated at the table in the adjoining room, polishing the silver. Hearing voices, he joined us at the same time that Sally, the maid, and Mrs. Bristow appeared. The only staff member missing was Dodson, the chauffeur, mechanic and general man-of-all-work.

We chatted for a while until Gabe arrived, Alex and Willie in tow. Although the kitchen was large, it felt crowded, and we were getting in Mrs. Ling’s way. She flapped her apron to shoo us out, but not before giving me a recipe to pass on to Mrs. Parry.

We returned to the drawing room upstairs, followed by Murray and Bristow carrying trays laden with tea and cake. Bristow went to pour the tea, but his hand shook so much that Murray had to take over.

Gabe passed me a slice of lemon drizzle cake on a plate. “The name I recognized in the ledger—Ferryman—belongs to an iron magician who worked as a farrier.”

Alex nodded, unsurprised. “That makes a lot of sense. The bookmaker must have been paying him to create stronger horseshoes.”

“Or make the horses go faster,” Willie said. “We once knew an iron magician who could make iron fly.”

Gabe picked up his teacup, holding it by the cup, not the handle. Society matrons like Lady Stanhope would be horrified at the casual way he served and drank tea, but Gabe wasn’t the sort to care about ceremony or tradition. I wondered if he’d behave differently in the presence of his parents.

“This investigation is more about magic than we originally thought,” Alex said. “It doesn’t just involve invisible ink, but potentially spell-infused horseshoes, and perhaps other magics, too.”

“Like what?” Willie asked. “A magic leather saddle ain’t going to help a horse win. And jockeys ain’t magicians, but they were on the bookmaker’s payroll.”

“It appears he used a combination of magician and artless methods,” Gabe said. “Either way, the farrier magician is another potential link between the bookmaker and Coyle.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“According to the ledger, the bookmaker was making regular payments to Coyle. Coyle knew a lot of magicians, some of whom he was blackmailing in one form or another. My guess is that Coyle introduced the bookmaker to the farrier and Daniel, and the bookmaker had to compensate him for the introductions.”

“Compensation that maybe continued after Coyle’s death,” Willie said. “I reckon Hope collected it.”

“It’s possible,” Alex said. “The ledgers’ entries stop when Daniel hid them in February, but the bookmaker’s operation may not have ended then. It could have continued.”

“I doubt Hope had anything to do with it,” Gabe told them.

Willie clicked her tongue in disgust. “She ain’t soft, Gabe. She’s capable of running whatever schemes her husband started.”

“If she did, she would be wealthier, but she and Valentine are barely scraping by.”

“If he got a job, they wouldn’t have to just scrape by,” Willie said.

I tended to agree with Gabe and said so.

“Course you’d agree with him,” Willie sneered. “But you don’t know Hope like I do.” She shoved a slice of cake into her mouth, inviting no further comment.

Alex took another slice of cake but instead of eating it, he pointed at it. “There are baking magicians, confectionary magicians, and probably other types of cooking magicians.”

“Mrs. Ling often purchases goods from them,” Gabe said, nodding.

Willie licked her fingers. “Like this cake. It’s real good and the magic in it means you don’t get fat.”

Alex laughed. “Who told you that?”

“Your father.”

“He was pulling your leg.”

Willie pouted as she placed her empty plate on the table. “If anyone knows about getting fat, it’s Cyclops. What’s your point about baking magic, anyway?”

Alex indicated the slice of cake again. “The magic was put into this by the baker when he baked it, but his magic descended from flour magic, yes?”

“In a way,” Gabe said. “Flour is made from grain, a natural substance, so a baker magician will have an ancestor who specialized in grain magic.” He indicated me. “Sylvia’s paper magic ancestor was actually a cotton magician, and my mother’s watchmaking magic may have descended from a steel magician, since that’s what a lot of timepiece parts are made from.”

“Her maiden name wasn’t Steele for no reason,” Willie pointed out. “Speaking of steel magic, have you made up your mind about the Rolls-Royce, Gabe? And before you say anything, I want to remind you that just because you didn’t agree to ask India to extend the head engineer’s magic in exchange for a free motorcar, doesn’t mean you can’t still buy one.”

“I told you, it was my father’s motorcar that was destroyed, so it’s up to him to buy a new one.”

“They might not be back for an age!” She picked up another slice of cake. “Why all the questions about baking and flour, Alex? Do you reckon the bookmaker used a baking magician in his business?”

“Not baking. Cocaine.”

Willie paused with the cake halfway to her mouth. “No. There ain’t no such thing as a cocaine magician.”

“Why not? Cocaine is derived from the leaves of the coca plant. Coca plants have been grown for centuries, just like wheat which gives us grain. The leaves of the coca plant go through a process to extract cocaine, just like grain goes through a process to turn it into flour.” Alex sat back, looking pleased with himself.

Gabe rubbed his jaw. “There are no cocaine magicians on my parents’ list.”

“Perhaps it’s rare,” Alex said. “Perhaps it was one magic that remained hidden due to its controversial nature.”

“You said yourself that it only became illegal to sell in 1916,” I reminded him.

“True, but controversy has surrounded it for years, well before the law. It could be that cocaine magicians stayed in the shadows along with other magicians during the centuries of persecution, but when most emerged into the light in ’91, cocaine magicians decided to remain hidden.”

Gabe pointed at the pages transcribed by Huon. “Is the cocaine dealer you recognized in the ledger’s entries definitely dead?”

“Yes, but there might be a sibling or child who inherited the same magic.”

“And inherited his business,” Willie added.

Alex rose. “I’ll telephone my father and ask him to find an address in the Yard’s old files.”

“What would cocaine magic do?” I asked when he’d left the room. “Make it stronger, more powerful and addictive?”

“Or make the side-effects less and therefore easier to hide,” Gabe offered.

It was a sobering thought. Magic had so many more branches than I’d realized. Of course, we shouldn’t leap to conclusions without evidence; cocaine magic might not even exist.

Alex returned a few minutes later. “He’s going to check the case file and will get back to me. But he gave me another idea, somewhere to go while we wait.”

“The address of another, unrelated cocaine dealer to speak to?” Gabe asked.

Alex picked up the transcribed pages. “He suggested we return to the place where this cocaine dealer was arrested. Since I was involved in his arrest, I know it without having to look it up.” He should look pleased with himself, but instead he watched Gabe warily.

“Where?” Gabe asked.

Alex put out a hand, as if placating an agitated horse.

It had the opposite effect. Gabe shot to his feet. “Where, Alex?”

“Epsom Downs Racecourse.”

Gabe’s nostrils flared. “Thurlow operates out of Epsom.”

“It might just be a coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences.”