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

Chapter 15

I was very aware of how formidable the four of us appeared, waiting near the entrance to the courtyard. While we weren’t blocking the sisters’ exit, we presented a united front.

Even so, Myrtle marched up to us. With her basket resting on one hip and her hand on the other, she confronted me. “Why have you followed us?”

My guilty conscience got the better of me and I apologized. “Sorry, but we wanted to ask you some questions.”

“You could have done that at home. I’ll ask again, why follow us?”

“I had an inkling you would come here,” Gabe said. “I had a theory and I wanted to see if I was right.”

“A theory about what?”

“Do you recall our first meeting, when we told you Daniel wrote an invisible message in a book to his cousin? The message gave an address where he’d hidden evidence of crimes committed by a corrupt bookmaker.” Gabe nodded at the house. “We found the evidence in there.”

Naomi gasped. “But Mary Philpot lives there. Surely you don’t think she had something to do with Daniel’s death?”

Myrtle clicked her tongue at her sister, but kept her gaze firmly on Gabe. “Don’t be a fool, Naomi. He’s accusing us of hiding something there for Daniel.”

Naomi gasped again and pressed a hand to her chest.

“That’s not what he said,” Willie snapped.

“It was implied,” Myrtle shot back.

Gabe shook his head in warning at Willie and she closed her mouth. She grunted to signal she did so reluctantly.

“You give charity to these families?” Gabe asked.

“We’re not answering your questions,” Myrtle said. “Move aside.”

“You’re free to go at any time. But I warn you that will make you look guilty.”

Myrtle’s grunt was remarkably similar to Willie’s. Like Willie, she also complied, however. “Yes, we provide charity to all the families in this yard.”

“Some of the wives lost their husbands in the war,” Naomi added. “Or their husbands came home too damaged to work. In two instances, the man of the house is on strike, so there’s no money coming in. Most rely on charity just to survive.”

“You’ve been coming here for years?” Gabe asked. “Since before Daniel died?”

Naomi glanced at her sister, no longer sure if she should answer.

“Yes,” Myrtle said. “There has always been a need for charity in these homes, for one reason or another. The cycle of poverty continues from generation to generation because every government fails to end it.”

“How did Daniel know about this address?”

“He must have followed us one day.”

Naomi hefted the basket higher on her hip and studied the ground at her feet.

“We have nothing to hide, Mr. Glass,” Myrtle went on. “Not from you or the police. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have hungry families to feed.”

Myrtle marched off with long, purposeful strides. Naomi trotted behind. As she passed, she cast me an uncertain half-smile.

I watched them go. “I think they spoke the truth. They have nothing to hide from us or the police. But I believe they did have something to hide from the bookmaker—those ledgers. They’re still afraid of him.”

Gabe indicated that I should walk ahead as we left the courtyard. “I wish we could tell them not to be afraid, but I can’t guarantee them safety when I can’t even guarantee my own.”

It took all my self-control not to take his hand and give it a reassuring squeeze.

We left the airless courtyard behind and returned to Fred’s house in Smithfield. Myrtle and Naomi had headed in the opposite direction, so it was safe to assume they would be gone for a while.

I, for one, was grateful that Myrtle wouldn’t be present when we questioned her husband.

We caught Fred about to leave. A newspaper was tucked under his arm, and he rested his hat on his wrist stump as he stepped onto the porch. “Hello again. The girls aren’t home, I’m afraid. They’re out fixing the world’s problems with their pies.”

“Actually, we came to see you,” Gabe said. “May we come inside?”

“I was about to leave.”

“This won’t take long.”

Fred paused before taking a step back. “Come into the parlor.”

As I passed, I noticed the newspaper was opened to the racing pages. He’d circled several horse names in pencil.

Gabe and I sat, but Alex stood by the door and Willie near the window. I thought they were there to guard Gabe from intruders. When Fred eyed them with suspicion, however, I realized they’d deliberately positioned themselves to cut off his escape routes.

Despite his suspicion, Fred maintained a cheerful disposition. “I’m not sure how I can help your inquiries further, but I’ll try.”

Gabe took the direct approach. “We saw you yesterday at Epsom, speaking to a man named Thurlow.”

Fred made a show of gazing to the ceiling and puckering his lips in thought. “Thurlow… Thurlow… Sorry, it means nothing to me.”

“Come now, Mr. Laidlow. You’re a gambler and he’s a long-time bookmaker there. This meeting will go faster if you tell us the truth the first time.”

Fred’s forehead beaded with sweat.

Willie huffed. “We could threaten you if we wanted to. You’re real familiar with how threats work, aren’t you?”

Fred tugged on his cuff to cover the stump. “I know Thurlow. What of it?”

“Why did you lie and say you didn’t?” Gabe asked.

“Because I know he’s a thug. You were asking about him at the racecourse, so I assume you think he has something to do with your investigation. I didn’t want to get involved. I owe him money, you see. If he finds out I helped you…” He removed a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. “Let’s just say he won’t like it. Not that he had anything to do with Daniel’s death,” he added quickly. “That’s not what I’m saying. He was young then. Thurlow, I mean. His business had barely begun in ‘91.”

“Are you implying he conducted himself honestly in those days?” Gabe asked. “As a bookmaker?”

Fred winced. “More or less.”

“Or is that simply when his business became more successful?”

Fred pocketed the handkerchief. “I’ve answered your question. I knew Thurlow then. Now, if there’s nothing else…” He rose to leave.

Alex moved to block the exit. “Sit down, Mr. Laidlow. We’ll let you know when we’re finished.”

Fred sat. “This is harassment.”

“This is interrogation,” Gabe said. “We can do it here or at Scotland Yard. Of course, if you choose the latter, the neighbors will see you leaving with us and will tell anyone who comes looking for you. Thurlow, for instance.”

Fred blew out a shuddery breath. “Look. I admit I lied about knowing Thurlow. I didn’t lie because he’s guilty of killing Daniel. I did it because he terrifies me. He wouldn’t want me speaking to the police, even if I was telling you he’s innocent.” He wiped away a trickle of sweat running down the side of his face with his shoulder. “I wasn’t even in debt to Thurlow in those days, so he had no leverage with me back then.”

“Who were you in debt to?”

Fred shook his head. “None of this makes sense.”

Gabe leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, his hands loosely clasped. “Look at me, Fred.”

Fred lifted his teary gaze to Gabe’s. I knew how compelling Gabe’s eyes could be, how his gaze drilled into you and made you feel seen. For me, it was a comfort. For someone with something to hide, I suspected it was alarming to find oneself confiding things they planned to keep secret.

Gabe’s tone gentled. “Let me tell you what we know. We know you knew Daniel went to work for a bookmaker after he lost his job at Harrods. Presumably Daniel told you because, as a regular racegoer and gambler, you were familiar with the fellow.”

“That’s the gist,” Fred muttered.

“Then Daniel had a change of heart. He wanted to stop. But he knew too much. He could bring the bookmaker’s entire operation crashing down. Daniel knew the only way to stop working for men like that, men of the same ilk as Thurlow, is to either hide or attack. He used a combination of both. He hid his wife and children, and he hid some evidence. He then wrote to his cousin, telling him he feared for his life, and to avenge his death using the evidence the book would help him find, if it came to that. The problem was, Oscar never saw the message. The bookmaker went after Daniel. He threatened him, telling him to return the evidence. When Daniel didn’t, the bookmaker put pressure on him. That pressure must have killed him.”

Fred sniffed. He wiped his nose on his sleeve but didn’t interrupt. It was a sign that Gabe was on the right path.

Gabe continued. “He searched Daniel’s house but didn’t find the evidence. So, he came to you. As Daniel’s brother-in-law, neighbor, and a man who was in debt to the bookmaker, he presumed you would know where the evidence was hidden.”

“I didn’t,” Fred spluttered.

“He didn’t believe you, though, did he? He threatened to maim you. When you didn’t deliver the evidence, he had to follow through on his threat. For people like Thurlow and this bookmaker, threats have to be carried out when delivery fails, or no one will fear him ever again. So he cut off your hand.”

Fred rubbed the stump where his hand used to be. “I told him, I didn’t know!”

“Who? Who did you tell?”

“It no longer matters.”

“Why not? Is the bookmaker dead?”

Fred wiped damp cheeks with his sleeve. “Last I heard, he was still alive. But he’s been in an asylum for years.”

“Asylum?” Alex asked. “Like Bedlam?”

“Not Bedlam. A private one.”

The news took us all by surprise. Gabe took a few moments to process it before coming up with more questions. “How long has he been there?”

“That’s the thing. That’s why he couldn’t have killed Daniel. His riding accident was in March ’91, a month before Daniel died.”

Gabe slowly sat back, not taking his gaze off Fred. “What’s the bookmaker’s name?”

“Arlington.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself blurting out that we’d met the trainer, Mr. Arlington, and he was perfectly well.

Gabe’s features remained schooled. “Which Arlington?”

“Ambrose. He was only twenty-three at the time, but he was already ruthless. Thurlow modeled himself after Ambrose. You could say he took over from him.”

“Thurlow worked for him?” Willie asked.

Fred shrugged one shoulder. “I meant Ambrose Arlington’s accident led to his absence from the bookmaking business, and that left a hole. Thurlow swooped in and filled it. The rest is history.”

“Is Ambrose any relation to Arlington the trainer?”

Fred drew in a deep breath. “His son.”

“He doesn’t have a son,” Willie said.

“He does. He just pretends he doesn’t. He never talks about him. From what I hear, Ambrose is as helpless as a baby. For a successful, proud man like Ignatius Arlington, he must find that embarrassing.”

When put like that, it was a double tragedy. First, when the accident happened, and then when Ambrose’s own father stopped caring.

Perhaps I shouldn’t feel sympathy. At the very least, Ambrose was a bookmaker on the sly. According to Fred, however, he wasn’t responsible for murdering Daniel. His accident had sent him to the asylum a month earlier.

Something about the timeline didn’t ring true. “If Ambrose was in the asylum in March, and Daniel died in April, just a day or two before your hand was cut off…Ambrose wasn’t the one who threatened you, was he? He couldn’t have. So who did? Who removed your hand, Mr. Laidlow?”

“I don’t know. I never saw his face.”

Willie snorted and Alex made a scoffing sound.

“It’s true! He wore a mask made of black cloth that covered his entire head. He cut out eyeholes so he could see.”

“Was there anything unusual about him?” Gabe asked. “His height? Girth?”

Fred shook his head. “I didn’t even recognize his voice.”

With no further questions, we filed out of the house with Fred. He locked the door before walking off, head sheepishly bowed, the newspaper tucked under his arm. We sat in the motorcar with the engine idling, watching until he disappeared around the corner.

“Thurlow is in the clear for this,” Alex said to Gabe.

“ If Fred’s telling the truth,” Gabe said. “We can’t take his word about anything, but particularly that. He’s afraid, and fearful men tell lies. We should check whether Ambrose Arlington is actually in an asylum. He may have simply had a falling out with his father and left the family home.”

“The timing matches,” I pointed out. “The sisters told us Daniel stopped being afraid leading up to his death. The bookmaker’s accident or disappearance would explain that. Daniel thought he was safe. He didn’t consider anyone else a threat.”

“The killer could be the bookmaker’s business partner,” Alex suggested.

Willie pulled aside her jacket to reveal the gun at her side. “Want me to go after Fred and ask about a partner? I reckon this will make him answer.”

“Put it away,” Gabe growled. “We’ll verify his claim first by learning what we can about Ambrose Arlington. We’ll ask his father where he is.”

Alex pulled the Vauxhall away from the curb into the traffic. “Ignatius Arlington and the Symes let us believe he only had the one child, Mrs. Syme. They didn’t lie, they merely didn’t give us the entire truth.”

Willie clicked her fingers as a thought occurred to her. “Syme started working there in 1890 and got promoted to trainer when a position became available. That must have been when Ambrose had his accident.”

I recalled the conversation with the family at their training facility. There’d been no mention of Ambrose. It was as if he never existed. I also recalled Mr. Arlington’s vehement denial that his employees associated with bookmakers. How would he react when we accused his son of being an illegal bookmaker, and a cheating one at that?

“I don’t think we should confront Mr. Arlington directly,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the engine. “I doubt we’ll get an honest answer. In fact, we may cause him to completely shut us out if he thinks we’re accusing his family of wrongdoing.”

“I reckon she’s right,” Willie said. “I reckon we don’t confront them. Not yet. We don’t want to let them know that we know about Ambrose.”

Alex nodded as he slowed the motorcar to stop at an intersection. “We don’t want them destroying evidence. We need to find Ambrose without asking them where he is.”

“Any suggestions?” Gabe asked.

“You won’t like it.”

“When has that stopped us?”

Willie let out a whoop and slapped her knee. “This’ll be fun!”

“What will?” I asked, looking at each of them in turn. “What are we going to do?”

“Not you,” Gabe said. “It might be dangerous.”

“Aw, let her come,” Willie said. “She’ll be less conspicuous than either of you two, and it ain’t fair to leave her out of the investigation now.”

I hadn’t expected support from that quarter, given she wanted me far away from Gabe. Her sense of female solidarity must be strong indeed. “Are you suggesting we break into the Arlingtons’ home after dark? Can we not just ask Scotland Yard to authorize a search?”

“That’ll take too long,” Gabe said.

“We don’t have enough evidence for a search warrant,” Alex added.

“And it ain’t as much fun.” Willie plucked at my cream-colored skirt with the navy piping around the pocket. “Wear black.”

It was a good thing that I spent the rest of the day working in the library. Being surrounded by books helped settle my nerves. Professor Nash and I stopped to have tea with Evaline Peterson who called on me in the afternoon. Although she claimed she was simply in the area and her visit was unplanned, I got the feeling she was curious about me and wanted to see where I worked.

Her visit was fortuitous. I’d been considering whether to ask her and Walter about Rosina Barratt. I broached the topic as I handed her a teacup and saucer.

“Are you familiar with a paper magician named Rosina? Her maiden name was Hendry, and she married an ink magician, Daniel Barratt.”

Evaline’s thin, straight eyebrows furrowed with her thoughtful frown. “The name Hendry is familiar, but not Rosina. There was a magician named Hendry who knew a spell to make paper fly. I believe we mentioned him to you. His spell caused some trouble and the police had to intervene. I was only thirteen or fourteen at the time, so I don’t know the particulars.”

“Rosina disappeared around the time of the incident you’re referring to. I thought you might know her.”

“There are a number of paper magicians,” she said, wryly. “We’re not all related.”

I laughed softly. “I know.”

“Are you looking for her, this Rosina Hendry?”

“We are.”

“Because you’ve learned she’s your relative?”

“Oh, no,” I said quickly. It was too soon to tell her my suspicions about my relationship to the Hendry family, and Melville Hendry in particular. Until I was sure, I must continue to deny it. For Gabe’s sake, as much as my own.

Evaline changed the subject and asked the professor and me to tell her about the library and our work. She was an excellent listener given the topic was one that bored some people. Perhaps that was because her paper magic made her more inclined to like anything to do with books, as mine did.

It wasn’t until after she’d left that I wondered if she’d encouraged me to talk because she was studying me. Indeed, even when the professor spoke, Evaline continued to cast me surreptitious glances.

I’d been in her company several times since meeting her and Walter, so why did she take so much interest now? Did she know more about Rosina than she let on? Or had she come to the library with the sole purpose of studying me?

For someone who liked to follow the rules, I was becoming quite the expert at breaking and entering. I told myself we were on official police business, and if we were caught, we would be let off with just a warning. Unsurprisingly, that imaginary voice sounded a lot like Willie’s. The voice warning me that this time might be different sounded more like mine.

Alex stayed with the Vauxhall, parked amongst some trees at the side of Derby Stables Road between the two gated driveways. We’d taken one of those driveways to the training stables on our last visit, but this time, Gabe picked the lock on the iron gate across the driveway that led to the main house of Yew Tree Lodge. Moments later, he opened it for Willie and me.

From Alex’s vantage point, he could see anyone entering the estate. He told us he would warn us with a hooting sound mimicking a tawny owl’s call. Conversely, if we needed to be collected in a hurry, Gabe would make the same noise and Alex would bring the motorcar to the end of the driveway. With the clear, still night, the sounds would carry.

Willie, Gabe and I walked along the verge to avoid the crunching gravel. We’d decided to look through the main house. While it was possible that records were kept in an office near the stables, we assumed those files would be for the business. We were after more personal information.

The large, symmetrical manor looked like a dollhouse set in the middle of a vast smooth lawn bordered by a low hedge. We took the path that led around the side to the backyard; more lawns and hedges were swallowed in the distance by the trees.

We crept across the paved courtyard where a number of French doors presented different entry points into the house. Gabe signaled that we should try each of them. If one was open, we’d use that instead of picking a lock.

I found one of the glass doors to what I assumed to be a conservatory unlocked. I waved to get the attention of the others before entering. Moonlight flashed on an expanse of water. At first, I thought it was a pond, but closer inspection proved it to be an indoor pool.

Gabe signaled for Willie and me to follow him through to the main part of the house.

It was two AM. Everyone should be asleep. Both the family and their live-in staff would rise early for work, so had probably been in bed for hours. The large size of the house gave me a little more confidence that we wouldn’t be overheard. Even so, every creak of the floorboards and every bird call made my heart leap into my throat.

Willie was in her element. It was as if she was born for criminal activity. She stepped confidently yet quietly, and soon drew ahead of Gabe to lead us into each room on the ground floor. We studied photographs by moonlight and rifled through drawers, searching for something—anything—about a son named Ambrose.

We found nothing in the formal reception rooms, nor the library or informal sitting rooms, although there were many photographs of Ignatius Arlington’s other family members, particularly his grandson. Horses also featured prominently. I expected to see a family portrait hanging above a fireplace, but there were none. Instead, there were paintings of proud racehorses with Yew Tree Lodge in the background. In the dining room, I struck a match to provide enough light to read the brass plaque of the painting. It was inscribed with the horse’s name.

I recognized it.

I returned to the other rooms where paintings of horses occupied pride of place above the marble mantelpieces. I recognized one other name on the plaques.

There was no time to inform the others. Gabe signaled to us to follow him back to the grand entrance foyer where a sweeping staircase curved upwards to a gallery on the next level. He placed his foot on the bottom step, but hesitated.

I understood his concern. It was likely the information we needed was kept on a bedside table or in a dressing table drawer in the room where Mr. Arlington slept. Although Fred had told us Ignatius was too proud to care about his son after his accident, I suspected that was merely the facade he presented to the world. A parent would still love their child, no matter what. If we couldn’t find a photograph or paperwork in one of the unoccupied bedrooms, we’d have to sneak into Mr. Arlington’s.

But that wasn’t why Gabe hesitated. He’d changed his mind. He indicated we should follow him, but instead of going up the stairs, he took the door to the right. It led through to the kitchen and other service rooms, including an indoor bathroom used by the staff. Beyond that was another door that led to a large room at the furthest point of the house.

It was an office with French doors leading out to a private courtyard. Gabe’s instinct had proved to be right. The office was located on the lowest level with direct access to the rear of the house, allowing trainers and grooms to come and go without traipsing through the formal areas. There was even a covered porch outside for their muddy boots.

The abundance of moonlight streaming through the tall windows made it easy to search the desk, bookshelves and filing cabinet drawers. I studied all of the photographs but came to the conclusion that none featured Ambrose Arlington. The men in them were either the wrong age, or the photograph was too recent, based on the clothing styles.

I moved to one of the filing cabinets next. It was labeled HORSES, so Gabe and Willie had overlooked it in favor of the desk drawers and the other, unlabeled cabinet. I found the files for the two horses whose names I’d recognized on the painting plaques. Both files contained official certificates, letters exchanged with breeders, and details of training regimes, and races they’d competed in.

I tapped Gabe on the shoulder and pointed to Ambrose Arlington’s name, listed as trainer for both horses. Other than Fred’s word, it was the first piece of evidence we’d found that he existed.

I returned the files to the cabinet and was about to help Gabe look through the desk drawers when Willie clicked her fingers to get our attention. She clutched a stack of papers that she angled towards the moonlight so we could read them.

The topmost letter was from a surgeon at St. Thomas’s Hospital dated May 1891 and addressed to Mr. Ignatius Arlington. The surgeon said Ambrose had survived his second surgery and to pray for his full recovery. The next letter, dated July, was from the governor of the hospital writing to say that Ambrose’s situation hadn’t improved and that he still needed assistance for simple daily tasks. If he continued to show no sign of improvement, he would be transferred to Putney Private Asylum for Incurables once his wounds completely healed.

A third letter dated a month later was written on Putney Private Asylum for Incurables letterhead and stated that Ambrose had settled in, and treatment would begin the following week. The governor claimed their treatments were based on the latest medical science, but were unlikely to work on Ambrose with his extremely limited mental capacity.

The next letter, dated six months later, said Ambrose had been moved to the wing for patients who were not expected to make any further progress. He would require full-time care for the remainder of his life. The governor listed the monthly sum necessary for the care and asked for the first month to be paid in advance. The paper on which that letter was written was crumpled. It was easy to imagine a distraught Ignatius Arlington screwing it up in despair before flattening it out again and filing it with the rest of the letters relating to his son’s accident.

Willie returned the letters to the filing cabinet then softly closed the drawer. We exited the office and headed past the bathroom and service rooms, through to the kitchen. Gabe stopped suddenly in the doorway. He waved us back.

I couldn’t see past him, but I could just make out the flickering glow of candlelight coming from the kitchen. I heard a cupboard door close. A tin or jar knocked against the bench. A man coughed, then his gravelly voice filled the silence.

“Is someone there?” It was Mr. Syme. “Ignatius?”

I froze.