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

Chapter 16

W illie grabbed my hand and pulled me away from the kitchen door. We ran back to the office, Gabe on our heels. He closed and locked the office doors as Willie tried the French door leading to the covered porch.

They were locked.

The handle of the main door rattled as someone tried to get in from the other side. “Who’s there?” Mr. Syme called out.

Gabe removed his lock picking tools and crouched down to get to work on the porch door lock.

Mr. Syme shouted for help. “There’s an intruder! I’ve trapped him!”

Floorboards above us creaked as the household awoke. Soon, they’d be charging down the stairs with a key to the office door.

“Hurry up,” Willie hissed at Gabe.

“Ignatius, fetch a gun!” Mr. Syme’s command was directed at his father-in-law, but Willie decided it was a good idea and withdrew hers from the holster strapped to her hip.

We needed to get out before blood was shed.

Gabe finally unlocked one of the French doors and pushed it open. We ran outside. I was about to head back the way we’d come, to the front of the house and the driveway, but Gabe gripped my hand and directed me towards the nearest hedge.

We ducked behind it. It came to Gabe’s waist height. He had to crouch low, but Willie and I didn’t have as much difficulty. For once, being short was a blessing. We followed the length of the hedge in single file then, when it ended, crossed a section of open lawn, aiming for the woods in the distance.

The crack of a gunshot tore through the night air, rousing sleeping birds from their nests in a cacophony of screeches. My instinct to fling myself onto the ground and make myself as small as possible was thwarted by Gabe. He took my hand again and urged me to continue.

“It’s unlikely they can shoot accurately in the dark.”

If I wasn’t so out of breath, I would have told him that wasn’t at all comforting.

We didn’t slow even when we finally reached the trees. Gabe led the way with Willie bringing up the rear, still clutching her gun. The woods were darker than the garden, with the moonlight reaching the floor in dappled patches. Every snapping twig and thudding footstep made my heart beat faster.

The trees thinned then finally stopped altogether at the wooden fence at the edge of the estate. Gabe easily scaled it and balanced himself on the top to assist me. Once I was alongside him, he cupped my cheek as if checking to see that I was all right, before dropping softly to the ground. He grasped my waist and helped me down.

My breaths were ragged, but I wasn’t entirely sure if it was from exertion or from the way the moonlight reflected in his eyes. I wanted him to keep touching me, but he quickly let me go, balling his hands into fists at his sides.

The rumble of an engine approached along the road from the direction of Yew Tree Lodge’s main gate. We melted back against the fence. The vehicle drove slowly, the lights off, but we waited until we were sure it was the Vauxhall before stepping out.

Alex’s white teeth flashed with his grin. “Willie, what’s wrong? I only heard one gunshot and it wasn’t from a Colt.”

She flung herself onto the back seat and watched the road behind us. “I’m more responsible now. I only shoot when necessary.”

“Ha!”

“Drive!” Gabe barked as he closed his door. After a few moments, he asked Willie if we were being followed.

“Nope.” She turned to face the front and holstered her gun. “ Woo hoo ! That was more fun than the time your two pappies got drunk and accidentally set off firecrackers inside the Broken Creek Saloon.”

Gabe flicked the switch on the dashboard to turn on the headlights. Now that he could see the road better, Alex sped up.

“Were you seen?” he asked over the noise of the engine.

“Only in silhouette,” Gabe said. “We were in a dark corridor, so Syme wouldn’t have seen my face.”

“Learn anything?”

“Ambrose was placed in Putney Private Asylum for Incurables a few months after his accident. Despite undergoing two surgeries, he was permanently affected.”

“The asylum changed its name years ago to the Putney Hospital and Home for Incurables. I’ve never been, but I’ve heard it’s expensive. He should be well cared for there.”

That didn’t endear me to Ignatius Arlington. Aside from those letters, the only other record of Ambrose was the paperwork mentioning him as trainer. There wasn’t even a single photograph.

“There were paintings of two horses that were mentioned in Daniel’s ledgers,” I told Alex.

“It all fits,” Gabe said. “Ambrose was operating as an illegal bookmaker. He paid Arthur Cody to dope his two horses before races to make sure they won, then raked in the prize money. He then stopped doping them, so they stopped winning, and as a bookmaker, he collected.”

“Don’t forget he paid Ferryman the iron magician, too,” Alex added. “Probably just to make sure.”

That explained something that hadn’t made sense to me. I’d recognized the names of the horses from the ledgers, but they’d been written alongside jockey names. The only reason a bookmaker would pay a jockey would be to throw races, so the horses must have lost. If they were champions at that point after winning races thanks to being doped with cocaine, or wearing shoes containing magic, then the bookmaker who collected bets on them would have made a fortune when they later lost. I assumed the punters didn’t know the identity of the illegal bookmaker or they never would have trusted him, given he was also the trainer.

We returned to London where a few merry souls enjoyed the sound of their voices echoing on the otherwise empty streets. Willie joined in the merriment with a cheer every time we passed a group of young men stumbling along the pavement. She even sang the chorus of It's a Long Way to Tipperary with four drunkards who could hardly stand, let alone sing in tune.

Gabe shushed her when we turned onto my street. “You’ll wake Sylvia’s landlady.”

Mrs. Parry didn’t know I’d left after curfew, wearing a pair of black trousers I’d borrowed from Willie. Although she didn’t mind her lodgers staying out after curfew if we’d left earlier in the evening, she didn’t like it when we left the house after she’d locked up. She wanted to know where we were and when we’d be home. Although her rule could be restrictive at times, I quite liked having a motherly figure fuss over me.

Gabe opened his door to escort me to the house, but Willie grabbed his shoulder from behind and pinned him to the seat.

“Stay there,” she said. “I’ll go.”

Previously, Gabe would have insisted. Not this time. He was still determined that we should keep our distance where possible.

Before I closed the motorcar door, I asked him to bring the transcribed ledgers to the library in the morning. I wanted to check something.

He had a better idea. “Come directly to Park Street first thing, instead of the library. We’ll travel from there to Putney.”

Willie looped her arm through mine and walked with me to my front door. She hummed It's a Long Way to Tipperary softly, and in the light from the streetlamp, I could see her smile.

“Did you have a few nips of brandy while we weren’t looking?” I asked.

“I’m drunk on adventure and danger.”

She would have been an excellent ambulance driver in the war with an attitude like that, although she would have been an equally good soldier. The British army missed out by not allowing women to enlist.

I telephoned the professor from Gabe’s house to tell him I would come in to work later. He told me to take the entire day to investigate if necessary. I returned to Gabe’s library where he waited with a leather document holder. Alex sat in one of the armchairs, his long legs outstretched, and his eyes closed. I thought he was asleep, but he opened them upon my return and yawned.

“Where’s Willie?” I asked. “Did she oversleep again?”

As if I’d summoned her, she strode into the room, muttering some colorful words under her breath. “We got a visitor.”

Gabe shrugged at me. “Yes, I can see that. Sylvia’s right?—”

“Not her. Coming up the steps now. It’s Miss Hoity Toity herself. I saw her through the window.”

“Ivy?” Alex asked.

“That’ll save me a visit,” Gabe said. “I was going to call on them later and advise them to admit that a batch of boots missed receiving magic when Bertie was in charge during the war.”

The door knocker banged just as Willie told Gabe that she thought it was a bad idea to warn the Hobsons. Her colorful language left us in no doubt that she didn’t like his plan. Alex also shook his head.

While I could see their point, I could also see Gabe’s. He had a history with the family. He’d once cared for Ivy. His conscience wouldn’t allow him to stand by as they dug a deeper hole for themselves.

Moments later Murray announced Ivy then stepped aside. She swanned into the library, blinking long lashes darkened with makeup, only to stop when she spotted me. She forced a smile and we all managed to politely exchange greetings.

With that over, she turned to Gabe. “May we speak in private?”

He refused. “I’m just going to tell them what you tell me anyway, so let’s save time and talk in here.”

Her spine stiffened at his tense tone, rippling the delicate chiffon fabric of her sleeves. Daisy would have admired Ivy’s dress, while simultaneously ridiculing her for wearing such an elegant outfit for a social call. It was the sort of dress one wore to a day at the races attended by a member of the royal family. The drop-waist suited Ivy’s tall, slim figure, and the silver leaves embroidered down the front panel must have taken a pieceworker several days to complete.

Ivy blinked her lashes at Gabe again, perhaps hoping that would soften him. “I came to apologize for my mother’s behavior at the ball the other night.”

Gabe indicated me. “How fortuitous that Sylvia is here to hear it.”

Ivy stopped blinking. “It is.” She reached out a hand to him but changed her mind and quickly returned it to her side. “I’d like to say how sorry I am that my mother spoke rudely to you. To you both,” she added with a nod for me.

Gabe waited. The room fell silent.

Ivy cleared her throat. “You seem to be waiting for more. I know why, and I’d like to assure you those rumors were not started by my mother. Or me. Someone must have learned those things about Sylvia from someone else, and once they learned she’d attended the ball under a false name, they began to talk. They were upset at the presence of an uninvited guest.”

“The name wasn’t false,” I said. “But I see your point. I’ll write a note to the hostess and apologize.” I doubted it would do any good except to make me feel a little better.

Ivy glanced my way, but I might as well not have spoken. She all but ignored me. “I also came to tell you that my father is ill.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Gabe said. “I was going to call on him later. There’s something I need to tell him.”

“He’s too ill for visitors.”

Willie grunted, clearly not believing her.

“You may tell me,” Ivy added. “I’ll pass on your message.”

Gabe invited her to sit. “You need to encourage your father to come clean to the police about the batch of boots that missed their spell.”

I wondered why he’d mentioned the police and not Jakes, but then I realized he probably thought it best to leave Military Intelligence out of it. The police would inform them of any necessary developments.

Ivy shot to her feet. “As my parents have said, we did our bit for the war effort. These accusations are unfair and unfounded.”

“The authorities know Bertie is artless.”

She started to laugh but stopped when she saw he was serious. “Bertie is a magician. Gabe…why are you saying such things? You never used to be like this.” She didn’t look at me, but she seemed to blame me for influencing him.

“During one of our investigations, we discovered he was a patient at Rosebank Gardens Hospital in 1913. At that time, the doctors there claimed they could draw out the magic from the artless children of magicians.”

The rapid blinking returned, but this time it was less flirtatious and more confusion. “He went there to rest. He’d been having a difficult time of it at school and needed somewhere quiet for his nerves. You know him. He’s always been shy. The world isn’t a kind place for men with nervous dispositions, and boys can be particularly cruel. I can assure you he wasn’t there to draw out his magic. He already possessed it.”

I believed her. Or, more precisely, I believed that she believed it. Her parents would have told her only what they thought she needed to know, and she had no reason to doubt them. She truly thought Bertie had been admitted to Rosebank simply to rest.

Did she also believe he was a magician? Or was that part a lie? I wasn’t quite sure.

She made her excuses and Murray showed her out. After she’d gone, Willie gave her verdict without being asked. “She’s as cunning as her mother. You can’t believe anything either of them say. There ain’t no one else who would attack Sylvia’s character at the ball. Mrs. H must have started the rumors and Ivy knew it. If Ivy lied about that, she prob’ly lied about other things.” She poked a finger at Gabe’s chest. “Don’t you fall for her fluttery eyelashes.”

“There’s not a chance of that.” Gabe leveled his gaze with mine. “Not a chance.”

My face heated and my pulse quickened. My determination to keep him at a distance wasn’t going well. I could feel my resolve crumbling a little more every time he looked directly at me.

Willie stepped between us, severing the connection. “Sylvia wanted to see the transcripts of the ledgers.”

Gabe cleared his throat. “Yes. Right.” He handed me the leather document holder. “Are you looking for the names of those horses?”

I nodded as I removed the transcribed pages covered with Huon’s untidy writing. I flipped through the ones listing the bookmaker’s expenses until I found the horse names scrawled alongside other names that we suspected were jockeys.

I pointed to the entries as I read. “Macintosh riding Arabian Prince. Macintosh riding My Tribune. Goreman riding My Tribune. And here, Goreman appears again beside Arabian Prince. Those were two of the horses that Arlington trained.”

“Goreman!” Willie slapped a hand on her thigh. “We knew it! This is proof he was part of the bookmaker’s scheme.”

“Not quite proof,” Alex said. “These pages only prove that he rode a horse trained by Arlington stables, not that he took money to throw the race.”

Willie flicked the pages I held with the back of her hand. “But why would the bookmaker pay him if not to throw the race?”

“It won’t hold up in court.”

“It’s enough to question him.”

“It is,” Gabe agreed. “But first, we need to see if Ambrose Arlington is still alive. If he is, perhaps he can shed some light on who killed Daniel. He managed the operation. He’s the key.”

“Those letters we found at Arlington’s suggested he can’t speak,” Willie said.

“They were written years ago. His condition may have improved. Or he could be dead by now. Either way, I want to know for sure.”

Putney Hospital and Home for Incurables reminded me of Rosebank Gardens, but without the extensive grounds. Like Rosebank, the manor had once been a private home. A family crest of two crossed swords and a lion still appeared above the colonnaded entrance. Inside, the homeliness continued with a portrait of a dapper gentleman hanging above a stunning bouquet of blue hydrangeas in a vase on the sideboard. The plaque stated the gentleman had bequeathed the house to the asylum in 1801. Brightly colored oriental rugs and wooden wall paneling exuded warmth, and the pretty nurse dressed in a crisp white uniform seated at the desk gave us an equally warm smile.

It disappeared when Gabe introduced us as consultants for Scotland Yard.

“Can you confirm whether you have a patient here by the name of Ambrose Arlington?” he asked.

“We do,” she said, hesitantly.

“May we see him, please?”

“Why?”

“We need to ask him some questions.”

“He can’t answer you. He doesn’t speak.”

“Can he communicate using a different method?”

“No, Mr. Glass, he cannot. Mr. Arlington, like many of our patients in the West Ward, is entirely dependent on the staff.”

“May we see him anyway?”

“Why? He won’t be of any use to you.”

“I insist.”

Her lips thinned. “Wait here.” She pushed open an adjoining door, revealing a man seated behind a desk.

At her request, he emerged from the office and greeted us, somewhat warily. He introduced himself as the governor, Mr. Finley-Cross. He wasn’t the same governor who’d written the letters to Ignatius Arlington in 1891. “I understand you want to see Ambrose Arlington.”

“We do,” Gabe said.

“As the nurse told you, he can’t help you. He hasn’t spoken in twenty-nine years.”

“Even so.”

“Very well. But I request just two of you come with me and the other two stay here. We don’t want to frighten the residents with a large group.”

Alex volunteered to stay, but Willie clearly wanted to go with Gabe. When he told her to remain behind with Alex, she protested.

“Sylvia ain’t going to protect you in there.”

“You saw on the way here that nobody followed us. I’ll be fine.”

“Remember what happened last time you went to a hospital with just her,” she grumbled.

Mr. Finley-Cross indicated the open register on the desk. “All visitors must sign first.”

Gabe signed his name and wrote the date and the name of the patient we came to visit, then handed the pen to me to do the same.

The governor headed up the stairs. “Mr. Arlington’s room is on the upper floor.”

“Isn’t he immobile?” Gabe asked. “Wouldn’t it be easier to give him a room on the ground floor given he’s wheelchair-bound?”

“He doesn’t leave his room.”

“Not even for fresh air?” I asked.

“There’s no point. When you see him, you’ll understand. May I ask why your investigation has led you to Mr. Arlington?”

“It’s confidential,” Gabe said.

The governor led us up two flights of stairs and along a corridor. The hospital was eerily quiet given it must house dozens of patients as well as staff. We passed young nurses doing their rounds. Their greetings to Mr. Finley-Cross were cordial, but their smiles were for Gabe’s benefit.

We stopped at a door numbered twenty-eight. Mr. Finley-Cross entered without knocking and stepped aside so we could see the man in the bed.

He sat up, two pillows at his back. His head lolled forward, as if too heavy to be held up by his neck, and his arms lay loosely on the bedcovers, the palms up and fingers curled. He was dressed in striped pajamas and needed a shave, but his gray hair had been neatly combed.

“This is Ambrose Arlington,” Mr. Finley-Cross announced. “As you can see, he can’t help you with your inquiries.”

“Good morning, Mr. Arlington,” Gabe said.

“Don’t bother. He won’t respond.”

“Can he hear me?”

“We don’t know. If he can, he’s incapable of showing a sign.”

Gabe sat on the edge of the bed as there was no chair. “My name is Gabriel Glass, and this is Miss Ashe. If you can hear me, can you give me a sign? Can you make a sound? Or move your fingers?”

Ambrose didn’t move. Not even a hiss passed his lips. He was utterly still and silent except for the occasional blink.

Gabe didn’t persist and we left the soulless room with its lonely patient. I was no medical professional and didn’t know whether Ambrose could have recovered if he was in a more stimulating environment, but it wouldn’t hurt to try. At the very least, position him by the window so he could look out of it.

“Does anyone visit him?” I asked as we walked back along the corridor.

Mr. Finley-Cross shook his head. “Not since his mother died. She used to visit on his birthday.”

One visitor, once a year. No matter what illegal activity Ambrose had been involved in before his accident, he didn’t deserve this.

Gabe must have been thinking the same thing. “Some medical professionals are making remarkable progress with returned soldiers suffering head injuries. Their methods might work on the patients here.”

“Those institutions are funded by the government. Ours is privately funded. Our clients pay for the day-to-day care of their family members, not experimental therapies that are unlikely to help and will only cost more.”

As much as I wanted to protest, I knew it would change nothing. Men like Ignatius Arlington, who kept no visible reminder of his son at home, wouldn’t pay unless a full recovery was guaranteed. Ambrose was lost to him long ago.

We rejoined Alex and Willie in the foyer. At their questioning looks, Gabe merely shook his head.

He turned to Mr. Finley-Cross. “May we look at the visitor records for Ambrose Arlington, going back to his admission in ’91?”

“Of course.” He pointed at the register on the nurse’s desk. “At the end of each day, the nurse on desk duty transcribes each name from the visitors’ book to the patient files. Some patients show signs of recognition when they have a particular visitor, you see, and that helps give us a clearer picture of the extent of their condition. In Mr. Arlington’s case, there has never been a sign, but we keep a record of his visitors nevertheless.”

He led us through to his office where he plucked a slim volume from a bookshelf containing dozens like it. Ambrose Arlington’s name and date of birth were written on labels stuck to the spine and front cover. Gabe scanned each of the pages before handing it to me. Only the first few pages had writing, the rest were blank.

Given Gabe’s perusal had been so quick, I assumed it contained nothing of interest. But that wasn’t the case.

In twenty-nine years, Ambrose received only two visitors. The repetition of Mrs. Arlington’s name, appearing on the same day every year, was broken only once.

In 1916, the same year he was arrested for importing and selling cocaine, Arthur Cody visited.