The Apothecary's Poison (Glass and Steele #3)(27)

"That's what you think?" Mr. Pitt scrunched the cloth still in his hand and wiped the counter in a slow arc. He took his time answering. "I have my suspicions, but I'm not certain. And no, I will not name the man I suspect. It wouldn't be fair."

"We wish him no harm," Matt said. "We just want to question him."

"I can't do it. I'm sorry. If the guild gets wind of it, they'll persecute him. He could lose his license, and the man has children to provide for."

Not children and a wife? Could he have omitted that point because the man was now a widower? Like Mr. Oakshot?

"Do you have any further questions?" Mr. Pitt asked.

"Just one," Matt said. "The journalist for The Weekly Gazette told us that Dr. Hale talked to him freely about his magic. If he feared the guild, why would he do that?"

"That's the problem. Jonathon didn't fear the guild, because he was not a practicing apothecary—and because he was a fool. His head was completely turned by that journalist. Bloody irresponsible, pardon my language, Miss Steele."

"I don't understand," I said, giving up on detecting for magical warmth. "What do you mean, ‘his head was turned?’"

"The reporter fellow had the grand idea that magicians and artless could live peacefully together, without fear or jealousy. I tried to tell him otherwise, but Jonathon wouldn't listen to me. The reporter got in his ear, telling him how wonderful life could be if everyone got along." He clicked his tongue. "That fellow ought to be ashamed of himself for bringing attention to magic. Who knows, he may have inadvertently caused Jonathon's death by writing that article about his 'medical miracle.'"

I bristled. "You can't blame the victim for being murdered. It's entirely the murderer's fault."

"I'm not blaming the victim, Miss Steele. I'm blaming that reporter. It's the magicians he writes about who are the victims, not him."

I stamped down on my temper, not entirely sure why I was so angry. Oscar Barratt had noble intentions. Intentions that he must now set aside until the murderer was found. In a way, he was a victim.

"Thank you, Mr. Pitt," Matt said. "We'll purchase a bottle of Cure-All then leave you alone. My housekeeper's stock is low."

I returned to the clock while Mr. Pitt wrapped up a bottle for Matt. I opened the glass casing and corrected the minute hand.

"Thank you, Miss Steele," Mr. Pitt said, looking up from his wrapping. "I have to adjust it every day, but I forgot this morning, what with all the newspaper reports on Jonathon's death to read."

"Every day?" I asked. "It must need fixing. Do you want me to have a look?"

"You know about clocks?"

"My father used to own a shop."

"We don't have time." Matt scooped up the wrapped bottle from the counter before Mr. Pitt could hand it to him. "Thank you, Mr. Pitt. You've been helpful." He opened the door for me and waited with an arched look.

I sighed, closed the clock casing, and exited the shop. "It wouldn't have taken long," I told him as I passed.

Matt continued to hold the door open for a gentleman using a silver-topped walking stick. His carriage waited behind ours.

"Good morning, my lord," Mr. Pitt greeted him.

I was pleased to see that Mr. Pitt hadn't lost everyone's custom. Or perhaps the lord hadn't read the papers yet.

I climbed into the coach while Matt gave Bryce the address to Mr. Oakshot's factory, then he sat opposite me. He regarded me with a slight frown. "You feel compelled to fix clocks and watches, don't you?"

"I don't like seeing time running slow, if that's what you mean."

"You need to fix them, to handle them."

"Are you going to take my watch away from me again and turn all the clocks around?" I clutched my reticule tighter. "It was somewhat amusing the first time, but you proved your point. There's no need to do it again."

He smiled crookedly. "No, India, I'm not."

Even so, I did not loosen my grip. "What do you think of Pitt?"

"Intelligent, cautious, perhaps not telling us the entire truth," he said.

"Why do you think that?"

"He had smooth answers for every question."

A bubble of laughter rose up my throat. "Oh, Matt, if that were a crime, you would be under arrest every day. You are the smoothest man I've ever met."

"I'm utterly sincere," he protested.

"Having ready, smooth answers to everything doesn't make you insincere. The same for Mr. Pitt. I think you're mistaken about him. I think he's simply not all that upset by Dr. Hale's death, but I don't think he had any part in it. I believe him when he says he's not magical. I detected no warmth in any of his medicines whatsoever. And besides, he had more to lose than gain from Dr. Hale's death. No one will touch his Cure-All, now that the newspapers have revealed it was the murder weapon, of sorts. He'll lose business."

Matt removed his hat and dragged his hand through his hair, ruffling it. For a brief moment, he didn't look at all like the gentleman he usually presented but more like the outlaw his mother's family wanted him to be. But then he smoothed down his hair and replaced his hat back on his head. I sighed. Both versions of Matt were utterly, devastatingly handsome, and very much forbidden to me.