The Apothecary's Poison (Glass and Steele #3)(86)

I returned to Matt in the shop. "There's magic in the back room," I told him.

He didn't look up from the ledger opened in front of him. No, not a ledger, a dated diary. His finger tapped on the entry for today that read: Barratt, Gazette, 12:30.

My knees buckled. I clutched the countertop for balance.

"India?" Matt caught my elbow. "Are you all right?"

"I was wrong," I whispered, "and you were right. Barratt and Pitt are working together." I'd been a silly fool, believing a man who flattered and flirted with me over my own common sense. I was making a bad habit of it. "Clearly they know one another. It's not a great leap from there."

Matt shut the diary and slipped it back onto the shelf under the counter. "This doesn't prove anything. It could just be an innocent meeting. There are no other entries in recent weeks mentioning Barratt."

He was defending Barratt? So that I didn't feel too awful? I sniffed and blinked back hot tears.

"Don't presume until we know for sure." He pressed his hand to my lower back and steered me out of the shop. "Let's find out, shall we?"

He gave orders to the driver to take us to the office of The Weekly Gazette, post-haste.



The rhythmic clank clank of machinery grew louder upon entering the Gazette's building. They must be printing the latest edition.

No one met us in the front reception room so we headed through the door to the main room. Two men, one young, the other ancient, bent over a newspaper spread out on the desk before them. Neither had heard our entry over the press.

Matt inquired after Oscar Barratt and was told he'd taken a friend down to see the machines working. "May we see them too?" Matt asked.

"Be our guest," said the young man. "Just don't touch anything and tell the foreman you're friends of Oscar's."

Matt went to open the door the man pointed out to us, but it was locked. The younger of the two men frowned and tried the handle himself.

"It shouldn't be locked now," he said. "Not during a press run and hardly ever from the other side."

"Do you have a key?" Matt asked.

The man shook his head. "The foreman has it."

The older fellow joined us, trying the handle too. "Blast it. What's going on?"

"Go to Scotland Yard," Matt urged. "Ask for Detective Inspector Brockwell and tell him Matthew Glass sent you. He needs to come here immediately. Go!"

The young man ran nodded quickly and ran off. The older one tried the handle again and thumped his fist on the door. "Open up!"

No one could have heard him above the din. It seemed to me as if the presses grew even louder, the rumble and grind rising from the depths like a mechanical monster.

Matt reached into his pocket for his tools. "Who else is in there?" he asked.

"Just Jones, the foreman, and a packer," the elderly man said. "Once the presses start, only the two of them are required. Why? What are you going to do?"

Matt had the door unlocked in seconds but he didn't open it. He put his tools away and unbuttoned his jacket. He removed two pistols from the waistband of his trousers and handed one to the whiskered man. The old man hesitated then took it, holding it in his gnarled and knotted fingers.

"Stay here," Matt directed us both. "Use that if you need to."

The old man stared at the pistol. It shook in his hands. "Why? Who's down there with Oscar?"

Matt didn't answer but opened the door a fraction. Heat blasted through the gap as if it had been waiting for the opportunity to escape. I caught a glimpse of reams of paper slipping along a conveyer belt and a giant metal mouth opening and closing. Steam hissed and spat from the pipes, mushrooming in the air. The noise was too loud to speak over.

Matt gave me a weighty glance then disappeared inside. He shut the door.

I hadn't even told him to be careful.

The old man and I watched the door. I didn't want to look away, afraid that if I did, something bad would happen. After a moment, he lowered the gun as if it were too heavy to hold.

"Name's Baggley," he said. "I'm the editor."

"Miss Steele," I said. "I'm a friend of Mr. Barratt's."

"I saw you the last time you were here. He spoke about you afterward, and again this morning."

"He did?"

He gave me a wan smile. "He asked if anyone knew what was playing at the Savoy this Friday night as you'd agreed to see a show with him."

"Oh." Tears burned my eyes again, but this time I couldn't be sure why.

My watch, hanging on its chain around my neck, chimed.

"What is all this about anyway?" Mr. Baggley asked.

I removed my watch just as it chimed again. I stared at it, wishing I understood it better. The door suddenly burst open and crashed back on its hinges. Mr. Pitt stumbled out then stopped. He pointed a gun at my head.

I swallowed my scream but it escaped as a whimper.

"I say!" the editor said, raising his gun, but only half way.

"I knew you wouldn't be far away, Miss Steele!" Mr. Pitt shouted above the machines. He edged away from the door just as Matt raced up behind him.

He halted too as he spotted me at gunpoint. His face drained of color.