The Watchmaker's Daughter (Glass and Steele #1)(73)

I took it up to my rooms and used my tools to open the housing at the dressing table. The mechanism consisted of wheels and screws, tiny springs, pinions, and an escapement, just like an ordinary watch. I'd worked on hundreds like it. Any watchmaker could have made it. According to the etching in the metal, it was made by A.W. Waltham, NY.

New York. It was an American watch. So why was Matt scouring London for his watchmaker? Surely he had looked inside the case and seen the maker's name.

I closed the watchcase and stared at it for a long time. Somehow this watch grew warm when I touched it, and when Matt did too. Somehow it came to life. And somehow it was responsible for keeping Matt alive.

Magic.

The word flittered through my mind like a butterfly, daintily and carefully at first, but growing louder, stronger, with each passing second. I tried to dismiss it, but couldn't.

I slipped the watch into my waistcoat pocket where it soon warmed the skin over my lower ribs. I raced downstairs and out the door.



Vine Street Police Station cast a long shadow in the late afternoon and presented an austere front to the world. Iron bars covered the windows at street level and a bobby stood at the door, stiff and tall. More visitors than I would have expected came and went, though there were few constables. Most would use the rear courtyard entrance after apprehending criminals, I supposed. Which barred window housed Matt and the others? Or did their holding cell not have a window?

I plucked up some courage and strode past the constable at the door. "Afternoon, miss," he said.

Inside was much like any office, only staffed with uniformed policemen. Behind the long front counter ranged several desks, and I spotted no less than four doors leading into the wings of the vast building. I inquired after Matt at the counter where the bushy-browed policeman glowered back at me.

"He's not allowed visitors," he said, returning to his paperwork.

The watch in my waistcoat pocket throbbed. "Can you give him something for me?"

"No," he said without looking up.

I blew out a breath. "I only need to see him for a moment. You can have someone accompany me to make sure I don't help him escape."

My attempt at a joke was met with a scowl. He picked up his pen and dipped it into the inkwell. The scratching on the ledger page grated on my already taut nerves.

"May I speak with Detective Inspector Nunce?" I asked.

"Regarding?"

"Regarding Mr. Matthew Glass."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because you're going to waste his valuable time by asking him if you can visit Glass in the holding cells, and he's only going to tell you the same thing I have—no."

"You could at least look at me when you speak to me."

He lifted his gaze but not his head. "No." He returned to his ledger.

The watch in my pocket pulsed again, stronger this time. What did it expect me to do? "Please tell Inspector Nunce that I'd like to see him."

The constable sighed. "Miss, I told you, he's busy."

"It's a matter of life and death!" I punctuated the sentence with a slap of my hand on the counter. A dozen heads looked up from their paperwork.

The constable rolled his eyes and muttered what sounded like "Bloody women," under his breath.

The door nearest me burst open and Nunce himself barreled through. "Fetch a doctor!"

"Sir?" the bobby asked.

"A doctor!" Nunce pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his sweating brow.

My blood chilled. "Is the doctor for Mr. Glass?"

Nunce narrowed his gaze at me. "You're from Glass's house."

"I'm his aunt's companion. She's Lord Rycroft's sister."

"No need to tell me again. His friends keep on saying it, too, and I don't bloody care if he's the Prince of Wales. He's not going nowhere until he faces trial. Unless he dies, of course. It ain't looking too good for him."

Oh God. I clutched my throat, and gathered my scattered wits. "Please, Inspector, I need to see him. For his aunt's sake." I had an idea, and before he could refuse me entry, I said, "I have his medicine."

"What sort of medicine?"

"It's in this vessel." I pulled out the watch. "I know it doesn't look medicinal, but American manufacturers like to make their medicine bottles into novelties. So Mr. Glass tells me." Please don't ask me to open it.

"I'm not sure it'll be able to help him," Nunce said. "He's unconscious."

I covered my gasp with my hand. Tears welled in my eyes. "It's not too late. Please don't let him die, sir, when help is at hand."

He lifted the barrier. "Come through."

He had the constable check me for weapons. When he gave the all-clear, I hurried after Nunce, along lime-washed corridors and past wooden doors, all closed. Each door housed a small rectangular panel designed to slide open and allow communication between those inside and those without.

Someone thumped on one of the doors as we passed, and others called out, their voices muffled by the thick walls. Up ahead, three constables surrounded a door. One looked through the panel and was calling to the person on the other side. There was no answer.

"Still out of it, sir," the bobby said when Nunce inquired after Matt's state.