Chapter 4

Keeping Matt at home now, after I'd agreed to help Mrs. Pyke find her husband, proved to be an impossible task. After an hour of alternately arguing with him and giving him the silent treatment, I gave up. He was not going to let me take on this case alone.

The problem was, where to start our investigation?

Willie was convinced we should confront Lord Coyle first. "He's linked to this. I know he is."

Duke rolled his eyes. "You don't know that. There ain't no link between Coyle and Pyke."

"I'd wager good money he's involved somehow. If I had money."

Cyclops suggested we speak to Detective Inspector Brockwell. "Find out if the police know anything."

"They turned Mrs. Pyke away when she tried to report him missing," Willie pointed out. "Jasper won't be able to help. It's a local matter."

Duke scratched his sideburns. "Maybe he's got a lover and that's why he didn't come home. Maybe he left her."

"An investigation will prove that, one way or another," Matt said. "I think we should begin by searching his workshop. According to Mrs. Pyke, someone in a carriage visited her husband there. His disappearance may or may not be linked to that visitor, but we have nothing else to go on right now."

It was agreed and Matt ordered the carriage to be brought around. When it arrived, I left the house first, followed by Willie who stood on the pavement and looked up and down the street.

"All clear," she announced.

Matt exited the house, squashed between the hulking figure of Cyclops and the stocky one of Duke. They bundled him into the carriage and climbed in after him.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered.

Nobody answered. It might seem ridiculous, but it was not amusing.

Mrs. Pyke had given us her husband's spare shop key. Once we had the door open, we ushered Matt inside and closed it again. We had made the journey without incident. It was no small feat. I breathed out a measured breath as I leaned back against the door.

It was dim in the shop, and Willie reached for the curtain to open it.

"No," both Matt and I told her.

"We don't want anyone seeing us in here," he said.

The smell of wool fibers was a surprisingly comforting one. It made me think of home. The shop was quite large with rugs of all different colors, thickness and texture spread over the floor, stacked on top of each other, and hung on the walls like tapestries. I touched a green, brown and black Oriental but it held no magical warmth.

Indeed, few did. "Only the most elaborately woven ones have magic," I said after touching a gold and crimson rug that would suit a manor house drawing room. "This one and those two. The rest are just ordinary rugs."

Duke, who'd been caressing a hall runner on the floor, suddenly lay down on it and spread out his arms. "The pile is luxurious."

"That ain't one of the magic ones," Willie told him.

"It still feels nice. Come down here and see for yourself."

She got down on her hands and knees and fingered the carpet fibers. "It is soft. Cyclops, come and feel it."

Cyclops looked at them as if they were mad. "I'll check the workshop."

He removed a lamp from the hook by the door and lit it. Matt followed him into the rear workshop.

I sat on the chair at the sales desk and rifled through swatches of carpet samples, all of which were infused with magic. Mr. Pyke must want to keep them fresh and strong so they'd look good, despite being touched by numerous hands.

There were some outstanding invoices to be paid from wool merchants and dyers in the desk drawer. Some went back several months and had ‘Pay immediately' written in bold on them. Mr. Pyke must have been having some financial difficulty. I flicked through a notepad that appeared to be used to work out floor area and costs, then set it aside to look through the ledger of orders.

I started from the most recent entry, two days ago and worked backwards. I wasn't expecting to find a name I recognized so when I saw it, my heart skipped a beat.

"Look at this," I said to Duke who was still inspecting the carpets. Willie had joined Matt and Cyclops out the back. I showed him the ledger, pointing to the name.

"Lady Coyle! What was Hope doing here?"

"Ordering a rug, of course. Four, in fact."

He squinted and leaned closer to the page. "Is that a mark next to each order?"

I bent my head, but the light was quite poor. "See if the others are finished with the lamp."

He returned a moment later carrying the lamp with Matt, Cyclops and Willie in tow. He held the lamp closer to the ledger. "It's an asterisk."

I flipped back another page. "Here's another order with an asterisk. Good lord!"

Matt leaned over my shoulder. "What is it?"

"Professor Nash ordered a rug from Mr. Pyke just before Christmas." I tapped my finger on the entry. "And there's an asterisk placed beside the order too."

"It wasn't a very big rug."

I looked further back through the ledger and although there were a few more entries with asterisks, I didn't recognize the customers' names. "It must refer to those carpets where Mr. Pyke used his magic."

"Makes sense," Willie said. "Hope would know he was a magician through Coyle, and Nash knew…how?"

"Through the magic grapevine," I said with a shrug. "He has several contacts, so if he was in the market for a new rug, he must have asked around. That doesn't mean he's a suspect, but the Coyles are."

"Why?" Matt asked.

"Well, because…" In truth, I couldn't think of a reason why they should be suspects and not Professor Nash. "If nothing else, it proves Lord Coyle knew Mr. Pyke was a magician. When Hope suggested she needed a new carpet, her husband would have advised her to come here and get the best." I closed the ledger and returned it to the desk then showed them the invoices. "Most of those are outstanding. Mr. Pyke owed a lot of money to his suppliers."

"That explains why he went to the newspapers," Matt said.

"And gave them his name," Duke added. "Free advertising. He hoped it would bring more customers here."

Mr. Pyke must have noticed how the wealthy were receptive to buying magical goods after Oscar's book was published. He would have hoped to turn that interest to his own advantage, and what better way to advertise his status as a wool magician than through a newspaper that was circulated widely throughout the city.

But he was also risking expulsion from his guild. According to Catherine, they had revoked his membership, but it wasn't clear if that happened as a result of the article or happened before he spoke to the journalist.

"Did you find anything useful in the workshop?" I asked.

Matt sat on the edge of the desk. "Nothing. But what stands out to me is the lack of any signs of a struggle. There's no blood or scratches, nothing overturned. Everything appears to be in its place, as if he tidied up at the end of the day and was about to head home."

If nothing else, it narrowed down the time of his disappearance. It must have happened after he locked up for the day and before he got home. "We should find out what route he usually took between work and his house. Perhaps someone saw him being bundled into a carriage."

It was a chilling thought. My nerves were so frayed by it, that I jumped when the front door suddenly opened. I wasn't the only one.

Willie drew her gun. "Halt! Don't move or I'll shoot."

The elderly fellow put up his hands. "Blimey, don't do that! Take what you want, I won't stop you, but I don't think you'll find any money on the premises."

Matt put a hand to the barrel of Willie's gun and pushed it down. "Put it away."

"He might be trying to kill you!"

"I swear, I'm not going to kill no one!" the man cried. "I saw some movement in here and thought I better look. Mr. Pyke, the owner, would have wanted me to. But I'll pretend I never saw you. Carry on thieving." He backed out.

"Wait!" Matt said. "We're not thieving, we're investigating Mr. Pyke's disappearance."

The man reappeared around the door again. "Oh. Then why is he pointing a gun at me?"

"I'm a she, and I was just being careful," Willie said.

He touched the brim of his cap. "Sorry, ma'am, didn't notice your…um…"

"Please come inside," I said, rising. "My name is India Glass. This is my husband and these are our associates."

He shook the hands of all the men, bobbed his head at me, and looked Willie up and down. He must be contemplating what sort of greeting to give her. "My name's Marr. I have a leather goods store next door."

His arrival would save us a visit. The less wandering around we did outside, in the open, the better. "Mrs. Pyke asked us to help locate her husband," I said. "He has disappeared."

Mr. Marr removed his cap and scratched his bald head. He was a small elderly man with a slight stoop and white whiskers. He wore a leather apron over his clothes and leather gloves of good quality. "So Mrs. Pyke told me this morning when she came here first thing looking for him. She knocked on my door before I opened and asked me when I'd last seen him."

"And when did you last see him?" Matt asked.

"Yesterday. He locked up at five."

"Is that the usual time he leaves?"

"Aye. Five o'clock every day, like clockwork. He likes to be home in time for an early supper at five thirty."

"Does he walk home?" I asked.

Mr. Marr nodded.

"Did you see him go?"

Another nod. "I was standing in the doorway as I often do at that time, to say good evening to my neighbors. It's just a friendly way to end the day, and many who don't live above their shops leave at that time. Me, I live upstairs so I don't close until five-thirty."

"How did he seem?"

He frowned in thought. "Now that you mention it, he was distracted. He's always cheerful, always asks how my day has been. But yesterday he only waved after I called out goodnight."

"And then?" Matt asked.

"And then he went on his way."

"Alone?"

"Aye, and he walked off in the same direction as always, down Courser Street."

That confirmed our theory that he wasn't kidnapped from here, if he was kidnapped at all. "Did Mr. Pyke have a, er, particular friend he might have stayed with last night?" Even as I asked the question, I could hear Aunt Letitia's voice in my head admonishing me. Asking a man if his acquaintance had a lover was terribly vulgar, in anyone's book.

Mr. Marr tucked his hands into his apron pocket and hunched his shoulders. "No, ma'am. He was devoted to Mrs. Pyke."

"Mrs. Pyke said her husband had a visitor yesterday at lunchtime," Matt said. "She saw the carriage leave but not who was in it. She claimed Mr. Pyke was not himself after that encounter. Did you see who it was?"

"No, sir. He gets ladies coming here from time to time in their carriages to look at his carpets. It's not unusual."

"Do you know if he has ever had an encounter with a gentleman or lady that has left him worried?"

Mr. Marr stroked his whiskers. "There was one encounter with a fellow, but he wasn't a gen'leman. The day before yesterday, it was. I remember it because I could hear the man shouting so I came in to see if Mr. Pyke was all right. The man left, thankfully. Don't know what the two of us would have done if he kept on. He was a big fellow and I'm not as young as I used to be."

"What were they arguing about?"

"Magic."

A sense of dread settled like lead in my stomach. "Go on."

"Seems like everyone in the whole city has read that book with the orange cover. Everyone's talking about it and speculating about who might be a magician and who ain't. It never occurred to me that Mr. Pyke is one, but I haven't looked at his rugs lately." He gazed around the shop at the carpets before focusing on me again. "The fellow accused Mr. Pyke of being a magician, and told him he was cheating and taking customers away from honest rug makers like himself."

"Did Mr. Pyke say who he was?" Matt asked.

"No, but I reckon you only have to go to the wool guild and describe the fellow. He was real distinctive. Young, tall and solid." He angled his chin toward Cyclops. "A Goliath, like your friend there, but with ginger hair."

We thanked him and he bobbed his head and left.

Willie returned her gun to the waistband of her trousers. "We'll go to the wool guild and find this fellow. It's got to be him."

Duke disagreed. "We have to follow the same route Pyke walked last night after he left here. Someone might have seen something."

"Walking through the streets is too dangerous for Matt," Cyclops pointed out. "You and Willie can do that. Matt, India and me will go on to the guild."

"Do I get a say in this?" Matt asked.

"No," Cyclops, Duke and Willie said.

"Of course you do," I said. "Go on. What would you like to say?"

Matt strode to the door, catching everyone unawares. We raced after him. "I think it's a good plan."

I smiled to myself.

With Matt safely ensconced in the carriage, Willie asked Woodall for the quickest route to Mr. Pyke's house via Courser Street, then Cyclops asked Woodall if he knew where to find the wool guild. Our coachman was better than a map. According to the man himself, he knew the streets of London better than he knew his own face.

We set off a few moments later leaving Duke and Willie to walk. I peered through the rear window for the entirety of the journey and breathed a sigh of relief when we reached the guild hall. We had not been followed.

According to the sign etched in stone above the lintel, the building belonged to the Worshipful Company of Woolmen. The coat of arms depicted a wool pack on a red shield crested with a gold spinning wheel. The colors had faded and part of the motto had come off completely, but Matt managed to translate the Latin as Wool is our Hope.

It was a reminder of how ancient these guilds were. The building looked as though it had stood for hundreds of years. Its solid stonework and elaborate carvings of spinning wheels spoke of wealth, but that wealth must have been from years past. Today, the windows were dark with soot, one had been boarded over, and the building itself was modest compared to its neighbors. Where once it would have been the grandest structure on the street, it was now the smallest, dwarfed by a bank on one side and a theater on the other.

But it wasn't just the building that was old, it was the entire concept. Why did a craftsman need to belong to a guild? What was the point? If it was to regulate the industry, then we now had laws to ensure a customer got what they paid for. Where the law failed, the reputation of the cheating tradesman was denounced in the media.

From what I knew of the Watchmaker's Guild, my father paid an annual fee to belong and that gave him a license to trade, but it didn't protect him if a customer refused to pay. Nor did it protect him if he had a dispute with suppliers, or was having financial difficulty. Guild members rallied around a member's family when he died, but friends and family did that too. It was an outdated and somewhat meaningless institution for the modern craftsman.

Our knock was answered by an elderly porter wearing a cap and tweed livery that looked more suited to a hunting party in the country than city living, but at least it would be warm. I wondered if the guild outfitted him with a lighter livery to wear in summer.

He smiled amiably through his wiry gray whiskers. "Good morning. How may I assist?"

Aware of how exposed Matt was on the porch, I strode inside without being invited. Matt followed, and I shut the door myself. Cyclops remained on watch outside. "We are Mr. and Mrs. Gaskell," I said, using the name of one of my favorite authors. We'd decided on the false names in the carriage. India Glass was like poison in the guilds these days. Whenever we called on a guild, we'd discovered Mr. Abercrombie had beaten us and used his influence as a former guild master to blacken my name.

The porter, an elderly, stooped man, had pursed his lips over a set of false teeth too large for his mouth as we pushed past him, and he continued to regard us as uninvited interlopers. "How may I help you?" he asked stiffly.

It was time to turn on the sweetness to make up for our rude entry. "Forgive us for barging in like this, it's just that I'm so thrilled to finally see the inside of the famous London home of the Worshipful Company of Woolmen." I gazed up at the ceiling with its blackened beams that were no higher than Matt's head.

"My wife is the daughter of a rug maker from Bristol," Matt explained. "We're visiting friends in London and she begged me to come here."

The porter beamed, his stiffness thawed by our praise. "How delightful."

"I heard so much about this place from my father. Not that he was a member here, of course," I added, in case he asked for my maiden name. "He was a member of the Bristol branch of the guild. But he came here once and told me what a wonderful building it was, so full of company history."

The porter puffed out his chest a little and he took on a professional air. "It was built in sixteen-oh-nine, but the company itself goes back much further. Indeed, we're one of the oldest livery companies in the city."

"Oh, I know. So much history."

"Would you care to look through our library? We have a fine collection of books about wool, of course, but also antique spinning wheels, looms and rug making tools. The finest in the country."

Matt must have sensed my hesitation. He put his hand on my lower back and said, "We'd love to." So much for getting the information we needed and leaving immediately.

The porter led us along the corridor past walls lined with woolen tapestries, our footfalls deadened by faded carpets with frayed edges. Why did they not replace them? Tradition, I supposed. That desire to keep things as they always have been, sometimes to the detriment of improvement.

Matt and I spent ten minutes studying the objects in the collection and reading the accompanying cards while listening to the porter tell us about the history of the guild and its members, who were a mix of merchants, rug makers, spinners, and weavers, clothiers and tailors specializing in woolen garments.

When a suitable time had passed, I asked him for the name of a tall, solid fellow with ginger hair. "My father asked me to look in on him, but I'm so dreadful with names." I touched my forehead. "My husband suggested we come here and ask if you knew of such a fellow."

"I do indeed. His name is Fuller. James Fuller." He winked and smiled. When Matt and I gave him a blank look, he added, "In the old days, wool was cleaned and thickened by a process called fulling. The modern name of Fuller means that family's origins can be traced back to the wool trade. So James Fuller hasn't fallen far from the tree, so to speak."

Most magicians could trace their family tree through the same single trade, and while it wasn't unusual for the artless to be able to as well, it was less common. Could Mr. Fuller be a magician? If so, why did he argue with Mr. Pyke, accusing him of having an advantage by using his magic on his rugs?

"Fuller was here just yesterday, as it happens," the porter went on.

"Did he look well?" I asked.

"As fine a figure as always. Nothing wrong with his lungs either. I could hear him bellowing all the way down here, and he was on the second floor in the master's office with the door closed."

"That doesn't sound good. Is he often an argumentative fellow? Only, I don't want to turn up on his doorstep if he's something of a bully."

"Nothing like that. He's not a bully, although he does have a temper. It doesn't snap often, but when it does it's like a bomb going off. I assure you, it takes a lot to rile him. You'll be fine, Mrs. Gaskell. I'm sure he'll welcome you and Mr. Gaskell into his home."

"Just so that I know, what set him off yesterday? I'd hate for it to be the same thing that I want to see him about."

He glanced toward the door then leaned forward and whispered. "Magic."

I waited but he didn't elaborate, not even when I prompted him.

Matt knew how to get an answer from him, however. "No doubt Mr. Fuller wanted the guild master to revoke the memberships of those members who are known magicians. It's happening all over London, so I hear. It won't be long until the discontent spreads to Bristol and other cities."

"A handful of members have been expelled already." The porter sighed. "Why can't everyone just get along? We're all in the wool trade. We need to take care of one another, not destroy." He gave me a grim smile. "But that's a debate for another day. Rest assured, ma'am, as long as you don't mention magic in Mr. Fuller's presence, you'll find him a friendly giant of a fellow. And his wife is a delight."

He told us where to find Mr. Fuller's rug shop. It was a mere two streets away from Mr. Pyke's. We drove back the way we'd come and collected Willie and Duke. Unfortunately they had nothing to report.

"Only one person saw him," Willie said. "A woman who was bringing in her washing says he walks past at the same time every night and she saw him last night too. She always nods at him and he nods back. She said he looked fine but distracted, like he didn't really notice her and was just nodding as a matter of course."

That was similar to what the neighbor told us.

"We kept asking everyone we came across," Duke went on. "No one else saw him, and some said that was strange because they always see him going home that way. So we reckon he was kidnapped between the point where he saw the woman hanging out her washing and his home."

"Yet no one noticed a commotion?" Matt asked.

They shook their heads. "It's a busy route after five," Willie said. "Shop keepers and clerks are going home and it's light enough at that time now the days are getting longer. If someone was kidnapped against their will, they'd be seen."

So Mr. Pyke hadn't been kidnapped. I suddenly felt sorry for Mrs. Pyke. It was looking like he left of his own accord, after all.

Matt had another idea, however. "He might have diverted from his course under his own steam, but he might have been waylaid by someone when he reached his destination. It's possible he arranged to meet someone who then detained him."

"It must be the man in the carriage," I said heavily.

"Or woman," Willie pointed out.

"Whoever it was left him worried, according to Mrs. Pyke, then later the same day, he goes missing. That's not a coincidence."

"It's unlikely it was Mr. Fuller, the rival carpet maker, in that carriage," Matt said. "According to the neighbor, their encounter was the day before yesterday and it's unlikely Mr. Fuller arrived in a private conveyance."

Everyone but Duke nodded. "I don't reckon it's Fuller, but I ain't convinced Pyke didn't run off with a lover," he said. "It explains why he never confided in his wife."

Cyclops scoffed. "And leave his shop untouched? He may have his guild membership revoked, and be forced to close his shop, but no craftsman is going to walk away from his livelihood without making other plans."

Particularly a magician. Rug making was in Mr. Pyke's blood. He was an avid enthusiast who saw his rugs as his legacy, his children almost. Cyclops was right; he wouldn't just walk away and leave his rugs behind. He might have taken a detour on his way home, but he'd not intended to be gone long.

I sighed. "If we don't think Mr. Fuller detained him, we're back to the beginning with no clues."

"We'll speak to Fuller anyway," Matt said. "He might be able to give us some insight into anyone else who held a grudge against Pyke and his magic."

We continued on to Mr. Fuller's shop where the shopkeeper welcomed Matt and me with a smile. The others remained in the carriage. She introduced herself as Mrs. Fuller, the wife of the rug maker. The shop wasn't as large as Mr. Pyke's but it was laid out similarly with rugs on the floor and walls, and a desk tucked into the corner. A clacking and low mechanical hum came from the other side of a door which must lead to the workshop. The smell of wool wasn't as strong here as in Mr. Pyke's shop and there was a whiff of oiliness in the air from the machine.

I removed my glove and skimmed my fingers over several carpets as I walked around. None were warm with magic, and their patterns weren't as intricate as Mr. Pyke's. If the Fullers had once been magicians, the magic had not been passed onto the proprietor of this shop.

Matt introduced us using our real names. Mrs. Fuller showed no recognition. "May we speak to your husband?" he asked.

Mrs. Fuller was about my age with warm eyes and apple cheeks that made her seem approachable, particularly when she smiled, as she did now. "He's just out the back. I'll fetch him for you." She headed for the door, turning her head to speak to us as she walked. "Is this about a carpet you purchased from us?"

"No."

She paused but Matt gave no further explanation. He simply smiled back and waited.

She pushed open the door. A moment later, the machine stopped and the workshop fell silent. Upstairs, children's voices could be heard needling each other. Mr. Fuller emerged from the workshop, but his wife did not.

He was as large as Mr. Pyke's neighbor described with a crop of red hair that was beginning to recede at the front. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms as big as legs of ham, and the hands he wiped on a rag were enormous.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

Matt introduced us. "We're looking into the disappearance of Mr. Pyke on behalf of his wife."

Mr. Fuller stopped wiping his hands. "Disappearance?"

"He didn't return home last night after he locked up the shop."

He grunted. "Probably got himself a mistress. Pardon me, ma'am, but if you're an inquiry agent, I'm supposing you've heard worse."

"You suppose correctly," I said. "But Mr. Pyke was devoted to his wife, so it's unlikely he had a mistress."

"If you say so." He flung the cloth over his shoulder and turned his attention to Matt. He eyed him up and down as if sizing up the likelihood he could win in a fight.

While I had faith in Matt's strength and ability, I doubted he could win in a fair match. Mr. Fuller would be near impossible to knock off his feet. But when he did fall, he'd fall hard. I shook myself. When did I start to assess men as fighters? I blamed Willie's influence.

Mrs. Fuller returned, having quieted the children. The family must live upstairs. It would be cramped, but no worse than where many shopkeepers lived. "Is everything all right?" she asked through a forced smile.

"Fine," Mr. Fuller growled.

"We were just asking your husband about his encounter with Mr. Pyke two days ago," Matt said. "Mr. Pyke is missing."

She blinked rapidly. "So you thought you'd come here and accuse my husband?" She thrust a hand on her hip, her smile gone. "Just because they're both carpet makers with shops near each other doesn't mean they hate each other. They were competitors, that's all. It's not personal."

"'Were?'" I echoed.

"Pardon?"

"You said they ‘were competitors'. Why are you speaking in the past tense?"

She lowered her hand to her side. "Just a matter of speech. It doesn't mean anything."

Mr. Fuller moved closer to his wife. The difference in their height was almost comical, but there was nothing amusing about their expressions. The scowls hadn't left their faces from the moment we mentioned Mr. Pyke's name.

"We know you argued with Mr. Pyke," Matt said.

"Who says that?" Mr. Fuller snapped.

"You accused Mr. Pyke of being a magician."

"So?" Mrs. Fuller said. "He is a magician."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Because I've seen his rugs. No one can make them that luxurious or have the patterns so intricate. It's impossible."

"And it's not fair," Mr. Fuller added. "Why should he be allowed to make such fine rugs when the rest of us can't?"

Matt opened his mouth to say something but I placed a hand on his arm and he closed it again. I was tired of reasoning with people like the Fullers, tired of their whining and calls for a level playing field. What did they want magicians to do? Not make things they'd been making their entire lives? Try to produce poorer quality goods?

"You're right," I said tartly. "Why should a magician get to use their natural talent for craftsmanship when others can't?"

Mr. Fuller looked pleased that I appeared to understand his discontent, but Mrs. Fuller narrowed her gaze warily. She'd heard my tone.

"After all, you shouldn't be allowed to reach higher shelves when your wife can't just because you're taller. Should you?"

He frowned. "What?"

"A nobleman shouldn't be allowed to inherit his father's estate, just because he was born into that family, either. Don't you agree? And why should a pretty girl have her pick of beaus? She has such an unfair advantage over the plainer debutantes. Nor is it fair that some men are paid to play football when others aren't, just because they've got better skills with a ball or can run faster. Indeed, they ought not be allowed to play at all. You're right, Mr. Fuller. It's not fair for the rest."

"I see you've come to mock me," he ground out between a clenched jaw.

His wife placed a warning hand on his arm just as I had done with Matt. "She does make a good point."

He shook her off. "Whose side are you on?"

"Yours, of course. But—" She broke off beneath his withering glare.

"You better go before I lose my temper," Mr. Fuller said to Matt.

"We haven't finished with our questions," Matt said mildly.

"I'm not answering your bloody questions!" He closed his hands into fists.

I tried to tug Matt away, but he stood his ground. I glanced back at the door, calculating how long it would take for me to fetch the others. Cyclops's presence in particular would be welcome. On the other hand, Willie had a gun.

"You were jealous of Mr. Pyke's flourishing business," Matt went on.

I winced, afraid of antagonizing the giant of a man further.

But instead of getting angry, Mr. Fuller laughed. "Flourishing? He was in debt up to his neck. He bought a new loom last year, in the hope of turning things around, but it almost sent him broke."

"Why was he doing so poorly if he made better carpets than his competitors?" I asked.

"Because he didn't have my Janey to sell them." Mr. Fuller rested a hand on his wife's shoulder. "She could convince a man to buy the moon if she put her mind to it."

She smiled up at him. "I do my best."

"If Pyke had someone like my Janey to sell his carpets, he'd be unbeatable. Lucky for me, he doesn't. He works the shop floor himself, and he's not much of a salesman. It takes a certain skill to get a customer to part with his money and my Janey has it."

I couldn't help getting in another sharp dig. "She was born with the knack."

"That's right."

"You could say it's as natural to her as magic is to a magician."

Mr. Fuller pressed his lips together.

His wife cleared her throat. "The thing is, after Mr. Pyke revealed himself to be a magician in that newspaper article, he gained more custom. I saw people coming and going from his shop all day."

"You spied on him?" Matt asked.

She dismissed his question with a shrug. "We were going to lose customers. It's already a struggle, having two rug shops so close to one another, but if it's revealed that one of those makes a superior carpet, we would be finished."

"So what were you planning to do?" Matt asked.

"Not make him disappear!"

"We weren't going to do anything," Mr. Fuller added, looking down at his feet.

"No?" Matt asked idly. "You didn't speak to the guild and have him thrown out?"

"My husband wouldn't do that. He wouldn't ruin another man's life and livelihood."

The problem with a complexion like Mr. Fuller's is its tendency to flush at even the slightest inducement. His entire face pinked. He tried to hide it from his wife, but she saw.

She stamped her hand on her hip. "You told the guild master about Mr. Pyke being a magician?"

"I was too late," Mr. Fuller told her. "He already knew on account of the newspaper article. He and Mr. Abercrombie were drafting some changes to the guild's bylaws that would allow them to remove magicians from the guild."

I gasped. "Abercrombie!"

Matt steadied me with a hand to my lower back. "What does this have to do with him?" he asked, his voice so calm it was unnerving.

Mr. Fuller glanced uncertainly between us. "He's a consultant advising on the legalities of banning magicians from guilds. He's helping the guilds draft changes to their bylaws, so the master told me."

"You say guilds, plural," Matt said carefully.

Mr. Fuller nodded. "That's right. He's calling on all the London guilds, offering his services. He used to be the master for the Watchmaker's Guild where they've already dealt with this problem."

"He's no longer master there. He was thrown out of the leadership role after using some underhanded tactics." Matt caught my hand and placed it on his arm then, with his hand over mine, steered me away.

I could feel the vibrations of his simmering anger. Or perhaps that was my simmering anger.

I stopped at the door and glanced over my shoulder at the couple, watching us with perplexed expressions on their faces. I lifted my chin, aware that I must seem as snooty as Aunt Letitia could be at times. But I didn't care. "The Watchmaker's Guild have not dealt with this problem as there is no problem to deal with." I marched out of the shop, not bothering to wish them a good day.