Death by Silver (7 page)

Breakfast had been unsatisfying enough that Julian escaped to the British Museum before he’d read the morning’s papers. It was only a stone’s throw from his rooms on Coptic Street, and there was a teashop on the way where he could snatch a quick bite. He had intended to read the papers there, too, but he’d run into a friend from the Saxon Collections and gone to take a look at a recently excavated skull that showed a split that he agreed was definitely an axe-wound. From there he’d gone on to look at the
wedjat
-tablet now cautiously displayed in the Metaphysical Collection – it still reposed in a special case, the edges carved with sigils, though the curator of the Egyptian Collection claimed to have removed the curse. The curator had published a very interesting professional paper on the structure as well as a highly colored but entertaining description of the process for the
Illustrated London News
. Julian and Ned had spent a rainy Sunday afternoon doing dramatic readings from the article, with increasingly outrageous interpolations of their own, until they finally collapsed helpless into bed.

He dragged his mind away from the memory, and tugged his watch from his pocket. Almost noon, and past time to be getting back to his lodgings, to read the morning mail and finally read the papers, and see if there were any potential clients. He hoped Mrs Digby had deigned to tell any callers that he would be back in the afternoon. He had told her that he would be out, after all.

He had also told her he would find his own lunch, so he stopped at the Green Dragon for a quick half-pint and a pie to bring with him, and collected the
Times
and the
Daily Telegraph
from the newsstand on Great Russell Street. He repressed the temptation to glance at the headlines as he walked, and climbed the stairs to his lodgings with the papers folded decorously under his arm. The maid had been moving things again, he noted with annoyance, as he let himself into the parlor. But Ned was right, she had to move things a little if she was to clean, and she hadn’t really disturbed anything of importance. He set the pie on the table, pushing aside Volume II of Stanley’s
Forensic Metaphysics
to make room, and shed his coat with a relieved sigh. The traffic clamored outside the window, the rumble of wheels and the shouts of tradesmen and drivers, and he settled himself contentedly to read and eat.

It had not been an eventful day, at least not in terms of interesting crimes, and he scanned the political headlines without much interest, seeing nothing likely to produce new employment. Not that he particularly enjoyed political work, though it tended to pay well; in general he preferred jobs like Wynchcombe’s stolen plans, ordinary people with unusual problems, rather than unusual people with ordinary difficulties.

He glanced at the next page, seeing the headline
Death During Burglary
, and froze as he saw the dead man’s name. Edgar Nevett, found dead in his study, a bloodied silver candlestick by his side – a clear case of robbery, except for the fact that Nevett had consulted a metaphysician about a possible curse on his silver only two days before. Julian suppressed a groan. That was all Ned needed, to be linked to a murder that followed hard on the heels of his having assured the client that there was in fact no curse. He reached for the
Telegraph
, winced at the even more gaudy headline –
Death by Silver: Curse Brings Burglar
– of which, he noted, there was no actual evidence, and crossed to the bell. He had to ring a second time before young Digby appeared, and he could hear a shout of annoyance from someone belowstairs. Julian ignored it, handed him sixpence and told him to go buy the rest of the morning papers, and young Digby galloped off before anyone could find a more pressing errand. The swelling had diminished this morning: either he’d finally had the tooth pulled, or the matter had run its natural course.

He could, of course, wander up to the Commons and see what Ned had to say about the matter, but he’d promised himself he wouldn’t do that, and this time he meant to keep the resolution. Besides, there was always a chance that he would have a client – whatever he did, he couldn’t go to the Commons before evening.

The maid had left the mail on the tray where he’d asked, and he sorted quickly through it: bills, primarily; a translation of a German article on Jewish number squares, payment in kind for a job he’d done a month past; a card from Peter Lennox inviting him to a small but congenial party. He set that carefully aside to consider – it might be exactly what he needed right now – and stuffed the bills into their cubbyhole to be dealt with later.

Young Digby returned with an armload of papers, and Julian dismissed him with a tip and a reminder that he’d want the evening papers as well. He cleared the remains of the pie, unfolded the papers, and began cutting out the relevant articles. When he had finished, he crumpled the rest of the papers into the grate, and stood looking down at the checkerboard of clippings. It wasn’t a scandal yet, that much was clear from the size of the type and the space devoted to it – though the
Chronicle
was trying hard to make it one, with their “Yard baffled” – but even they hadn’t gotten very far. All the articles mentioned the curse, which probably meant that Nevett had complained, or boasted, about it for a week or so before he’d consulted Ned. The
Times
had a disparaging comment about youth and inexperience in metaphysicians, but that could be discounted as politics, and the other papers were careful not to criticize. Better still, not all of them mentioned Ned’s name.

Julian shifted the clippings, laying them out in a new pattern, trying to guess how far the Yard had gotten on the question of a curse. Personally, of course, he was sure that if Ned said there wasn’t one, then there wasn’t, but it was always interesting to see what the professional investigators thought – except that the inspectors were playing their cards close enough that Julian suspected they hadn’t gotten any answer from their own metaphysician. He’d never met the man, but Ned had been fairly scathing the one time he’d mentioned him.

Which made this most likely a burglary gone wrong, but if the reporters had gotten their facts right, it was a damned odd robbery. Julian had made the acquaintance of several burglars since he’d taken up his profession, and one thing they had in common was their aversion to violence. It simply didn’t pay: they’d all been adamant about that.
No bit of plate is worth hanging for,
Bolster had said,
and that’s exactly what you’ll do if you’re fool enough to get into a fight with a householder and he up and dies on you. Better to run like hell, especially since most toffs won’t notice more than whether you’re a white man or a black, if they even notice that.
But if a man were fool enough to use violence, Bolster had gone on to say, the only safe thing then was to grab everything he’d touched whether or not a fence would pay money for it, and plan to disappear for a year or two. And if you were the sort of fool who robbed a judge’s house when the judge was home, and biffed his son a good one when he surprised you – it had been the Wilcox case in King’s Lynn they’d been discussing – you should be damned sure you took everything that might connect you to the crime, and most especially any enchanted automata that might later identify you. There was no standard by which the actions of Nevett’s killer made any sense. Only an amateur would have left the candlestick behind, and only a professional would have been cool enough to take the rest of the plate after he’d killed a man.

Of course, that was assuming that the plate was stolen after the murder, but all the newspapers agreed on it, so it was apparently the police conclusion. And certainly a man weighed down by a bag of heavy silver would have a harder time attacking anyone. It was an interesting problem, and Ned would certainly have an interesting perspective.

Julian pulled himself up sharply. This was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid for the last few days, with decreasing success – and maybe he was taking the wrong approach entirely. Maybe he should stop avoiding Ned, and by the time they reached the inevitable falling-out, he would be ready for it. They’d both been glad enough to part after University. And he would definitely go to Lennox’s party, that could only help.

There was a knock at the door, and Julian turned, frowning.

“Telegram, sir.”

Julian slit the envelope, unable to repress a certain sense of glee as he read the message. Blanding’s at seven: yes, he’d be there. Ned had paid for the return, and he scrawled his acceptance in the space provided and sent the messenger on his way. As he turned away from the door, his reflection in the mirror above the washstand caught his eye. He was looking a bit ragged, even by his own rather lax standards. Perhaps he would find the time for a shave and haircut before he walked up to the Commons.

Julian ran his thumb along his freshly shaved chin, reassuring himself that he looked presentable. He’d had his hair trimmed as well, with just the lightest touch of scented pomade, and had worn the neat suit that several friends had assured him made the most of an admittedly somewhat weedy figure. As he climbed out of the omnibus at the corner of Tottenham Court Road and Grafton Street, he caught a glimpse of himself in the plate-glass window of a wine merchant’s: tall, saturnine, a bit austere – there was nothing to be done about the size of his nose, but the rest was at least presentable. He allowed himself the faintest of smiles, and turned north onto Cleveland Street.

Blanding’s was hot and dark and full of the smell of roasting meat. Julian paused just inside the doorway to let his eyes adjust. It was no more than usually crowded, men in suits and metaphysicians in their frock coats sitting by ones and twos at the long tables, the Commons’s clerks relegated by long tradition to the two tables on the Charlotte Street side of the dining room. Here and there a larger group surrounded one of Blanding’s famous Castles, a tall savory pastry rich with beef and sherry gravy. His mouth watered at the sight, and he wondered if he could persuade Ned to share one, even though they were intended to serve four men.

The head waiter came bustling over, wiping his hands on his long apron. “A pleasure to see you again, Mr Lynes. Mr Mathey has one of the private rooms tonight. Jem will show you the way.”

Julian murmured his thanks, and followed the younger waiter down the rows of tables. The private dining rooms lay along the back of the coffeehouse, where it met the Commons courtyard, and there were rumors of secret exits directly to the Commons buildings. Ned had one of the smaller rooms, with only a sliver of a window and a cold fireplace smelling powerfully of ash, and Julian checked abruptly, seeing the stranger at the table. He was a sunburnt redhead, nearly all freckles, short but hearty, in a ready-made gray suit no more than two years old.

“Lynes,” Ned said. “I’m glad you were free. I’d like you to meet a friend of mine from the Yard – Inspector Charles Hatton, Mr Julian Lynes.”

“Inspector.” Julian held out his hand. What he felt was most certainly not relief, merely interest at meeting a man who was one of the Yard’s rising stars.

“Mr Lynes,” Hatton said, half rising, and they shook hands across the table.

Julian hung his hat with the others’ and took his place at the table. “I’m assuming this is the Nevett case, then?” he asked, and Ned nodded. “If the papers are anything to go on, that’s a bit of a mess. Trust you to be in the middle of it, Mathey.”

“Not by choice,” Ned said, and Julian thought Hatton relaxed just a little.

“The papers made it sound – rather odd,” he said, and gave Hatton his best smile. “May I ask if that’s true?”

“It depends on what you mean by odd,” Hatton said, warily.

“One, that Nevett was killed at all,” Julian said. “Two, that the burglar didn’t take the candlestick.”

Hatton sighed. “Yes, those two things don’t go well together. Our best guess is that it’s an amateur, and he panicked.”

“And then calmly went and fetched the rest of the plate?” Julian shook his head.

“He might have had the silver with him already,” Hatton answered.

Julian opened his mouth to answer, realized abruptly that he was showing off, and paused to reconsider. The waiter chose that moment to appear, and they ordered their chops and a bottle of hock, Ned presiding gravely over the ritual.

“You were saying?” Hatton asked, as the waiter left, his voice deceptively mild, and Julian rested his elbows on the table.

“It seems unlikely that a burglar would take the bulk of the plate out of the pantry and then go looking for the smaller pieces. Or that he’d be in a position to seize a candlestick for a weapon while he was carrying a great bag of awkward swag, though I suppose that’s arguable. But it seems just as unlikely that someone cool enough to kill a man and then go fetch the family silver would feel squeamish about taking a candlestick even if it was the murder weapon.”

“That’s what I thought, too,” Ned said.

“But that’s going by what I read in the papers,” Julian said again.