Death by Silver (15 page)

It was early enough that the omnibuses were still running, but Ned let them pass him by, hoping the cool evening air would clear his head. Most of the shops were closed, but there were still pubs open, their gas lamps glowing merrily against the darkness. It was momentarily tempting to take himself into one, but on second thought the last thing he wanted was noise and crowds.

He wasn’t at all sure what he did want, but not what Julian had proposed. It was the tone that had gotten to him more than anything else, the implication that he was there for Julian’s convenience, like the whiskey and the writing-set, and could be set aside just as easily when Julian was done. He wouldn’t even have to be paid for his trouble.

That wasn’t fair, but at the moment he felt tired of being fair. It wasn’t even that he objected to being fucked, on general principle; Julian had introduced him to that particular vice in recent months, playing the amused and knowing tutor and clearly enjoying it. He might have liked to try it the other way round, but he didn’t think Julian would stand for that, as much as Julian preferred to have the upper hand in bed.

Julian had tried using his mouth on Ned exactly once, and had obviously liked it so little that Ned hadn’t asked again, though he suspected Julian would have done it if he’d asked. He was satisfied with being fucked, or relying on the friction of hands and bodies as if they were still schoolboys, and he was reluctant to push. Pushing Julian was rarely a good idea under any circumstances.

He just wasn’t at all in the mood to be pushed himself. He was tired, and he ached from head to foot, and he didn’t want to be ordered about by anyone. All he really wanted was to crawl into bed between cool sheets, alone or in Julian’s undemanding company, and close his eyes on the world.

It might still have been better to stay. If he’d managed to relax and get into the proper frame of mind – but Julian’s idea of the proper frame of mind was apparently being too enchantment-mazed to think straight. It was certainly one way of ensuring a tractable partner –

And that was certainly unfair. The offer had been well-meant, or at least generously intended. Julian’s friends treated that sort of beguilement as casually as whiskey or gin, and Ned had to admit it wasn’t really any more dangerous in sensible hands. Julian wouldn’t come to any serious harm with it, and he wouldn’t deliberately let Ned come to harm with it either.

But it still wasn’t at all what he wanted. He supposed he’d wished unreasonably for the kind of easy comfort they’d managed to be for each other at school, but they’d lost the knack of it somehow. He wasn’t sure anymore that Julian even cared what he felt, or for that matter cared much about anything; it was all an interesting intellectual puzzle that there was no sense in taking too much to heart.

And that was a change he didn’t understand, and one he wasn’t sure he could manage to entirely accept. When they’d met, Julian had cared about a great many things passionately, with a burning intensity that had fascinated Ned even when he felt it was entirely misplaced.

He still remembered the time early in their first year at Toms’ when Julian’s hat had disappeared from his cupboard. It had taken Ned some time to persuade Julian that he mustn’t complain to the masters about it, and that the masters would certainly not allow him to report its theft to the police.

“Stealing things is a crime,” Julian had said, pacing, his sharp face lit up with indignation. “The police are supposed to solve crimes, that’s why we have them.”

“It’s not a crime,” Ned said. “Not stealing hats at school. It’s not like breaking into a house or something.”

“Isn’t it? You mean if I walked up to a man on the streets of town and snatched his hat off and he called for the police, they’d say it was perfectly all right?”

“That’s different.”

“How is it different?”

Ned found himself at a loss for how to explain how. “It’s school tradition.”

“Stealing hats?”

“Taking things. You can’t complain, or it’ll make things worse. They’ll probably bring it back.”

“If I walk on the grounds without a hat, I can be beaten for it. And I can’t very well never go out of doors.”

“Well, yes,” Ned said. “I expect that’s why they did it.”

“And you say I can’t report it to the police.” If it had been anyone else, he would have thought they were joking, but Julian looked genuinely betrayed, as if this offended his sense of how the world worked.

“You’d be expelled in a moment,” Ned said. “Think of the scandal to the school.”

“But it’s not a scandal for the school to be full of thieves.”

“They’re not thieves.”

“Despite stealing things.”

“I think the idea is that it’s all in good fun.”

Julian frowned at him. At twelve he could as easily have been ten, rail-thin and without the height he later grew into, but his expression was far older. “I don’t think it’s any fun at all, and I can’t believe no one intends to do anything about it.”

There had been something strangely attractive in Julian’s outrage. It had made it possible to wonder why exactly it was that petty theft was tolerated at school, and how precisely it was that it built character. He’d been fascinated by Julian’s way of laying bare uncomfortable truths, and by Julian himself, who had been prickly enough that Ned had felt triumphant when he first won a genuine smile.

There had been awkward but heartfelt emotion under that prickly exterior, in those days, something he’d at least taken for passionate and protective devotion. But then they’d both been very young, and he’d probably do better to remember that their school days were far behind them.

The gas lamp of his own boarding-house was a welcome sight. He’d have a cup of tea, or maybe better yet soak in a steaming bath and read the last week’s cricket scores and try not to think very much about anything more taxing. That wouldn’t last forever, but it might carry him through until he was settled enough to sleep, and at the moment he couldn’t face thinking any farther ahead than the morning.

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The morning brought no word from Ned. Julian told himself he hadn’t expected anything, and, after only a momentary struggle with his conscience, melted a tablet of red ink and wrote himself a reviving enchantment. Chased with coffee – he had his own machine, a patent Napieric vacuum device – it revived him enough to clean his kit and stow it back in the sideboard before Mrs Digby brought his breakfast. Over cold toast and acceptable eggs, he admitted to himself that he’d behaved badly the night before – though Ned had said yes to the same proposal several times already. Julian should apologize, though, and as quickly as he could. The last thing he wanted was to hurt Ned, and that had hurt him. Perhaps he would send a note, he thought, and he wolfed the rest of his breakfast, graceful and winning phrases tumbling through his head.

By the time Mrs Digby cleared the dishes, however, the first rush of the enchantment had worn off, and he sat for a while at his desk, the ink drying on his pen, trying to come up with something that would be adequate to the situation. Or safe to commit to paper. And maybe it was better to apologize in person anyway, assuming of course that Ned was still speaking to him.

Before he could pursue that depressing thought, young Digby arrived with the mail, and Julian settled back at his desk, wincing as he recognized Albert Wynchcombe’s hand. He’d forgotten Albert was due today, unless he was writing to say that the matter had been resolved. But, no, the letter simply confirmed the appointment, and added that Albert would be arriving on the 9:05 to Paddington. Julian groaned. That meant Albert would be here within the hour, which left no time to find Ned – but a botched apology was worse than none at all, he told himself firmly, and went into the bedroom to finish dressing.

He was more or less decent by the time Albert arrived, though he was conscious of a violet stain on his middle finger from the previous night’s ink. Albert didn’t seem to notice, however, and they clasped hands as young Digby closed the door behind him.

“Lynes. It’s good to see you. And good of you to take on this problem of mine.” Albert’s handshake was as enthusiastic as ever, and for an instant, Julian was transported to Toms’ courtyard, and a short stocky boy who dared him to join his games.

“It’s a pleasure to see you, too,” Julian said, and meant it. “Though I’m not sure exactly what it is you want me to do.”

“It’s a little easier to explain now that my father-in-law isn’t breathing down my neck,” Albert said. He set his leather case on the floor beside his chair as Julian waved for him to be comfortable. “We have a line of specialty items that we don’t sell under the Jones and Wynchcombe name, but they’re nonetheless quite lucrative.”

“And by ‘specialty items’ you mean…?” Julian let his voice trail off, and Albert grinned.

“Pretty much what you’re thinking, Lynes. Though most of them are racy rather than outright indecent.”

“So, not Ganymede and the Eagle,” Julian said, in spite of himself. Lennox had that one in his study, under lock and key except during certain special parties, and it was quite remarkably lifelike, demonstrably so since Lennox had brought the model in for comparison. The eagle’s wings flapped, and – other things – moved smoothly…

Albert laughed. “I might have known you’d have seen that one. Actually, it is ours. Also Leda and the Swan, Pasiphaë and the Bull, and – eventually – Danaë and the Shower of Gold.”

“How the devil are you going to do that?” Julian asked. He shook himself. “More to the point, how do you patent them?”

“We don’t,” Albert said. “We can’t. Oh, I tried, under the argument that it was an inspiring classical illustration – that was Leda, by the way – but the Lord Chamberlain wouldn’t buy it.”

“I can’t say I’m entirely surprised,” Julian said. “How does your father-in-law take it? I had the impression he was solidly Chapel.”

“He’s been heard to say that if this is what a classical education does, he’s not sending his grandsons past grammar school,” Albert said. “But in general he finds it amusing. And an interesting technical problem, making all the little bits work right.”

Julian snickered in spite of himself, and Albert gave him a limpid look.

“The man’s a master craftsman, after all.” He shook himself. “But that’s not actually our problem, for once. The automaton in question is patented, and I’m concerned about infringement.”

“You might be better off hiring a solicitor,” Julian said.

“Well, except I’d need to know where to send him,” Albert said. “And that’s where you come in. I know who took the plans, but not where. Find out who’s got them, and I’ve got a commission from the old man to either buy them out or bring suit, whichever looks cheaper.”

“That may be what they want, you know,” Julian said. “To make you pay, rather than having any real intention of manufacturing it themselves.”

“Very possibly,” Albert said. “But if it’s cheaper – that’s what I’ll do.”

“But it’s wrong,” Julian said. “And it encourages them to try it again.”

“Same old Lynes.” Albert’s tone was affectionate rather than dismissive. “Lost any hats recently?”

“Oddly enough, most adults don’t make a sport of theft,” Julian said. “What is this device of yours, anyway?”

“Ah. That’s a little awkward. I’d better show you the design.” Albert opened his case and produced a roll of papers. He spread them on the table, and Julian shifted books to make room, unable to repress a snort.

“Really, Wynchcombe?”

“They’re very popular among the club set,” Albert said, defensively.

“I daresay,” Julian murmured. The drawings showed a prettily dressed young woman – very tight-laced, for all her collar was high – being fitted for dancing slippers by a kneeling salesman.

“They’re both fully articulated,” Albert said. “And they each have a full suit of clothes. When you set it working, the salesman picks up the slipper, she holds out her foot, and he slides it on.”

Julian looked at the drawing again. “And her foot goes up, lifting her skirt, which implies that the clerk sees more than he ought? Not to mention that the viewer gets a look at her – mechanical – calf.”