Death by Silver (28 page)

Bolster nodded, conceding the point, and Julian pressed his slight advantage.

“Which brings me to a question for you, Mr Bolster. Does Mrs Makins know anything about metaphysics?”

“Not that I know of.” Bolster said. “Nor her kin.”

“What I wanted to ask Mrs Makins was whether she knew who might have done it,” Julian said. “Who’d have wanted to.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Bolster said, without conviction.

“The person who hired him for his job?” Julian asked.

“I wouldn’t know,” Bolster said again. “And I wouldn’t ask too much about that if I were you, Mr Lynes. That’s outside both our businesses.”

“If Mrs Makins knows, she could be in danger,” Julian said.

“I’m sure she has that well in mind,” Bolster answered.

There was a little pause, and then Julian nodded. “I’d still like to talk to her,” he said. “First, I owe her my report. Second, if she should choose to go to the authorities, I’d be able to give evidence of the poison. As would Mr Mathey.” And I’d also like to ask her where Joe was the afternoon he died, he thought, but knew better than to say that after he’d been warned off.

“I’ll tell her so,” Bolster said. “But it’ll be up to her whether she wants to talk to you.”

“Understood,” Julian said.

“There must be
something
to do about Mr Clark’s gate,” Ned said, pushing away the last of his borrowed books. He’d found nothing in them that seemed at all advisable that he hadn’t already tried. He’d set out to tackle the problem first thing in the morning, in hopes that a practical success would restore his general morale, but instead it was leaving him increasingly disheartened.

“Replace the gate?” Miss Frost offered.

“We’ve tried that. The enchantment’s tied into the entire fence. He’d have to take down every inch of it to get rid of it, and he’s not willing to do that. Frankly, I’m not sure that would even do it, if he built the new fence in the same place. There’s so much badly done work under the most recent enchantments, and every effort to undo it all just leaves more scrambled fragments behind.”

“Take it off layer by layer?”

“That’s what someone should have done a decade ago. I’m not even sure where I’d start at this point; there’s not enough left of any of the previous enchantments to get a sense of the grammar, and they’re all in a tangle.”

“There’s a way to separate out the layers,” she said, and then hesitated. “I hope you won’t think I’m trying to tell you your job.”

“I’m beginning to feel that someone should,” Ned said. “If you’ve any suggestions…”

“Well, then,” she said, reaching into her handbag and withdrawing her own wand. “I’ll need a tangle of some sort to show you.”

Ned sketched out a square of Jupiter on a scrap piece of paper and set up one of the problems they’d been set at University, a botched attempt to remove ink stains, constructed as “ink, paper, separate” rather than “paper, separate, ink.” The first two sigils tangled, and the last one scattered and snarled them both. He could feel the twist in his belly as the enchantment went predictably awry, and when he touched his pen to the paper again, a blotch of ink spread out across the page, crazing wildly at the edges.

He added the sigil for “reveal,” and a dim, ruddy snarl of lines appeared imposed above the written-out square.

“We had this one in school,” he said. “You can’t undo it the usual way, but if you know the original sigils that were used and how the grammar went wrong, you can add layers on top to catch at the trailing ends, and then once you’ve got a coherent structure again, you can undo the lot.”

“I know that one, too,” Miss Frost said. “But you can also do it this way, look.” She sketched a sigil that Ned didn’t immediately recognize, drawing the tip of her bone-white wand in crisp lines an inch above the paper. As he watched, the snarl of light began to separate itself into three distinct layers, each sigil lying neatly on its own plane. “Now you can clean it the usual way.”

She nodded to him, and he sketched the sigils to remove each layer, easily now, and then did the stain-removing enchantment quickly and properly. When he rubbed at the paper with a bit of damp blotting paper, the ink came up easily, leaving only a faint smudge behind.

“That’s well done,” Ned said appreciatively.

She sketched it for him more slowly. “It’s based on ‘unravel,’ see?”

“Why don’t I know that one?”

“Do you actually want an answer to that?”

“I do, actually,” he said. “That’s remarkably useful. Did they teach that at your college?”

“Yes, they did,” Miss Frost said. “And the reason you don’t know it is that it’s originally based on a charm for unraveling knitting, which is not the kind of thing that reviewers for serious metaphysical journals can read with a straight face.”

“It might go in
The Metaphysician
.”

“It might, yes, with a lot of little remarks added about how clever the ladies can be in their own domestic sphere, and what curious ideas they do come up with. But the London School of Metaphysics for Women gets its funding from London University, and strangely enough the backers don’t like for the instructors to publish articles that invite mockery.”

“You might submit it yourself,” Ned said. “But I expect you’re right about how the article would read.”

“I wouldn’t mind so much myself,” she said. “At least not too much.” She put her head to one side and looked at him curiously. “You’re not suggesting you write it up yourself. That’s rather refreshing.”

“It would feel too much like stealing, I suppose,” Ned said, hardly certain himself what held him back from it. “I do try to be an honest man. Mind you, if you don’t write it up, I shall be sorely tempted. If we ever come to the end of this Nevett business, that is.”

“Do you think there’s anything in those rumors about a love charm?”

“I wish I knew. Mr Lynes is making some inquiries. I should make my own, although it’s hard to know where to start. It’s not as if unlicensed metaphysicians tend to stroll up to the College to advertise their services.”

“You’re thinking some back-alley man,” Miss Frost said.

“It seems more likely than someone at the College, surely.”

“More likely that they’d agree to do it, yes, but…” The doubt in her tone was perceptible.

“Let’s assume I don’t object to being told my job today,” he prompted. “Detection wasn’t part of my University coursework.”

“It wasn’t part of mine, either, but I can tell you that nice young ladies don’t go wandering around back alleys without chaperones even now, and I imagine they did it even less twenty-five years ago. I wouldn’t be looking for an odd-jobs man. That’s not where nice young ladies go for their beauty charms and weather-proof hats.”

“Where do they, then?” He’d gathered from the ladies he’d known at Oxford that feminine beauty generally involved at least some degree of artifice, but not the details of how it was achieved.

“It’s not entirely legal,” Miss Frost said. “Not that it’s entirely unlawful either, most of them don’t advertise…”

“I’m not concerned with the regulations on trade.”

“Well, then. There are shops. Most of them are something else as well, something that makes a good excuse. Milliners, or lace shops, or maybe a perfumer’s. Most of what they handle is harmless, or near enough to harmless. Beauty charms may make you faint, but they’re no worse than tight-lacing.”

“But there’s more to it?”

“Not always. But some of the women are skilled, in their own way – not educated, mind you, but they’ve their own traditions handed down. If you find the right person, you can pay for all sorts of things.”

“Love charms?”

“And the reverse. There are plenty of married women who are more interested in getting their husbands to leave them alone. Or who feel they’ve had enough children. It’s a lucrative practice, I understand, if you’ve the temperament to deal with people’s very personal problems, and can be exceedingly discreet.”

“I had no idea,” Ned said, a bit appalled. “I’ve always assumed that most of those sensational stories about love charms were made up to sell papers.”

“They probably are,” Miss Frost said. “But I expect it happens more often than you think. Infatuation fades, after all, and if a man finds that he’s less in love with his wife than he was with his fiancée, isn’t that just how it goes?”

Ned shook his head. “You are a bit of a cynic, aren’t you?”

“Hardened by working in such a masculine profession, I expect.”

He had no idea what to say to that, so he pressed on. “Her servants would certainly know which shops she patronizes. I should go round and find out…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “No, that’s stupid. You should go and find out yourself. Unless you mind being involved in a murder investigation?”

“Not at all,” she said; if anything, she seemed pleased. “I wouldn’t ask her servants, though, they’ll tell her straight away. But I can probably find the shops she visits anyway, if you don’t mind my being out of the office for a while. I’ll have to tramp round claiming that I’m terribly envious of her fashion sense and want to know where she has her hats made. I only hope that’s remotely plausible.”

“I’ve only seen her in a widow’s cap,” Ned said. “It was unremarkable.”

“Well, it’s worth a try. And I promise I’ll take care not to be murdered myself.” Her voice lost its wry tone at his expression. “Do give me a bit of credit. I’m not going to say ‘by the way, I have a husband I’d like to bludgeon with a candlestick, can you help me with that?’ I can make a few discreet inquiries without standing out.”

“It does make sense,” Ned said, although he couldn’t help feeling a stab of guilt at his lack of chivalry. “But do take care.”

“I generally do, Mr Mathey,” she said, but he wasn’t entirely reassured.

Julian made his way down George Street in the familiar flicker of the gas lamps, heading for Jacobs’, where gentlemen of a certain taste gathered to play cards. He’d heard nothing from Bolster, told himself it had only been a day since Annie Makins had disappeared. In the meantime, he had promised Ned that he would help check out the rumors about Louisa Nevett’s marriage, and if anyone would have the story at his fingertips, it would be Lennox. And Lennox was likely to be found at Jacobs’ most nights of the week.

He climbed the steps, flanked by heavily curtained bow windows, and tugged the polished bell-knob. The door opened instantly, the big man in dark maroon livery relaxing as he recognized the caller, and Julian stepped inside.

“Good evening, Parker.”

“Evening, Mr Lynes.” Parker latched the main door, then pulled back the baize-covered inner door.

In the interior hall, Julian surrendered hat and cane, and made his way into the front parlor. It was early yet, by Jacobs’ standards, the restaurants not yet closed, the theaters still in the last act, and only a handful of men were gathered in the cream and dove-gray space. A trio were hanging about the hazard table, more intent on their conversation than on getting up a game, while the others were playing what looked to be a rather sedate game of whist, and Julian crossed to the bar to order himself a brandy before moving into the main card room. Here the light was mellow, the gas dimmed so that the players sat in pools of lamplight, cards and cuffs flashing against the baize of the tabletop. At the back of the room, Jesperson had set up a game of chemin de fer and was auctioning the bank; it stood at thirty pounds as Julian passed, and Trefethen raised his hand in greeting.

“Lynes! Care to buy in?”

Chemin de fer was not Julian’s favorite game – the stakes were too high, and usually only monetary, though it was easy enough to manipulate the outcome – and he shook his head. “Later, maybe. Have you seen Lennox, by any chance?”

“Not I,” Trefethen said, and Summergate looked over his shoulder.

“In the blue room, I think?”

“Thanks,” Julian said, generally, and headed for the stairs.

The second floor held the two smaller card rooms, where the serious players gathered, as well as a billiard room and the smoking lounge. There was no one in the billiard room yet, but in the pale-blue front room a game of lanterloo was in progress, Lennox frowning as they sorted out the pot. He was generally a poor player, and Julian hoped the stakes were reasonable. He paused in the doorway, not wanting to interrupt the play, but Lennox looked up at the movement, his face relaxing.