Death by Silver (3 page)

“Very well,” Nevett said, looking a little brighter. “None of that nonsense about burying it in the garden, though, with someone having to guard it night and day.”

“No, that’s entirely unnecessary nowadays,” Ned said. It hadn’t been strictly necessary in his predecessor’s time either, but clients then had liked considerably more theater, and it had been a way of getting them to let their things alone while slow-working cleansings took effect. He took advantage of his pencil sketches to construct the cleansing that he intended to use on the square of the Moon, better and more effective for the purpose if more complex.

He traced the sigils once he’d worked them out, a cleansing extending to all pieces of silver under the roof or owned by anyone who lived there,
to remove metaphysical words
– he’d botched that one as
to remove words by metaphysics
once at Oxford, scrambling the grammar and feeding it far too much nervous energy into the bargain, and had scoured the engraving from his tutor’s pocket watch. He’d felt wretched about it at the time, although in retrospect he felt that anyone letting undergraduate metaphysicists practice on his prized possessions deserved to get them back in multiple smoking pieces.

All he was likely doing was removing the sigils he’d left through his own experimental work, lightly enough applied that they would fade soon enough anyway, but it was worth cleaning up the mess he’d made. He made a more theatrical production of it for Nevett’s sake, tracing the sigils with sweeping gestures and adding “light” in the proper grammatical place to make the final lines blaze briefly like trails of flame through the air before they faded away.

“That should do it,” he said. “No cursework, enchantments, or malevolent energies will have survived that.” He’d also put a good shine on the pieces that needed polishing, which he hoped would lighten the spirits of the domestic staff entrusted with their care enough for them to declare that they felt a perceptible difference. “If you have any further trouble, don’t hesitate to call me in.”

“I’ll do that,” Nevett said. “About your bill, now…”

“I’ll have it sent round,” Ned said. He hoped he wouldn’t have to badger Nevett to pay it. There were too many of his clients who seemed to feel that a young man just starting out in the profession ought to be grateful for the experience, and it wouldn’t make him look any better to point out to them that he’d borrowed heavily to buy the practice and that the expenses of establishing it weren’t light.

“I’ll let you know if I have any more trouble of this sort,” Nevett said.

“I hope you will,” Ned said, because a client was a client, even one who wanted a metaphysician because consulting one was in fashion. He repacked his bag and reclaimed his hat in the hall from the scrubbed little parlormaid who’d let him in. He smiled thanks and escaped out into the street without asking them to call him a cab; despite every effort to banish his unsettled mood, he hadn’t felt like lingering.

What he ought to do was go back to his consulting-room at the Commons, see if any other clients had presented themselves, and get Miss Frost to promptly send out a bill. What he wanted to do was go round to Julian’s for a late tea, or if Julian didn’t see the point in tea at this hour, for a drink and the chance to complain a bit about impossible clients.

He whistled for a cab, using the patent cab-whistle he usually didn’t bother with, enchanted to make a tremendous amount of noise for its size; by the time one extricated itself from traffic and came rattling to a stop at the curb, he’d wrestled with temptation and decided to give into it. He gave the cabman the address and climbed into the cab.

“The detective, or the dentist?” the cabman asked. Ned supposed that most people wanting to be taken to the boarding house where Julian lodged in the middle of the afternoon wanted one or the other, as Julian Lynes and an elderly dentist were the only lodgers who used their parlors as consulting-rooms.

“The detective,” Ned said, and settled back as the cabman urged his horse back into traffic without another word.

Julian Lynes propped his feet unpardonably on his landlady’s recently polished fender, and reached for the last tea sandwich. Mrs Digby was saving with the butter, but the cheese was thickly sliced, and he felt he probably shouldn’t complain, considering how erratic his hours had been for the last week or so. He’d almost finished the tea as well, but at least he could make another pot if he wanted to go to the trouble. It was hot enough today, however, that he thought he might send young Digby to the local for a pitcher of beer instead.

He stuffed the last of the sandwich into his mouth and folded back the pages of his afternoon paper to the agony column, scanning the advertisements for any items of interest. Booth and Burch were once again offering a selection of devices, metaphysical and electrical, guaranteed to improve virility and impede baldness; there was a second, smaller advertisement from the same firm offering relief from awkward congestion and other women’s troubles. Julian grinned in spite of himself, but it was highly unlikely that any of Burch’s products would result in business for himself. Though if it did – he shook the thought away. If it did, it would probably be blackmail rather than anything amusing.

He skimmed down the rest of the page, noting the usual offers for Sibley’s Patent Squares, guaranteed to resolve most common metaphysical problems without the expense of consultation, and Johns’s Powders – which were going to bring him business one of these days, if old Mr Johns didn’t pay more attention to what young Mr Johns was doing to save money. Multiple appeals to strayed spouses, wives as usual outnumbering husbands; a mother in search of a missing son; the usual elderly gentlemen in need of gentle companions; and, more promisingly, four inserts that were little more than strings of numbers and letters. He poured himself the last of the tea, thick and stewed and tepid, and settled to work them out.

They were all simple substitution ciphers, two from star-crossed lovers, one probably from a fence, and the fourth merely spelling out
Corinth
followed by the number
5
. He stared at that one, frowning slightly. The only thing that occurred to him was a biblical reference, but it didn’t seem worth the effort to look it up, at least not without more context. Instead, he refolded the paper and set it carefully on top of the other papers piled on the side table, and swallowed the rest of the bitter, lukewarm tea. He wondered if it was too late to tell Mrs Digby he’d be dining in his rooms

Before he had decided, there was a knock at the door, and he glanced at the clock on the narrow mantel. It was a bit late for a client, surely – but he certainly wasn’t going to turn anyone away on those grounds. “Yes?”

“Telegram, Mr Lynes.” That was young Digby’s familiar treble. “And the boy’s waiting.”

Julian swung his feet off the fender. A telegram might actually mean employment, which was always a good thing. “Bring it in.”

The door swung open, and young Digby stood aside to let an older boy in a messenger’s uniform into the parlor. Julian slit the envelope, excitement fading to resignation as he read the message.

Confirm appointment for Friday next. Problem continues. Will explain on arrival. Wynchcombe.

It really shouldn’t need much more explanation, Julian thought. Albert Wynchcombe had already sent a long letter laying out his worries about the possible theft of the design for his father-in-law’s latest automaton. Unless there was something Albert hadn’t wanted to put in writing, which seemed to be true of most of Julian’s clients, even when they were old friends from school.

He pushed himself up out of his chair, and went across to his desk, pushing aside the usual litter to clear a space for the reply form. He unstoppered the inkwell, wrote “Appointment confirmed” in the space provided, and handed it back to the hovering messenger. The boy glanced quickly at the slip, and tucked it into his pocket. Julian reached into his own pocket, came up with sixpence and a couple of pennies for the tip and handed them over. The messenger pocketed them as well, touched his cap, and turned away. Young Digby started to follow, and Julian said, “Harry.”

“Mr Lynes?” The younger boy turned in the doorway. One side of his face was definitely swollen, a knob protruding from his cheek as though he’d tucked a sweet there.

“Mr Bailey is just upstairs,” Julian said. “Why don’t you have that tooth drawn?”

Harry shifted from foot to foot. “Mother doesn’t want me to.”

“Nonsense.”

“Couldn’t you do something, Mr Lynes?” The boy touched his face and winced. “I mean, some hocus or something, so it wouldn’t hurt?”

“It wouldn’t be any better than laudanum,” Julian answered. “ Have it pulled.”

“Have you ever had a tooth pulled?”

“Yes.” That had been at school, sent into the village under the escort of a bored prefect, who’d threatened him with a beating if he cried. The dentist had been old and neither he not his parlor had been very clean, but he’d sent him home with a vial of laudanum and that, at least, had saved him the beating.

“Did it hurt?” Harry’s face crumpled in embarrassment and pain, and Julian sighed. He supposed he ought to lie, tell the boy that Bailey was a painless dentist or some such, but it didn’t seem right.

“Fiercely. But it hurts you now and once the tooth was gone…”

Harry didn’t look convinced.

“See Mr Bailey,” Julian said again.

Young Digby made a non-committal noise and let himself out.

Julian swore under his breath. He’d forgotten to ask about supper, and it was almost certainly too late now. And that meant either an indifferent meal at the local or walking to Blanding’s by the Commons. It was a long walk, especially in this heat, but there was at least a decent chance he’d see Ned at the end of it. He probably oughtn’t allow that to brighten his day as much as it did, but there was no real help for it.

He glanced around the familiar clutter, trying to decide it if was too early and, if so, what he should work on next. He really had no cases in hand at the moment, though his last had been lucrative enough that he didn’t need to worry about fees. Perhaps he should try to finish the most recent issue of
The Metaphysicist
, though the only thing in it of actual interest was an on-going debate about whether the use of irrational numbers in magic squares was non-conforming magic.

The bell jangled at the front door, and he went to his window, peering out just as a cab pulled away from the curb. A client, then, either for him or Bailey, and he swept the most recent
Newgate Calendar
off the chair he kept for clients. There wasn’t time to start more tea, but it was a little late for that anyway. He heard footsteps on the stair, and then young Digby knocked at his door.

“Mr Lynes, it’s Mr Mathey.”

“Come in,” Julian called, and the door swung open, Ned looking at him with a faintly sheepish expression as he swept off his top hat.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Not at all,” Julian said. He gestured vaguely to the various chairs. “Make yourself at home. Oh, Harry.” He reached into his pocket. “Run down to the General and bring us back a pitcher of ale.”

“That’s the best offer I’ve had all day,” Ned said, and set his hat cautiously on top of the pile of newspapers.

Julian pushed the front window further open, bringing in the smell of the street, dust and horse droppings and half a dozen kitchen stoves, as well as a breeze that promised a cooler night. He opened his bedroom door as well, hoping for a cross-draught, and turned back to Ned.

“What would you think if someone said to you ‘Corinth five’?” he asked.

Ned blinked. “Well, Corinthian’s running in the fifth at Cheltenham. Why?”

“Oh.” Julian had hoped for something a bit more interesting than a message from a bookmaker. “Is he the favorite?”

Ned’s voice took on the note of patience that meant he’d failed to notice some important piece of the sporting life. “Yes. Three to two is about the best you can get on him right now.”

“Oh,” Julian said again, and shrugged. “I was working out a cipher in the agony column, but it’s probably just a bookmaker laying off some of his bets.”

“Or else it’s one of those sporting lads who purport to sell you a secret tip, and post it to the paper in cipher to make it seem more important,” Ned said. “And by the time the punters have deciphered it, the lad in question is long gone.” He paused. “You really hadn’t heard of Corinthian?”

Julian shook his head. “Why would I?”

“Most people have,” Ned answered. “Even Miss Frost.”

Julian sighed. “She’s probably secretly sporting-mad, you know. And – didn’t you say something about a match this afternoon?”

“I had a client instead,” Ned said.

And not a nice one, by the shift in tone. Julian glanced at the clock on his mantel – late enough that there was little chance of any clients of his own – and shrugged off his coat. “Make yourself at home,” he said, and Ned smiled.

“I don’t mind if I do.” He hung his frock coat carefully on the tree by the door, and loosened his collar. “Victor Nevett’s father hired me to inspect his silver for a curse today.”