Death by Silver (40 page)

Julian made a strangled noise, but managed to turn it into a cough as Hatton glanced his way.

“I don’t believe it was either Reggie or Freddie Nevett,” Ned said. “Both of them have accounted satisfactorily for how they spent the remainder of the night in question.”

“How’s that?”

“As you say, the Nevett case is closed,” Julian said. “We’re investigating for our own peace of mind. If you’d like to officially re-open the case –”

“Be that way, then,” Hatton said. “I suppose I’d better take your word for it, since I’m not in a position to do anything else. You think it’s one of the ladies, then? I can’t see Mrs Edgar Nevett hiring this lad.”

“One of her servants might have, though,” Julian said. “Or there’s the mission –”

“I’m surprised at you,” Hatton said dryly. “You mean to say that you don’t think all those reformed souls stay reformed?”

“I think it would be interesting to see if Mr Dixon is one of their alumni,” Julian said. “Or has been recently at the mission in search of charity of any sort. Not that I expect you’ll get an answer out of Ellis easily.”

“More easily than I will,” Ned said. “He seems to have taken a dislike to me.”

“I can’t imagine that,” Hatton said, but with more amusement than annoyance.

“Here, Mr Inspector, are you planning to leave me standing about all day?” Dixon said. “I’m a sick man, I am, and I haven’t had no dinner.”

“You’ll have a good supper in Holloway,” Hatton said. “And you look hale enough to me.”

“They took my liver pills off me,” Dixon said. “I suffer something terrible without them.”

Ned could see Julian’s attention sharpening, looking Dixon over from head to foot. He didn’t look ill to Ned, and certainly he’d shown no sign of weakness while trying to bash Ned’s head in.

“You’re in luck,” Hatton said, drawing a tin from out of his pocket. “I always carry them myself. This line of work’s enough to do anyone’s digestion in.”

Dixon took one of the pills grudgingly, but he swallowed it. “This is mistreatment,” he said. “I want my own things back.”

“You can make your own arrangements at Holloway,” Hatton said. “Though whether they’ll feel inclined to give you credit, I can’t say.”

“It’s a bleeding shame, I say. All the comforts of home, for those as can afford them.”

“It’s the way of the world,” Hatton said. “Try and resign yourself.”

Dixon rolled his eyes, and then abruptly staggered, one hand flailing toward Ned. Ned reached for him on instinct, but Hatton pushed him firmly back.

“No games, Dixon,” he said. “Take a seat if you’re ill, and we’ll – oh, damn it.” Hatton caught Dixon as he crumpled, retching, getting him down to the floor with an effort. He looked up at the policeman sharply. “Don’t just stand there, go and get a doctor. No, you two stay back – if he’s faking –”

“He’s not,” Julian said, going down on one knee despite Hatton’s instructions. He reached for Dixon’s shoulders, and then flinched back as the man began to convulse. “Mathey, do you know a remedy –”

“For fits?” He’d never made a particular study of medicinal metaphysics, although he knew it relied heavily on the use of inks and other tools he didn’t have with him. He struggled to remember anything from the pages he’d merely flipped past at Oxford.

“For poison.” There were running feet now in the hall outside. Dixon’s breath was coming in gasps, too far apart.

“I’d have to know the poison, try to contain it – it might be done, but –”

“Too late, damn it,” Hatton said.

“He can’t be dead,” Ned said, but the man had stopped thrashing, and no matter how long Ned waited for him to draw a breath, no breath came.

“You’re sure you don’t want to wait for your own man to examine him?” Ned said. They’d laid Dixon out downstairs, in a room filled with assorted paraphernalia both medical and metaphysical; alarming objects preserved in jars shared the shelves with dusty ink bottles and a vast assortment of wands, most of which looked in danger of crumbling into pieces from woodworm or age. He wasn’t certain if the calipers were medical or metaphysical, and wasn’t certain he wanted to know.

“It’s his day off,” Hatton said. “And probably just as well, not that it wouldn’t be educational to see if he could figure out why a man dropped dead in front of him. You’re here now, and I want answers.” Hatton’s voice was grim; he’d had the body moved and ordered the room cleaned up with the efficiency of long practice, but his whole body was tight with unhappiness. “Damn it, there was nothing in those pills to kill him.”

“He might have taken something while we weren’t looking,” Ned said.

“Not under Tomkins’s eye. He’s a steady man.”

“Anyway, why should he?” Julian said. “You said yourself he’s a regular. Even if he were convicted of attempted robbery, it wouldn’t be anything new.”

“The hazards of the trade,” Hatton said. “No reason to do himself in.”

“Well, at the least I can tell you if there’s been any metaphysical influence – hullo.”

“What’s that?” Julian leaned over the body, and Ned waved him back, sketching another quick series of symbols over the body.

“There’s some kind of trigger – what’s in those pills of yours, Hatton?”

“The usual herbal stuff. And a good dose of opium. Does wonders for the nerves when witnesses break down.”

“It’s the opium, I think.” The metaphysical word for sleep was generally literally meant, but with an alternate ending to specify opiates rather than natural sleep – yes, that had to be how it was done. “Used as a trigger to end a prior enchantment –”

“A delayed poison?” Julian murmured. He caught Ned’s eye, and Ned frowned. It would be worse than awkward to explain now where they’d seen that before. Julian shrugged a little, conceding the point, but clearly unable to think of a good explanation himself.

“I think so,” Ned said. He sketched another series of sigils, letting them visibly play over the body, and their reaction to the prior enchantment looked decidedly familiar. The same sort of enchantment, and he’d be willing to bet a considerable sum it had been done by the same hand. “Cyanide, maybe – a doctor had better speak to that. But it’s not a time delay. It’s triggered particularly by taking any kind of opiate.”

“Which I suspect was his habit,” Julian said. “So many of those patent medicines are laced with the stuff. Mother’s helpers and liver pills and who knows what else.” He looked a bit disapproving, which Ned felt was rich considering the uses to which Julian tended to put enchantment.

“And I handed it to him,” Hatton said. “God damn it.”

“You had no way of knowing,” Ned said.

“Poor beggar,” Hatton said. He looked as if he meant it, somewhat to Ned’s surprise. “I can’t think of a good word to say for him, but all the same, you get used to the regulars. It’s their profession the same as catching them is ours, and after a while there’s a kind of sporting spirit about it.”

“Someone set him on Mathey, or possibly on me,” Julian said. “And poisoned him so that he wouldn’t be around to talk about it afterwards. Only he didn’t take his medicine soon enough.”

“And it wasn’t Victor Nevett who did it,” Hatton said, and drew the sheet back up to cover the corpse.

Back in his lodgings, Julian managed to persuade Mrs Digby to bring them a late tea, and poured for them when it arrived, on the theory that Ned was still a bit too shaken to be trusted with scalding liquids. He added extra sugar to both cups on the same principle, and shook his head when Ned grimaced.

“Drink it down. It’s good for you.”

“I’d rather have a whiskey,” Ned grumbled, but did as he was told.

Julian nibbled at a slice of brown bread and butter, trying to marshal his thoughts. “It was the same enchantment,” he said, for the third time, and for the third time Ned shook his head.

“Not identical – but yes, the same sort, and the same hand. I’d swear to that in court.”

“Which means that the same person killed Makins and Dixon,” Julian said. “And, quite arguably, Edgar Nevett. Or, I suppose, the same metaphysician sold several different people the same type of killing formulation. But if that was the case, a metaphysician selling a really effective means of murder, I’d expect to have seen a few more deaths already.”

Ned nodded. “Yes, I can see that.”

“But how are they connected?” Julian scowled at the tea tray, where the
Urtica mordax
was straining for a sliver of ham that had fallen from a sandwich. Ned watched the tendril unfurl and recoil, and idly used the flat of his knife to push the ham into its reach.

“They were both criminals for hire,” he said.

“Yes, but Dixon was a thug, a footpad and garrotter,” Julian said. “Makins was a cracksman. He was in an entirely different class.”

“But they were killed by the same person,” Ned said. “And by nearly identical means.” He paused. “I really think we should have told Hatton about Makins when it happened.”

The
Urtica mordax
had dragged the ham into its toothy bud, which was larger than it had been a few days ago. Julian stripped off another piece of the rind, and dangled it, watching as a tendril slowly coiled up and around it. “I know,” he said. “And, in retrospect – but I’d promised Mrs Makins to keep the police out of it.”

“You promise all your clients that,” Ned said, with a crooked smile.

“It’s part of the service,” Julian answered.

“No wonder Hatton doesn’t trust you,” Ned said.

“Yes, but Dixon wasn’t my client,” Julian said. “I wasn’t lying about that.”

The
Urtica mordax
gave the strip of ham rind a definite yank, and Julian released it. Ned grinned, but made no comment.

“Someone gave Dixon my card,” Julian said. “Never mind how they got it in the first place, it wouldn’t be that hard. The interesting question is why – especially since you were attacked, not me.”

“Well, we’re working together on the Nevett murder,” Ned said. “And, I agree, that’s the most likely reason for all this. Maybe he was on his way to find you, and happened to spot me?”

“Or,” Julian said, lifting one finger as the idea solidified, “he had my card because it has my address on it. Yours just has your chambers.”

“So it does. And I can’t think of a worse place to attack a man than the Commons.”

“Too many people,” Julian said. “Too many eyes, and too many unpredictable metaphysicians wandering around at all hours, with wands in pockets and enchantments they’re just itching to try out. Not to mention that they’re well-trained to remember visual detail. No, Coptic Street’s much better.”

“But why?” Ned asked again.

“Not to be melodramatic,” Julian said, “but the killer needs to get rid of us. We’re getting too close.”

“Except we’re not,” Ned said. “We’ve eliminated Reggie and Freddie – and Victor – and you say you’re sure it’s not Mrs Victor, but I can’t see Mrs Nevett knowing how to hire someone like Dixon. Or this kind of metaphysician. I’d think this would be out of Mrs Landry’s league.”

“You might be surprised,” Julian said darkly. “But we are getting close. And I think this person’s made a bad mistake killing Dixon. Hatton is going to take it personally, and he’s definitely in a position to force information out of Ellis at the mission. If there’s a connection there, he’ll find it. And I think Bolster is going to take very ill to the notion that someone is killing people on his turf. I’ll write him in the morning, and I think this time he’ll have to answer. He’ll make Mrs Makins see me. And in the meantime, that leaves Victor for us. Hatton will arrange for us to see him, I’m sure.”

Ned frowned. “I don’t see what good that would do. Odds are, he’s protecting his mother. She’s the one with the history of using illicit enchantment, and, assuming she knew Nevett was planning to divorce her, she had cause to want him dead. Nothing’s changed there.”

“But suppose he was protecting Freddie or Reggie?” Julian asked. “We know they’re both innocent, and we can prove it. So if Victor was trying to protect one of them – well, we can tell him it’s no longer necessary. And maybe we’ll finally get something sensible out of him.”

“Not bloody likely,” Ned said. “I think we should talk to Miss Frost, see what more she can tell us about Mrs Landry.”