Death by Silver (8 page)

Hatton gave a slow smile, revealing a small gap between his front teeth. “No, they were right enough. And you’ve hit the crux of it, Mr Lynes. It doesn’t fit and right now I don’t see how to make it fit.”

“There couldn’t have been a second man?” Julian said, and Hatton shook his head.

“No signs of one. One set of footprints in the yard – size eights – and the marks of one man’s muddy shoes in the library.” He paused. “The back gate was open, which I’ll thank you not to repeat. The servants all claim it was locked the previous night as usual, but –” He shrugged. “It’s certain the man got out that way, however he got in.”

“They’d say that regardless,” Julian said. “The servants. But if there was an accomplice, why wouldn’t she – or he – warn our burglar of the master’s unfortunate habit of sitting up late in the library?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” Hatton was relaxing a little, his face animated. “But there’s no evidence either way. Mind you, Mrs Nevett takes an interest in the poor, and she’s gotten some of her staff from the Reverend Mr Ellis’s Limehouse mission.”

“I don’t know it,” Julian said.

“But I do,” Ned said. “The Mission for the Education of the Employable Poor. It’s a mouthful, but it’s not bad, as such things go. Their mission is to teach the children their letters to make them fit for decent work, and then to find them that work so they don’t have to steal or starve. It has a decent reputation, and the people it places generally do well for themselves.”

“We don’t see so many problems with Ellis’s graduates as with some,” Hatton said. “But there’s always the chance of a bad apple.”

The waiter arrived then with their first course, and the conversation became more general. Julian made a mental note to ask Bolster what he knew about the reverend gentleman, and settled in to enjoy the food and what proved to be an excellent bottle of wine. He still wasn’t sure what Hatton wanted, or why Ned had invited him, but he was content for the moment to wait.

It was Ned who brought it up, after the pudding had been brought and nibbled at. “Did Carruthers ever give you an answer, Hatton?”

Hatton drained the last of his wine, and shook his head. “He’s putting me off, and mumbling about curses and the general inadequacies of any metaphysician trained up later than the court of Charles II.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Julian said.

Hatton grinned at him. “There I agree with you, Mr Lynes. And I don’t have the time to wait, either, which is why I’ve brought a…certain object…for Mathey to examine.”

Julian smiled back, and Ned cracked his knuckles. “And I suppose that means it’s time I earned my supper,” he said.

They trailed him back through the Commons courtyard, past the Specimen Garden where a pale flower was opening, its leaves rustling with more than wind. Something skittered past the base of the fountain, and Julian hoped it was only a mouse and not one of the more aggressive plants. They passed the statue of Cornelius Agrippa and climbed the stairs to the single narrow room that was Ned’s chambers. His clerk was gone, her desk bare, and Ned wormed his way around it to fling the one window open wide, letting in the evening breeze. He pulled a bottle of brandy from the cupboard, along with a trio of glasses, and set them on Miss Frost’s desk. Hatton lifted the carpet bag that had sat at his feet all evening, and set it on Ned’s desk. It landed with a distinctly metallic thump, and Ned smiled.

“I do appreciate this, Hatton. I know I didn’t miss anything, but – I’m curious.”

“And I’d like a reliable answer,” Hatton said. He opened the bag, and pulled out a bundle wrapped in coarse silk. Ned nodded approval – the silk would insulate it from any outside influences – and carefully unwound the wrapping. The candlestick was enormous, over a foot tall, and designed to look as though it had come from a medieval cathedral. It wasn’t that old, though, Julian thought, peering over Hatton’s shoulder. The design was one that had been popular ten years ago, the sort of thing that his great-uncle had grumbled about as muddying the waters for true antiquarians, all overdone crosses and a frieze of praying figures around the lower part of the shaft. The square foot was carved in acanthus leaves, and one corner was dulled and dirty. Ned picked it up, still using the silk, and grimaced as he took a closer look.

“It’s certainly heavy enough,” he said.

Hatton nodded. “If you were looking to bludgeon a man to death – well, it’s what I’d pick.”

“Right.” Ned reached into the drawer of his desk, drew out his silver-tipped wand. “Might as well get on with it.”

Julian took a few steps back, perched on the edge of Miss Frost’s desk. Hatton settled into the visitor’s chair, stretching out unexpectedly long legs, and Ned frowned thoughtfully at the candlestick. This was what Ned was really good at, Julian thought, this kind of analytical metaphysics. He himself was good at patterns, at the grammar of enchantment, but Ned had a gift for finding his way into the shape of an enchantment, without harming its structure or causing anything to blow up in his face. His wand moved, tracing sigils – no trails of fire, nothing to show off what he was doing, just solid brilliant work. Julian could guess at a couple of the symbols, the first a test to determine the verb, and then another seeking correspondences, but most moved past too quickly for him to follow. Once the metal chimed, a high sweet note, and once there was a flash like a spark, and finally Ned laid his wand aside and carefully pulled the silk back over the candlestick.

“That’s very interesting,” he said, and Hatton straightened himself.

“Definitely magic, then?”

Ned nodded. “And rather neatly done.”

Julian pushed himself off the desk and came to peer at Ned’s notes.

“The curse compels the candlestick to strike someone – presumably Edgar Nevett – seated below it once the sun is down. I’m guessing this usually stood on a shelf above Nevett’s desk? Or his usual chair?”

“His desk,” Hatton said. “Though it’s off to one side a bit. Not a natural way to fall.”

“How is ‘strike’ signified?” Julian asked.

“ ‘Go to’ with ‘forcefully,’ ” Ned answered.

Julian nodded, unsurprised. It was a formulation common to both Universities, but then, it would have been too much to hope for some archaic signifier that would point straight to the murderer.

“And, no, it wouldn’t be a natural trajectory,” Ned went on. “I don’t think it was meant to be, actually. I think it was meant to suggest murder all along.”

“Interesting,” Hatton said.

“I imagine Victor would have demanded some kind of investigation if a candlestick just happened to fall on his father,” Julian said.

“I didn’t know you knew the family, Mr Lynes,” Hatton said.

Julian swallowed a curse, kept his expression open and innocent. “I was at school with the sons.”

“We both were,” Ned said. “It’s how I got the job in the first place. Sorry, Hatton, I thought I’d told you.”

Hatton waved his hand. “It doesn’t matter. You said ‘presumably’ it was meant for Nevett?”

Ned nodded. “The cursework is structured to point at someone, though technically it could function without that closing sign. I’d be willing to bet that there was one, though, and that it pointed to Nevett. But I couldn’t swear to it.”

Hatton raised his eyebrows. “Because – ?”

“Most identification is sealed with blood or hair.” Ned pointed to the stained base. “Unfortunately, there’s too much of both on it now to tell if that was done.”

“Pity,” Hatton said. “So can I assume you’d have seen a spell like this if it had been there when you examined the silver?”

“Oh, yes,” Ned said. “That I will swear to. Nevett had every piece of silver he owned out and on display, this one included. If there’d been this sort of curse on anything, I’d have found it. I picked up a number of commercial enchantments. And this – would have been noticeable.”

“That narrows it down considerably, then,” Hatton said. “Whoever did this has to have created the curse between when you left on Tuesday, and Thursday night. That’s useful.”

“I hope so,” Ned said, but he was looking pleased with himself. As well he might, Julian thought. That narrow window should make the police’s job easier.

“Oh, it will be,” Hatton answered, and tucked the silk-wrapped bundle back into his bag. “I appreciate your time, Mathey. And a pleasure meeting you, Mr Lynes.”

Julian murmured a suitable answer, hung back as Ned showed Hatton to the door, resting his hips on Miss Frost’s desk again. The light had faded since they’d arrived, and Ned turned up the gas, blinking a little in the new light.

“That was neatly done,” Julian said. Ned blinked again, this time from surprise, and gave an almost shy smile.

“Thanks. I’m glad Hatton gave me the chance, I’d hate to think I’d missed something.”

“You’d have had to be blind and deaf to miss that,” Julian answered. He didn’t really want to talk about Hatton – he wanted, in fact, to take Ned home with him, and that would be foolish beyond permission –

“Well, yes. I know that now.” He came over to the desk, reaching for the bottle of brandy. Julian shifted slightly, so that he was far too close.

“I have a better bottle at home,” he said.

Ned gave him a wary look, but didn’t step away. Julian put his hand on Ned’s shoulder, feeling the curve of the muscle beneath the light padding. He was making a mistake, he knew, but it was probably better to force this to its natural conclusion, end it before he became too attached again. And right now he wanted it more than he was able to resist.

“We could share,” he said, and stepped closer still, so that they were almost touching. He heard Ned’s breath catch, and put his hand up to pull him into a kiss.

“Not here,” Ned said, and shook himself hard. “Wait –”

Julian took a step back, waiting while Ned returned bottle and glasses to their place, and turned down the gas. “The omnibus –”

Ned gave him a reproachful look, and Julian couldn’t help a grin.

“All right. We’ll take a cab.”

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Ned came up the stairs to his chambers with two sizable books from the Commons library balanced in the crook of his arm, having endured the usual lecture from the librarian about not removing them from the Commons grounds. He intended to find some permanent solution to the problem of Mr Clark’s garden gate, and had unearthed both a manual on the care of all manner of doors and a more general treatise with a section on untangling enchantments muddled by too many previous hands.

Both were out of date, but he felt it was time to consider something other than current best practices, since those were apparently failing. He opened the door about to say as much to Miss Frost, and checked on the threshold.

Victor Nevett was sitting in the visitor’s chair, leaning back in the chair with his arms crossed in exactly the same attitude of impatience that he’d habitually displayed in classes and chapel. He looked up as Ned came in, and Ned was struck by how little he’d changed; he was a bit heavier than he had been in school, and he sported a neatly trimmed beard, but otherwise he could have stepped out of one of Ned’s more uneasy dreams about school.

“I told Mr Nevett you’d be back directly, and he said he’d wait,” Miss Frost said, which broke the spell enough for Ned to step in and close the door.

Victor pushed back his chair and stood, offering his hand. “Mathey,” he said, with the crushing handshake of the sort of man who would consider it womanish not to leave the other party’s fingers numb.

It was surprisingly difficult not to answer
yes, sir
. “Mr Nevett,” Ned said pleasantly instead. “Please accept my condolences on your family’s great misfortune.” He set down the books on the corner of his desk, and sat down behind it, trying not to feel that he was putting it between the two of them as a shield.

Victor nodded brusquely, and then said, “Actually, that’s what I came to see you about. We’ve had the police tramping through the house ever since it happened. They don’t think it was a simple case of burglary.”

“I’m afraid they may be right,” Ned said. He hoped this wasn’t going where it seemed to be going. If Victor thought Ned could be induced in any way to keep quiet about the results of his tests on the murder weapon, he was in for an unpleasant surprise, and one that had been a long time coming. He wasn’t fourteen anymore.

“I’m afraid so, too,” Victor said. “I want to retain you to sort it out.”

“Sort it out?” He was going to make him say it, and he expected to take an unreasonable amount of pleasure in refusing.

“Find out who really killed my father.”

Ned hesitated for a moment as he tried to change gears abruptly. “That’s not generally part of a metaphysician’s work,” he said.

“You sorted out that business about the cursed necklace, though,” Nevett said. “Read about it in the papers. Not bad, figuring out it was one of those heathen curses. Bought from some Thuggee strangler, I suppose.”

Ned restrained the urge to point out that the necklace in question had been bought from Hunt & Roskell in Bond Street, and enchanted using a perfectly respectable system of metaphysics used by thousands of people in India who weren’t habitual stranglers. “I was glad to be of assistance to the police,” he said.