Death by Silver (9 page)

“And besides, we were in Beckett’s together, back at Toms’.”

“Good old Martyr’s.”

“That’s right. You don’t know what it’s like, having the police in the house and the newspapers speculating about which one of us might have done it. The last thing I need is someone who’s going to dig up whatever dirt there is to dig and then sell the story to the picture papers.”

“You can’t imagine I’d do that.”

“Of course not, not a Sts Thomas’s man. There’s such a thing as the honor of the school. And I like to think I set you a good example.”

“I’m sure you did,” Ned said, although he found it unexpectedly hard to say.

“Well, then. I’d like to hire you to represent the family interests, and do whatever you can with metaphysics to find out the truth.”

Ned hesitated for a moment. “I suppose you’re aware the two may not be entirely compatible?”

“If there’s a murderer in the family, I think it’s in the family’s interests to find out about it,” Victor said. “I hate to be so frank about it, but there it is. You can’t just go around killing people, no matter how much you may want to.”

“Did people want to?” Ned found himself asking. He hadn’t absolutely made up his mind to accept the offer, but it couldn’t hurt to ask the obvious question.

“I wouldn’t have said so,” Victor said. “The old man wasn’t exactly on good terms with most of the family, but that’s not a reason to kill a man, is it?”

“When you say he wasn’t on good terms with them…” Ned prompted.

“He and my mother used to quarrel, but that’s life with a woman, isn’t it? And my little brother Freddie bedeviled him when he was up at Oxford. Wouldn’t apply himself, and fancies himself artistic. I understand he writes verses.”

“I’ve heard of worse.”

“He’s the youngest and spoiled, you know how that is. Should have been taught more manners as a pup.” Ned wondered if Victor actually recalled that Ned was the youngest of five himself. He expected not. “I suppose he’ll grow out of it.”

“Most likely.”

“And then you remember Reggie.”

“Of course,” Ned said, although he had to admit that mostly what he remembered was a plump boy saying “yes” and “no” at the appropriate moments and rarely venturing any opinion of his own. Reggie hadn’t played cricket, and as a Senior Man Ned hadn’t paid much attention to anyone but the First Eleven and the boys who aspired to it, with Julian the perpetual exception.

“Not much of a sportsman, but not a bad sort.” Victor hesitated for the first time. “But he didn’t get on with the old man. And before you ask, I don’t know why, only that Reggie’s barely set foot in the house all year. But it could be anything, really. The old man had a temper, let me tell you.”

“And the servants?”

“I don’t know much about them. The mater did all the hiring. I know the old man complained not long ago that the charity cases she let be foisted off on her couldn’t do the simplest things right, but that might just have been temper. It’s hard to know what’s important, when a thing like this has happened. But it’s got to be sorted out. It’s no good for the mater, and no good for my wife, and truth be told, it’s no good for me. There’s starting to be talk.” He said that last as though that were of more concern than the possible presence of a killer in the household, although Ned supposed from Victor’s point of view it might be.

“I can’t make any promises,” Ned said. “But I can look into it.” He hesitated. If the client had been anyone else, he would have said immediately that Julian had to be brought into it, but he had the idea that Julian wasn’t going to like the idea of working with this particular client. For that matter, he wasn’t at all sure he liked it himself. There was some unexpected part of him that blindly rebelled at the thought.

But murder was murder, and as much as he hated to put it that way, a client was a client. Ned didn’t have so many that he could afford to turn away a wealthy one who wanted to hire him to deal with what was likely to be a lengthy matter. He’d have taken it on whether Julian was interested or not, but best to lay the groundwork for involving Julian if he could persuade him to take it on.

“I’ve a colleague I’d like to bring in on the case,” Ned said. “Another Old Toms’ man. Mr Julian Lynes.”

He could see that it took Victor a moment to place Julian, but eventually recognition dawned. “Not little Lynes?”

“The same.”

Victor snorted. “It’s odd meeting old schoolmates, isn’t it? I remember him a mewling little brat, but I expect he’s entirely presentable now.”

“I’ve always found him entirely reliable,” Ned said after only a brief pause. “He specializes in cases requiring delicate handling. Detective work, you understand, but not the common sort.”

Victor shrugged. “If you think it’ll help. I suppose it’ll mean an extra fee. Never mind, though, it’s worth it if you can sort this out. Whatever the usual rates are, and of course your expenses to be paid.”

“I’m going to have to bill by the hour,” Ned said. “I’m afraid I haven’t a set fee for murder investigations.”

“I don’t suppose you would.” Victor stood, offered his hand again for another bone-crushing handshake, and handed over one of his cards. “I imagine you’ll want to come round and see the house.”

“And talk to the household. I’m afraid so.”

“The lesser of two evils,” Victor said. “You’re better than the police. Not that I expect we’ll get rid of them soon. Can you come this afternoon?”

“It’s a bit short notice,” Ned said, although he knew full well there was nothing on his schedule.

“We may be living with a murderer,” Victor said, and Ned had to admit that provided a certain sense of urgency. If nothing else, the longer he delayed, the less chance there was of anyone being able to tell him their story of the night of Nevett’s death without it being colored by long hours of gossip and speculation.

“I’ll find out what I can for you,” Ned said, and Victor reclaimed his hat with an admiring glance at Miss Frost and went out.

Ned turned the card over in his fingers, trying to settle his nerves. Miss Frost frowned at him. “Mr Mathey, are you feeling quite well?”

“Perfectly,” he said, even more unsettled by the idea that he might not look completely at ease. “Why ever not?”

“You just look a bit green,” she said. “And so many things are going off, in this weather. I bought a ham pie the other day that turned out not to be fit to eat. Even the cat wouldn’t touch it.”

“I haven’t been eating ham pie, so I think I’m safe,” Ned said. “Mrs Clewett hasn’t poisoned me yet, although she will keep talking about fattening me up, as if I’m a sheep too scrawny to be turned into mutton.”

“I expect that’s just as well for the sheep.”

“Undoubtedly.” The room still felt too close, stifling despite the open window. “I’m going to go see what I can do about some of this,” he said, gathering up his working case and his hat. “If I’m not back by three, consider yourself at leisure for the day.”

“Yes, Mr Mathey,” she said, and he made his escape out into the hallway.

Out in the Commons square, the air smelled of lavender from the herb garden, which at the moment was merely bending in the warm breeze; the more mobile plants tended to be active at twilight and dawn. He took the long way through the garden toward the back gate by the omnibus stop, hoping to settle his nerves.

It was unreasonable to hold schoolboy grudges, he knew, and yet the old sentiments still crept in; unreasonable or not, he found himself with the urge to once again punch Victor Nevett in the face.

It had been their second year at Toms’, which by all rights should have been easier than the first. It hadn’t seemed so, though. James the Less had gone up to Oxford, and he’d been the best of the prefects; Staniforth was in his place, and encouraged the others to punish the slightest infraction with a heavy hand. They hounded Julian particularly, far beyond what Ned thought was reasonable or fair, stealing his things or tripping him in the hallways, tipping ink over his books and getting in a dig with elbows or fists every chance they got.

Victor Nevett was one of the worst of them, and Julian had pronounced himself baffled by Ned’s desire to attend cricket practices despite the fact that Victor would be in attendance. Practice for the younger students tended to consist of being sent to chase errant balls and occasionally used as targets for batting practice, but he didn’t particularly mind, and could catch most balls that came anywhere near him, even if they’d been aimed to bruise.

He was starting to feel confident of making the House team in the summer term, and that day had even avoided being laden down with anything heavy to carry back from the pitch.

“They don’t aim at you,” Smythe grumbled, having been awarded a heavy cricket-bag to carry for having failed to catch the ball that was already raising a bruise on his cheek, sending it wild and letting the other team get more runs than Nevett had liked. Nevett was hanging back to keep a baleful eye on the stragglers, but was far enough ahead that Ned didn’t think he could hear them.

“Lay off,” Barton said. “They do, only he catches them.” Smythe was a New Man this year, and technically not worthy of tagging along with men in their second year. He’d been to grammar school with Ned, though, and Ned felt that in light of that, he couldn’t begrudge him the chance to take shelter in his wake. Ned was already a head taller than the smallest boys, and while he still steered clear of the prefects, no one else cared to try elbowing him in the ribs or snatching things out of his hands.

“Only because he’s tall,” Smythe muttered.

“You can blame the mater and pater for that, not me,” Ned said mildly. “It’s far worse for my sisters; no one wants girls to be giraffes.”

“It’s lucky you didn’t turn out like your mother, my mum says,” Smythe said.

Ned could feel the blood draining from his face. He tried desperately not to show it, but he wasn’t sure whether he was succeeding. “And what do you mean by that?” The words came out too sharply, and he wished a second later that he’d bitten his tongue.

“I know she’s ill or something, my mum said,” Smythe said, his voice rising defensively. “And that she ought to be sent off to Ticehurst or some hospital like that because the place she was in before didn’t cure her. And I expect everyone thought you’d be sickly, only you’re the size of a horse, so –”

“Will you
shut up
?” Barton said, elbowing Smythe hard enough in the ribs that Smythe yelped audibly. Ned was still trying to find the right words to pass it all off lightly, his stomach turning, when Nevett turned round with a look of triumph, and Ned knew in a moment that he’d not only heard but understood.

He might still deny everything – a half-understood rumor, mangled in the telling, nothing more – but he could feel his face heating, his fists clenching unbidden.

“Did the ‘place she was in before’ cure her, Mathey?”

“She was taking the rest cure, that’s all. She was run down –”

“Did it cure her, Mathey?”

“She only went in for a rest.”

“I expect that’s what all the lunatics say,” Nevett said.

“She’s not a lunatic,” Ned said, realizing too late that the words had come out as a flat contradiction. “I mean I beg pardon, but you’re mistaken, sir,” he added stiffly.

“Did you lie about Mathey’s mother, Smythe?” Victor turned his attention momentarily to the younger boy, who flushed under his gaze. Ned willed him to find the right words, to say that he must have misunderstood and that he was very sorry to have caused any trouble, and then maybe they could all get on with the afternoon without the bottom falling out of the world.

“I didn’t,” Smythe said swiftly, his cheeks flaming. “My mum said she belonged in Ticehurst and that it was a very serious case and she’d been away before to take the cure, but she didn’t say it was a madhouse.”

“Maybe you’re not a liar, then. Where was she before, Mathey?”

“Only a spa, sir,” Ned said furiously. His father had promised him when his mother went away that it was only to a spa, although even then he hadn’t entirely believed it. She’d come back in six months, and the rest seemed to have done her good. Sometimes she seemed entirely well.

Nevett smirked. “I certainly hope it doesn’t run in the family, Mathey. It won’t do to have a lunatic in Martyr’s.” His smile widened, as if he’d come up with a new idea. “Of course, if it’s that she’s acquired a certain disease –”

It was the last straw, Ned drew back his fist, light-headed with rage, and punched Victor Nevett squarely in the jaw.

It took Nevett by surprise, and he went sprawling, landing on his arse in the dirt with his legs splayed, for a moment comical until he scrambled up, his own face reddening with fury. “How dare you, Mathey!”

Barton and Smythe both looked thunderstruck, as if the laws of nature had been reversed, and for a long, satisfied moment Ned hadn’t even regretted it.