Death by Silver

by Melissa Scott

  The quickest way to be done with the Nevett case was to solve it, and that was what he was determined to do. The only way was to approach it like any other professional problem, to be untangled patiently and with as much of a will as he could manage. He was a grown man and a trained professional, although it was troubling how often lately he’d felt the need to reassure himself of both.

  Miss Frost at least seemed enthusiastic about talking the case through. He had been a bit concerned that she’d be squeamish about being involved with a murder investigation, but she seemed to find it more diverting than her usual tasks.

  “It must have been someone who was in the house at dinnertime,” he went on. “Of the people who were there – the servants, the family, and the dinner guests – we still don’t know which of them had reason to kill Nevett. I’m getting the impression that none of them were on very good terms with him, but presumably only one of them did it.”

  “Unless they were in it together,” Miss Frost said.

  “It’s hard to imagine any of them cooperating that long,” Ned said. “Victor and Mrs Victor, maybe. And Mrs Nevett seems fond of Freddie. But frankly right now it’s all guesswork.”

  “You don’t think it was the girl?”

  “It seems hard to credit, for any number of reasons.” Ned shook his head. “But it’s all murky. Let’s consider a different question. Who could have done it? Either it was someone who knew enough metaphysics to work out how to do it and then perform the enchantment, or there’s a professional involved.”

  “There are kits and the like,” Miss Frost said doubtfully.

  “Not with handy curses for murdering your relations written out, or at least I hope not. I’ve seen traps for burglars, and I suppose you could do something with that, but to modify one to kill Nevett and only Nevett… no, it won’t do. You’d need to know as much metaphysics to turn a burglar-trap to your purposes as you would to simply enchant the thing yourself. More, possibly.”

  “Could any of them have done it on their own?”

  “I can’t imagine either Victor or Reggie coming up with it out of their heads,” Ned said. “We learned a bit at Toms’, but mostly theory – they didn’t want us experimenting on one another, strangely enough. And I doubt either of them touched the stuff once they went up to Oxford. They were out to pass, and that was all. Freddie took a third in something, I think, but it certainly wasn’t metaphysics.” He shook his head. “I can’t see any of them doing it without consulting a professional.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “Who provided them with an enchantment for murder?”

  “It might not have been that straightforward. Lessons, maybe, or maybe they got the pieces of it and managed to put it together – yes, that’s dicey, but there’s such a thing as beginner’s luck.” Ned shrugged. “But I don’t think we can rule it out entirely, can we? There are chemists who’ve sold poisons and solicitors who’ve forged wills.”

  “You don’t think it could have been one of us,” Miss Frost said, and for the first time she looked a little taken aback. “Not a member of the Commons, or any of the clerks, surely?”

  “More likely some back-alley charlatan, but it’s worth ruling out,” Ned said. “I expect the pageboys might remember if any of the Nevetts have been seen about in recent weeks.”

  “They see a lot of clients.”

  “Yes, but they remember names; it’s their job to recognize our regulars. For those of us who have regulars. And they’d certainly remember a lady.”

  “I expect they would,” she said, although she still sounded a bit skeptical.

  It was, at least, a place to start. He went to track down the various pageboys who ran errands for the Commons, armed with a pocket full of pennies to jog their memories. By the end of the morning, though, he had to admit defeat.

  No one remembered seeing any of the Nevetts besides Victor, and the only occasion anyone could remember seeing Victor was when he’d come to consult Ned. The few ladies they’d seen in the week before the murder were regular clients or wives of Commons members, all well-known to the boys, with the exception of one white-haired old woman and one ginger-haired woman with a baby in arms

  “Do you want me to tell you if I do see any Nevetts, then?” Bob asked, one hand held out as if hoping another penny would materialize.

  “I do, actually,” Ned said, dispensing another penny on the off chance that it would be useful. “Or Mr Ellis. And you can run round and tell Miss Frost that I’m off to the Mission for the Education of the Employable Poor.”

  The place was as Julian had described it, an old brick house overshadowed by the warehouse behind it, with what looked like space for a narrow yard between, although it couldn’t get much sun. The neighborhood was a shabby one, and his clothes drew looks that might have been either hostile or speculative. It wasn’t one he’d care to linger in after dark, at least not dressed as he was.

  He knocked briskly at the front door, handing over his card to the maid who went to announce him and trying to gather his thoughts as he waited for her to return. The trick would be to persuade them that his intentions weren’t indecent, he thought, and wondered if it might not be better to start by asking after Sarah’s brother. He was still trying to figure out how to phrase his inquiries when the girl returned.

  “I’m afraid there’s no one who’s free to see you, Mr Mathey.”

  “I’m happy to wait,” Ned said.

  “I’m afraid you won’t find anyone free, sir,” the girl said, and shut the door firmly between them.

  Ned let out an exasperated breath. Ellis was there, then, or had been there before him and told the schoolmasters that Mr Mathey wasn’t to be admitted. He supposed it was to the man’s credit that he was protective of his charges, but under the circumstances it was also intensely frustrating.

  He considered the schoolyard, and his chances of speaking to a pupil, but there was no way in without passing through gates that were likely to be locked, and he’d be a sinister and conspicuous figure even if he scaled the wall. Not that it wouldn’t be conspicuous to start with to climb schoolyard walls in his frock coat and top hat.

  What he needed was someone who wouldn’t look as painfully out of place as he did. He took a cab back to the Commons, hoping that Victor Nevett did intend to pay his expenses as agreed, given the amount he was spending in cab fare, and hunted up Bob again.

  He found the boy in the cramped room belowstairs that the pageboys used as their retreat; it was cluttered with tin dinner pails and reading material of various kinds. Some dog-eared books on metaphysics had made their way down there, and the boys were encouraged to make use of their free time in improving reading, but he saw more picture papers in evidence, as well as the familiar pink sheets of the Sporting Times.

  Bob scrambled up. “It’s my dinner break, sir,” he said, offering the slab of bread and butter in his hand as evidence. “Ollie and Frank ought to be upstairs.” He was a skinny boy, his hair curling in unruly directions despite being closely cropped.

  “I’m not scolding,” Ned said. “I’ve an errand that I need run, a bit out of the usual way. There’s a shilling in it for you, though, and another if you can find out what I need to know.”

  The boy’s eyes lit. “Is it about the murder, sir?”

  Ned supposed that it was common knowledge that he’d taken on a murder case, and was getting the impression that it made him something of a celebrity belowstairs. “In a roundabout way. I need you to go to the Mission for the Education of the Employable Poor, on Gill Street, at some time when you’re free. Go round to the kitchen door, and tell them you’ve a letter for Bill Doyle, who was a student there.”

  “Where’s the letter?”

  “There isn’t a letter. But see if you can find out an address for him. It’s likely he’s gone into service. If they say they don’t know, don’t let them fetch one of the teachers. Take your leave, and then see if you can hang round the schoolyard gate and ask one of the students instea
d.”

  “The other boys would be more likely to know to start with, wouldn’t they?”

  “Maybe, but you may find some of the students or former students working in the kitchen to start with. It’s the sort of school that trains you up for service. I’ll let you use your own judgment. Just get me an address if you can, and don’t say I sent you.”

  “I could say it was a mysterious stranger,” Bob said.

  Ned held up a restraining hand. “Better not to say at all. Just say that you’ve got a letter to deliver.”

  He left Bob looking thoroughly pleased with his mission, only hoping that the boy wouldn’t embroider his story too much. It wouldn’t help to make it sound like something out of a melodrama. There was nothing to be done about that, though, so he went to find a lunch of his own and hoped for the best.

  Julian slept badly, and, on the whole, was relieved he couldn’t remember his dreams. He made himself finish his breakfast, hoping the kippers would make up for the lack of sleep, and sent a note to Albert asking him to meet at King’s Cross at noon. After only a moment’s hesitation, he prepared himself another enchantment, red ink on gold paper and the signs of Mars, all for energy, and dissolved it in the last of his coffee. He drank it down, feeling the heat in his belly spreading outward, driving the exhaustion from his limbs. He’d pay for it later, if he wasn’t careful, but if the job went well – and there was no reason to think it wouldn’t – he could make an early night of it. When he was sure the enchantment had taken hold, he put on his second-best suit, collected his lead-weighted walking stick, and walked north toward King’s Cross.

  It didn’t take him long to find Murtaugh’s workshop, housed on the first floor of a curio dealer’s not far from the station. He bought a newspaper, sat for a bit in the coffee shop across the street to read it, watching the building out of the corner of his eye. He picked out Murtaugh’s staff quickly enough, a pair of obvious mechanics, toolboxes in hand, a shabby clerk, another man who might have been either clerk or mechanic but was big enough to be trouble in a fight, a woman and a girl hurrying from the omnibus stop. He didn’t think any of them was Murtaugh himself, but he was beginning to suspect that Murtaugh lived above his workshop. The second and third floors would make a decent flat. When he was sure he’d seen the last of them go in, he folded his paper, considering. He didn’t think Murtaugh was likely to make a fight of it, given what Bolster had said, and the neighborhood was decent, likely to call for the constables if there was trouble. The stick would be protection enough.

  And that meant all that remained was to be sure the Murtaugh had the plans. He pondered a moment longer, shaking his head at the waiter when he came to ask if there was anything more, then paid his bill and strolled out of the coffee shop, feeling his gait change as he settled on his story.

  There were a few automata in the window of the curio shop – a pair of toasting forks, a trio of monkeys dressed as Italian street musicians, an egg-cooker similar to his own – and he glanced curiously at them, wondering if the egg-cooker actually worked. The door to Murtaugh’s shop was beyond, just a small brass-plated sign to declare its presence. Julian took a deep breath and started up the stairs.

  There was a single door on the landing, with a narrow pane of etched glass and Murtaugh’s name in peeling paint. Julian pushed it open, the bell clattering, and came into a narrow shop area with a tall counter and a door behind it that opened into the workroom. It was bright, with wide windows to catch as much sunlight as possible; by comparison, the windowless shop was dim, the gaslights burning low. There was a single automaton on a shelf, a ballet dancer in silk and spangles, and a thick ledger on the counter, presumably the order book.

  “May I help you, sir?” That was a clerk Julian had seen earlier, short and balding, steel-framed glasses perched on his nose.

  “I hope so,” Julian said. “I was recommended to Mr Murtaugh in particular as the source of certain – specialty items.”

  A faintly weary look crossed the clerk’s face. “Very good, sir. I’ll fetch him.”

  Julian rested his elbow on the counter, balancing the stick idly in his right hand. A moment later, an older man appeared in the doorway, in shirtsleeves and sleeve protectors, a jeweler’s loupe dangling from a chain around his neck.

  “You wanted to see me, Mr –”

  “Nevett,” Julian said, unable to resist. “Victor Nevett. You’re Murtaugh?”

  “That’s me.” He was handsome, with curly black hair and pale skin, his hands marked with mechanic’s calluses.

  “I was told you were a supplier of certain – novelty automata to gentlemen’s clubs,” Julian said. “I’m here to inquire about a particular model.”

  “We make quite a few items that match that description,” Murtaugh said. “Was there a particular item you had in mind?”

  “It’s not yet on the general market,” Julian said. “Or so I’m told. A shoe salesman with a lady customer.”

  “Ah.”

  Julian had the sense that his income, his taste, and his sexual predilections had just been neatly docketed.

  “That’s a Jones and Wynchcombe piece,” Murtaugh went on. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you there.”

  “I know it’s a Jones and Wynchcombe,” Julian said, “and if the membership wanted to pay their prices, we would. I was told you offered the chance to – avoid that.”

  “That’s a very fine piece of machinery,” Murtaugh said. “And, as you say, it’s not on the general market yet. I don’t know that the price would be so very much less.”

  “But you can do it?” Julian asked. Murtaugh nodded slowly. “Then let’s discuss the price.”

  They haggled for a while, settling finally on six guineas complete and clothed, to be delivered three weeks from the day, and Julian signed Victor Nevett’s name to the order book with a certain sense of satisfaction. He let himself back down the staircase, careful to keep in character until he was out of sight of the workshop. Only then did he check his watch, and head for King’s Cross.

  Albert was already in the waiting room, tapping one foot nervously on the tiled floor, and started to his feet at Julian’s approach. “You’ve got him?”

  “I’ve found the man, and I have proof that he’s selling your device,” Julian answered. “There’s plenty there for a successful prosecution.”

  “Too much money and trouble,” Albert answered. “I want my plans back, and then – well, he’ll copy it in the end, no doubt, but by then we’ll have had the best of the market.”

  Julian shook his head, but he recognized that Albert had made up his mind. He led the way back through the dusty streets, dodging wagons and the scramble of workers on their lunch, nodded to the door with its tarnished plaque. Albert gave him a grin, and started up the stairs. Julian followed, the weighted stick ready in his hand.

  It took a moment longer for anyone to answer the bell this time, and it wasn’t the clerk, but the woman Julian had seen earlier.

  “Sir?” she said, warily, and Albert gave a rather unnerving smile.

  “I’d like to see Mr Murtaugh, please.”

  “Yes, sir. Who can I say – ?”

  “What is it, Annie?” Murtaugh came out behind her, wiping his hands on a rag. His eyes narrowed, seeing Albert, and then Julian, and Albert’s smile widened.

  “Mr Murtaugh. I’m Albert Wynchcombe.”

  “Hell and damnation.” Murtaugh looked from one to the other, shook his head slowly. “Serves me right for not checking references.” He saw the woman hovering, and waved her away. “Don’t worry, Annie, it’s all right. Get back to work.”

  She slipped silently past him, and Murtaugh shook his head. “But it’s not a prosecution, then, is it? You wouldn’t need to be here if it was.”

  “It ought to be,” Julian said, in spite of himself, and both Albert and Murtaugh gave him a look.

  “Not unless you force me to it, Mr Murtaugh,” Albert said. “But I do want my plans back, and an agreement that yo
u won’t be making this particular model any more.”

  It took the better part of the afternoon, and some rather bad beer from the corner pub, to hammer out the agreement, but in the end Albert handed over a sheaf of banknotes and received in return his stolen plans. Albert was in an excellent temper as they hailed a cab and started back to the Strand and his hotel.

  “Because it’s less than I’d expected to pay, in the end,” he said, with satisfaction, “and I think he’ll keep his word, at least long enough for us to get ours onto the market first. And our name will make all the difference. You’ll join me, won’t you, for – well, early tea, I suppose it’ll be, now?”

  Julian agreed, and they were soon settled into one of the first-floor drawing rooms, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun. Despite the hour, Albert ordered a pint of champagne, and they toasted each other over a plate of sandwiches and savories.

  “You’ll send me your bill directly,” Albert said. “Believe me, I appreciate your work.”

  “I still think you should have prosecuted,” Julian said, and Albert shook his head.

  “Same old Lynes.”

  The waiter brought another plate of toasted cheese, and Albert leaned back with a contented sigh.

  “He’ll try it again, you know,” Julian said.

  “Not without our plans,” Albert said. “There wasn’t anything in that shop that wasn’t a copy, and I’ve sorted that part out already.” He wiped a string of cheese from his neat beard. “Damn. You’d think we were back at school.”

  Julian was almost overwhelmed by the memory, chill days of fog and drizzle and toasted cheese for tea, all the boys of Martyr’s lined up neatly at their table, and Wynchcombe trying to get control of a strand of cheese before a prefect chose to notice.

  “Do you remember the Nevetts?” he asked.

  Albert looked up sharply. “I certainly remember Victor. And Reggie, of course. He wasn’t a bad sort.”