Julian speared a final bite of ham. “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked. “I can get someone else if you’d rather.”
“I’m fine,” Ned said. “Unless you want someone else?”
Julian shook his head. “There’s no one I’d rather have.”
“Well, then,” Ned said, and reached for his hat.
They took a cab north into the narrow streets of Islington, fetched up at last at St. Mary’s with its wide, high-walled cemetery surrounding the plain brick chapel with its austere steeple. Julian had been there before, and led the way through the arched gate, past the yews and a line of well-built vaults, to the sexton’s building at the rear of the yard. The doors and windows were marked with the symbols of a preservatory enchantment, and Julian felt its chill prickle down his spine as he pushed open the door.
“Mr Jones?”
There was a heavy silence, the air thickened by the enchantment’s effects, but then a man in a shabby suit emerged from the shadows. “Jones ain’t here,” he said. “He’s sick.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Julian said. “My name’s Lynes. I have a letter to view a body.”
“Oh, yes,” the man said. “I’m Shanley – the assistant. Mr Jones said you’d be coming.”
“Good,” Julian said. “This is Mr Mathey, who’ll be doing the examination. If you could take us to Mr Makins?”
“This way,” Shanley said.
The space was as low-ceilinged as a crypt, so that Ned needed to remove his hat and duck his head beneath the beams. The air smelled clean enough, the spells recently renewed, but beneath the stillness, Julian could catch a whiff of something old and unpleasant, grave dust and mud and old bones. Shanley brought them to one of the three back cubicles, where more symbols warded the open doorway, and a plain pine coffin stood on trestles, a pall painted with more preserving symbols tossed over the boards.
“Being as Mr Jones said you’d be coming, I didn’t screw him down tight,” Shanley said, tugging the cloth aside. “Just give me half a tick, and I’ll have him ready for you.”
He pulled a screwdriver from his pocket as he spoke, and began undoing the lid. Julian glanced over his shoulder, but Ned seemed unmoved. He set his hat aside and opened his case, pulling out his wand and a first selection of tools. The lid slid off with a resounding crash, loud even in the damped atmosphere, and Julian jumped in spite of himself.
“And there he is,” Shanley said. “He’s all yours, Mr Lynes.”
“Thank you,” Julian said, handing him half a crown, and turned his attention to the corpse. The preserving enchantments had done their work. Joseph Makins looked surprisingly pink, with no obvious signs of decay. He’d been an ordinary-looking man – not tall, perhaps five feet six or seven inches, and lightly built, with thinning fair hair and an entirely unremarkable face. Ideal for a cracksman, Julian thought. Small and slight to get through unlikely windows, and not the sort of man you’d remember even if you saw him surveying his target. Annie Makins had dressed him in his best black suit, with a pinchbeck chain across his waistcoat, and freshly polished shoes. All in all, she was right, Julian thought. Joe didn’t look like the sort of man to drop dead of apoplexy.
“Tell me again what we’re trying to find out,” Ned said, wand in hand.
“Mrs Makins wants to know what he died of,” Julian answered. “The police surgeon called it an apoplexy, but Mrs Makins didn’t feel that was likely. She wanted to rule out any other causes.”
Ned nodded thoughtfully, considering, then sketched a series of symbols along the length of the body. “We might as well rule out the obvious,” he said. “A blow to the head, some other injury that was somehow overlooked.”
“Right,” Julian said. He knew these formulae himself, had done them when he had to, but it was easier to have someone else perform the enchantment, and leave him free to watch the results. Nothing happened, which was what he had expected, and Ned dismissed the symbols with a gesture.
“Poison next, I suppose,” he said, and began the next series of symbols. Julian blinked, startled, as one flashed blue-white for an instant in the air above the body’s stomach, and Ned pulled back slightly.
“Surely not,” he said. He traced the symbols again, slowly and with more care, and frowned as the flash was repeated.
“Poison, certainly,” Julian said. His own frown deepened. “Prussic acid?”
“Cyanide, anyway.” Ned rummaged in his case, pulled out a slim volume, and began flipping though the pages.
“Squares of Mars and Saturn,” Julian began, and stopped himself. Ned knew the tables as well as he did, if not better. “I suppose that explains why he looks so pink.”
“It would have left him ruddy enough to make a surgeon think of apoplexy.” Ned took out his notebook and rested it on the edge of the coffin to begin sketching a sigil. Julian edged close enough to look over his shoulder, but caught only the tag “show.” Ned pocketed the notebook, and lifted his wand again, tracing the new sigil over the center of the body. There was a pause, and then a quick shimmer of blue, gone almost as quickly as it had appeared.
“Odd,” Julian said. The poison was there, and the enchantment found the traces of it, but it was almost as though something was inhibiting the display.
“Definitely prussic acid,” Ned said. “Had he had dinner at home? It’s quick-acting.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Julian saw Shanley in the doorway, but before he could say anything, the sexton’s assistant had slipped away. “I think so, but it’s hardly likely to have been his wife. Why would she come to me? The police already called it a natural death.”
“Very true.” Ned traced another symbol, and then another. “Ah.”
“What?”
Ned reached into his bag again, came up with a leather case which he opened to reveal a domed display on four short brass legs: a seeking clock. He adjusted the gearing, and Julian nodded slowly.
“You think someone…enchanted the poison.”
“Delayed it, that’s my bet,” Ned answered. “As the means to hold it inert until either enough time had passed or some trigger was encountered…or until it just wore off.”
Julian nodded again, watching as Ned set the device into the coffin beside the body. He stepped back, tracing a sigil, and there was a soft whirring as the device came to life. Then the sound stopped, the gears clicking into place one by one, and Ned lifted it out of the coffin, and held it out so that Julian could see the result.
“That’s conclusive,” he said.
“Indeed,” Ned said. “The poison was enchanted – exactly how I could work out, but it doesn’t seem relevant at the moment – to lie inert for between four and six hours. And then Makins died. But why kill him?”
Julian glanced over his shoulder, but the sexton’s assistant was nowhere in sight. “Well, he was a cracksman, and Mrs Makins said he’d done a job that worried him. I’d assume that had something to do with it. He saw something, he said something – she said he was working for someone, so maybe that person felt threatened? I expect she’ll know when I tell her.” He’d had that happen before, clients who hired him to confirm something they already suspected, and who declined to either have him resolve the problem or to consult the authorities, but handled it themselves. He wondered if Annie Makins had friends who would even the score on her behalf. “I’d like to know how it was done,” he said thoughtfully. “The structure might tell us something useful. And I’d like to tell Mrs Makins as soon as possible. She may well know who did it, with this to go on.”
“Go ahead,” Ned said. “I can work out the enchantment while you tell her, and then you’ll know what she wants to do.”
“Thank you,” Julian said, and left him to it.
There were no cabs to be found, so after a short walk he caught the omnibus instead, and made his way back to Murtaugh’s shop. The weary-looking clerk was still there, looking even more exhausted when he saw who it was, but shook his head when Julian asked f
or Mrs Makins.
“She’s not here,” he said. “Her daughter was taken ill, she said, and she ran out without even collecting her pay.”
Julian swallowed an oath, but thanked him, and made his way through the dirty streets to the address that Mrs Makins had given him. It was on the second floor of a ramshackle lodging house, up stairs that smelled of cabbage and washing, but the walls had been decently whitewashed and the woodwork was all in good repair. He knocked on the door of the back flat, but received no answer. He knocked louder, and this time he thought he heard someone moving on the other side of the door.
“Mrs Makins?”
For a long moment, there was no answer, and he debated knocking again. He didn’t want to sound like a bill collector, though, and so he waited. After a moment, the door opened a crack, and a girl peered out. She looked as though she were twelve or thirteen, and Julian’s attention sharpened. If she had a girl at home who was old enough to tend the other children, why had Mrs Makins left her pay behind?
“Mum’s gone,” she said. “I don’t know where.”
She started to close the door again, and Julian put his foot in it. “Wait a moment.”
“I got nothing to say to anyone,” the girl said.
“My name’s Lynes,” Julian said. “Your mother hired me to do a job. I need to tell her the result.”
“She’s not here. And if you don’t go away, I’ll scream the place down. And I’ll tell my uncle Bolster.”
“I’m a friend of Bolster’s.” Julian took his foot out of the door. “I need to talk to your mother –”
The door closed, not gently, and he heard another door open on the floor above. She probably would scream if he tried to push the matter, and that was the last thing he needed. He swore under his breath, and started down the stairs. Something had frightened Annie Makins, that much was obvious – probably the same person who’d killed her husband, and that meant he needed to find her quickly. He’d send a note to Bolster, and to Murtaugh – no, he’d go round to Murtaugh’s in the morning, talk to him in person, but with any luck at all, Bolster would know where she’d gone, and would get word to her. But first he’d see if Ned had found anything.
There was a cab at the corner of Park Street, and he whistled for it, paid his sixpence to get back to St. Mary’s as quickly as possible. There was still no one in the chapel, the doors closed tight and the windows dark, but Ned was standing in the doorway of the sexton’s building, frowning into the yard.
“Did you see Shanley?” he called, and Julian shook his head.
“No. Why?”
“The blasted man’s disappeared.” Ned stepped back, and Julian followed him into the building, the enchantment closing around them like a blanket. “I’m done, so I wanted him to close up the coffin, but – I can’t find him.”
“That’s odd,” Julian began, and then the pieces slotted together. “Oh, bloody hell.”
“What?”
“That’s how – Mrs Makins has run,” Julian said. “Left work without collecting her pay, said her daughter was sick, but I’m sure Shanley warned her. He was looking in the door just when we said it was poison. Damn and blast the man.”
Ned nodded. “So what do we do now?”
“Close up the coffin and lock the door behind us,” Julian said. “It’s a patent lock.”
“Well, yes, but I meant about Makins.”
Julian took off his hat, and ran his fingers through his hair as though it would help him think. “I’ll send a note to Bolster tonight, Mrs Makins will trust him. And I’ll talk to Murtaugh in the morning, and maybe Jones, too, see what I can find out about Shanley,”
“Shouldn’t we tell the police?” Ned asked.
Julian blinked. “What could they do?”
“Arrest the culprit, for a start.”
Julian grinned. “Well, yes, there’s that. But we haven’t got a culprit to give them.”
“They’re also supposed to be good at finding murderers,” Ned said.
“If we tell them Joe Makins was murdered, they’re just going to suspect his wife,” Julian said. “She cooked his dinner, she’s the one who in the normal course of things would have the most cause to kill him.”
“But probably not the ability to enchant the poison. Or could she?”
“Not that I know of,” Julian answered. “But the fact remains that she’s the logical suspect, and she can’t exactly say to them, I suspect so-and-so because my husband did a cracksman’s job for him.”
“No.” Ned’s tone was doubtful, and Julian pressed his advantage.
“I just want to talk to her first, before we say anything to the police. She may well know who did it, once I tell her there’s enchantment involved as well as poison.”
“Is it really a good idea to let the criminal fraternity sort these matters out among themselves?” Ned asked, mildly enough, but his expression was troubled.
“I think they’re more likely to get it right than the police,” Julian said.
“And how can the police get it right if you don’t tell them what we found?”
“I just want to talk to Mrs Makins first. I owe her that much.”
Ned sighed. “All right. She’s your client.”
“Thank you.” Julian went to the door again, scanned the empty churchyard. “Still no Shanley.”
Ned grimaced. “I suppose that means it’s up to us.”
They lifted the coffin lid back into place, though a quick search failed to produce a screwdriver to close it again properly. Julian contented himself with spreading the painted pall over coffin and trestles, and Ned sketched a quick sigil over it, reinforcing the existing spell. They left that door on the latch, and Julian used his picklocks to lock the main door behind them before leaving the churchyard. As they walked toward the omnibus stop, Ned shook his head again.
“I still think we should tell the police. Hatton’s a good man.”
It was true, but not entirely relevant. Julian’s first duty was to his client. “It’s better if I talk to her first,” he said, and hoped it was true.
Inspector Hatton’s note the next day asking if Ned could see him about the Nevett case wasn’t unexpected, but being asked to come to Scotland Yard for the meeting was. Ned threaded his way through the maze of buildings and hallways, trying to repress the feeling that Hatton must know all about the poisoned burglar. Most likely he didn’t, and wouldn’t, unless Ned let himself look visibly guilty. He’d learned that lesson long ago, and reminded himself of it firmly.
Hatton’s office was little more than a closet, even smaller than Ned’s own. “I appreciate you coming by,” he said, rising to shake Ned’s hand cheerfully enough. “I can’t get away today, and I’ve something for you to look into, if you will.”
“Whatever would help.” Ned stepped inside,careful not to dislodge any of the files crammed into pigeonholes and stacked on top of a clearly inadequate set of flat drawers. “They don’t give you much room, do they?”
“Nobody’s got much room,” Hatton said. “At least I’m not in the stables. They keep saying they’re going to get us a new building, but you know how that goes.” He waved Ned into the visitor’s chair, which wobbled precariously as Ned sat. “I wanted to ask if you knew of any metaphysician Mrs Edgar Nevett might have used.”
“Not at the Commons, at least not recently,” Ned said. “I’ve made inquiries about that already. Of course it’s possible she went unnoticed, but it’s unusual for us to get female clients, especially ones who come to us alone. I don’t think the pageboys would forget Mrs Nevett that easily.”
“In my experience, boys forget all kinds of things when they’re paid to,” Hatton said. “But it wouldn’t have been recently. I’m wondering if there’s someone she’s used for years.”
“I don’t know that they had a family metaphysician before me,” Ned said. “Of course I’m not privy to their finances, but I’m getting the impression that they’ve come up in the world since Mr Edgar Nev
ett was young.”
“He’s the one that made the money, you’re right about that,” Hatton said. “He was living off his investments in recent years, but he was in business as a younger man. Mr Reginald Nevett has told us his father felt working for one’s own living built character.”
“By which I take it he wasn’t willing to give Reggie much of an allowance.”
“He doesn’t seem to have been a generous man,” Hatton said. “But it wouldn’t be his metaphysician she’d have used.”
“What have you found out?”
“Maybe nothing. But there’s an old rumor that Edgar only married Louisa in the first place because she used enchantment on him.”
“That’s said often enough, and rarely true,” Ned said. It was easy enough for romantic rivals or disapproving family to blame a misalliance on enchantment, but more often than not, it was merely a case of plain bad judgment.
“I’d say the same, but I’ve heard it more than once,” Hatton said. “There’s more than one old friend of Edgar’s convinced she enchanted him, and apparently the rumor went round the way things do, decades ago, but Edgar finally managed to hush it up.” He shrugged. “First of all, can it even be done, or is the whole business made up to sell sensational papers?”
“You’re talking about a true love charm, not just one meant to make you look more beautiful? There are glamors for beauty that work, I understand, but their requirements…well, it’s all a bit ridiculous. The young ladies I knew at Oxford said it wasn’t worth the chances of fainting halfway through dinner.”
“That much I know. What about the other kind?”
“It can be done,” Ned said reluctantly. “I’ve never seen it myself, but I’ve read about several cases. It’s a tricky kind of enchantment, and it has to be consumed by the target in some way, generally written out and washed into some drink. And it fades quickly. A one-time glamor might inspire a hesitant suitor to propose, or a shy girl to accept, but carrying it on long enough to actually marry is a harder prospect.”
“But it could be done?”
Death by Silver Page 19
