Death by Silver (21 page)

“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 you 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.”

“Not like Victor,” Julian said, in spite of himself. He winced inwardly, waiting for Albert to dismiss the words.

“There was a bad apple.” Albert gave him a deprecating glance. “Do you know, when I heard he was at Hoare’s, I took my account to Seale’s. At least I don’t mind seeing Reggie on occasion.”

“I didn’t really know him,” Julian said.

“Well, you wouldn’t have,” Albert said. “He wasn’t clever, not like you were, and he wasn’t a sportsman. I always felt a bit sorry for him, having to deal with Victor at home as well as at school. Since I moved my banking to Seale’s, we’ve kept in touch – I stay at his club when I’m in town on my own.” He paused. “Didn’t I read that their father died recently?”

“He was murdered,” Julian said. “Someone cursed a candlestick to fall on him in his own study – it’s not funny, Wynchcombe.”

“Sorry.” Albert struggled to suppress his smile. “But when you put it like that – and then I was thinking how nice if it had been Victor.” He shook his head, the smile fading. “Poor Reggie. I hope this isn’t going to be too awkward for him.”

“Mathey did some work for the dead man,” Julian said. “And now Victor’s hired him to find out who killed his father.” He gave a quick summary of the case, and Albert whistled softly.

“That’s can’t be easy.”

“Mathey says that it was all a long time ago and shouldn’t really matter,” Julian said.

Albert snorted. “Well, he would, wouldn’t he?”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s Mathey all over, never going to admit that anything can outface him. But it can’t be very nice to have to work for the man.” Albert gave a shamefaced shrug. “I won’t even bank where Victor Nevett works, and he treated the pair of you far worse than he ever treated me. Although, I suppose he might have mellowed.”

“Not that I could see,” Julian said. “Still the same bullying –”

Albert shook his head, his face momentarily bleak. “I’d think twice now before I sent a son of mine away to school. It’s not something I’d want to put a boy through. But Mathey’s right, we’re not schoolboys any more, and we don’t have to crawl to Victor Nevett. Though it was Staniforth who really had it in for you, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” Julian’s mouth went dry, and he drained the last of his champagne. “But, as you say, it was a long time ago.”

Albert nodded, accepting the rebuff. “You still see quite a bit of Mathey, then?”

“Since he took chambers at the Commons – it’s nice to have an old friend in Town.”

“Still as popular with the ladies?”

Was there a warning in Albert’s voice? Or was it sympathy? “I don’t know that he’s had much time for that,” Julian said warily. “He had to borrow quite a bit to buy his practice, you know. He’s working hard.”

“Ah, well, I daresay he’ll find someone someday. He chased them hard enough.”

It was definitely sympathy, and Julian took a careful breath. “You don’t ask about me.”

Albert paused. “I never thought you were the marrying kind.”

“No.” Julian met his eyes squarely, and Albert gave a shrug and a half-smile.

“No business of mine, old man.”

“Well…”

Albert looked past him, rising to his feet. “Violet, my dear. You remember Mr Lynes.”

“I do,” she said. She was short and plump and lightly freckled, with hair the color of straw under a neat and flattering hat. Julian couldn’t help smiling as he rose to take her offered hand, but declined the invitation to join them for dinner. He had other work of his own, he said, and suspected they had other plans for their last night in London. Violet blushed charmingly at that, and admitted that they did have tickets to the Criterion. Julian wished them a pleasant evening and an easy journey home, and indulged himself in a cab back to Coptic Street.