Death by Silver (34 page)

“Such as yourself?” She shook her head. “No, that was uncalled for. I’m sorry.”

“Quite all right,” Julian said. “Though I do think it would be well to be careful.”

“Yes.” Mrs Nevett sighed. “That’s what makes this so particularly dreadful. Someone in the house is a killer, and we’ve no idea who.”

The tea had lost its appeal. Julian paid their bill and escorted her to the street, and, after some discussion, persuaded her to let him bring her home in a cab. He handed her out at her front door, intending to repeat his warning, but the door opened above them.

“Mrs Victor!” Ellis’s voice held disapproval, and Julian saw the color rise in her face beneath the veil. “I had expected to find you at home.”

“I had some necessary errands,” she answered. “And Mr Lynes was kind enough to bring me home.”

“I cannot imagine what sort of errand could persuade you to venture into the public eye,” Ellis said. “I’m speaking only for your own good, Mrs Victor.”

“My husband has only confessed to protect someone in this house,” Mrs Nevett said. “I have never been more certain of anything.”

Ellis came the rest of the way down the steps, and took one of her hands in both of his. “My dear, you are overwrought. It is a dreadful burden you have been asked to bear, but I know that with prayer and guidance you will rise to meet it.”

“Neither Mr Lynes nor Mr Mathey believe it, either,” she said defiantly.

“Tut.” Ellis gave Julian a disapproving look. “Mr Lynes, surely you can see that it is unkind to raise false hopes.”

“There are some grave discrepancies in Victor’s story,” Julian said.

“He has confessed,” Ellis said. He looked down at Mrs Nevett. “Mrs Victor, I must insist you come inside. You are under a great deal of strain, and Mrs Nevett is depending on you.”

“Yes, of course,” she said. She looked at Julian. “I appreciate your company, Mr Lynes, and your conversation.”

“It was my pleasure,” Julian answered, and Ellis swept her away.

Julian spent the rest of the afternoon writing up the substance of his interview with Mrs Victor, and sent the packet off to Ned at the Commons by messenger boy. He didn’t really expect an answer, at least not immediately, but he couldn’t help feeling disappointed when the next morning’s post brought only a handful of bills. He told himself that it was more important that he hadn’t heard from Bolster yet, and wondered again if it wouldn’t make sense to try to talk to Murtaugh. Surely Annie Makins had been back to collect her pay by now, or at the very least had sent someone to collect it. There was nothing else he could usefully do here, and he picked up his hat and weighted cane and set out before he could change his mind.

The streets around King’s Cross were busier than the last time he’d been there, people hurrying to get in the day’s last errands before shops closed for the half-day, or already free of work and heading for those businesses that wouldn’t close until evening. He made his way through the crowd, keeping an eye out for either Mrs Makins or the daughter, but reached the door of Murtaugh’s workshop without having seen any sign of her.

It was Murtaugh himself who answered the bell, in shirtsleeves and heavy canvas apron, and he scowled as he recognized Julian.

“What do you want? I’ve talked to Mr Wynchcombe already today.”

“What?” Julian blinked. “Today?”

Murtaugh’s frown deepened. “Yes, today. And he made his position very clear, thank you.”

Wynchcombe was still in London, or possibly he’d never left. Julian put the thought aside for later, and said, “I’m not actually here on Mr Wynchcombe’s behalf. I’m looking for Annie Makins.”

“She’s not here. And hasn’t been here since right after Joe died. And I don’t take kindly to your frightening off my best seamstress, Mr Lynes.”

“She hired me,” Julian said.

“To do what?”

“That would be her business,” Julian said.

“Well, it’s my business, too, now that she’s run out on me.” Murtaugh leaned on the counter as though that would keep him from doing something more drastic. “I won’t hold her place open – I can’t afford it, and the girl can’t do all the work. You tell her that, when you find her.”

Julian nodded. “She hasn’t collected her pay, then?”

“Just tell her that,” Murtaugh retorted. “I don’t have to answer to you.”

“Which means she hasn’t,” Julian said, and smiled at Murtaugh’s glare. “But when I find her, I’ll definitely give her your message.”

He turned without waiting for an answer, and headed down the stairs. Halfway down, the door swung open to admit a burly man in a workman’s rough coat and cap. Not Murtaugh’s usual run of customer, Julian thought, and something in the man’s movement made him stop on the stairs, shifting his grip slightly on his cane. In the tight space, it wasn’t much of a weapon, and retreat would only bring him to Murtaugh’s door, a doubtful refuge if ever there was one. In Murtaugh’s current mood, he was more likely to lock his door, or, worse, join in an attack.

“Mr Lynes?”

The big man’s voice was unexpectedly polite, but Julian didn’t move. “Sorry.”

“Oh, I hope not,” the big man said. “I’ve a message for you.”

There was no point in lying, then: he’d clearly been recognized. “Well?”

The big man reached into his coat, and pulled out a folded piece of paper, held it out with a smirk. Julian shook his head.

“Let’s do this outside. If you please.”

For a moment, Julian thought the big man wasn’t going to agree, but then he laughed. “He said you were a downy one.”

Who said?
There was no point in asking. Julian forced a smile. “And not fool enough to be flattered, either.”

The big man reached back and pulled the door open, hesitating just long enough that Julian murmured, “After you.”

The other man grinned, and stepped out into the road. Julian followed, ready to catch the door if it was slammed on him, stick ready in his hand. But the big man stayed back, waiting until Julian had joined him on the sidewalk. He held out the folded paper again, and Julian snatched it, retreating quickly out of reach. He unfolded it awkwardly, glanced down to see Bolster’s familiar writing.

Stay out of this, for Annie’s sake.

Julian swore under his breath. The last thing he wanted was to put Mrs Makins in danger, but he wanted to know – The big man was walking away, and Julian shouted after him. “Hey! Tell Bolster –”

He stopped, knowing it was pointless. Bolster had delivered his message quite clearly, the messenger meant as a deterrent if concern for Mrs Makins wasn’t enough. And he couldn’t force Bolster to meet with him, at least not without losing the delicate relationship he’d worked so hard to build. But if she was in danger, and he believed she was – there had to be something he could do. Except Bolster said there wasn’t.

He took a deep breath, controlling his thoughts with an effort. He would write Bolster again, ask for another meeting, and perhaps now that he’d let himself be warned off, Bolster would be willing to talk. In the meantime, though – in the meantime, he needed to tell Ned that Wynchcombe was still in London, which might spare him some trouble. Julian shifted his grip on the heavy cane, turning it into just another gentleman’s accessory, and started for the telegraph office at King’s Cross.

Ned announced himself at the front desk of Albert’s hotel and settled into a chair to wait. He wasn’t about to give Albert the chance to leave town again without talking to him, even if it meant devoting his Saturday evening to crime. Albert came down promptly, and pumped Ned’s hand when he offered it.

“Good to see you, Mathey. Look at you, all turned out in your best. Or do your clients expect you to dress like you’re attending a funeral?”

“I’m afraid they do,” Ned said. “Dignity of the profession, and all that. I hoped I’d catch you. Lynes said he’d heard you were still in town.”

“It’s taken longer than I hoped to work everything out,” Albert said. “And I’ve got a man to see Monday morning about an order, so there wasn’t any point in going home between. I’ve packed Violet off home on the train, or I’d ask you to join us both for dinner. But come and have some dinner with me. Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

“Just a drink, to start with,” Ned said. “I’ve an impertinent question to ask.”

Albert’s eyebrows rose, but he nodded in the direction of the bar. “Come and tell me all about it.”

Once they were settled, Ned took a sip of his whiskey and soda. “Lynes tells me that you’ve kept in touch with Reggie Nevett,” he said.

“That’s right,” Albert said. “I’ve stayed at his club from time to time, and normally I’d take myself there now, but it doesn’t seem like the time to impose. The poor beggar’s got enough to worry about.”

“He had a violent quarrel with his father the night of the murder,” Ned said frankly. “And he hasn’t been willing to tell me what it was about. I wondered if you knew.”

Albert frowned. “If I did, it would be because he took me into confidence.”

“I know that,” Ned said. “I know that makes it a hard call to make. But if it’s an unsuitable young woman, or something along those lines, I’d understand that. It wouldn’t have to come to testimony in court, if it’s…well, if it’s something he can’t possibly admit to in public.”

“If it were, he’d have a fair motive, wouldn’t he?” Albert asked. As usual, he didn’t miss much, even when Ned might have preferred for him to.

Ned turned up his hands in surrender. “He might. But he might also have an alibi, if he was in a lady’s company…or company of whatever sort…the night of the murder. I don’t think the candlestick was accursed before he left the house. The question is whether he came back. If there’s someone who could rule it out…”

“There’s that,” Albert said. He let out a frustrated breath. “And it’s not what I’m getting the impression you’re thinking. But it’s breaking a man’s confidences, all the same.”

“Do you believe he even could have done it? Did he know enough metaphysics?”

“Not as far as I know. The little we all picked up in school, yes, but he didn’t keep it up at Oxford. He wasn’t much for the books. I helped him with his translations a few times. I don’t think he was hiding any particular talent.”

“Then whatever you can tell me will only help to clear him. If he didn’t do it, the Yard can’t prove he did.”

“It doesn’t always work out as neat and tidy as that,” Albert said. “You should know that well enough from school.”

Ned shifted in his chair. “We’re not schoolboys anymore. And Hatton at the Yard isn’t a bad sort. Besides, now that Victor’s confessed, he’s going to need more than a hypothetical motive to consider someone else as a suspect.”

“Has he now?” Albert asked, his expression sharpening.

“He has. And he didn’t do it. And if Lynes and I don’t find out who did, he’ll most likely hang.”

“You think Victor might have been protecting Reggie?”

“I hope not,” Ned said. “But there’s this quarrel sitting in the middle of things, and it’s damned hard to ignore.”

Albert set his drink down. “He met a girl by the name of Cora Prince. Worked in a tea shop, and they started a romance over the pastries. Absurd but true. Violet knew the girl, as it turned out. She comes from good decent people, but not his class, and no money to make up for it. He was head over heels for her, but he knew how his father would kick if he tried to marry her. And Reggie’s got no stomach for fighting.”

“I suppose he didn’t tell his father he was going about with her?”

“He didn’t tell his father that he married her last fall.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious. They were married as quietly as they could, and rented a little place in the suburbs. As I understand it, he meant to tell his father right away, once they’d done it and it couldn’t be undone, but he kept losing the nerve.”

“For the better part of a year?”

“I know, it sounds mad. It is, a bit, but it’s the sort of thing a man’s driven to when he has a father like Reggie’s. If he were a brave man he’d have come right out with it, and if he were more of a coward he’d never have married her in the first place. Instead he’s made himself a mess.”