Death by Silver

by Melissa Scott

  “It’s getting late,” he said, “and I’m exhausted. Another time.”

  He rose to his feet, and Julian copied him. “Ned –” He stopped then, not knowing quite what to say. He had meant it, and he didn’t know why Ned was squeamish now, it wasn’t as though they hadn’t already done it. “I’m sorry?”

  Ned was already shrugging into his coat, but he managed a smile at that. “Don’t be, it’s just – I am really tired.”

  “I-I’ll see you in the morning, then?”

  “Oh, yes.” Ned’s smile was as wide and false as anything he’d used at school. “Absolutely.” He set his hat carefully on his head. “Good night, Lynes.”

  “Good night,” Julian said, and watched the door close behind him. If he had spoiled everything – but he wouldn’t think of that.

  He returned to his chair, moving with new purpose, and lit the tiny lamp. He knew exactly what he wanted, where he wanted the enchantment to take him, and the ritual steadied him, soothed his nerves. He took out a tablet of the violet ink, set it in the bowl to melt over the lamp, and tore off a slip of the thick soft paper. The symbols were familiar, the spell to bring sleep of oblivion, deep and sweet. He traced them in his mind and then, as the ink melted, dipped the pen and wrote them firmly, tracing them over and over until all the ink was gone. He blew out the lamp, leaving the rest to clean later, and went back to the sideboard, poured three fingers of neat gin into a wide-mouthed glass. Absinthe was traditional, the paper added with the water and sugar, but he didn’t have the patience for that tonight. Instead, he swirled the paper in the gin, washing the ink away, dissolving the paper into the alcohol, feeling the enchantment take hold. He drained the glass, the first tendrils of unnatural sleep already curling around him as he set it aside, and went on into the bedroom.

  It was early enough that the omnibuses were still running, but Ned let them pass him by, hoping the cool evening air would clear his head. Most of the shops were closed, but there were still pubs open, their gas lamps glowing merrily against the darkness. It was momentarily tempting to take himself into one, but on second thought the last thing he wanted was noise and crowds.

  He wasn’t at all sure what he did want, but not what Julian had proposed. It was the tone that had gotten to him more than anything else, the implication that he was there for Julian’s convenience, like the whiskey and the writing-set, and could be set aside just as easily when Julian was done. He wouldn’t even have to be paid for his trouble.

  That wasn’t fair, but at the moment he felt tired of being fair. It wasn’t even that he objected to being fucked, on general principle; Julian had introduced him to that particular vice in recent months, playing the amused and knowing tutor and clearly enjoying it. He might have liked to try it the other way round, but he didn’t think Julian would stand for that, as much as Julian preferred to have the upper hand in bed.

  Julian had tried using his mouth on Ned exactly once, and had obviously liked it so little that Ned hadn’t asked again, though he suspected Julian would have done it if he’d asked. He was satisfied with being fucked, or relying on the friction of hands and bodies as if they were still schoolboys, and he was reluctant to push. Pushing Julian was rarely a good idea under any circumstances.

  He just wasn’t at all in the mood to be pushed himself. He was tired, and he ached from head to foot, and he didn’t want to be ordered about by anyone. All he really wanted was to crawl into bed between cool sheets, alone or in Julian’s undemanding company, and close his eyes on the world.

  It might still have been better to stay. If he’d managed to relax and get into the proper frame of mind – but Julian’s idea of the proper frame of mind was apparently being too enchantment-mazed to think straight. It was certainly one way of ensuring a tractable partner –

  And that was certainly unfair. The offer had been well-meant, or at least generously intended. Julian’s friends treated that sort of beguilement as casually as whiskey or gin, and Ned had to admit it wasn’t really any more dangerous in sensible hands. Julian wouldn’t come to any serious harm with it, and he wouldn’t deliberately let Ned come to harm with it either.

  But it still wasn’t at all what he wanted. He supposed he’d wished unreasonably for the kind of easy comfort they’d managed to be for each other at school, but they’d lost the knack of it somehow. He wasn’t sure anymore that Julian even cared what he felt, or for that matter cared much about anything; it was all an interesting intellectual puzzle that there was no sense in taking too much to heart.

  And that was a change he didn’t understand, and one he wasn’t sure he could manage to entirely accept. When they’d met, Julian had cared about a great many things passionately, with a burning intensity that had fascinated Ned even when he felt it was entirely misplaced.

  He still remembered the time early in their first year at Toms’ when Julian’s hat had disappeared from his cupboard. It had taken Ned some time to persuade Julian that he mustn’t complain to the masters about it, and that the masters would certainly not allow him to report its theft to the police.

  “Stealing things is a crime,” Julian had said, pacing, his sharp face lit up with indignation. “The police are supposed to solve crimes, that’s why we have them.”

  “It’s not a crime,” Ned said. “Not stealing hats at school. It’s not like breaking into a house or something.”

  “Isn’t it? You mean if I walked up to a man on the streets of town and snatched his hat off and he called for the police, they’d say it was perfectly all right?”

  “That’s different.”

  “How is it different?”

  Ned found himself at a loss for how to explain how. “It’s school tradition.”

  “Stealing hats?”

  “Taking things. You can’t complain, or it’ll make things worse. They’ll probably bring it back.”

  “If I walk on the grounds without a hat, I can be beaten for it. And I can’t very well never go out of doors.”

  “Well, yes,” Ned said. “I expect that’s why they did it.”

  “And you say I can’t report it to the police.” If it had been anyone else, he would have thought they were joking, but Julian looked genuinely betrayed, as if this offended his sense of how the world worked.

  “You’d be expelled in a moment,” Ned said. “Think of the scandal to the school.”

  “But it’s not a scandal for the school to be full of thieves.”

  “They’re not thieves.”

  “Despite stealing things.”

  “I think the idea is that it’s all in good fun.”

  Julian frowned at him. At twelve he could as easily have been ten, rail-thin and without the height he later grew into, but his expression was far older. “I don’t think it’s any fun at all, and I can’t believe no one intends to do anything about it.”

  There had been something strangely attractive in Julian’s outrage. It had made it possible to wonder why exactly it was that petty theft was tolerated at school, and how precisely it was that it built character. He’d been fascinated by Julian’s way of laying bare uncomfortable truths, and by Julian himself, who had been prickly enough that Ned had felt triumphant when he first won a genuine smile.

  There had been awkward but heartfelt emotion under that prickly exterior, in those days, something he’d at least taken for passionate and protective devotion. But then they’d both been very young, and he’d probably do better to remember that their school days were far behind them.

  The gas lamp of his own boarding-house was a welcome sight. He’d have a cup of tea, or maybe better yet soak in a steaming bath and read the last week’s cricket scores and try not to think very much about anything more taxing. That wouldn’t last forever, but it might carry him through until he was settled enough to sleep, and at the moment he couldn’t face thinking any farther ahead than the morning.

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  CHAPTER FIVE

  The morning brought no word from Ned. Juli
an told himself he hadn’t expected anything, and, after only a momentary struggle with his conscience, melted a tablet of red ink and wrote himself a reviving enchantment. Chased with coffee – he had his own machine, a patent Napieric vacuum device – it revived him enough to clean his kit and stow it back in the sideboard before Mrs Digby brought his breakfast. Over cold toast and acceptable eggs, he admitted to himself that he’d behaved badly the night before – though Ned had said yes to the same proposal several times already. Julian should apologize, though, and as quickly as he could. The last thing he wanted was to hurt Ned, and that had hurt him. Perhaps he would send a note, he thought, and he wolfed the rest of his breakfast, graceful and winning phrases tumbling through his head.

  By the time Mrs Digby cleared the dishes, however, the first rush of the enchantment had worn off, and he sat for a while at his desk, the ink drying on his pen, trying to come up with something that would be adequate to the situation. Or safe to commit to paper. And maybe it was better to apologize in person anyway, assuming of course that Ned was still speaking to him.

  Before he could pursue that depressing thought, young Digby arrived with the mail, and Julian settled back at his desk, wincing as he recognized Albert Wynchcombe’s hand. He’d forgotten Albert was due today, unless he was writing to say that the matter had been resolved. But, no, the letter simply confirmed the appointment, and added that Albert would be arriving on the 9:05 to Paddington. Julian groaned. That meant Albert would be here within the hour, which left no time to find Ned – but a botched apology was worse than none at all, he told himself firmly, and went into the bedroom to finish dressing.

  He was more or less decent by the time Albert arrived, though he was conscious of a violet stain on his middle finger from the previous night’s ink. Albert didn’t seem to notice, however, and they clasped hands as young Digby closed the door behind him.

  “Lynes. It’s good to see you. And good of you to take on this problem of mine.” Albert’s handshake was as enthusiastic as ever, and for an instant, Julian was transported to Toms’ courtyard, and a short stocky boy who dared him to join his games.

  “It’s a pleasure to see you, too,” Julian said, and meant it. “Though I’m not sure exactly what it is you want me to do.”

  “It’s a little easier to explain now that my father-in-law isn’t breathing down my neck,” Albert said. He set his leather case on the floor beside his chair as Julian waved for him to be comfortable. “We have a line of specialty items that we don’t sell under the Jones and Wynchcombe name, but they’re nonetheless quite lucrative.”

  “And by ‘specialty items’ you mean…?” Julian let his voice trail off, and Albert grinned.

  “Pretty much what you’re thinking, Lynes. Though most of them are racy rather than outright indecent.”

  “So, not Ganymede and the Eagle,” Julian said, in spite of himself. Lennox had that one in his study, under lock and key except during certain special parties, and it was quite remarkably lifelike, demonstrably so since Lennox had brought the model in for comparison. The eagle’s wings flapped, and – other things – moved smoothly…

  Albert laughed. “I might have known you’d have seen that one. Actually, it is ours. Also Leda and the Swan, Pasiphaë and the Bull, and – eventually – Danaë and the Shower of Gold.”

  “How the devil are you going to do that?” Julian asked. He shook himself. “More to the point, how do you patent them?”

  “We don’t,” Albert said. “We can’t. Oh, I tried, under the argument that it was an inspiring classical illustration – that was Leda, by the way – but the Lord Chamberlain wouldn’t buy it.”

  “I can’t say I’m entirely surprised,” Julian said. “How does your father-in-law take it? I had the impression he was solidly Chapel.”

  “He’s been heard to say that if this is what a classical education does, he’s not sending his grandsons past grammar school,” Albert said. “But in general he finds it amusing. And an interesting technical problem, making all the little bits work right.”

  Julian snickered in spite of himself, and Albert gave him a limpid look.

  “The man’s a master craftsman, after all.” He shook himself. “But that’s not actually our problem, for once. The automaton in question is patented, and I’m concerned about infringement.”

  “You might be better off hiring a solicitor,” Julian said.

  “Well, except I’d need to know where to send him,” Albert said. “And that’s where you come in. I know who took the plans, but not where. Find out who’s got them, and I’ve got a commission from the old man to either buy them out or bring suit, whichever looks cheaper.”

  “That may be what they want, you know,” Julian said. “To make you pay, rather than having any real intention of manufacturing it themselves.”

  “Very possibly,” Albert said. “But if it’s cheaper – that’s what I’ll do.”

  “But it’s wrong,” Julian said. “And it encourages them to try it again.”

  “Same old Lynes.” Albert’s tone was affectionate rather than dismissive. “Lost any hats recently?”

  “Oddly enough, most adults don’t make a sport of theft,” Julian said. “What is this device of yours, anyway?”

  “Ah. That’s a little awkward. I’d better show you the design.” Albert opened his case and produced a roll of papers. He spread them on the table, and Julian shifted books to make room, unable to repress a snort.

  “Really, Wynchcombe?”

  “They’re very popular among the club set,” Albert said, defensively.

  “I daresay,” Julian murmured. The drawings showed a prettily dressed young woman – very tight-laced, for all her collar was high – being fitted for dancing slippers by a kneeling salesman.

  “They’re both fully articulated,” Albert said. “And they each have a full suit of clothes. When you set it working, the salesman picks up the slipper, she holds out her foot, and he slides it on.”

  Julian looked at the drawing again. “And her foot goes up, lifting her skirt, which implies that the clerk sees more than he ought? Not to mention that the viewer gets a look at her – mechanical – calf.”

  Albert had the grace to blush. “More or less.”

  “I see.”

  “We get ten guineas apiece for them,” Albert said.

  That was enough money to matter, and Julian nodded. “And you want me to find out who has the plans?”

  “That’s right,” Albert said. “I can give you some names – I made a list of our competitors, though I don’t think they’d risk it, not an open theft, and then some of the workshops that supply the trade. That’s who I think would do it, but – you’d know better than I would about that.”

  “It’s a good place to start,” Julian said. “That’s very helpful.” He paused, running through the possibilities. He would definitely visit the workshops, but he could also contact the young man who had modeled for the Ganymede. That might save him some work, if Elisha could give a name to the shops that were likely to try a bit of extortion. And it would also give him a chance to arrange a meeting with Bolster, to see what the man knew about Ellis. “How long are you in town, Wynchcombe?”

  “Through Monday night,” Albert answered. “Violet and I took a room at the Savoy – she wanted to do some shopping, she hasn’t been in town in months. And I thought we might take in a show.”

  Julian smiled. Albert had married beneath himself, by most reckoning, the daughter of a Welsh inventor who’d managed to parlay a clever self-turning toasting fork into a manufacturing concern easily worth ten thousand a year. But anyone who’d seen them together had known they were ideally matched, and Julian had danced at their wedding. “A bit of a holiday, then?”

  “A bit. I have to steal them when I can, the Old Man keeps me busy.” There was pride rather than complaint in Albert’s voice.

  “Let me make some inquiries,” Julian said. “There are some people I can ask. The workshops will be close
d tomorrow, but that shouldn’t matter. I’ll send a note or come round as soon as I have something, or I’ll be in touch on Monday.”

  “I can stay longer if I must,” Albert said.

  “Let me see what I can find,” Julian said.

  A good breakfast and a Saturday morning spent idling over the weekly papers made Ned feel considerably more human, and restored his determination to get to the bottom of the Nevett problem. There was no point in meeting with Julian to hash over the same facts they’d already talked to death, he told himself, and never mind whether he knew what to say to Julian at all; what they needed were new facts.

  The most pressing question that seemed to need answering was what the actual cause of Reggie’s quarrel with his father had been. Ned found it hard to believe they had been reduced to shouting and storming out of the house because Reggie had chosen to work for a bank his father didn’t favor. Or, if so, it suggested a state of domestic warfare so intense that murder might well have begun to seem attractive.

  He set his Sporting Times down with a frown. That was part of what troubled him about the whole business; he didn’t particularly want to prove that Reggie was a murderer. They hadn’t been particular friends, but they’d been in school together, and that had to count for something.

  But he couldn’t very well let a murderer go free, either. The longer this business went on, the more difficult it would be for everyone else in the family to bear up under a cloud of suspicion. It would fall most heavily on the servants, who everyone already seemed eager to blame. And if there were another domestic quarrel, and the murderer resorted to proven methods to solve it –

  No, it wouldn’t do. And at best, he might be able to induce Reggie to confide in him if there were some embarrassing but unimportant explanation for the quarrel. It couldn’t be pleasant for a man his age to admit to being browbeaten by his father, but it would be better to know that they’d quarreled over Reggie’s tailor bills than perforce imagine some worse cause.