There was nothing to do but find out. He’d have to get Reggie out of the house for that, and into some more congenial setting where it was possible to talk without assorted other Nevetts blundering through. He folded the papers and retrieved pencil and paper from his writing desk, writing out a quick telegram:
Imperative we talk. Meet me at Mercury Club 2:00? Mathey.
He expected it was more likely that Reggie would propose his own club instead, preferring to be on his own ground, but instead Mrs Clewett brought up a return telegram agreeing tersely to the meeting.
“It’s a shame you have business on such a fine day,” Mrs Clewett said. “You ought to be at the seaside with a young lady on your arm.”
“So I ought, but this won’t wait,” Ned said. “I’m afraid the depths of the sea will have to remain unplumbed, at least by me.”
The Mercury was comfortable rather than fashionable, both in its membership and its furnishings. It was relentlessly apolitical, with any heated debate over matters other than sport likely to be met with urging to have another drink and find more congenial company. It boasted an excellent billiards table, organized excursions to cricket matches and horse races, and a library with a very few leather-bound editions of improving literature and a great many dog-eared novels and penny magazines.
It was quieter than usual when Ned arrived, probably a result of the weather; the membership tended to spend fine days outdoors. Ayers and Parker were lingering over the remains of lunch in the dining room, debating the odds for races they didn’t appear to have any intention of attending, as they should have left by now if they did.
“Hullo, Mathey,” Ayers said. “I’d have thought you’d be up at Lord’s today.”
“Would that I were,” Ned said ruefully. “I’m meeting a client.”
“Not much fun,” Parker said. “I’m supposed to take Miss Wetherill and her mother around the zoo. I’m hoping we can lose Mama somewhere.”
“Perhaps she’ll be eaten by a lion,” Ned said. “There’s always hope.”
“Come have a drink with us, there’s a bit of cheese left,” Ayers said, giving the board a shove in his direction. “Tell young Parker it won’t be Intrepid in the fourth, not unless the rest of the field lies down and dies.”
“Duty calls, I’m afraid,” Ned said. “But I’d lay better odds on Sibley’s Folly.”
He left the two of them debating it and passed through the smoking-room, its deep leather chairs battered into softness by long use, and up the stairs in the hall. The smaller upstairs parlors were often used for business, especially by members who were infrequently in London, and he found his choice of them free.
“Whiskey and soda for two, if you please,” he said when young Dan appeared at the door, his hair slicked back very heavily with pomade and a nervous dignity in his bearing that suggested that he’d been appointed under-butler for the day. It wasn’t Boardman’s usual day off, but the man was fond of horse-racing himself, and had probably contrived to spend the day in the stands rather than presiding over a nearly empty club. “And show Mr Nevett up when he arrives.”
“Of course,” Dan said, and disappeared off toward the kitchen. The drinks tray arrived before Reggie, and Ned had already poured himself a drink and had reached the point of looking at his watch by the time Reggie finally came in.
Ned poured him a drink, and Reggie settled in the opposite chair, accepting the glass with a frown. “What’s all this about, Mathey?”
“Just trying to get a few things straight in my mind,” Ned said. “Before dinner, your father called you into his study, is that right?”
“He did,” Reggie said. “I don’t remember if the candlestick was there or not. You know how it is, Mathey, you see a thing every day…”
“That’s all right,” Ned said easily. “I was actually wondering what it was you and he had words about.”
“I told you that,” Reggie said, playing with his glass. Ned hoped he wasn’t in the habit of trying to bluff at cards. “He thought I should have tried to get a situation at Hoare’s.”
“But you didn’t care to?”
“There wasn’t a position available at once, and…well, truth to tell, I didn’t care to go on tagging along after Victor,” Reggie said. “Or to have him always ahead of me in line for every possible promotion.”
“And your father thought differently.”
“He had his views. He never hesitated to make them clear, let me tell you.”
Ned tried a sympathetic smile. “A bit of a dragon, was he?”
“He could be. But I told you, there wasn’t a quarrel.”
“I’m afraid there was,” Ned said, as gently as he could. “No one could help overhearing at least that much. And then the both of you left the house with dinner guests already on their way.”
“It was just temper,” Reggie said, setting down his glass abruptly. “I tell you, it wasn’t serious.”
“I wondered if there might not be some other cause. Some little disagreement over your bills, or that kind of thing? It’s harmless enough if so.”
“There wasn’t anything like that. He didn’t pay my bills, not since I was at Oxford. All I have is my salary. It’s not much, I can tell you, but I manage.”
Ned put his own glass down. “Look here, you must see the position I’m in. I’m trying to find out who could have done this, and you’re the one heard having a violent quarrel with your father the night he died.”
Reggie stood abruptly. “I didn’t come here to be insulted.”
“I don’t mean to insult you, old man,” Ned said, rising as well and moving to cut off any easy escape through the parlor door. “But you’ve got to give me something to work from. What did you and your father really quarrel about?”
“That’ll be enough, Mathey,” Reggie said, in a less effective imitation of Victor’s most intimidating tones. “No one asked you to come sniffing around –”
“Your brother did.”
“He had no right. I just want this over with.”
“Then tell me what you really quarreled over. It won’t go any farther unless I think there’s cause for it to.” A possible reasonably innocent cause of Reggie’s stubbornness occurred to him. “If there’s some girl – or is it a young lady he doesn’t approve of?”
“There’s nothing of the sort,” Reggie said defiantly, his face flushed. “Get out of my way, I want to go home. I don’t have to stand for that kind of cheek from you.” He really was a terrible card-player, Ned thought, sure that he was striking a nerve.
Frankness seemed to be his best resort. “See here, old man, if it’s only that you’ve been spending your money on whores –”
Reggie made a choked noise and swung for him, unexpectedly and wildly. It was startling but not a particularly effective effort, and Ned managed to step aside neatly enough that Reggie’s fist merely grazed his jaw. He was still left momentarily at a loss for words.
“Go to the devil, you interfering…” Reggie sputtered, clearly out of words himself, and shouldered his way past Ned, stomping out through the smoking-room.
After a minute, Ayers looked in from the hall. “I think you may have lost a client,” he said mildly.
“Unfortunately not,” Ned said, rubbing the tender place on his cheek. “But I think I’ll come and have that drink, if you’re still free.”
He wasn’t even sure he’d gotten to the bottom of the matter. If it had been his mother Reggie had quarreled with, Ned would have put his money at this point on fallen women being the cause. That sort of vice was common enough for unattached young men, to his own occasional shame. Not that women had been his temptation, but he could understand being desperate for some measure of satisfaction and seeing no other practical way to get it.
And he didn’t think Mrs Nevett would be at all likely to shrug and say that boys would be boys, if confronted with the evidence that her son were out engaging in vice with the very girls whose moral degradation her pet cause was in
tended to prevent. On the other hand, Edgar Nevett hadn’t struck him as the pious sort. Ned wouldn’t have thought he’d have cared much what Reggie did on his nights out, as long as he wasn’t parading painted tarts through the parlor.
So much for frankness, Ned thought, and with an unwilling flicker of amusement supposed that Julian might currently be telling himself the same thing.
After Albert had left, Julian dispatched a note to Peter Lennox, asking for a meeting later that afternoon, then changed into one of his oldest suits and caught an omnibus to Commercial Road. It was a neighborhood he’d come to know in his dealings with Bolster, but it wasn’t entirely safe, and he walked warily, keeping an eye on the people around him. He was marked, of course, an obvious stranger of better class, but he was neither threatening nor threatened, and everyone but the occasional homing beggar left him strictly alone.
The Admiral’s Hand stood at the corner of Cable and Johnstone Streets, convenient to the Shadwell Basin where Bolster was at least nominally employed. Julian pushed through the main door, aware of the moment of attention that eased as he made his way toward the bar. Early on a Saturday afternoon, the pub was busy, men from the docks with a pint or three, clerks from the warehouses finishing their half-day with a longer dinner, a crowd at the bar and a couple of ragged boys with pint-pots bouncing from foot to foot as they waited to make their deliveries. Julian insinuated himself into the group at the bar, nodding to the barman. He ordered a pint of bitter and waited, nursing it, until the crush eased and the barman came over to wipe the spotted oak in front of him.
“Another, sir?”
Julian shook his head. “Is Bolster about?”
“Who’s asking?”
Julian couldn’t help lifting an eyebrow at that. Finn knew him perfectly well by now, as evidenced by the “sir,” but he supposed the game had to be played. He slid a shilling across the bar. “My name’s Lynes.”
“Oh, yes.” The barman scooped the coin neatly into his pocket. “He’s not here right now.”
He never was, of course. Julian said, “I’d like to talk with him tomorrow. If he can make himself available.”
“A job, then?”
Julian shook his head. “Not exactly. More – questions needing answers, for which I’m willing to pay.”
“Ah.” Finn smiled, showing a missing front tooth. “I’ll pass the word, then, Mr Lynes.”
“Tell him to send me a time,” Julian said, and pushed himself away from the bar.
It was too late now to visit any of the workshops on Albert’s list – they’d be closed for the half-day already, and all day tomorrow – and that meant there was no reason to linger in Limehouse. Bolster would contact him, he was nothing if not reliable, and with any luck Lennox would have answered by the time he returned to his lodgings. He stopped at Blanding’s for a quick dinner, but there was no sign of Ned, and walked back home in a state of mild discontent.
Lennox’s answer was waiting, the note in its pristine envelope stuck impatiently into the front of his desk. Julian slit the flap, sighing as he read the invitation – come to tea, and we can trade questions – but scrawled a suitable acceptance and sent young Digby for a messenger boy. He just had time to bathe and shave and change his clothes before he presented himself at Lennox’s house in Mayfair.
It was small but elegant, a delicate jewel box of a house with a long bow window beside the front stairs, elaborate iron railings, and spotless brass. The parlormaid, handsome and severe, took his card and brought him eventually into Lennox’s study. It was surprisingly cool and pleasant, the curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, the air scented with leather and books and an enormous vase of peonies. Lennox himself was equally at liberty in a deep-burgundy dressing gown and an odd brimless smoking cap with a black silk tassel that fell almost to his shoulders. It helped hide his receding hairline, Julian knew, but it had a certain bravura grace as well. They clasped hands, a hold that lingered an instant too long, and Lennox waved him toward one of the brocade chairs.
“Lynes, dear boy.” He was a big man, almost as tall as Ned, and fleshier, but his voice was lovely, mellow and resonant. “Where have you been keeping yourself?”
“Business, I’m afraid,” Julian said, and seated himself. The unsmiling parlormaid brought in the tea cart and dispensed the first cups before Lennox waved her away.
“Now we can be cozy,” he said. “And you can tell me all about him.”
Julian felt himself flush. “There’s no one in particular, Lennox. You should know that.”
“I find it hard to believe that you’ve had so much business the last three months that no one’s seen you anywhere,” Lennox said. He held up one finger. “But! I won’t press you, as long as you eventually introduce me to your paragon.”
That was one thing to be said for Lennox, Julian thought. He at least knew when to let a subject go. “Speaking of paragons, whatever happened to Fitzjohn’s young scholar?”
“Oh, that’s a pretty tale,” Lennox said, and proceeded to tell it with relish. Julian laughed at all the right places – and it was a farce, complete with slamming doors, shrieking discoveries, and even, if Lennox was to be believed, an escape out the bedroom window, with no real harm done to anyone – and by the time it was finished, he’d poured them each a second glass of sherry and felt somewhat more in charity with the world. He returned to his chair, and Lennox held up his glass, examining the amber liquid with a critical eye. It seemed to pass muster; he drank and leaned back in his chair.
“Now, my dear,” he said. “It’s time to confide in your kindly Uncle Peter. Why are you here?”
Julian smiled. “I need an introduction.”
“Oh?”
“The young man who was the model for Ganymede,” Julian said, and nodded toward the closed cabinet.
“He’s a bit above your touch,” Lennox said, suddenly serious. “And not entirely a nice boy.”
“I don’t want to sleep with him,” Julian began, and Lennox arched his eyebrows, so patently disbelieving that Julian had to laugh. “Well, put it that way, no, I certainly wouldn’t turn him down. But that’s not why I want to talk to him.”
“One of your investigations?” Lennox asked, and Julian nodded.
“And I can’t tell you any more than that, Lennox, I’m sorry.”
Lennox mimed a pout that sat oddly on his broad, good-humored face. “Make something up, then.”
“Maybe when it’s resolved,” Julian said. “But I really do need your help.”
“Does your young man know about this?”
“I don’t have a young man,” Julian said. And he had no idea what Ned would think. That thought was unexpectedly painful, and he set it firmly aside. “Will you do it, Lennox?”
Lennox nodded. “And – as soon as possible, I imagine?”
“That would be helpful.”
Lennox tipped his head to one side, considering. “Are you free this evening?”
“I can be.”
“I have a box at the Opera,” Lennox said. “And I daresay we’ll find him there tonight. Or if not, at supper after.”
Julian hid a groan – he wasn’t particularly musical, and Lennox knew it – but had to admit it was his best option. “Thank you. That would be helpful.” He paused. “What’s the opera, anyway?”
“Does it matter?” Lennox retorted, and Julian shook his head.
“Not particularly.”
“Philistine.” Lennox reached for his sherry. “I’ll call for you, shall I?”
Lennox was as good as his word. They made their way sedately through the lobby of the Italian Opera House, Lennox pausing frequently to chat with friends, bowing over the ladies’ hands and complimenting them on their dress, commenting knowledgeably about the new tenor with the gentlemen. Julian, who knew almost none of the people involved and even less about the music, smiled and bowed, hoping he looked reserved rather than ignorant. Not that it mattered, he supposed, but he hated feeling foolish.
The call startled him, and for an instant he didn’t recognize the speaker, fair and plump, with a striking young woman on his arm. And then he remembered: Challice, who had been a fixture at certain gaming houses until about a year ago, and with whom he’d had a brief but pleasant liaison.
“Challice,” he said, and Challice grasped his hand like a drowning man.
“How nice to see you. I don’t believe you’ve met my wife? My dear, this is Mr Julian Lynes, an old friend.”
Julian bowed over her hand, murmuring a polite answer, unable to miss the faint unhappy lines that bracketed her mouth.
“A bachelor evening, then?” Challice went on.
“Afraid so,” Julian answered. “I came with Lennox – you remember Lennox.”
“Oh, yes,” Challice said, politely enough, but a flicker of something like hunger crossed his face, wild and angry. His wife saw the change, though Julian hoped she didn’t fully understand. Her own frown deepened, and she tugged him gracefully away.
Julian replaced his hat, turned back to Lennox, who’d caught the last of the exchange, and shook his head as they moved up the stairs toward Lennox’s box.
“There’s a tragedy waiting to happen,” Lennox said, as they settled themselves in the fragile seats, and sent the usher for brandies.
“Challice?”
“No names, dear boy. But he will be loyal, come what may, and she wants a husband with more blood in him.” Lennox shook his head again. “It would be better if they didn’t care.”
The usher arrived with their drinks on a tray, and Lennox scribbled a note to take to his friend Soames’s box, which the man accepted with another bow. “Because that’s where Elisha will be, if he’s here at all.”
Julian rested his elbows on the edge of the box. This was what he liked best about any kind of theater, the chance to watch the crowd, to pick out the patterns in their movement. The pit was filling, the rumble of conversation rising like an almost solid thing; across the circle, the boxes were mostly full, the women in their best jewels, their escorts sleek in immaculate linen and neat dark wool. The older woman in emerald was starting at least a flirtation, and probably an affair, her friend stooping lower to murmur in her ear and follow the line of her pearls down the front of her bodice. Her husband was oblivious beside them, chatting to another couple and their daughter, tall and bored. In the next box, pair of gentlemen were attending to women clearly not their wives, and beyond them an older couple bent together over the score. He was very tall, and she was tiny, diamonds spangling her graying hair, and they seemed to be arguing happily over something in the music.
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