Death by Silver

by Melissa Scott

  “Surely it does,” Ned said, and let Barrow turn the conversation firmly to the lamentable state of modern cricket as the waiter arrived to take his soup plate away.

  The morning post brought no answer from Bolster. Julian hovered at his desk for a while, wondering if he should write again, but could think of nothing to say that he hadn’t already mentioned. And it was never good to prod Bolster. He’d made it clear that he intended to protect Annie Makins, and Julian was going to have to rely on him, however reluctant he was to do so. He drafted a letter to Wynchcombe, asking what he might know about Reggie’s quarrel with his father, and sent young Digby to post it, then leaned against the frame of his front window, staring out into the street. There ought to be more he could do, something else he could do – perhaps he should interview Mick Murtaugh, find out if Mrs Makins had been back for her pay. If he could convince Murtaugh that he wasn’t looking to arrest the woman. But that was better done on Saturday, when wages were paid. Today…

  He turned away from the window, hands in his pockets as he paced the length of the parlor, automatically avoiding the piles of books and papers on the floor. He wouldn’t mind talking to Victor’s wife again. She might be able to shed some light on why Victor had chosen to confess, and she might well know something about her mother-in-law. He flipped open his watch. Too early for formal visiting, but that just meant she was more likely to be at home. He collected his coat and hat, and headed out before he could change his mind.

  He took a cab to Randolph Crescent, dismissing it at the end of the street, and walked along the gentle curve, assessing the houses and keeping an eye out for unexpected loiterers. The street was quiet, a coach stopped at the far end while a footman assisted an elderly matron to alight. A kitchenmaid was sweeping her areaway, a grocer’s boy emerged from another with an empty basket, and a rag-and-bone man made his way mournfully along the curb, a small gray dog frisking at the wheels of his handcart. Julian gave him a sharp look, but at second glance recognized him as well-known local character. He was somewhat out of his usual range, though, and Julian gave him a second swift glance, looking for signs of drink or other marks of unexplained prosperity. If Hatton had been clever enough to hire old Jock to keep watch on the Nevetts, he was a more imaginative man than Julian had thought. But no, the men from the Gas Board, clustered at the base of the nearest streetlamp, were more likely to belong to the Yard. He glanced quickly at their shoes as he passed, and was not surprised to see inexpertly muddied police boots. He resisted the urge to tip his hat to them, and climbed the stairs to the Nevetts’ front door.

  It was the older housemaid, Jane Pugh, who opened the door, and she looked as though she hadn’t slept in a week. She probably hadn’t, Julian thought, as he offered his card and asked for Mrs Victor Nevett. Between the two deaths and Victor’s confession, it had to have been a very trying few days.

  “She’s not at home,” the girl said, without bothering to ask, and Julian nodded in understanding.

  “You wouldn’t know where she’s gone?” he asked. “It’s somewhat urgent that I speak with her.”

  She hesitated, and he could almost read the calculation. She knew perfectly well who he was, knew he was working for Victor, who was not only unpleasant but a self-confessed murderer. On the other hand, she was Victor’s wife’s maid, and that was her chance to better herself; she ought to help her mistress’s husband, even if she didn’t like one Nevett wife better than the other. He saw the moment the empathy trumped discretion, but to her credit she didn’t glance over her shoulder.

  “Please, sir, she’s gone to Whiteleys. She needed more trimmings for her blacks, she said.”

  Or needed to get out of the house, Julian thought, and away from Louisa. “Thank you,” he said, and she spoke before he could turn away.

  “Sir, is it true about Sarah?”

  “Is what true?”

  “Mr Ellis said she was wicked and a grave disappointment.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Julian said, a slow anger rising in him. “It’s hardly her fault that she was killed, and she certainly wasn’t doing anything wrong when it happened. She was frightened, that’s all.”

  “Mr Ellis said she must have done something, or she wouldn’t have run away,” Jane said. “He said it must have been her who left the back gate open.”

  “Do you think so?” Julian asked, and tried not to let his interest show. “You knew her better than he did.”

  Jane looked at her shoes. “She tried so hard,” she said. “Any of us could have done it, sir. We all had the chance.”

  “But you think she did,” Julian said. He kept his voice as gentle as he could.

  “Oh, no, sir,” she began, and Julian saw a movement in the hall behind her. She must have heard something, too, for her manner changed abruptly.

  “Mrs Victor is not at home, sir.”

  Julian controlled his frustration. “If you would tell her that I called,” he said, and she bobbed a curtsy as she began to close the door.

  He made his way sedately down the steps, his mind racing. There was nothing he could do now that would allow him to talk to Jane, not without causing her serious trouble, and after Sarah’s death that was a risk he wasn’t prepared to take. But if Jane was right, if Sarah had run away because she had opened the gate for – who? The murderer? Surely not. Everything pointed to the killer having been a member of the household. Someone coming in from outside would have found a less complicated way to kill Edgar Nevett than cursing his own candlestick. The burglar? Presumably Victor had lied about stealing the silver as well as about killing his father, so there was a burglar to think about. It felt far too coincidental that someone should choose to steal Nevett’s silver the same night that he was murdered, but for the life of him, he couldn’t see how it all fit together. In the meantime, though, he might never have a better chance to talk to Mrs Victor. He lengthened his stride, heading for the corner and the omnibus that would take him to Whiteleys.

  The long row of shop fronts that made up the Whiteleys empire was daunting, but Julian found his way to the notions department, and from there to the section that specialized in the trapping of mourning. He only hoped that Jane had been right, and Mrs Nevett had actually intended to purchase something for her blacks – though even if it were just an excuse, she would need to bring something home to show her mother-in-law. But there she was, a tall figure in unrelieved black, studying a tray of jet buttons held out by a pretty young sales assistant. Julian hesitated, not wanting to approach her while she was busy with someone else, but as he watched, she completed her purchase and turned away. He took a deep breath, and stepped into her path.

  “Mrs Nevett?”

  She looked up sharply, the gold rims of her glasses glinting in the store’s electric lights. Her mourning was decently expensive, and deep enough to be appropriate without suggesting a degree of grief that she likely didn’t feel, or drawing undue attention among the crowds of shoppers. Her dress was quite plain, dull black, with only a single ruffle at the hem and a close-fitting bodice that reached the top of her hips. Its only decorations were the dozens of buttons at the front and cuffs, and a plain jet brooch at her neck. She wore a small hat with a simple veil, enough for decorum, but not enough to hide the uneasy expression that crossed her face.

  “Mr Lynes?” she said.

  Julian doffed his hat. “I wonder if I might have a quiet word with you?”

  “It would be more appropriate of you to call at the house.”

  So she could claim to be not at home, Julian thought, not without sympathy. He said, “It might be, but I had hoped for the opportunity to speak frankly.”

  “At Whiteleys.” In spite of herself, a smile flashed across her face, and Julian pressed his advantage.

  “It’s more private than you might think.”

  She blinked once behind glasses and veil, and he thought she was suppressing a wider smile. “What is it that you want to speak to me about, Mr Lynes?”
r />   “Your husband, and your father-in-law’s death,” Julian said, bluntly, and thought she flinched.

  “I don’t see what I could possibly have to say on the matter.”

  “It all depends on whether or not you believe his ridiculous confession,” Julian said.

  “Really, Mr Lynes.”

  He waited, unabashed, and she shook her head.

  “Even Whiteleys isn’t that private.”

  “More private than your house, I’m afraid,” Julian said. “And I’d prefer to talk to you without your mother-in-law’s company.”

  Again, the ghost of a smile flickered across her face, but she said only, “Mama-in-law is very much distressed.”

  “As well she might be,” Julian said. Again he waited, and she gave him a measuring look.

  “You don’t believe my husband’s story.”

  “No.” Julian paused. “Unless you have some reason that I should?”

  She shook her head. “Only – he’s very stubborn, Mr Lynes.”

  Julian stopped himself from saying that he knew that all too well. “Perhaps I could treat you to a cup of tea, Mrs Nevett,” he said. “And we could discuss the matter.”

  She hesitated for a moment, then inclined her head. Julian offered her his arm, and they strolled slowly toward the store’s tea room. “The police are taking him very seriously,” she said, after a moment.

  “I don’t believe they have any choice in the matter,” Julian answered. “Not with no other suspects, or any obvious motive.”

  “That’s the tragedy of it,” she said, and he thought she’d chosen the word with due care for its full meaning. “If it wasn’t Victor, it was still someone in the family. I don’t see how this can have anything like a happy ending.”

  “All the more reason to lay the guilt on the right shoulders,” Julian answered. They had reached the tea room, and the hostess showed them at once to a table. They busied themselves with the menu, and Julian ordered tea and cakes and a plate of what he hoped would be more restorative sandwiches. When the neatly uniformed waitress had moved away, Mrs Nevett gave him another considering stare.

  “Why don’t you believe him?” she asked.

  Julian paused. That was not the question he’d been expecting, and he chose his answer carefully. “Victor never, so far as I know, had the slightest interest in metaphysics. Certainly he didn’t do more than the bare minimum at Toms’, and even if he’d changed his mind at Oxford, he was sent down before he could have learned much more. And the curse on the candlestick wasn’t something you could get out of the average maledictor. It was neatly made, and written just for this action and this action only. Most of the curses found in a maledictor are general-purpose, with a set structure that you plug specific objects and targets into.”

  She nodded. “That’s the argument Browning said we could make, and thought it would be quite convincing – he’s my father’s solicitor, I consulted him because, well, it didn’t seem right to use the family’s man. But Victor would have none of it. He just kept saying he’d done it, and he didn’t need to talk to Browning. Finally he forbade me to mention it at all.”

  The tea arrived, and Mrs Nevett busied herself with the pot. Julian accepted his cup and his dainty sandwich, waited until the first bustle had died down before he spoke again. “Do you have any idea who he’s protecting?”

  Her cup clattered on its saucer, but she didn’t deny it. “I don’t know. I’d made up my mind that if I did think of something, find out something, that I’d go to the police, no matter what Mama-in-law says. I can’t let Victor do this. But I don’t know anything.”

  “I understand,” Julian said. “Who do you think he’d be willing to protect like this? Not as an accusation, but just who Victor feels that careful of.”

  “The boys,” she said immediately. “Reggie and Frederick. Though I think the same argument applies to them, they’re neither one of them interested in metaphysics. Freddie spends practically every night at the theater, or going about with his band of poets – that’s what he calls them – and Reggie –” She shrugged. “He has his club and his friends there. And there’s the problem, Mr Lynes. Reggie certainly didn’t get along with Father-in-law, but his response was to take himself off to his club, not to curse a candlestick. I just don’t see who could have done it. I’m almost prepared to credit the idea that there was a curse on the silver after all.”

  “That won’t wash, I’m afraid,” Julian said. “Mathey doesn’t make that kind of mistake.” He’d spoken too warmly, and quickly changed the subject. “What about Mrs Nevett – his mother, I mean?”

  “He would sacrifice himself for her,” she said. “And for me, too, I think, though, again, I can’t see any cause.”

  “There’s no possibility that he might have misunderstood something?” Julian asked. “Some friendship, some purchase, some –” He became aware of her lifted eyebrow, and shrugged. “I admit, I’m grasping at straws.”

  “So I see,” she said, but she was smiling. The smile faded slightly. “There’s not much I can say about myself that won’t sound self-serving. But I didn’t study metaphysics in school, and I’ve never had cause to consult a metaphysician. And Mama-in-law – I think she must have had some unfortunate experience with metaphysics, Mr Lynes, because I’ve rarely met anyone so dead set against its use. She was very angry when Mr Nevett insisted on having the silver cleansed.”

  “Is it a religious scruple, do you think?” Julian asked. There were still a few Christian sects who held against metaphysics because of Biblical prohibitions on witchcraft, though most of them were small and confined to the laboring classes and to the depths of the country.

  “I wouldn’t think so,” Mrs Nevett answered. “Mr Ellis doesn’t disapprove, though of course he’s careful not to let any of the young people at the mission get any idea that it’s some sort of shortcut to bettering themselves. That can only come from hard work and diligence and so many of them only want an easy road.” A shadow crossed her face. “Poor Sarah was, I thought, one of our real successes. Did you have to frighten her so badly?”

  Julian said, “I don’t believe it was me she was frightened of. Or Mathey. I think she realized that she’d seen something or heard something, and that’s what frightened her into running away. And I’d advise you, Mrs Nevett, to be very careful who you discuss the matter with, and for the same reasons.”

  “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 hop
es.”

  “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.”