“There you are, Mathey,” Staniforth said. He sounded more entertained than angry himself, as if anticipating some treat. “I hear that you struck Nevett.”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“You ought to be expelled, you little bastard,” Victor said.
Ned was momentarily taken aback by his language – normally the prefects made a point of affecting the manners of gentlemen – but it wasn’t an excuse to argue. “Yes, sir, I ought.”
“What have you to say for yourself?” Staniforth said.
That was always a dangerous question. Generally it was best to say nothing, as any attempt at explanation was put down to cheek. And what was he to say? That he was defending his mother’s honor, but Victor would certainly say he was lying.
“No excuse, sir,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done it.”
“Beg Nevett’s pardon,” Staniforth said.
He felt a surge of relief so intense it nearly made him dizzy. If they meant to expel him, they’d be summoning the masters now, surely. Which meant it was only a matter of taking his punishment.
Ned raised his eyes to Victor’s. “Please, sir, I’m sorry I struck you.”
“Try again,” Victor said. “I don’t believe you.”
“Please, sir,” Ned said, letting his voice break deliberately on the words. It was worth it to stay in school. “I’m sorry I struck you.”
“The usual punishment for striking a fellow student is caning,” Staniforth said. His eyes were alight with unexplained anticipation. “However, that doesn’t seem suitable punishment for being quite this much of a disgrace to the school.” Staniforth drew a bundle of thin switches from the bucket they’d been soaking in and drew it through his hands experimentally before handing it to Nevett. “The Canon does still allow for the use of the birch in particularly egregious cases, and Nevett has requested the privilege. Drop your trousers, Mathey.”
He did so without tremendous reluctance. The bundle of switches didn’t look as though it could hurt much worse than being caned, even if the prefects intended to entertain themselves by reviving antique punishments. It would all be over in a quarter of an hour.
“Take your jacket off as well,” Staniforth said. He waited until Ned was bent over the chair back, and then tugged Ned’s trousers and breeches sharply down, pulling his shirt-tails up to bare his lower back. He handed over the birch to Nevett. “He’s all yours, Nevett. Your discretion as to the number of strokes. Make it educational.”
It hurt, but not nearly as much as a smack with the cane. At six strokes he thought he’d gotten off easily. At twelve he was beginning to doubt. It stung, a bright rising burn. At twenty he couldn’t help flinching, his hands opening on the rungs of the chair.
“Little coward,” Victor said, his breath coming hard. “Stay still and take your punishment. You asked for it.”
Ned gripped the rungs of the chair harder, because it would be unbearable if they had to hold him still, if he wasn’t man enough to bear it. And he had asked for it, he’d struck a prefect, but it didn’t feel fair. He gritted his teeth, swallowing against the knot in his throat.
“You bastard,” Victor said. He sounded strangely as if he was on the verge of tears himself. “Think you can hit me. You won’t do it again. You won’t.”
He couldn’t hold still against the pain every time Victor dragged the birch across his skin as he drew it back. He clenched his hands around the chair rails and tried not to flinch. He could feel sweat trickling down the backs of his legs, a maddening itch perversely not drowned out by pain.
“Nevett,” Evelyn said, sounding for some reason troubled. “He’s had enough, don’t you think?”
He’d lost track of the number of strokes. He felt a brightening panic at that, because sometimes they’d ask you how many you’d had and you were expected to be able to say, but he couldn’t gather his thoughts enough to even guess.
“You bastard,” Victor said. “You bastard.” His breath was coming in harsh gasps. The birch fell again and again.
“Stop it. He’s had enough.” That was Staniforth, close behind him. Ned flinched in anticipation of the next blow, but it didn’t land, and after a long moment he managed to shift enough on the chair to ease cramped muscles.
“Take your hands off me,” Victor said.
“Control yourself, Nevett. You’re acting like a child.”
“Christ,” Evelyn said. “Look at him.”
“Well, so?” Larriby’s voice.
“Shut up, the lot of you,” Staniforth said, his voice crisp and stern. “Get up, Mathey. Get dressed.”
“It’s in the Canon,” Victor said, his voice rising defiantly. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Didn’t I just tell you to shut your mouth?” There was sharp warning in Staniforth’s voice.
Ned got himself down off the chair, his hands shaking as he pulled up his trousers and fumbled with the buttons. His legs were cramped so badly it was hard to stand squarely on his feet, and he felt alarmingly lightheaded. He mustn’t faint, he told himself, and steadied himself on the chair back, hoping they wouldn’t notice. He knew he should thank Nevett, but he couldn’t make himself shape the words.
“Mathey, you’re to go straight back to your room, do you understand me?” Staniforth said. “The masters needn’t know about this. If they hear about it, you’ll most likely be expelled.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Straight back to your room, then, and we’ll say no more about it,” Staniforth said, and took him firmly by the shoulder to steer him out into the hall.
They’d been frightened, he knew now, although he hadn’t understood at the time. If he’d gone to the masters bloodied from back to thighs, there would have been trouble. An investigation, at least, and perhaps the curtailing of the prefects’ privileges. Trouble worth avoiding, and he’d been willing enough to avoid the risk of being expelled that he’d kept their secrets for them.
He felt his stomach turn at the memory, and braced himself on the window sill. Julian had been waiting for him, and had tended his wounds as best he could, but a few faint scars still remained, still perceptible to his fingertips. And a few scars weren’t much, but all the same, it hadn’t been fair. It hadn’t been right.
He’d cried afterwards, shamefully, curled up with his head on Julian’s knee like a child. But he’d only been fourteen, and not really a man yet. Perhaps he might at least be forgiven for that.
“It wasn’t right,” he said, making himself turn away from the window.
Julian looked at him as if that should be obvious. “Of course it wasn’t right.”
“The masters let it go on.”
“The masters didn’t care as long as they weren’t bothered.”
“I thought everyone else bore it better than me.”
“No one bore it better than you,” Julian said. He reached tentatively for Ned’s arm, and Ned let Julian hook it through his own, half-embracing him. “You needn’t see the bloody man. I can go.”
“I’ll go,” Ned said. He clasped Julian’s arm for a moment, and then disentangled himself. “I’d rather face him than be a coward.”
“Never that,” Julian said. “But I do wish sometimes you’d let me kill him.”
“Just now, so do I,” Ned said. “Let’s go try to save the wretched man’s neck.”
“If we must.”
“I’m afraid we must.” He hesitated. “But I’ll admit don’t much like it.”
“That’s because you’re a reasonable man,” Julian said, and Ned had to admit he found a certain comfort in the words.
0707201316911
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was too late to arrange a visit to Holloway that afternoon. Julian left that to Ned on the theory that Hatton was more likely to oblige him, and spent the next morning drafting another note to Bolster, this one asking for a meeting. When Ned’s note finally arrived with the time of their appointment – mid-afternoon, toward the end of regular visiti
ng hours; Hatton was doing them no favor there – he changed into his most respectable suit and took a cab to the Commons. Ned balked at the expense, and gave in only when Julian pointed out that their standing with the warders would be much improved by their arriving by cab. Only the lowest sort of counsel arrived by omnibus. They argued the point amiably for a bit, but as they drew closer to the prison, Ned fell silent. Julian didn’t try to draw him out, sat dumb himself as they drew closer to the brick towers. It looked a bit like the sort of castle a child would build, assuming he’d managed to steal his brothers’ and cousins’ boxes of brick-blocks to supplement his own, with an arched central gate like a gaping mouth between the crenellated towers that angled out to either side. There were four more wings around the central building, spread out like the spokes of a wheel, one each for female and child offenders, and the rest for men, both convicted criminals and those on remand. He paid off the cab at the end of the drive, and saw Ned look dubiously up at the brick walls and narrow windows. He was still staring upward as the cabbie clucked to his horse, and Julian touched his sleeve.
“You don’t have to,” he said, softly.
Ned looked back at him, and forced a smile. “No, I’m fine. Truly.”
“It’s an ugly place,” Julian said, and let him take it however he pleased.
Hatton’s letter got them an escort to the Governor’s office, and a raised eyebrow from the Chief Warder, who was taking the Governor’s place.
“Not your usual sort of client, Mr Lynes.” The Chief Warder shook his head. “I don’t hold with murder.”
“No more do I, Mr Collins,” Julian answered promptly, and tried to ignore the twitch at the corner of Ned’s mouth. “But we – Mr Mathey and I – have reason to believe a mistake is being made.”
“The man confessed, Mr Lynes.” Collins shook his head. “It’s not like your cracksmen and forgers, he can’t argue mistaken identity or some slip of the pen.”
“We think he’s trying to protect someone,” Ned said quietly, and Collins gave him a curious look.
“Be that as it may,” he said, his tone faintly conciliatory, “he does say he did it. We can’t just turn him loose.”
“Of course not,” Ned murmured.
“But we do need to talk to him,” Julian said.
Collins lifted a bell that stood at the corner of his desk and rang it twice. The door opened promptly to admit a warder Julian had seen before. He nodded in recognition, and the man gave him a cheerful leer as he pulled off his cap.
“Yes, Mr Collins?”
“Thank you, Thomas. Mr Lynes and Mr Mathey are here to see Number 133,” Collins said.
The warder lifted his eyebrows at that, but made no comment. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Right this way, gentlemen.”
Julian followed him through the maze of hallways, Ned at his shoulder. There was a noise in the distance, a dull murmur like the sound of a crowd before the play begins, and Ned checked briefly. Julian looked over his shoulder.
“Brace yourself,” he said, quietly, and Thomas flung open the doors to the visiting area. It was an enormous low-roofed room, crossed by a row of narrow booths with half-doors across their backs. About half of them were occupied, women and men and children crammed into the narrow spaces, their voices filling the air.
“This way,” Thomas said, and pointed to a stall on the end. He unlocked the door, and motioned them in. Julian stepped inside, Ned following reluctantly, his nose wrinkling at the smell of old sweat and street filth. The other side of the booth was open, too, and faced an identical chamber across an open gap perhaps a yard across.
“I’ll bring Number 133 right up,” Thomas said. “But I’ll remind you gents that there’s no contact with the prisoner, nor anything to be passed across the gap.”
Ned nodded, speechless, and Julian said, “I know the rules, Thomas.”
Thomas seemed not to have heard. “And there’s no metaphysics to be used, either.”
“Of course not,” Julian said.
“If there’s anything you need,” Thomas went on, “or if there’s any trouble from him, just sing out, and I’ll come running. I’ll just lock you in now, and be back straightaway with your man.”
“Thank you,” Julian said, and Thomas disappeared.
“Was he actually hinting for a tip?” Ned said, after a moment.
“He was,” Julian said. He rummaged in his pocket, and came up with his wand. “And I’ll give him one, too.”
“Damn it.”
“I need to stay on good terms with the warders, for my clients’ sake,” Julian said. He took a deep breath, centering himself.
“I wonder if we should have brought Victor something,” Ned said. “It didn’t even occur to me.”
“No, we should not,” Julian said. “It’s quite enough that we’re here at all –” He broke off, shaking his head. “Give me a minute, will you?”
He lifted his wand, sketching a series of sigils, first to define the space, and then to enclose it, and then to keep anyone outside from hearing what was said within. He left the last sign hanging, wand poised but concealed by his turned shoulder.
Ned said, “Lynes?”
“We need to talk privately,” Julian said.
“Number 133,” Thomas announced, from across the alleyway, and Victor Nevett appeared in the booth directly opposite theirs. He was still in his own coat and trousers, and his hands were free of shackles, but his collar was missing, and a tag dangled from the top button of his coat, marking him as No. 133. “You have visitors, and I’ll remind you that you’re expected to behave according to regulations. Any breach of conduct will result in loss of privileges.”
“Yes, all right.” Victor’s voice was weary.
“He’s all yours, gents,” Thomas said, and backed away, closing the door behind him. The key scraped in the lock, and Victor looked from one to the other in sullen confusion.
“What the devil are you doing here?”
Prison hadn’t mellowed him as much as one might hope, Julian thought. He lifted his hand for silence, completed the last sigil, and said, “We’ve come to give you some news.” The noise around them faded, and his own voice was oddly damped: the enchantment was working.
Victor shook his head. “There’s nothing to say, and if Alice sent you –”
“Your wife, though I believe she’s deeply concerned about you, is nothing to do with us.” A familiar cold settled over Julian, honing his words to a razor’s edge. “We are here because we know you’re lying, and we can prove it. But Mathey here was curious as to what might make a man commit suicide in such a particularly elaborate way, and I guessed you were protecting someone.”
Victor shook his head again. “No –”
Julian went on as though he hadn’t spoken. “Which I find to be rather ironic, as I can also prove that neither of your brothers could possibly have killed your father.”
“What?” Victor froze, and Julian heard Ned give a soft, almost soundless sigh.
“You thought it was one of them,” Julian said. “And you were wrong. Perhaps you’d like to reconsider your confession?”
“I…” Victor wavered, bracing himself against the wall, then pulled himself upright. “You’re sure about this? You give me your word you’re sure?”
“Yes,” Ned said, and Julian nodded.
“I thought – I was certain –” Victor stopped again. “Father was threatening to have Freddie sent away for a cure. I thought he’d picked up some enchantment from one of his friends, it’s the sort of thing they’d know how to do. He’s around all day and out all night, I thought he’d have had the chance.”
“It wasn’t him,” Julian said. “And it wasn’t Reggie, either.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Victor buried his face in his hands.
“Don’t say anything yet,” Ned said.
Julian looked warily at him. “Mathey?”
“He needs to know,” Ned said.
You’ll spoil ev
erything. Julian bit back the words, knowing that Ned was right, and still hating to lose their chance to get at the truth.
“If it wasn’t your brothers,” Ned said, “what about Mrs Nevett?”
“Mater?” Victor’s face was blank as he looked up.
“For God’s sake,” Julian said.
Ned said, his voice still gentle, “She’s used enchantment before to get what she wants. And your father was planning to divorce her over it. He’d gone so far as to ask his solicitors to begin drawing up the papers. She’s the only person with a reason to kill your father.”
Victor was smiling, incredulous, like a man who’s won on an impossible long shot at Cheltenham. “But she didn’t,” he said. “She didn’t have a reason – she didn’t know, Mathey. I made sure she didn’t. Ellis promised me he’d keep it from her, and, thank God, I managed to talk him out of tackling Father on the subject. I thought it would all simmer down once he’d had a bit more time with his typewriter girl, and realized what he was getting himself into – and I know old Barnes was hell-bent to talk him out of it, too. Mother never did use enchantment, she hates the very idea. It was just old gossip, and I think Father knew it. And that means it must have been a burglar after all.”
Julian swore. Ned said, “I really don’t think so.”
“But there’s no one else,” Victor said. “It wasn’t me, and it wasn’t Reggie or Freddie, and it certainly wasn’t Mother. It has to have been a burglar.”
Julian bit back another curse, but before he could say anything more, a bell sounded overhead, marking the end of visiting hours. “Will you recant?”
Victor hesitated, then shook his head. “Find the burglar,” he said. “That’ll do it. I don’t want anyone poking around at my brothers, or bothering Mother.”
“Don’t be an ass,” Ned exploded, but the door swung open behind Victor. Julian made a swift gesture, and the enchantment dissolved, the noise swelling around them again.
“Time, gentlemen,” Thomas said. “Number 133, come with me.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, reconsider,” Ned said, but Victor shook his head.
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