“I can stick it a little longer,” he said, and Thomas led him away.
Ned was fuming as they tipped the warders and paid their respects to Collins, but managed not to say anything until they’d reached the long drive.
“What the devil is wrong with the man? Does he liked being locked up?”
“He knows about Freddie.” Julian shook his head. Nevett was the last man he’d expect to sacrifice even his comfort for a degenerate brother, and yet… “He’s afraid people will find out, and it will ruin him.”
“Or cause problems for the rest of the family. Damn and blast Victor Nevett, anyway.” Ned reached into his pocket for his cab whistle, economy forgotten. “And where does this leave us, anyway? If he’s right about his mother – and he’s telling the truth there, I’m sure of it – he’s right, we’ve cleared everyone. Because I don’t believe it was a murderous burglar, or one of the servants.”
“No.” Julian frowned. They’d gotten it wrong, somehow – except, no, there was nothing wrong with the facts, it was just how they were putting them together. Not Victor, not Freddie, not Reggie, not Mrs Nevett: who else would benefit from Edgar’s death? He caught his breath. No, that was the wrong question. Who would be harmed if one of the four were cut out of the family? That was the threat, that Victor and Reggie would lose what little financial help their father gave them, while Freddie would be ruined if his tastes became public knowledge, and Mrs Nevett would be destroyed both socially and financially. “We’re going at it backwards,” he said aloud. “We’re looking for someone who’d be injured if any of them were ruined.”
Ned frowned. “You said you didn’t believe it was Mrs Victor.”
“I don’t. She doesn’t know metaphysics, any more than Reggie’s wife does. And I doubt either of them knows any doubtful metaphysicians, any more than Freddie’s crowd does – they’d be more likely to come to me with the problem. But there’s one person who’s been profiting by the Nevett’s wealth who is also likely to know a good deal about metaphysics. Reverend Clement Wilfrid Ellis.”
Ned was nodding before he’d finished speaking. “We don’t know he’s a metaphysician.”
“Half the clergymen in England have MMAs, and the other half are hobbyists,” Julian said. He waved at the cab that was just rounding the corner from Wheelwright Street. “But I know where we can find out.”
The cab pulled to a stop, and the driver leaned down as they climbed aboard. “Where to, gentlemen?”
“Coptic Street, by the British Museum,” Julian answered. “As fast as you can.”
“Double fare if you make it under half an hour,” Ned said.
The cabbie touched his hat. “Good as done, sir.”
The cabbie was as good as his word, and they hurried up the stairs to Julian’s rooms. Julian didn’t bother to discard either hat or coat, but went to his bookshelf and dragged down the Churchman’s Encyclopedia. He flipped to the E’s, Ned leaning over his shoulder, and ran his finger down the listings.
“Ellis, Clement Wilfrid, DD, MMA, King’s College, Cambridge.” He took a breath. “Well, at least he’s not an Oxford man.”
“Ellis,” Ned said, slowly. “God, it makes sense. If Edgar Nevett divorced Louisa, not only would his money have dried up, but the scandal would have affected him, too.”
Julian put the book down, and tossed his hat onto the sofa. He crossed to the sideboard, reaching into his pocket for the key to the tantalus, and poured them each a stiff whiskey. “Ellis,” he said.
Ned nodded. “But how the hell do we prove it?”
“We’ll find a way,” Julian said.
By morning, though, some of Julian’s utter clarity had faded. There was still so much to prove, so many loose ends to tie up or cut away, and he couldn’t think with Mrs Digby complaining about providing extra breakfasts and muttering that she ought to start charging extra rent.
“He’s working with me on a case,” Julian said.
“That’s as may be,” Mrs Digby retorted. “But it doesn’t put food in my cupboards to feed him.”
“I’m willing to pay some reasonable amount,” Julian began, and Ned laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. Julian looked up, startled, and Ned gave Mrs Digby his most winning smile.
“I realize that this has been an inconvenience,” he said, “for which I do apologize. I know Mr Lynes would be more than happy to make some accommodation.”
I would not. Julian bit back the words, said, as moderately as he could manage, “Yes, of course.”
“Five shillings, Mr Lynes, if you please,” Mrs Digby said. “And I’d be glad to work out a more regular rate if this is likely to continue.”
Julian hoped his face wasn’t red, and out of the corner of his eye saw that Ned seemed to be studying the wallpaper. But he did hope it would continue, and, anyway, there was nothing suspect about entertaining a colleague from time to time. He reached into his pocket, withdrew his purse, and handed the coins across. “That would probably be an excellent idea.”
“Very good, sir,” Mrs Digby said, stowing the shillings in her pocket beneath her apron. “There’s coffee there, and rashers, which I would be willing to make more of under the new arrangement.”
“No need right now,” Ned said, “but thank you.”
She let herself out again, and Julian applied himself to the tray. After a moment, Ned came to join him, stirring extra milk into his coffee.
“It probably wouldn’t hurt matters if you were to give her a healthy tip now and again,” he said.
Julian sighed. “You’re probably right. I do put her to a great deal of trouble.”
Ned stirred his coffee. “And you might stop cheating her over the geyser.”
“It’s not cheating,” Julian said. “The gas is supposed to be included in the rent.”
Ned started to say something, then shook his head. “If she’s going to charge you extra, let me know what I owe you.”
“No need.”
“I’m quite serious.”
Ned scowled. Julian raised a hand. “All right, I’ll let you know. We’ll settle up later.”
“All right.” Ned paused. “What do we do now?”
“We don’t have a shred of proof, that’s the trouble, or even a convincing motive. I’m morally certain it’s Ellis, but – that cuts no ice with the police.” Julian paused, considering the problem. “I think we need to eliminate Mrs Nevett entirely, if we can – maybe you and Miss Frost could see what you can do there? And I – now I really need to talk to Bolster, damn it. He’ll definitely know if there’s anyone out there who might have sold this sort of enchantment to one of the Nevetts. And, failing that, which I think he will, he might be able to tell me who has connections with the mission, and I might be able to put some pressure on them.”
“Elllis does have a motive,” Ned began, and Julian shook his head.
“If Louisa Nevett’s husband divorced her, it would taint Ellis and the mission for a while, yes, and he’d lose whatever money Louisa has been funneling his way. But all he’d have to do was draw his skirts aside with the rest of society – metaphorical skirts, Mathey – and allow that he, too, had been sadly deceived. There’s no real reason for murder there.”
“I do see that,” Ned said, with regret. He swallowed his last bite of toast and rose to his feet. “And that means I should be on my way. I’ll see what more Miss Frost can tell us, and I’ll wire you if I find out anything important.”
“Yes, do that,” Julian said, and Ned let himself out.
A telegram was a good idea. He composed one to Bolster, warning of dubious metaphysicians committing unspecified crimes, and begging for a meeting, and sent it to the chandler that Bolster used as his emergency contact. And then there was nothing to do but wait for an answer. For want of anything better to do, he pulled down the clerical directory again, and turned to Ellis’s entry to see if there was anything he had missed. A minor public school, suggestive of family poverty more than anything; then Cambridg
e and the MMA with honors before the DD: well, he’d said the enchantment was likely to have been written by a University man, and he’d even named Cambridge as more likely, but that was hardly news. Nor any closer to proof. He shook his head and returned the book to its place. If only Bolster would answer quickly.
The reply came by return, though it seemed as though it had taken days. It was short and to the point – meet me at the Bell soonest, no reply unless not coming – and Julian handed over the tip and dismissed the messenger. He was carelessly dressed enough to pass in Bethnal Green, and he seized his stick and hurried out, almost upsetting the telegraph boy on the stairs.
He knew better than to make himself conspicuous by taking a cab to the Bird and Bell, but it took all his self-control to sit quietly in the omnibus and not swear at each delay. But at last he was back in the saloon bar, weaving through the crowd, and finally allowed himself a sigh of relief as he saw Bolster at his usual back table.
“Mr Bolster.”
“Mr Lynes.” Bolster waved to the chair opposite. “What the devil is all this about murderous metaphysicians?”
“I didn’t say murder,” Julian pointed out.
“You didn’t exactly need to, considering the sort of case you’ve been meddling with.” Bolster waved for the nearest waiter, who brought them each a pint without waiting for an order.
“Joe Makins was killed by a suspended enchantment,” Julian said. “I told you that before. And now a man named Jack Dixon dropped dead at Scotland Yard of a similarly delayed enchantment, and by what I very much doubt is a coincidence, he’d tried to bash my colleague Mathey with a pipe not two days before. You wouldn’t know anyone who could write up such an enchantment, Mr Bolster, would you?”
“I try not to meddle with hocus,” Bolster said. “You know that, Mr Lynes.”
“But plenty of other people do.”
“So they do.” Bolster nodded. “Jack Dixon’s dead?”
“Yes. I don’t know how the original poison was given him, but it was triggered by the opium in his liver pills.”
“It’s a bad business,” Bolster said.
“It is. What’s more, Mathey and I are fairly sure the same hand wrote the enchantment that killed Edgar Nevett. And if that’s the case, I’m worried about Mrs Makins.” Julian blinked, an idea slotting into place, arranging the puzzle pieces into a new pattern. They’d been discounting the burglary, assuming that it was a blind, or had never happened at all, but if it had, if Joe Makins were the burglar… No, that wasn’t quite it, it didn’t explain enough, why Makins had chosen that house and that night, but it definitely needed to be held for further review.
“I’m worried about her, too,” Bolster said, and Julian’s attention snapped back to him. “Yesterday I sent her to stay with a friend of mine, someplace a bit more comfortable, only she never arrived. I thought she’d gone off on her own, but now –”
“If you know what she’s hiding, for God’s sake, tell me.”
“I don’t.” Bolster pushed back his chair, leaving his beer untouched on the table. “She didn’t confide in me, either, Mr Lynes.”
“We need to find her,” Julian said, standing, but Bolster shook his head.
“Sit down, man. You’re the metaphysician, can’t you wave a wand and find her?”
Julian glared at him. “No. First, I don’t have anything of hers to work from –”
“– I do,” Bolster said.
“It won’t do any good. This is London. We could dowse for her for hours, or scry with mirrors for a week, and learn little other than she’s in Limehouse. We need to find her by ordinary means.”
“I need to find her, then,” Bolster said. “If she’s just run, I think I know where, and she’ll trust me more than she’ll trust you.”
“And if not?”
Bolster’s face was grim. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Go back to your lodgings, Mr Lynes. I can find you there fastest if I need you.” He turned away without waiting for an answer, and strode away through the crowd that parted for him like ripples in a stream.
“God damn it to hell.” Julian dropped a handful of coins on the table, and made his way back to the omnibus stop.
“Tell me, Miss Frost.” Ned said, pausing at her desk. He’d tried not to pace, and then given up and abandoned his chair for the moment. “Do you think it’s possible Mrs Landry sold Mrs Edgar Nevett an enchantment for murdering her husband?”
“I thought you suspected Ellis,” Miss Frost said.
“I do. But I’d like to be certain. Victor says she didn’t know her husband intended to divorce her, but she might have suspected. For that matter, she might have known and wanted to spare her sons from knowing.”
“Or pretended not to know while she went in search of an enchantment for doing away with him?”
“That’s what I’d like to rule out.”
“I’m not sure I can rule it out. But…” She shook her head. “I’d believe that Mrs Landry offered her some enchantment to persuade her husband to give up the idea of divorce.”
“A tricky thing to manage.”
“I wouldn’t like to try it, but I’m not a specialist in ladies’ problems,” Miss Frost said. “Mrs Landry is, and if the question were whether she’d exerted unlawful influence over Edgar, I wouldn’t doubt it. But it would be hard to prove, and I think she relies on that. I doubt she’d risk selling something as dangerous to her as a curse designed to kill, and certainly not for whatever sums Mrs Nevett could divert without her husband noticing.”
“She might have called it a donation to the mission,” Ned said.
“That would be sensible. But, still, how much could it have been?”
“How much does it cost to buy poison?”
“Practically nothing, if the poison’s legal to sell, or can’t be traced. But if an unlicensed metaphysician were selling murderous curses of her own design, and husbands began to drop dead all over the city, it would be traced back to her sooner or later. I think she’s sensible enough to know it.”
“That’s fair enough.”
“Besides, I don’t think she’d do it this way. From what I saw, her stock in trade is written conjurations to be washed into unsuspecting husbands’ tea. Or into one’s own, depending on the sort of enchantment we’re talking about. If she were going to design a means of killing, I’d lay money that it would be similar – a poison, or even better a cantrip to amplify the effect of some drug that would otherwise be harmless. If he took laudanum, for instance, or medicinal doses of strychnine…”
“There’s no evidence that he did.”
“Well, no, and he didn’t die of poisoning, either. But that’s what I’d do. Ensure that a reasonable dose acted like an overdose. Much tidier than bashing someone’s head in, and far more likely to be accepted as an accident. And most men late in life take remedies of some sort.”
“You alarm me,” Ned said.
She smiled a little. “I promise, I’ve no intention of slipping hocus into your morning tea.”
“Still, if I needed a reason to avoid patent medicines…”
There was a knock on the door, and Ned turned. It was early for Julian to have found out anything from Bolster, but not out of the question.
Instead Bob stuck his head in. “Mr Nevett to see you, Mr Mathey.” Ned winced, not feeling at all prepared to deal with Reggie’s insecurities at the moment, and then blinked as Freddie Nevett stopped in the doorway.
“Thank you, Bob,” Ned said. “Mr Nevett.”
“Hullo, Mathey,” Freddie said. He bit his lip, in a way that might have been intended to be coy under other circumstances, but that instead made him look like the weedy little schoolboy Ned remembered. “I thought I’d better come and see you.”
“About what?” Ned prompted after a moment, waving him to a seat.
“It’s about Victor,” Freddie said. “I don’t believe he killed Pater after all.”
Ned refrained from saying they�
�d come to the same conclusion days before. “What makes you say so?”
“He was the one with the least reason to,” Freddie said. “They actually got on, at least most of the time. Victor never made trouble.”
“I should think Reggie was the one who didn’t make waves.”
“Do you think so?” Freddie looked amused. “Reggie told the pater whatever he wanted to hear, and then went sneaking around behind his back. He went from stealing sugar as an infant to keeping a girl out in the suburbs somewhere – he is, you know.”
“I’m aware of that,” Ned said. Reggie would have to work up the courage to come out with the rest of the story himself.
“Maybe there’s something to this jack detective business after all,” Freddie said, in an arch tone that grated on Ned’s nerves.
“Was there something in particular you came here to tell me?”
“I’m sorry,” Freddie said after a moment’s pause. “This is coming out all wrong. I only meant that Reggie is a bit of a sneak, and I’ve never cared much what my father thought of me, at least not after I was old enough that he thought it beneath his dignity to try to beat me. But Victor never set a foot out of line in any way that mattered. He actually admired the old man.”
“He has confessed,” Ned pointed out.
“Yes, that’s the thing that…I’m, well, I’m afraid that he…” Freddie swallowed hard, as bracing himself to say something unpleasant for him and finding it an unaccustomed effort. “I’m afraid he thinks I did it.”
For a moment Ned considered saying that he knew all about it; if Freddie were at all inquisitive, he’d probably find out eventually that they’d been making inquiries about him in his usual haunts. He wasn’t certain Freddie was that inquisitive, though, and when it came down to it he simply couldn’t bring himself yet to deliberately place his own reputation in the hands of Freddie Nevett.
“I’d wondered,” he said instead. “Were relations between you and your father that bad?”
“Fairly terrible,” Freddie said. “But the thing was, I didn’t care. Not the way Victor thought anyone would. He’d be broken up if Pater thought he was a poor excuse for a man, but I’d frankly rather not live up to my father’s expectations.”
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