Death by Silver (42 page)

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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 visiting 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 everything.
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.

“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.