Death by Silver (48 page)

There was no question of omnibuses this time. Ned whistled for a cab, and swung aboard as soon as it slowed. “Scotland Yard, as quick as you can,” he said.

“He’s still got time to make his escape,” Julian said.

“If he ran out of the Nevett house with the clothes on his back and the cash in his pocket, he does. But I can’t see him doing it, can you?”

“No,” Julian said after a moment. “No, he’ll stay and make some explanation that makes him sound ill-used and us like villains, and then he’ll go back to the mission and either settle in to brazen it out, or start packing. The Yard’s closer than Limehouse – there’s time for them to catch him.”

The cab was making breakneck speed, but all the same Ned’s heart was pounding in his chest as they scrambled down at the Yard. He refrained from stopping at the desk to give his business, hoping they looked respectable enough to be assumed to be invited visitors, and took the stairs to Hatton’s office at a run.

Ned flung open the door without knocking, and Hatton looked up with a frown. “What in the name –”

“Mr Ellis killed Edgar Nevett,” Ned said. “I can prove it, and I will, but for the love of God don’t let him get away. We left him at the Nevett house.”

Hatton gave him a searching look. “He knows you know?” Ned nodded, and Hatton tugged at the bell-pull behind him, seemed to have second thoughts about waiting for an answer, and pushed past them out into the hallway. He returned after a minute. “I’ve sent men round to the Nevett house and the mission to bring Ellis in for questioning. And now you’d better give me good reason to have done it.”

“There’s good reason,” Julian said, and Hatton waved for them to sit down.

Ned let Julian lay it out for Hatton, only breaking in occasionally with further explanations. They both avoided mentioning breaking down doors and giving a false alarm of fire at the gas works, mentioning only that Mrs Makins had sent for them, which Ned felt was wise.

It was impossible to avoid mentioning Makins’s death, but it also seemed wise not to say they’d concealed a murder for several days. “I made a brief examination of the body,” Ned said. “I can’t be certain it was murder…”

Hatton raised his eyebrows. “Can’t you?”

“But surely your metaphysician at the Yard can do better. Or I can make a more thorough examination, if you’d like.”

“We’ll see,” Hatton said. “There’s enough here to convince a jury, I think, or will be once we look into the mission. We should be able to prove Dixon was an alumnus.”

“And when you compare the curse on the candlestick to the one that did in Dixon – and Makins, I should think –”

“Oh, you should, should you?”

“They’ll show they were done by the same hand. I’m certain there are household enchantments at the mission done by Ellis’s own hand. They’ll match as well. And he would have had to work out the method on paper before he did the enchantment.”

“A sensible man would have burned any notes,” Julian said. “I’m not sure Ellis is that sensible. He never believed he’d be suspected.”

“It’s my job to suspect everybody,” Hatton said. “But I hope you’re right. We’ll see what we can find in his papers.”

Ned hesitated, and then decided it was worth laying some defensive groundwork. “Young Freddie didn’t want to come forward with his alibi because his friends and he were at a party that had gotten a bit wild. Young women of dubious virtue, and a great deal of drink. Not that unusual for a young man with no settled profession, but I imagine Ellis intends to make it out as Sodom and Gomorrah, purely out of spite.”

“Well, he wouldn’t be expected to approve, would he, him being a clergyman?” Hatton said. “Young Nevett’s mother won’t like it – mothers never do – but I don’t care if he spent the night raving drunk in Covent Garden, as long as he didn’t spend it bashing his father’s head in.”

There was a tapping on the door, and then a messenger boy stuck his head in with a telegram. Hatton glanced at it. “They’ve got him,” he said. “Still sitting in the Nevett’s parlor, and swearing he’s got no idea what we want with him.”

“I imagine he will,” Julian said. “But he’s still guilty.”

“I believe you’re right,” Hatton said. “We’ll get enough for a jury by the time we’re done. And we’ve got enough now to release Victor Nevett, if he’ll finally recant that damned confession of his. I expect you’re relieved by that.”

“I’m relieved this business is over,” Ned said, that being unequivocally true.

“Don’t hesitate to call if you have any other unsolved murders,” Julian said, apparently possessed by some devil.

“Why, are you likely to know something about them?” Hatton asked dryly.

“No, but I charge reasonable rates.”

“We’re always glad to assist the Yard,” Ned said firmly.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hatton said. “But for now, I think you’ve done enough.”

Outside in the courtyard, Ned hung back as Julian tried to steer him toward a cab. He felt bone-tired, but that probably wasn’t an excuse to shirk their responsibilities. “Shouldn’t we go round and tell Victor?”

“Why?” Julian said. “Hatton will let him out eventually. Maybe even tomorrow.”

If it had been anyone else, Ned would have argued that they ought to go at once and relieve him from the belief that he was still facing death by hanging. As it was, though, he didn’t actually feel inclined to spare Victor Nevett a few more hours worry and care.

“You know, you’re right,” Ned said. “Let’s go home.”

Julian rested his feet on the fender, and folded the
Evening Standard
into a more manageable shape. It was not his usual paper, but it had spent a fair amount of ink on the Nevett case, and seemed determined to support Ellis to the bitter end. It was a losing battle, though, and the judge’s summation was definitely against Ellis. The jury had retired but there had been no verdict when the paper went to press.

“Anything more?” Ned asked. He was sitting at the table by the nearly emptied tea-tray, dangling a last piece of ham rind over the
Urtica mordax
. It had put out quite a few shiny, spiky leaves, and a ring of false mouths now surrounded the central feeding bud. It extended a tendril, moving faster than ever, and coiled rapidly up the slip of ham. Ned let go just before it touched his finger and the ham vanished into its mouth.

“The judge summed up in favor of the prosecution,” Julian said. “No verdict at press time.”

“I’ll be glad when it’s over,” Ned said.

Julian gave him a thoughtful look, and set the paper aside. “Are you still worried about the Nevetts?”

“A bit.”

“Victor and Reggie came off very well,” Julian said. “And Freddie – I think the worst that anyone thinks is that he’s a bit of a gay dog, but he’ll weather that. Though Lennox says his membership at Jacob’s has been revoked for calling too much attention to the place.”

“Reggie says he’s going to Paris for a few months,” Ned said.

“Best thing for them,” Julian answered.

Ned fiddled with the knife, then seemed to realize what he was doing and cut himself another slice of seed cake. “Mrs Nevett did not come off well,” he said, indistinctly.

“No.” This was a bit of a sore point between them, and Julian sighed. “I do think she knew, or at the very least suspected. And she let her son take the blame. She brought this on herself.”

“She was in love with the man,” Ned said. “She was blind to his faults, and she certainly didn’t want to know that he’d killed her husband, even if it was to protect her.”

“I’m not blind to your faults,” Julian said, and stopped abruptly.

Ned looked up sharply, then grinned. “Was that a declaration, Lynes?”

Julian could feel his cheeks burning, and looked uneasily around his sitting room. Evidence of Ned’s frequent presence was all too apparent: the sporting papers stacked at one end of the sofa, the second tumbler and tea cup on the sideboard, the seed cake that was Ned’s particular favorite taking pride of place on the tea tray. Mrs Digby had made an accommodation, at another four shillings per, for breakfast or tea, and he had no desire to change any of it. And yet the words were almost impossible to say.

“I certainly don’t want to change anything,” he said.

Ned shook his head, refusing to be distracted. “Honestly, Julian.”

What more do you want? Julian thought, though he knew perfectly well. “I suppose it was,” he said stiffly. “Of intent, anyway.” He paused. “I do want this to continue. Surely you know that.”

“I do now,” Ned said.

“Well, then.” Julian leaned his hip against Ned’s chair and shoulder. “You should bring over a change of clothes, it’s a waste of time for you to be going home every morning.”

“I’ll do that,” Ned said, and put his arm around Julian’s waist.

A newsboy shouted from the street, the cry of “Conviction!” resolving into “Nevett case.” Julian froze, felt the new tension in Ned as the words registered. Julian swore under his breath and headed for the door, but as he opened it, he heard young Digby clattering toward him.

“Here you are, Mr Lynes,” he said. “Just like you asked.”

“Thank you,” Julian said, and handed him a couple of pennies. The headline was clear, the ink fresh and black:
Clergyman Convicted of Murder
. He closed the door gently, and turned the lock.

“Well?” Ned asked.

Julian held up the paper, and heard him sigh.

“He’ll hang, then.”

Julian was already scanning the story, picking out the details. There was no talk of an appeal, only the general sense that justice was served and the police had done their job. “Yes.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Ned asked. “Even a little?”

Julian considered the question. If he thought too much about it, if he imagined the condemned cell, the long wait and the useless chaplain, the noose and the drop – yes, of course it bothered him. But that was neither kind nor useful at this moment. “He had to be stopped,” he said. “Otherwise he’d have gone on killing people. Look at Mrs Makins.”

“Or us,” Ned said, with a twist of a smile, and Julian nodded. The smile faded. “Better him than Victor, I suppose.”

A substantial bill had been submitted, Julian knew, and Victor had paid with unexpected promptness, but the note of thanks that came with the cheque had been signed by his wife. Julian still didn’t know whether to take that as unexpected tact or typical carelessness. “Victor didn’t do it,” he said. “Not that I’d grieve overmuch to see him hang, but – not for something he didn’t do.”

“No.” Ned looked more cheerful at the thought.

We should celebrate, Julian thought. We survived, we brought down a killer, we saw Victor Nevett get – not what he deserved, maybe, but a decent ration of it, some payment for what he put us through. Looking at Ned’s face, thought, he wasn’t sure those would be the right words. He turned instead to the sideboard and poured them each two fingers of neat whiskey. He handed one glass to Ned, who took it, looking slightly puzzled.

“To us,” Julian said, and let that stand for everything.