Death by Silver Read Free Page B

lived there, to remove metaphysical words – he’d botched that one as to remove words by metaphysics once at Oxford, scrambling the grammar and feeding it far too much nervous energy into the bargain, and had scoured the engraving from his tutor’s pocket watch. He’d felt wretched about it at the time, although in retrospect he felt that anyone letting undergraduate metaphysicists practice on his prized possessions deserved to get them back in multiple smoking pieces.
    All he was likely doing was removing the sigils he’d left through his own experimental work, lightly enough applied that they would fade soon enough anyway, but it was worth cleaning up the mess he’d made. He made a more theatrical production of it for Nevett’s sake, tracing the sigils with sweeping gestures and adding “light” in the proper grammatical place to make the final lines blaze briefly like trails of flame through the air before they faded away.
    “That should do it,” he said. “No cursework, enchantments, or malevolent energies will have survived that.” He’d also put a good shine on the pieces that needed polishing, which he hoped would lighten the spirits of the domestic staff entrusted with their care enough for them to declare that they felt a perceptible difference. “If you have any further trouble, don’t hesitate to call me in.”
    “I’ll do that,” Nevett said. “About your bill, now…”
    “I’ll have it sent round,” Ned said. He hoped he wouldn’t have to badger Nevett to pay it. There were too many of his clients who seemed to feel that a young man just starting out in the profession ought to be grateful for the experience, and it wouldn’t make him look any better to point out to them that he’d borrowed heavily to buy the practice and that the expenses of establishing it weren’t light.
    “I’ll let you know if I have any more trouble of this sort,” Nevett said.
    “I hope you will,” Ned said, because a client was a client, even one who wanted a metaphysician because consulting one was in fashion. He repacked his bag and reclaimed his hat in the hall from the scrubbed little parlormaid who’d let him in. He smiled thanks and escaped out into the street without asking them to call him a cab; despite every effort to banish his unsettled mood, he hadn’t felt like lingering.
    What he ought to do was go back to his consulting-room at the Commons, see if any other clients had presented themselves, and get Miss Frost to promptly send out a bill. What he wanted to do was go round to Julian’s for a late tea, or if Julian didn’t see the point in tea at this hour, for a drink and the chance to complain a bit about impossible clients.
    He whistled for a cab, using the patent cab-whistle he usually didn’t bother with, enchanted to make a tremendous amount of noise for its size; by the time one extricated itself from traffic and came rattling to a stop at the curb, he’d wrestled with temptation and decided to give into it. He gave the cabman the address and climbed into the cab.
    “The detective, or the dentist?” the cabman asked. Ned supposed that most people wanting to be taken to the boarding house where Julian lodged in the middle of the afternoon wanted one or the other, as Julian Lynes and an elderly dentist were the only lodgers who used their parlors as consulting-rooms.
    “The detective,” Ned said, and settled back as the cabman urged his horse back into traffic without another word.

    Julian Lynes propped his feet unpardonably on his landlady’s recently polished fender, and reached for the last tea sandwich. Mrs Digby was saving with the butter, but the cheese was thickly sliced, and he felt he probably shouldn’t complain, considering how erratic his hours had been for the last week or so. He’d almost finished the tea as well, but at least he could make another pot if he wanted to go to the trouble. It was hot enough today, however, that he thought he might send young Digby