had been unsatisfying enough that Julian escaped to the British Museum before he’d read the morning’s papers. It was only a stone’s throw from his rooms on Coptic Street, and there was a teashop on the way where he could snatch a quick bite. He had intended to read the papers there, too, but he’d run into a friend from the Saxon Collections and gone to take a look at a recently excavated skull that showed a split that he agreed was definitely an axe-wound. From there he’d gone on to look at the wedjat -tablet now cautiously displayed in the Metaphysical Collection – it still reposed in a special case, the edges carved with sigils, though the curator of the Egyptian Collection claimed to have removed the curse. The curator had published a very interesting professional paper on the structure as well as a highly colored but entertaining description of the process for the Illustrated London News . Julian and Ned had spent a rainy Sunday afternoon doing dramatic readings from the article, with increasingly outrageous interpolations of their own, until they finally collapsed helpless into bed.
He dragged his mind away from the memory, and tugged his watch from his pocket. Almost noon, and past time to be getting back to his lodgings, to read the morning mail and finally read the papers, and see if there were any potential clients. He hoped Mrs Digby had deigned to tell any callers that he would be back in the afternoon. He had told her that he would be out, after all.
He had also told her he would find his own lunch, so he stopped at the Green Dragon for a quick half-pint and a pie to bring with him, and collected the Times and the Daily Telegraph from the newsstand on Great Russell Street. He repressed the temptation to glance at the headlines as he walked, and climbed the stairs to his lodgings with the papers folded decorously under his arm. The maid had been moving things again, he noted with annoyance, as he let himself into the parlor. But Ned was right, she had to move things a little if she was to clean, and she hadn’t really disturbed anything of importance. He set the pie on the table, pushing aside Volume II of Stanley’s Forensic Metaphysics to make room, and shed his coat with a relieved sigh. The traffic clamored outside the window, the rumble of wheels and the shouts of tradesmen and drivers, and he settled himself contentedly to read and eat.
It had not been an eventful day, at least not in terms of interesting crimes, and he scanned the political headlines without much interest, seeing nothing likely to produce new employment. Not that he particularly enjoyed political work, though it tended to pay well; in general he preferred jobs like Wynchcombe’s stolen plans, ordinary people with unusual problems, rather than unusual people with ordinary difficulties.
He glanced at the next page, seeing the headline Death During Burglary , and froze as he saw the dead man’s name. Edgar Nevett, found dead in his study, a bloodied silver candlestick by his side – a clear case of robbery, except for the fact that Nevett had consulted a metaphysician about a possible curse on his silver only two days before. Julian suppressed a groan. That was all Ned needed, to be linked to a murder that followed hard on the heels of his having assured the client that there was in fact no curse. He reached for the Telegraph , winced at the even more gaudy headline – Death by Silver: Curse Brings Burglar – of which, he noted, there was no actual evidence, and crossed to the bell. He had to ring a second time before young Digby appeared, and he could hear a shout of annoyance from someone belowstairs. Julian ignored it, handed him sixpence and told him to go buy the rest of the morning papers, and young Digby galloped off before anyone could find a more pressing errand. The swelling had diminished this morning: either he’d finally had the tooth pulled, or the matter had run its natural course.
He could, of course,
He dragged his mind away from the memory, and tugged his watch from his pocket. Almost noon, and past time to be getting back to his lodgings, to read the morning mail and finally read the papers, and see if there were any potential clients. He hoped Mrs Digby had deigned to tell any callers that he would be back in the afternoon. He had told her that he would be out, after all.
He had also told her he would find his own lunch, so he stopped at the Green Dragon for a quick half-pint and a pie to bring with him, and collected the Times and the Daily Telegraph from the newsstand on Great Russell Street. He repressed the temptation to glance at the headlines as he walked, and climbed the stairs to his lodgings with the papers folded decorously under his arm. The maid had been moving things again, he noted with annoyance, as he let himself into the parlor. But Ned was right, she had to move things a little if she was to clean, and she hadn’t really disturbed anything of importance. He set the pie on the table, pushing aside Volume II of Stanley’s Forensic Metaphysics to make room, and shed his coat with a relieved sigh. The traffic clamored outside the window, the rumble of wheels and the shouts of tradesmen and drivers, and he settled himself contentedly to read and eat.
It had not been an eventful day, at least not in terms of interesting crimes, and he scanned the political headlines without much interest, seeing nothing likely to produce new employment. Not that he particularly enjoyed political work, though it tended to pay well; in general he preferred jobs like Wynchcombe’s stolen plans, ordinary people with unusual problems, rather than unusual people with ordinary difficulties.
He glanced at the next page, seeing the headline Death During Burglary , and froze as he saw the dead man’s name. Edgar Nevett, found dead in his study, a bloodied silver candlestick by his side – a clear case of robbery, except for the fact that Nevett had consulted a metaphysician about a possible curse on his silver only two days before. Julian suppressed a groan. That was all Ned needed, to be linked to a murder that followed hard on the heels of his having assured the client that there was in fact no curse. He reached for the Telegraph , winced at the even more gaudy headline – Death by Silver: Curse Brings Burglar – of which, he noted, there was no actual evidence, and crossed to the bell. He had to ring a second time before young Digby appeared, and he could hear a shout of annoyance from someone belowstairs. Julian ignored it, handed him sixpence and told him to go buy the rest of the morning papers, and young Digby galloped off before anyone could find a more pressing errand. The swelling had diminished this morning: either he’d finally had the tooth pulled, or the matter had run its natural course.
He could, of course,
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