wander up to the Commons and see what Ned had to say about the matter, but he’d promised himself he wouldn’t do that, and this time he meant to keep the resolution. Besides, there was always a chance that he would have a client – whatever he did, he couldn’t go to the Commons before evening.
The maid had left the mail on the tray where he’d asked, and he sorted quickly through it: bills, primarily; a translation of a German article on Jewish number squares, payment in kind for a job he’d done a month past; a card from Peter Lennox inviting him to a small but congenial party. He set that carefully aside to consider – it might be exactly what he needed right now – and stuffed the bills into their cubbyhole to be dealt with later.
Young Digby returned with an armload of papers, and Julian dismissed him with a tip and a reminder that he’d want the evening papers as well. He cleared the remains of the pie, unfolded the papers, and began cutting out the relevant articles. When he had finished, he crumpled the rest of the papers into the grate, and stood looking down at the checkerboard of clippings. It wasn’t a scandal yet, that much was clear from the size of the type and the space devoted to it – though the Chronicle was trying hard to make it one, with their “Yard baffled” – but even they hadn’t gotten very far. All the articles mentioned the curse, which probably meant that Nevett had complained, or boasted, about it for a week or so before he’d consulted Ned. The Times had a disparaging comment about youth and inexperience in metaphysicians, but that could be discounted as politics, and the other papers were careful not to criticize. Better still, not all of them mentioned Ned’s name.
Julian shifted the clippings, laying them out in a new pattern, trying to guess how far the Yard had gotten on the question of a curse. Personally, of course, he was sure that if Ned said there wasn’t one, then there wasn’t, but it was always interesting to see what the professional investigators thought – except that the inspectors were playing their cards close enough that Julian suspected they hadn’t gotten any answer from their own metaphysician. He’d never met the man, but Ned had been fairly scathing the one time he’d mentioned him.
Which made this most likely a burglary gone wrong, but if the reporters had gotten their facts right, it was a damned odd robbery. Julian had made the acquaintance of several burglars since he’d taken up his profession, and one thing they had in common was their aversion to violence. It simply didn’t pay: they’d all been adamant about that. No bit of plate is worth hanging for, Bolster had said, and that’s exactly what you’ll do if you’re fool enough to get into a fight with a householder and he up and dies on you. Better to run like hell, especially since most toffs won’t notice more than whether you’re a white man or a black, if they even notice that. But if a man were fool enough to use violence, Bolster had gone on to say, the only safe thing then was to grab everything he’d touched whether or not a fence would pay money for it, and plan to disappear for a year or two. And if you were the sort of fool who robbed a judge’s house when the judge was home, and biffed his son a good one when he surprised you – it had been the Wilcox case in King’s Lynn they’d been discussing – you should be damned sure you took everything that might connect you to the crime, and most especially any enchanted automata that might later identify you. There was no standard by which the actions of Nevett’s killer made any sense. Only an amateur would have left the candlestick behind, and only a professional would have been cool enough to take the rest of the plate after he’d killed a man.
Of course, that was assuming that the plate was stolen after the murder, but all the newspapers agreed on it, so it was apparently the police conclusion. And certainly
The maid had left the mail on the tray where he’d asked, and he sorted quickly through it: bills, primarily; a translation of a German article on Jewish number squares, payment in kind for a job he’d done a month past; a card from Peter Lennox inviting him to a small but congenial party. He set that carefully aside to consider – it might be exactly what he needed right now – and stuffed the bills into their cubbyhole to be dealt with later.
Young Digby returned with an armload of papers, and Julian dismissed him with a tip and a reminder that he’d want the evening papers as well. He cleared the remains of the pie, unfolded the papers, and began cutting out the relevant articles. When he had finished, he crumpled the rest of the papers into the grate, and stood looking down at the checkerboard of clippings. It wasn’t a scandal yet, that much was clear from the size of the type and the space devoted to it – though the Chronicle was trying hard to make it one, with their “Yard baffled” – but even they hadn’t gotten very far. All the articles mentioned the curse, which probably meant that Nevett had complained, or boasted, about it for a week or so before he’d consulted Ned. The Times had a disparaging comment about youth and inexperience in metaphysicians, but that could be discounted as politics, and the other papers were careful not to criticize. Better still, not all of them mentioned Ned’s name.
Julian shifted the clippings, laying them out in a new pattern, trying to guess how far the Yard had gotten on the question of a curse. Personally, of course, he was sure that if Ned said there wasn’t one, then there wasn’t, but it was always interesting to see what the professional investigators thought – except that the inspectors were playing their cards close enough that Julian suspected they hadn’t gotten any answer from their own metaphysician. He’d never met the man, but Ned had been fairly scathing the one time he’d mentioned him.
Which made this most likely a burglary gone wrong, but if the reporters had gotten their facts right, it was a damned odd robbery. Julian had made the acquaintance of several burglars since he’d taken up his profession, and one thing they had in common was their aversion to violence. It simply didn’t pay: they’d all been adamant about that. No bit of plate is worth hanging for, Bolster had said, and that’s exactly what you’ll do if you’re fool enough to get into a fight with a householder and he up and dies on you. Better to run like hell, especially since most toffs won’t notice more than whether you’re a white man or a black, if they even notice that. But if a man were fool enough to use violence, Bolster had gone on to say, the only safe thing then was to grab everything he’d touched whether or not a fence would pay money for it, and plan to disappear for a year or two. And if you were the sort of fool who robbed a judge’s house when the judge was home, and biffed his son a good one when he surprised you – it had been the Wilcox case in King’s Lynn they’d been discussing – you should be damned sure you took everything that might connect you to the crime, and most especially any enchanted automata that might later identify you. There was no standard by which the actions of Nevett’s killer made any sense. Only an amateur would have left the candlestick behind, and only a professional would have been cool enough to take the rest of the plate after he’d killed a man.
Of course, that was assuming that the plate was stolen after the murder, but all the newspapers agreed on it, so it was apparently the police conclusion. And certainly
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