Death by Silver by Melissa Scott Page B

a man weighed down by a bag of heavy silver would have a harder time attacking anyone. It was an interesting problem, and Ned would certainly have an interesting perspective.
    Julian pulled himself up sharply. This was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid for the last few days, with decreasing success – and maybe he was taking the wrong approach entirely. Maybe he should stop avoiding Ned, and by the time they reached the inevitable falling-out, he would be ready for it. They’d both been glad enough to part after University. And he would definitely go to Lennox’s party, that could only help.
    There was a knock at the door, and Julian turned, frowning.
    “Telegram, sir.”
    Julian slit the envelope, unable to repress a certain sense of glee as he read the message. Blanding’s at seven: yes, he’d be there. Ned had paid for the return, and he scrawled his acceptance in the space provided and sent the messenger on his way. As he turned away from the door, his reflection in the mirror above the washstand caught his eye. He was looking a bit ragged, even by his own rather lax standards. Perhaps he would find the time for a shave and haircut before he walked up to the Commons.

    Julian ran his thumb along his freshly shaved chin, reassuring himself that he looked presentable. He’d had his hair trimmed as well, with just the lightest touch of scented pomade, and had worn the neat suit that several friends had assured him made the most of an admittedly somewhat weedy figure. As he climbed out of the omnibus at the corner of Tottenham Court Road and Grafton Street, he caught a glimpse of himself in the plate-glass window of a wine merchant’s: tall, saturnine, a bit austere – there was nothing to be done about the size of his nose, but the rest was at least presentable. He allowed himself the faintest of smiles, and turned north onto Cleveland Street.
    Blanding’s was hot and dark and full of the smell of roasting meat. Julian paused just inside the doorway to let his eyes adjust. It was no more than usually crowded, men in suits and metaphysicians in their frock coats sitting by ones and twos at the long tables, the Commons’s clerks relegated by long tradition to the two tables on the Charlotte Street side of the dining room. Here and there a larger group surrounded one of Blanding’s famous Castles, a tall savory pastry rich with beef and sherry gravy. His mouth watered at the sight, and he wondered if he could persuade Ned to share one, even though they were intended to serve four men.
    The head waiter came bustling over, wiping his hands on his long apron. “A pleasure to see you again, Mr Lynes. Mr Mathey has one of the private rooms tonight. Jem will show you the way.”
    Julian murmured his thanks, and followed the younger waiter down the rows of tables. The private dining rooms lay along the back of the coffeehouse, where it met the Commons courtyard, and there were rumors of secret exits directly to the Commons buildings. Ned had one of the smaller rooms, with only a sliver of a window and a cold fireplace smelling powerfully of ash, and Julian checked abruptly, seeing the stranger at the table. He was a sunburnt redhead, nearly all freckles, short but hearty, in a ready-made gray suit no more than two years old.
    “Lynes,” Ned said. “I’m glad you were free. I’d like you to meet a friend of mine from the Yard – Inspector Charles Hatton, Mr Julian Lynes.”
    “Inspector.” Julian held out his hand. What he felt was most certainly not relief, merely interest at meeting a man who was one of the Yard’s rising stars.
    “Mr Lynes,” Hatton said, half rising, and they shook hands across the table.
    Julian hung his hat with the others’ and took his place at the table. “I’m assuming this is the Nevett case, then?” he asked, and Ned nodded. “If the papers are anything to go on, that’s a bit of a mess. Trust you to be in the middle of it, Mathey.”
    “Not by choice,” Ned said, and