As the morning wore on, bringing with it nothing but bills and invitations to events he had no interest in attending, Ned was beginning to regret not giving in to Julian's suggestion that he skip his morning office hours today. London was suffering under an unprecedented heatwave, and even opening all the windows in his office did little to cool it down.

Even Miss Frost was belying her name and breaking periodically from her typing to fan herself.

Mrs Clewett's potholder lay on his desk in mute reproach, but he couldn't muster the energy to start working on it again. He was pondering the wisdom of closing the office and making a day on the river along with the bulk of London's idle and rich when there was a sharp knock on the door.

"Inspector Hatton," announced the Commons pageboy, breathlessly. "From Scotland Yard."

Hatton gave his hat to Miss Frost's waiting hand, a coin to the boy's, and stepped inside.

"Morning, Mathey. I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Not at all," said Ned. "What can I help you with?"

"I have a case for you, if you care to take it. It's about this poor girl who fell into the river."

Ned reflected for a moment. "I think I remember. The typewriter girl from the solicitor's office."

"That's the one." Hatton hesitated. "I don't like to talk about unpleasant things in front of a lady."

"You needn't worry about me," said Miss Frost quickly. "I'm completely discreet."

Hatton gave her a sharp look, but continued. "Well, our surgeon says it was an accident, but I think it's a little more complicated than that. The girl's friend insists that it was completely out of character for her to go climbing on walls and whatnot."

Ned recalled that the girl had, in front of a crowd of oblivious onlookers, taken off her shoes, climbed one of the walls that banked the Thames, balanced upon it and danced with gay abandon until falling to her death in the river below. The papers had spent much time pondering why nobody had thought to stop her and the apathy of the modern Englishman.

"But since the verdict was death by misadventure and the victim is only a typewriter girl – no offence – they won't re-open the case. I suggested her friend come see you about it."

Ned raised his eyebrows. "You think metaphysics may be involved?"

Hatton nodded. "Only explanation I can come up with, and Carruthers wouldn't think to look. Thing is, I can't get you in to look at the body while he's around, and I doubt you want to be looking at dead bodies after sundown, Mr Mathey. But it'll be moved to the church tomorrow, and I can make things right with the sexton then."

"And the friend?"

"I wanted to give you the police perspective on the case first. Do you have time to see her this afternoon?"

Miss Frost cleared her throat. "You have a lunch engagement, and you're meeting Rev. Andrews after that, but the rest of the afternoon is free."

"Then, around three?" suggested Ned.

Hatton rose and headed for the door. "I'll find one of your pageboys and send word right away. Then I'll tell you everything I know."

"Kind of him to take the trouble," said Miss Frost, after a moment. "I suppose the girl must be very convincing."

Ned smiled. "Or very pretty. He is right about the situation being odd, though. Nobody should have the energy for dancing in this weather."

Hatton returned. He laid out the situation clearly: Florence Wright was one of two typewriter girls for the office of Mr Arthur Polmear, solicitor. She had been dragged from the river at approximately three o'clock the previous day, and had died shortly thereafter. Witnesses said the girl had been in high spirits – some said drugged, although even Carruthers had thought to test for that and found no signs of it – and had removed her shoes to climb the river wall. There she had proceeded to dance until abruptly collapsing and toppling backwards into the river. Attempts at rescue were made by several young men, but too late to save her.

Carruthers's verdict had been temporary insanity brought on by high heat. "And I would be relieved to know he's right," said Hatton. "But I can't know for sure until somebody thoroughly checks for metaphysical influence. Particularly any drugs that might have surfaced in the past few decades, since Carruthers stopped keeping abreast of them."

"I'll do my best," Ned promised him before Hatton departed.

He wondered if it would be codependent to bring Julian in on this. Whatever Hatton seemed to think, Ned's abilities were centred around metaphysics, not crime-solving. He'd much rather have Julian at his side, in this as in all things. And he definitely didn't want to examine the body without a partner. Decision made, he tore off a strip of paper to write his note.

"Did you want me to call one of the boys back?" asked Miss Frost, looking at Ned curiously.

Ned shook his head. "Telegram, if you please."

"To Mr Lynes?"

Ned hoped he wasn't flushing. "Crime is really more his specialty than mine. I think he'd like to be here to talk to the girl, if it's possible."

"Indeed." Miss Frost was smiling.

--

The meeting with Rev. Andrews went well, leaving him with a happy client and, if not a healthy amount of money, at least a lot of positive exposure.

Miss Frost was still typing when he got back to the Commons, although she waved him in the direction of his mail. There was a return from Julian, accepting Ned's request to come by that afternoon for a new case. He smiled in spite of himself.

As if thinking had summoned him, the door opened and Julian entered. He had one of the pageboys in tow, whom he sent away with a coin in hand.

"You need to tell Hatton if he's going to keep bringing you in on cases, he has to start paying you," said Julian, in mock reproach.

"Technically all he's done this time is bring me a client," Ned pointed out. "But I expect you're right, the job won't pay well."

"A girl is dead, Mr Lynes," said Miss Frost.

Julian bowed slightly in her direction. "I apologise for my callousness. Which girl? Is this the dancing girl on the wall?"

Ned nodded. "What have you heard?"

"Just what was in the papers. The talk of the town is that young people today are exceedingly silly and it's to be expected and when will they learn."

Ned quickly caught him up to date with Hatton's information.

"Well, that is a little more interesting," said Julian thoughtfully. "I can't think what kind of metaphysics would cause a girl to fall off a wall, though."

"Maybe think a little less specifically than that," said Ned. "Some kind of mood adjustment... an energy enchantment, with something to encourage reckless behaviour."

"There was a lot of talk of drugs around the town," Julian acknowledged. "All right. But how would that have come about?"

"That's what I'm hoping Miss Chandler will be able to shed some light upon."

There was a knock on the door. "Miss Ida Chandler," announced the pageboy who opened it.

Miss Frost got up to help the girl with her sunhat and passed a coin to the boy before he left.

The girl was short and snub-nosed, hair pulled back into a practical braid. She looked between Ned and Julian uncertainly.

"Miss Chandler, I presume?" said Ned. "I'm Ned Mathey. This is my associate, Julian Lynes. Please, have a seat." He waved in the direction of the visitor's chair.

Miss Chandler curtseyed before sitting. "Thank you for seeing me," she said. "The police wouldn't have a word of anything I said."

"I'm sorry for your loss," said Ned.

"Thank you. Florence was a good friend," said Miss Chandler. "We were room-mates, as well as work-mates, you know."

Ned hadn't, but it was something to keep in mind.

"When I heard how she died, I just couldn't believe it. Florence was... well. She was the opposite of me." Miss Chandler tossed her head. "Everybody tells me I'm too frank. Florence was a shrinking violet. She was shy and clumsy, hated to put herself forward, always apologising and agreeing with you. She came over all faint at the most ridiculous things." The words should have painted an unflattering picture, but Miss Chandler's voice was filled with such affection the effect was quite the opposite. "You couldn't help liking her somehow, even when you wanted to shake some spine into her."

"Did you see her on the day of her death?" asked Julian.

"We apologise for touching on an unpleasant subject," Ned interjected.

"We had breakfast together in our lodgings, same as usual. It was Florence's off-day, but I had to work. Mr Polmear won't have us both off on the same day."

Julian nodded encouragingly. "Did she seem different that day?"

"She was excited about something, I could tell. But she wouldn't tell me what it was." Miss Chandler bit her lip. "If I'd pushed more, maybe she would have told me and I could have saved her."

Ned could see Julian making notes, so he took the lead again. "There's no way you could have known. Did she have a man she was seeing? Any particular friends or relatives?"

Miss Chandler shook her head. "No, nobody. Her mum died last summer, and her dad's been dead years. No boys, and I was her closest friend."

"And she wasn't the type to go dancing?"

"Definitely not! Not even in a dancing hall. She'd hang by the walls and refuse anybody who asked her." Miss Chandler seemed almost proud of her friend for that. "So you see, there's no way she could have been on that wall of her own will."

"It does seem unlikely, if she was as you describe," said Ned. "Inspector Hatton has, er. That is to say, we'll be able to do an examination tomorrow. I'll let you know as soon as I have news."

He wondered if he should address the issue of payment, but Miss Chandler took care of it for him. "I can't afford a lot, but if you give me a flat rate I can budget for it. Half now, half on completion."

Ned thought about Miss Frost's wage and named an amount that seemed reasonable based on that. To his relief, Miss Chandler seemed to accept it.

"Thank you. You can reach me at Mr Polmear's office, or send a message to me through my landlady." Ned interpreted this as a request not to visit her in person at her residence. He could feel Julian preparing another rant on respectability beside him.

"Miss Frost will see you out," said Ned.

"What do you think?" asked Julian, once the two women were gone. "She sounds defensive, or in denial about something."

The fact that Miss Chandler and Miss Wright had been room-mates... either it was entirely innocent or it wasn't, but either way it was none of Ned's business. Miss Chandler's defensiveness was probably just a mark of affection for her friend. "I think it's going to have to wait until we've looked at the body."

--

In the end, it was late afternoon before they got a telegram from Hatton, telling them the body was at the church and the sexton was waiting for them.

"I'm told Mr Polmear is paying for the funeral," said Ned. "Kind of him."

Julian hummed in agreement.

The sexton's assistant showed them through to the waiting coffin. It was cooler in here, and if the circumstances had been different Ned would have been grateful for the break from the heat.

The coffin lid slid aside with a crash that seemed far out of proportion with the ease of its removal. Florence Wright's appearance had not been served well by her stint in the river, but Ned could tell that in life she had been a pretty, delicate girl. He swallowed.

Julian shot him a sidelong glance.

If they'd been in private, Ned might have teased him a little for his jealousy, but as it was he just gave him a glance of his own and pulled out his wand.

He tested for poison first, with no results. He followed up with a few standard curse detection techniques, then the more common sigils used in recreational drugs. Nothing seemed to react.

"Wait," said Julian. "Try that last again."

Ned repeated the sigil, and saw what he'd missed the first time – the faintest twitch of the girl's eye. He felt his skin crawl, even though he knew it was just a metaphysical reaction.

"It could be a modification of an alertness spell," said Julian.

Ned changed tactics slightly, testing for sigils more commonly used in medicinal metaphysics. The most common ones yielded nothing, but as he got into the more obscure areas of his studies at Oxford he began to get some reaction. By the end of it, he was sweating and feeling the expenditure of energy deep in his bones.

"I got them all," said Julian. "What a mishmash of spells. It seems to be a combination of wakefulness, happiness, energy..."

"All of which could explain the change in Miss Chandler's behaviour."

"Which just leaves the question of why," said Julian. "It's not anything you'd get from a doctor, nor anything I've seen in the underground market. Somebody designed a new drug, and fed it to this girl."

Ned shuddered.

"I agree," said Julian. "Let's close her up and get a drink. We can telegram Hatton on the way."

After he'd finished his first drink and ordered a second, Ned was feeling a little more relaxed. "Of course, she might have chosen to take it herself."

Julian looked at him sourly. "That's another question. We want answers, not questions."

Hatton arrived just as the third round was served. "I'm off-duty, before you say anything," he said, pulling up a chair. "What did you find out?"

"The girl was drugged for sure," said Ned, doing his best to sound more sober than he suspected he truly was. "Some kind of emotional cocktail I've never seen before."

Hatton nodded in understanding. "Poor girl."

"And what are the police going to do about it?" demanded Julian.

"I'll take it to my higher-ups and get the case re-opened, but I don't know if they'll assign anybody to it."

"Just a typewriter girl, after all," muttered Julian. "So it's up to us again?"

"I don't even recall bringing you in, Mr Lynes," said Hatton amiably. "I'm sorry. I'll do my best."

"As will we," said Ned. "I'll let you know what we find out."

"If the Yard is investigating a secret underground drug dealership at Mr Polmear's office, now would be the time to tell us," said Julian.

"Sadly, nothing of the sort. The Yard has no interest in Mr Polmear or his office, else we might not have dismissed the case so quickly. Please give us some credit."

Julian nodded and waved his drink at Hatton in a gesture that wasn't quite an apology.

Hatton finished his beer and got to his feet. "Don't stay too late, gentleman," he advised.

Ned finished his own drink and pushed the glass aside, slumping down onto his forearms. "I don't think I'm cut out for this job."

"Not angling for Mr Carruthers's position, then?" said Julian lightly.

"I thought I would be doing metaphysics," said Ned. "Not... whatever this is. Defiling the corpses of young girls."

"Come on," said Julian gently. "Let's get you home."

'Home' turned out to be Julian's rooms, but Ned was too tired and tipsy to argue the point. He let Julian pour him a glass of water, undress him, and then tumble him into bed.

Ned lay there for a moment, feeling the roughness of the sheets beneath his bare skin, then rolled over to watch Julian undress in the dimly lit bedroom. It wasn't a pleasure he got to indulge in very often, even now.

He stopped Julian before he attempted to get into his nightshirt, snagging his wrist to pull him down and kiss him messily. Julian came willingly, amusement in his eyes.

Petty concerns like getting enough sleep evaporated under the ministrations of Julian's hands; the feel of Julian's skin beneath his own fingertips.

When Ned reached his hand down to pleasure Julian, he found himself in a war for control, hands twisting around each other until they each ended taking car of the other. He spilled over Julian's hand, feeling Julian's own release warming his own seconds later.

He was dimly aware of Julian rising to fetch a damp cloth and clean them up. Once Julian was back in the bed Ned pulled him closer, Julian's head resting on Ned's shoulder.

"Sorry," he said into the darkness. He could feel Julian's heartrate slowing in time with his own, not quite asleep but close to it. "I don't know why it's affecting me so much."

"Because we're socialised to think beautiful young women are a sign of purity and innocence," murmured Julian. "Hurting one seems like an affront on human dignity. Beautiful young women are kept on the highest pedestal."

Ned chuckled. "Well, I'd rather have you anyway. You know that." He felt like he'd changed topics somewhere, but he wanted Julian to know all the same.

Julian pressed a smile into Ned's shoulder. "I had picked up something of the sort."

--

"Miss Frost," said Ned, walking into the office and hanging his hat. "Sorry for being late. Did I miss anything?"

"Nothing except the morning post," she said. "Difficult night?" she asked, not without sympathy.

Ned supposed some of his hangover must still be visible on his face. "I examined Miss Wright last night," he said. "I'm beginning to think Miss Chandler was right about her friend's death." He briefly outlined his discoveries.

"I'll send word to her," said Miss Frost. "An afternoon appointment, once she finishes work, perhaps?"

"Thank you," said Ned gratefully. "And let Mr Lynes know, once she confirms."

He leafed through the morning post, finding nothing of interest. Mrs Clewett's potholder was still sitting on his desk, and he decided it was high time he dealt with it.

Ned settled the potholder in front of him and picked up his wand. He started with the sigil for reveal, with no better luck than he'd had when he'd tried the same thing in his rooms the previous day. Adding Miss Frost's 'unravel' sigil did little to clear things up – those sigils he did recognise seemed perfectly valid. It was the ones he didn't recognise that were the issue.

He became aware that Miss Frost's typing had stopped. "Is that a potholder?" she asked.

Ned sat back. "It's Mrs Clewett's. She says it was a wedding gift she recently found again – it's supposed to be fireproof and dirtproof, as well as protecting the user from heat. However, the spells have become tangled somehow and now picking up a hot pot with it instantly makes it stone cold." He rubbed his temples. "I wouldn't mind a hand with it, if you have a moment. There are several sigils here I don't recognise."

"Of course," she said, getting to her feet.

"I didn't like to assume that just because you're a woman you would know about kitchen metaphysics," said Ned apologetically. "I brought it to the office in case it was something in the house that was interfering." He pointed to one of the sigils with his wand. "Here, do you know this one?"

Miss Frost studied it for a moment. "That's 'hold', it's often used on objects like this, it means while it's being used the spell takes effect."

"This one is standard fireproofing, and that's an alternate version of a dirt prevention spell." It contained 'dirt' and 'forbid' as opposed to the more traditional 'clean' and 'always', but as far as he knew it was just as valid.

Together they were able to decipher all off the sigils on the potholder. "As for why it's not working properly, though..." Miss Frost cocked her head. "It all seems well-put to me. Not quite the way I'd write it, but it should work."

"They must be interacting badly in some way," said Ned, resigned. "I'm going to have to get some reference manuals out. Thanks, though, knowing the sigils helps a lot."

"I'll let you know if I think of anything else," said Miss Frost, returning to her typewriter.

Miss Chandler arrived at Ned's chambers around three o'clock. It seemed Mr Polmear employed his typists to keep hours between eight and two. Miss Frost greeted her as usual, and offered to fetch tea. Miss Chandler accepted gratefully, and Julian stood to let her take the visitor's chair in his place.

"Are you comfortable if I speak frankly?" asked Ned, not wanting to upset her.

"Please, I'd prefer it," said Miss Chandler.

Ned explained what he and Julian had been able to uncover about Miss Wright's untimely demise.

"So I was right?" she asked excitedly.

Ned nodded. "Unfortunately, the police are still reluctant to investigate further."

Miss Chandler's face fell.

"I'm happy to continue to investigate," said Ned quickly.

"I can't afford to pay more," said Miss Chandler.

"We didn't exactly agree on the terms for what I would be investigating..." Ned pointed out. Inwardly, he cursed himself for being too noble to let justice follow the usual, meandering course it took under the well-meaning but harried hands of Scotland Yard.

Julian cleared his throat. "The first question we have to answer is, how was the spell ingested? Was Miss Wright... er... in the habit of taking any medications?"

Miss Chandler frowned. "You mean, drugs? We couldn't afford anything like that. Mr Polmear will give us a loan to cover our medical costs, if we're lucky, but we've no money for anything else."

"That's not a no," Julian said, just loud enough to be heard.

She turned angry eyes on him. "Then, no. If Florence was under the influence of anything, somebody gave it to her without her knowing about it."

Julian shrugged. "I'm sorry, Miss Chandler, I had to ask."

"The police asked too. You could have got the answer from them."

"Well, we certainly didn't mean any offense by it," said Julian defensively. Ned shot him a look.

Ned decided to change the subject quickly. "Tell me about Mr Polmear's office. Was it just you two and the solicitors?"

Miss Chandler shook her head. "No, there's the legal clerk, he takes all the notes that Florence and I type up-- typed. We also do copying and formal contracts and so on. There's always pageboys around, you know what they're like. And Mr Polmear's son is in more often than not, these days. I think he's hoping his father will make him a partner."

"He's a solicitor too?"

"He studied law, I believe," said Miss Chandler politely.

"Did Mr Polmear show any particular interest in Miss Wright?"

Miss Chandler gave him a crooked smile. "Everybody loved Ida. Mr Polmear was fond of her – far more than he liked me, although that's not unusual. I expect she reminded him of his lost wife, or the daughter he never had, that sort of thing. He never touched us. Ida would have told me if he had," she added positively.

"And Mr Pascoe?"

"Mr Pascoe is a cold stick who shows no interest in anybody, if he can help it. He's a brilliant lawyer, but that's the only thing that interests him."

"I see," said Julian, making notes.

Miss Chandler's attention drifted to Miss Frost. "Miss Frost, you're trained with the Metropolitan?"

"No, I learned through Remington," said Miss Frost. "How about you?"

"The Metropolitan," said Miss Chandler. "But I've heard good things about Remington's courses." She got to her feet. "May I look at your machine? I haven't used a Remington."

"By all means," said Miss Frost.

Miss Chandler and Miss Frost fell into detailed conversation about the feel of the machine and words per minute that Ned lost track of embarrassingly quickly.

Leaning against Ned's desk, Julian watched them with a thoughtful expression. As the likelihood of Julian's interest being aesthetic was very small, Ned waited for him to voice his thoughts.

Julian cleared his throat. "Did Mr Polmear ever have you copying anything of a sensitive nature?"

Miss Chandler looked up. "Confidential, you mean?"

Julian nodded. "Or anything that might reflect badly on a client, or the solicitors."

Miss Chandler shook her head. "We're sworn not to repeat anything we type, but they don't trust us not to gossip, so anything sensitive they keep to themselves. Many of the clients insist on it."

"So you don't think there's any chance Miss Wright was—" Ned poked him in the back with his ruler, and Julian fell silent abruptly.

"You think Florence was murdered to keep her quiet?"

"It's a possibility, nothing more."

"It seems quite preposterous to me," said Miss Chandler. "As well as being a most roundabout way of doing things."

"I'm just examining the possibilities," said Julian stiffly.

"I can't recall having typed anything that would cause anybody to want to kill me," said Miss Chandler. "I was the primary typist, you know – Florence was mostly set to copying my work. I will let you know if I think of anything."

"Thank you," said Julian.

--

Miss Frost was already in Ned's chambers when he arrived, a situation that was becoming embarrassingly common.

He hung his coat and sat down. "Miss Frost, how would you feel about doing some more detective work? I'd like to find out what things are like at Mr Polmear's office, but I'm not entirely sure they'd welcome me poking around."

"If you wouldn't mind my letting the typing slip, I would be delighted," said Miss Frost. "Should I be expecting Mr Lynes today?"

"Later. He's doing his own detective work today."

Ned spent the morning going through mail, following up promising leads with appointments for later in the week. Miss Frost excused herself sometime after morning tea, leaving him with nothing but the potholder for conversation.

Well, here was the chance to start looking through the books he'd secured from the library the previous morning. He pushed the rest of the contents of his desk to the side and pulled up his notes from before.

He decided to start with the fireproofing spell, since it seemed like the logical cause for the freezing effect when confronted with a hot object.

The first book he looked at was arranged alphabetically in Latin, which was now a process so tedious for him he set the book aside for consulting only in case of emergency. The next was arranged according to the sigil components, a far more logical method, although confusing to the new metaphysician. He laughed to remember his days at Oxford, cursing this and similar books for their incomprehensible sorting.

He found the listing for 'fire', and ran his finger down the list of common accompanying sigils and their meanings together. Nothing of interest presented itself – the usual cautions about correct ordering and the consequences of failure; a few sigils that were fundamentally incompatible; one or two with nullifying effects, but nothing that should cause an opposing effect.

Perhaps it wasn't the spell itself as the target – if the spell worked by making the glove cool and the target were set to the pot instead of the potholder... He brought up his notes on the potholder again. The target was signified with a rather obscure alternative for 'this'. He rubbed his temples and wondered if women's metaphysics were really so different, or if whoever had enchanted this particular object had just been contrary. Their style spoke of one who was a purist rather than a practicalist.

The combination of that form of 'this' with the 'hold' on one of the other spells... could that be the cause? He cracked open the book again, searching for the entry on Miss Frost's 'hold' variation.

Ned was still up to his ears in magical theory when Julian arrived at his office. Julian glanced at him curiously. "What on earth are you working on?"

Ned waved away the spells and gathered up his notes. "It's for Mrs Clewett. Long story. Did you find out anything of interest? Miss Frost is at Polmear's office."

Julian flopped gracefully into the visitor's chair. "For the record, there isn't a lot to find out about Mr Polmear. He's a widower, not in the best of health, and has one son. No indication that he does any work below the table, as it were, or that he has any vices that any other man of his wealth and status in the city doesn't share." Julian gave him a sardonic smile.

"I suppose it was too much to hope for," Ned admitted. "Did you find anything out about Miss Wright?"

Julian shook his head. "Nobody had anything much to say about her, aside from lewd comments. Miss Chandler is known around town for being pert and opinionated, but nobody had anything sinister to say about her."

"An unlikely friendship," Ned observed.

Julian shrugged. "Some people just need somebody to mother, and quiet people often look up to loud people. It's not so unusual." He shook his head.

They were interrupted by the reappearance of Miss Frost. "You will be pleased to know I've obtained a temporary position at Mr Polmear's office," announced Miss Frost. "They were in need of a new typist, and Miss Chandler was kind enough to put in a good word for me. I start tomorrow."

"Congratulations," said Ned, a little taken aback.

"Miss Chandler and I thought perhaps as an outsider I would be able to spot something she had missed," she explained.

"Very sensible," said Julian. "What did you think of the place?"

Miss Frost sat down at her desk. "From my perspective, the office was clean, Mr Polmear was polite and not terribly interested in me either way, aside from my typing skills. I didn't meet the partner, Mr Pascoe. Mr Philip Polmear was there – he seemed to dismiss me as soon as he found out who I was, though."

Julian sat up straight. "I couldn't find any dirt on Mr Arthur Polmear, but his son does have an impressive array of gambling debts."

Ned whistled. "Interesting."

"I can't think of a good reason he would murder his father's typewriter girl for that, though if he's still hanging around that changes things greatly."

Miss Frost cocked her head. "It's difficult to say without knowing anything of the people involved."

"Maybe to prevent his father from marrying her?" suggested Ned.

"Possible, but not terribly likely, particularly since I can't find any gossip about Polmear and Miss Wright. If Mr Philip Polmear noticed, one of the other town gossips would surely have noticed too."

They fell into thoughtful silence for some time.

"It all seems so convoluted," Julian suddenly burst out. "Why feed a girl a stimulant? Unless murder weren't the intended effect, I suppose. It could be an accident."

Miss Frost raised her eyebrows. "You don't think Miss Chandler—"

"I don't think she'd be drawing attention to Miss Wright's cause of death if she were responsible, even by accident, but stranger things have happened. Although she sounded quite vehement about not taking drugs."

"They needn't be recreational. Medicinal solutions could be just as dangerous," Ned pointed out.

Julian got to his feet. "Well, I'm not going to get any more information by sitting around talking about it. I'll see you tonight, Mathey."

--

Miss Frost's absence meant Ned spent the morning missing her greatly. After a morning spent penning his own letters, he was sharply reminded of why he'd hired a typist to begin with. His hand ached. He wondered how difficult it would be to learn to use the typewriter.

A closer look at it convinced him otherwise.

By the time he was done with his afternoon appointments, it was hardly worth returning to his chambers, and he found himself drifting to Julian's residence instead.

Julian was out, of course, but he left a coin and a note with Digby, requesting Julian meet him a nearby pub, if he returned before seven. His rounds had left him with no shortage of work to do, albeit none of it well-paying.

It was a good hour before Julian joined him, and they ordered dinner together.

Julian seemed unnaturally quiet over the meal, more occupied with cutting his meat into even pieces and distributing it around the plate than actually consuming it.

"What's on your mind?" asked Ned, pointing his knife at Julian's half-eaten plate.

Julian returned guiltily to his meal. "I think Miss Chandler may be wrong about Philip Polmear wanting to take over the family business. With his debts, I wouldn't be surprised if that's why he's been hanging around Polmear's office."

"Trying to get money out of his father? But why not bother him at home?"

"Then perhaps there's some truth to her belief that he's learning the business," Julian admitted. "But I can't imagine he doesn't have any ulterior motive."

Ned nodded thoughtfully. "Still, it's not like Miss Wright's death has any influence on his inheritance."

"You're right, of course." Julian pushed his food around his plate a little longer. "I put some feelers out for sellers of experimental drugs, but they led nowhere."

Ned raised his eyebrows. "I should think it would be a healthy industry."

"Oh, they exist, of course, and some of them would even talk to me, but none of them know anything about our young ladies."

Ned let out a huff of understanding. "Perhaps you can follow up with them about Philip Polmear – or any of the other people in that office, although Pascoe seems an unlikely perpetrator."

"As far as I can tell, he is exactly as boring as Miss Chandler thinks," said Julian. "Although-- Well, let's just say there's a reason he's never taken a wife."

Ned nodded in understanding.

"And that's all I've got so far. I'm going to follow up with some others tomorrow."

Ned glanced at the clock behind the bar. "We should get back to the Commons. Miss Frost is meeting me at my chambers."

They took the omnibus. Despite the hour, the heat was showing no signs of letting up, and the crowd they joined didn't make it any more comfortable.

Miss Frost was sitting at her desk when they arrived. They exchanged pleasantries and seated themselves before she started talking.

"I met Miss Chandler, and she introduced me around. They set me to typing some business contracts," said Miss Frost. "Miss Chandler's typing seems quite accurate, for the record. I was also given some minutes to type by Mr Jordan. His hand-writing is not what I would call good, particularly for a secretary, but I suppose that's why they need two typists. I saw very little of Mr Polmear and Mr Pascoe, as they spent their time meeting with clients and Mr Jordan."

"Is it a busy office?"

"Reasonably, I should say, given I have no experience with the area."

"Did you see Mr Philip Polmear at all?" asked Julian.

"He came in briefly around lunch time," said Miss Frost. "He engaged me in conversation, in fact. Asked after my health, background and so on. He seemed like he might be sickening for something," she added thoughtfully. "He was very pale."

"How was Miss Chandler?"

"Busy," said Miss Frost. "I suppose they don't feel they can trust me with confidential documents. She was still working when I left to come here."

Ned winced minutely.

"I'm sorry I couldn't get you anything more useful."

"No, this is fine," said Julian absently. "Thank you, Miss Frost."

"Did you want us to escort you home?"

"Just across the Commons to a cab, please," said Miss Frost.

They saw Miss Frost into a cab, and then took one of their own to Julian's lodgings.

As he following Julian inside, Ned smiled to think that pretexts were no longer necessary. No awkward conversation or offers of drinks – as soon as the door was locked they fell into each other's arms.

Tonight Ned was determined to indulge in kissing. Not willing to risk the wrath of the urtica mordax, he guided Julian to his bedroom between kisses. For his part, Julian was an enthusiastic partner in this endeavour. The room felt fever-hot, but he couldn't have said if it was the weather or their embrace making it so.

At last, he tired of Julian's mouth – for at least the current moment – and moved his kisses lower. Julian's breath hitched, and he let it out with a pleased hiss.

Julian's hands drifted from Ned's shoulders to his head as Ned took Julian in his mouth, fingers tangling in his hair. The world reduced to itself sensations – the weight of Julian on his tongue, the rough sheets against his knees, the slip and slide of his lips around Julian's length. He took his cues from Julian's twitches and moans, the many ways his body betrayed his pleasure. He didn't need Julian's strangled gasp of his name to warn him, and he gladly let Julian spill into his mouth.

He reached his own climax shortly thereafter, with only a few strokes from Julian's questing hands.

Afterwards, Ned curled up against Julian's back, pressing small kisses to the back of his neck.

"You really don't mind—" asked Julian quietly, capturing Ned's hand with his own and tangling their fingers together.

"I like it," said Ned, hushing him with more kisses. "Sleep now."

--

Ned was in the midst of penning a letter accepting the offer of a job decursing a dinner set unfortuitously acquired by a recent house purchase when Miss Frost let herself into his chambers.

She seemed troubled, but he didn't have the chance to ask why before she started talking. "I'm afraid I've been let go from Mr Polmear's office."

Ned set his pen aside. "Did they find out—"

She shook her head. "No, no, nothing of the sort. A bottle of brandy was found missing from Mr Polmear's office, and naturally they suspected the new girl." She gave him a wry smile. "I would be quite concerned for my good name if I had given them my real one."

"How very strange."

"Of course, I would still appreciate it if you were able to clear it," said Miss Frost. "A false name is a false name, and it would be useful to not have to create a new one." She sat down at her desk. "Miss Chandler will be by as soon as she can, although I'm afraid it won't be until much later."

Ned took a moment to slot this information into his understanding of the case. "Why would Mr Polmear keep brandy in his office?"

"Gentlemen often do, I'm told. Medicinal, perhaps."

"If he was in the habit of drinking it... no, I still don't see how this relates to Miss Wright."

"Unless she was the one who stole the brandy," suggested Miss Frost.

"Don't say that in front of Miss Chandler," said Ned wryly. "Do you happen to know when the brandy was missed?"

"I don't, but I'm hoping Miss Chandler will."

The door flung itself open and Julian walked through, hanging his own hat and dropping onto the visitor's chair dramatically.

"I managed to get myself into Philip Polmear's social circle," Julian announced. "Not right inside, of course, but the outskirts. He went to Cambridge to study Medicine, but he switched to Law at his father's behest. Only now his father claims he built his own business from nothing and Philip should work for another solicitor's office before joining the family business."

Ned took a moment to parse that. "So he's in debt, he has a degree in a business he has no interest in, thanks to his father, and he has just enough metaphysical knowledge to be dangerous."

"That was my assessment, yes."

"When did he acquire the gambling debts?" asked Ned curiously.

"Oh, here and there. He appears to have quite rotten luck, as a matter of fact."

"Or he just has no financial sense," Miss Frost interjected. "It's common among those who grew up with money."

Julian turned to look at her in surprise, clearly only just noticing her. "Miss Frost, I thought you were with Polmear now."

"There's been a complication," she said. She explained the situation quickly.

Julian's eyes widened. "That's it. That's the connection we're missing. It's so obvious now!"

Ned tried to follow his friend's train of thought. "You think he may have drugged his father's brandy?"

"Mr Polmear was not in the best of health. A stimulant like that drug could very well have caused his heart to fail naturally on the spot, and if not, if it gave him the desire to run, dance, anything of the sort, it could have been fatal."

"And Miss Wright got it by accident somehow," said Ned thoughtfully.

"Philip Polmear must have removed the bottle once he realised what had happened. Which, unfortunately, means we don't have any evidence," Julian pointed out. "If he had bought the spell, or paid somebody to create it for him, we would at least have a witness to give Hatton."

Ned pondered that. "Medicinal metaphysics requires special inks."

"You can substitute with more common inks in a pinch, though," Julian pointed out.

"But the composition of that spell in particular would require very fine attention to detail – or very good materials. You can't just buy medicinal inks from a metaphysical supplier, you have to get it specially made up."

"That's true. And it's expensive," Julian said. "There's a black market for it, though. That's a place to start."

"If we can find his supplier, I think it's enough for Hatton to bring him in for questioning."

"Do you think he'll confess?"

"He looked sick yesterday," said Miss Frost thoughtfully. "Conscience, perhaps?"

"What worries me," said Julian, "Is the thought that he may make another attempt. We thought he removed the brandy because it was evidence, but if it reappears, or if he finds some other way to drug his father, we may have another murder on our hands."

Ned stared at him in consternation. "Should we go there and warn him?"

"Warn a solicitor that his son is trying to kill him, with no evidence? We'd do more harm than good." Julian paced the room, back and forth. "We should tell Miss Chandler; ask her to keep an eye on things."

"And we should inform Inspector Hatton of what we have so far," Ned pointed out.

Miss Frost was looking between them with interest. "I did find something out before they asked me to leave. Mr Polmear is going to the opera tomorrow night, with his son."

Julian and Ned exchanged glances.

"No," said Julian.

"It would be the perfect opportunity. Nobody would think anything of an old man dying of shock during an exciting Opera performance."

"It's opera," moaned Julian. Ned elbowed him in the side gently. "Fine. I'll find out where they're sitting, and pull a few strings to get us put near them." He got to his feet. "When Miss Chandler comes, ask if Miss Wright had a fainting spell soon before her death."

It was getting quite late before Miss Chandler arrived.

"I'm so very sorry, Miss Frost," said Miss Chandler. She seemed quite flustered, not at all her usual self. "They were so horrible to you."

Miss Frost smiled. "They were really quite polite, actually. Didn't outright accuse me, just said 'under the circumstances' and 'I'm sure you can understand' a lot."

"Even so." Miss Chandler shuddered. "I would hate for that to happen to me, even if it weren't a real job."

"Was Mr Polmear in the habit of taking brandy regularly?" asked Ned.

Miss Chandler bit her lip and looked uncertain. "I really couldn't say, but we all knew he kept it."

"How so?"

"I think Florence has been through half the bottle, in the last year. She would faint, you see, and then they would give her brandy. And if it was cold, or we were kept working late, he'd often give it to us, for warmth."

Ned remembered Julian's request. "Did Miss Wright have a fainting spell soon before her death?"

"Oh... I'm not sure, really. It happened a few times a month... No, she did, I'm sure of it. The day before."

Ned thought he could see where Julian was going with this line of inquiry. "Do you know when the bottle went missing?"

Miss Chandler shook her head. "No, Mr Polmear had no idea. He asked Mr Pascoe if he'd borrowed it first, then Mr Jordan."

"And the last time you saw it was when Miss Wright used it?"

"That's right. He took it back to his office after that." Miss Chandler hesitated a moment. "If you please, it's getting late. I should get back."

"I'll escort you to the street," said Miss Frost.

Once they were gone, Ned scribbled down two telegrams, sending one to Hatton and one to Julian. He had a feeling Julian would be very interested in Miss Chandler's answers.

--

Ned had been expecting to have to drag a sulking Julian around the Opera, regardless of the seriousness of their mission, but he seemed almost cheerful as they entered the crowd of people in the lobby.

"Do you know any of these people?" Ned asked, sotto voce.

"Not a one," said Julian. "But they're interesting, all the same. I foresee many of these couples providing business for me, someday." He seemed resigned to the possibility.

"Will Mr Lennox be here tonight?" Ned asked, belatedly realising who Julian's friend with connections in the Opera must be.

"He's engaged in other ways tonight," said Julian, so neutrally Ned couldn't detect if he was disappointed by this at all. Discarding the thought as unworthy of him, he attempted to turn his gaze back to the crowd.

"Have you seen the Polmears?"

"Not yet," said Julian. "If Mr Polmear is as infirm as reported, they probably won't arrive until later, and go straight to their seats."

Ned nodded.

The bell rang, summoning them to find their seats, and they flowed in with the crowd.

It seemed Lennox had managed to get them seats two rows back from Polmear and his son. Ned only paid half attention to the opera, busy watching the Polmears instead.

"What do you think?" Ned leaned over and murmured into Julian's ear.

"The son is nervous about something," said Julian. "Look at the way he keeps shifting in his seat. He doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands. If he's our man, he's planning to act soon."

They weren't allowed any food or drinks inside the theatre. "The intermission?"

"Undoubtedly. We'll have to stick close to them."

Ned nodded, and leaned back into his own seat.

He tried to concentrate on the opera, just in case they were required to give opinions on it, but at this stage of the plot, and without having studied the libretto beforehand, he found himself utterly lost.

The arrival of intermission was a relief, for both Ned and, he suspected, Julian, who was as tense as a coiled spring.

They followed the crowd into the lobby, a few people behind the Polmears.

Mr Polmear leaned heavily on his cane, positioning himself against the farthest wall, away from the worst of the crowd. Julian somehow managed to engineer the crowd so that they were standing nearby, drinks in hand.

"I'll get us some wine," said Philip Polmear. "Would you prefer red or white?"

Mr Polmear murmured something back, and Philip nodded in understanding.

Philip Polmear made his way to the bar slowly, weaving his way through the people crowding it without much grace.

Ned tried not to stare as he ordered from the bar, turning his attention briefly to Julian, who was somehow managing to watch Polmear while giving the appearance of scanning the crowd.

He looked back at Polmear, who now had a glass of red wine in his left hand.

"Look away, he's checking for onlookers," murmured Julian. Ned did as he asked. "Now look back."

He was in time to see Philip Polmear dropping a slip of metaphysical paper into the glass. He glanced around furtively and Ned looked away again.

"We've got him," Julian murmured triumphantly.

Julian pushed through the crowd, Ned trailing a few steps behind. "Mr Polmear, could I have a word?"

"Do I know you?" demanded Philip Polmear.

Julian took him by the arm, with a charming but firm smile. "We have mutual friends." He led Polmear through the crowd, over to the entrance doors.

Polmear angrily pulled his arm free. "Just what do you think you're—"

"Do you really want to cause a scene here?" asked Julian. "It's terribly public." He plucked the glass from between Polmear's fingers and handed it to Ned. "If you wouldn't mind."

Ned produced his wand, wishing for some of Julian's subtlety. He drew the detection sigils they'd determined earlier, ending with the misplaced sigil for 'cold' he'd lifted from Mrs Cluett's potholder.

The glass grew cool in his hand as ice twirled its way up the side, leaving crystal trails through the wine. Ned breathed a sigh of relief. He'd been worried the spell, worked out through first principles based on their notes, would prove less viable in theory.

Julian made a gesture with his left hand, and Inspector Hatton materialised at his side.

"Philip Polmear, you are under arrest in connection with the death of Miss Florence Wright, and for the attempted murder of your father, Arthur Polmear."

--

"The Yard owes you, once again," said Inspector Hatton, barging his way into Ned's chambers the next day. "Philip Polmear has made a full confession."

"That's good," said Ned. "I worry about his father, once he realises the truth. The shock may be enough to kill him and undo all our good work."

"We'll be sure to break the news gently," said Hatton. "You'll be needed in court to explain the provenance of that spell, of course."

Ned wasn't convinced there was a way to break such news gently, but he supposed the police must have greater experience in the area.

Miss Chandler had paid what was remaining of Ned's fee the night before, when they told her the news. She insisted no matter what happened with the trial, she was convinced of Philip Polmear's guilt.

"I can't quite believe it of him," she had said, although she didn't sound quite sincere. "He sounded so upset about Florence."

"It's possible he was genuinely upset," Ned pointed out. "He hadn't intended for her to die."

"That is true," she admitted. "Thank you both for your time. Knowing what happened to Florence… it's painful, but not as much as not knowing."

Ned shook off the memory. "I'm happy to to help the Yard," he said helplessly.

"I— Is that a potholder, Mr Mathey?"

Ned looked at Mrs Cluett's potholder, still clutched in his hands. "This is a heatproof, scorchproof and dirtproof potholder," he said. "With spells newly repaired by myself and Miss Frost here, on request by my landlady."

"Are you branching out into household metaphysics?" asked Inspector Hatton, bemused.

Ned smiled. "I may do. It came in useful this time."

Hatton took his leave, still confused.

Ned shook his head and slumped down onto his desk. "No more crime for a while, Miss Frost."

"I'll let the criminals know," said Miss Frost.