Death by Silver Read Online Free PDF

Newgate Calendar . He would not think about the Nevetts. Nor Victor Nevett in particular.

    Supper was always a trial at Toms’, the masters busy among themselves, leaving the house tables to the prefects. Julian had learned in the first week that New Men kept their heads down and ate their bread and butter as quickly as possible, not just because second helpings were only intermittently available, and only to the swift, but because it was the prefects’ privilege to end the meal, and no one cared whether the New Men were finished or not. Luckily, Ned Mathey, who was rapidly becoming his first true friend, had discovered a knack for slipping his first slice of bread into his pocket without being seen, and they’d found half a dozen quiet corners where they could share their spoils in peace.
    Today, however, there were jam tarts, and James Strachan, known even to his juniors as James the Less, had seen to it that the distribution was fair. One each for the New Men, one and a half for the Senior Men, two for the prefects, and the trays were bare. Julian closed his eyes to savor each bite, crumbling buttery crust and sweet sticky filing, and realized that he had no idea what had occasioned this bounty. And that could be disastrous: Sts Thomas was one of the oldest schools in England, with a maze of arcane customs and its own treacherous catechism, forgetfulness in which earned not damnation but six of the best from the nearest prefect. He had managed not to be beaten so far, though he’d suffered his share of kicks and pinches and had his ears boxed for asking the score in a house match between Beckett and Cranmer – he owed Ned for forbidding him to bring a book to the pitch – but by dint of a good memory and resentful application to the Canon Book he’d managed to avoid being caned. He nudged Ned.
    “Mathey. Why the treat?”
    Ned glanced quickly at the prefects’ end of the table, his own expression suddenly wary. “I don’t know. Is it a fas day?”
    Julian closed his eyes, conjuring up the table of school holidays – the fas days, though strictly speaking they ought to be nefas days, because regular work was altered, as on days of ill-omen. But, no, the next one was still four days away, and he shook his head.
    “I don’t think so. Did we win something?”
    Ned winced, and reached for the last slice of bread and butter. “No. There weren’t any matches.”
    “Oh. Then why – ?”
    “A gift of the gods?” Ned said, and Julian grinned.
    A gift of the gods and not to be questioned. That was possibly the only sensible or useful bit of the Canon, and made as much sense as anything. He slurped at his milky tea, glad that at least Beckett didn’t skimp on the sugar.
    “Lynes.”
    The voice came from the head of the table, a prefect’s cracking voice, and Julian looked up, realizing too late that it might have been better to keep his eyes on his plate. Victor Nevett stared back at him, smiling slightly, his dark forelock hanging damply on his forehead. Julian was aware that everyone was looking at him, some with undisguised glee, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ned’s hand close into a fist.
    “Pass the salt,” Victor said.
    There was a sudden silence, broken only by a nervous titter, quickly squelched. Beckett’s house master looked up from his plate at the unwonted quiet, saw nothing, and resumed his conversation. Julian sat frozen. He knew the answer perfectly well, it was one of the most memorable bits of the Canon, but it was also one of the trickiest, because the proper answer was “Aroint thee, worm.” Said to an equal or an inferior, it was a good joke; he’d giggled himself when another unwary New Man had asked for salt and been summarily arointed. Said to a prefect, it was six of the best. And if you didn’t answer, it was the same for forgetting the Canon. He’d put a great deal of effort into not being beaten so far, and he fiercely resented being trapped like this.
    And Victor