Late for the Wedding (16 page)

“He appointed himself magistrate and executioner, is that it?”

“Aye. So they said.”

“Crackenburne told me that the rumors about him faded away several years ago. He thinks the killer probably died.”

“Most likely.” Jack squinted a little. “But a few years ago there was a tale going around that the gentleman killer had retired from his business and gone to live in a cottage by the seaside.”

“The Memento-Mori Man retired to a seaside cottage?” Tobias was almost amused. “What a charming notion. Good legends never die, do they?”

“If he isn’t dead, he’ll be in his dotage by now. Hardly a threat to anyone.”

“He certainly isn’t the murderer I’m looking for at the moment. Mrs. Lake got a brief glimpse of our new Memento-Mori Man at Beaumont Castle. He was disguised as a woman at the time, but she was quite sure that, male or female, the killer was not elderly. She said he moved the way a vigorous, athletic young man or woman moves.”

“Stands to reason that a man in that line of work would have to be fit and in his prime,” Jack said. “Expect it’s a demanding profession, what with all that climbing into upstairs windows and sneaking around other people’s houses late at night. Not to mention the strength it takes to smother someone or hold them under water until they drown.”

“Elland was very good at that sort of thing.” Tobias got to his feet. “Thanks for the brandy, Jack. I’d appreciate it if you’d put it about that I’ll pay well for any useful information on the subject of Elland or this new Memento-Mori Man.”

“I’ll send word if I find anyone who knows anything. But I warn you, my friend, the odds are not good. This killer comes from your world, not mine.”

Chapter 14

Dominic angled the burning lens to catch and focus the rays of the morning sun. The day was perfect for this demonstration, he thought, cloudless and warm. The little heap of papers he had put into the iron pot should flare up nicely. It was a silly sort of project, but people always responded with exclamations of excitement when the contents of the pot burst into flames.

Following the tour of his laboratory and several suitably spectacular demonstrations with the electrical machine, he had chosen the small park near his lodgings to show the power of his burning lens.

His little audience gathered around him expectantly. Mrs. Lake, Emeline, and Priscilla had made no secret of their interest in the earlier exhibits. Even Anthony, who had arrived stone-faced and barely civil, had eventually revealed a degree of reluctant curiosity in the equipment and apparatus.

At that instant, the papers in the pot caught fire under the intensely focused sunlight. Right on schedule, Dominic thought, satisfied.

“Good heavens.” Mrs. Lake watched the flames leap. “That is really quite amazing, Mr. Hood.”

She had appeared distracted and a bit impatient when she arrived with Emeline and Priscilla an hour ago. Somewhat apologetically, Emeline had explained that, with the exception of Priscilla, they were all involved in a new investigation and could not spend much time viewing the experiments.

But as the demonstrations had become more complicated and elaborate, Mrs. Lake had begun to take a lively interest.

“Clever enough, I suppose,” Anthony allowed offhandedly. “But I fail to see any useful purpose for a burning lens.”

“It enables one to conduct experiments that require intense heat,” Priscilla said eagerly. She gazed at the instrument with an enraptured expression. “I wish I had one. But Mama would never allow it.”

For some reason, her fascination with the burning lens irritated Dominic. He found himself wondering what it would be like to have her look at him with that same degree of admiration. He reminded himself that she was not important. Emeline was his target. He had hoped to gain her attention with the flashy experiments earlier, and he had succeeded in part.

But it was Priscilla who had responded most favorably to his painstakingly prepared explosions and exhibits. She was the one who had understood the deeper implications and foresaw variations and possibilities.

He had been startled by the depths of her knowledge. With her sun-bright hair and sky-blue eyes, she looked as though she would have nothing in her head but air and fluff. Instead, she quoted Newton and Boyle with a casual facility that unsettled him. Her questions had been persistent and endless. What’s more, she had taken voluminous notes.

Emeline had not been nearly as enthralled.

“Well, that was really most educational,” Mrs. Lake said when the small blaze burned itself out in the pot. “Thank you, Mr. Hood.” She checked the dainty watch she wore pinned to her walking dress and gave Dominic a warm smile. “Unfortunately, we must be on our way. Come along, Emeline and Priscilla.”

“Yes, of course, Mrs. Lake.” Priscilla was reluctant to leave, but she did her best to conceal her disappointment. “I cannot thank you enough for taking the time to come with us this morning to see Mr. Hood’s laboratory. Knowing you would be here was the only reason Mama allowed me to come today.”

“My pleasure.” Mrs. Lake paused to glance past Dominic’s shoulder. “Ah, here is Mr. March. I told him that we would be finished by ten o’clock. He must have grown impatient and decided to seek us out.”

“He does not appear to be in a pleasant temper,” Emeline observed.

“He has not been in a good mood since Beaumont Castle,” Anthony muttered.

Dominic turned to follow their gazes. A small chill went through him at the sight of the hard-faced man walking toward them.

March had cut across the small park to shorten the distance. Against the field of verdant greens and flowery pastels, he was a dark, resolute force of nature. There was a slight hitch in his long stride. Dominic wondered if he had been injured at some time in the past. The faint limp should have implied weakness, but instead it gave March the appearance of a battle-scarred soldier who would be far more dangerous than any young, untried recruit.

Dominic gripped the burning-lens stand tightly in one hand. He must be very, very careful around this man, he reminded himself.

“Mr. March,” Mrs. Lake said, “have you met Mr. Hood?”

March came to a halt and gave Dominic an assessing look. He inclined his head an inch. “Hood.”

“Sir.”

“What a pity that you were not able to join us sooner, Mr. March,” Priscilla said. “Mr. Hood has just finished conducting the most interesting experiments.”

“Some other time, perhaps.” He switched his attention to Mrs. Lake. “Madam, if you are quite finished here, I would remind you that we have pressing matters to attend to.” He looked at Anthony. “As do you and Miss Emeline.”

“Yes, sir,” Anthony said, obviously eager to leave the park. “Emeline and I will see Priscilla home and then we will continue our inquiries.”

“There is no need to be concerned, sir,” Mrs. Lake said, adjusting her gloves. “The wig shops and antiquities dealers have only just opened for the day. We have not lost any time.”

Dominic told himself he should remain silent, but his curiosity got the better of him. “May I ask what your inquiries are about?”

“We are searching for a man who has made a profession of murder,” Mrs. Lake explained. “He takes commissions, if you can imagine. Mr. March is quite rightly concerned that he will kill again soon if we do not find him and stop him.”

“You hunt a murderer?” Dominic glanced at Anthony and then quickly looked away. “I would have thought that was a job for Bow Street.”

“This killer is far too clever for the Runners,” Anthony said. “So clever, in fact, that he leaves no evidence of a crime.” He gave Emeline his arm. “Let us be off.”

Emeline smiled at Dominic. “Thank you again for a most instructive morning, Mr. Hood.”

“It was all quite fascinating.” Priscilla gave him a brilliant smile.

“My pleasure,” Dominic said brusquely.

Anthony did not bother with a polite farewell. He escorted Emeline and Priscilla away across the park.

March put a hand on Mrs. Lake’s elbow. “Good day to you, Hood.”

“The same to you, sir.” Dominic bowed to Mrs. Lake. “And to you, madam. Thank you for accompanying Miss Emeline and Miss Priscilla this morning. I am well-aware that the dictates of propriety would have made it impossible for them to enter my lodgings without you in attendance.”

“I enjoyed myself immensely,” she assured him. “I trust we will meet up again, Mr. Hood, perhaps when we have more time.”

Dominic stood alone and watched them all walk away from him. He hated to admit it, but he was envious of Anthony. Tracking a murderer sounded like exciting work. He reminded himself that he had his own important task to carry out.

He knew now that he would have to come up with another strategy to achieve his goal. The plan he had devised to lure Emeline away from Anthony was not working.

A faint breeze stirred the nearby foliage. He thought he heard his mother’s whisper in it, reminding him that his course had been set and must not be altered. He was the only one who could avenge her, he thought. There was no one else left to do it.

The small group had reached the far side of the park. They separated—Mr. March and Mrs. Lake heading to the left, Anthony with his two companions turning right.

He waited, trying to keep his attention on Anthony until the very last moment. He must not lose his concentration, he told himself. He must not allow himself to be distracted. But for some reason it was Priscilla’s bright blond ringlets peeking out from beneath the edge of her pink straw bonnet that held his gaze until they all vanished around a corner.

After a while he reached down to pick up the iron pot. He stared for a long time at the charred remains of the papers he had set afire.

Revenge was a harsh taskmaster. He was beginning to wonder if, in the end, all he would have to show for it would be a handful of ashes.

Chapter 15

Two days later, toward the end of another long afternoon, Lavinia accompanied Tobias into one of the few remaining wig shops on their list. Thus far their inquiries had resulted in no clues, and she was fast losing hope that they would have any more luck today.

She glanced around the premises of Cork & Todd and experienced the now familiar flicker of unease.

The interior of the shop was similar to those of the other wig-makers she and Tobias had investigated. She had concluded that it was the sight of the rows of display busts topped with false hair that disturbed her. She told herself that it was not the proprietors’ fault that the models reminded her of so many severed heads.

The majority of the wax busts in Cork & Todd were female, but there were also a goodly number of masculine heads fitted with wigs styled for gentlemen.

There was no one behind the counter, but a cheerful rustling sound came from the back room.

“I shall be with you in a moment.”

Tobias removed the torn sheet of paper from his pocket and checked it with grim attention. “Only three more wig shops after this one and then we will be finished with the lot. For all the good it has done us. We have wasted nearly three days trying to find whoever sold that blond wig to the killer, and we have nothing to show for it.”

“Perhaps Anthony and Emeline are having better luck with the antiquities dealers,” Lavinia said. She wandered over to one of the counters to take a closer look at an elaborately styled wig. “Do not forget the first wig-maker’s shop we tried this morning, the one with the sign in the window saying that it was closed for the month. What do you propose to do about it?”

“I shall take care of that one tonight.”

She spun around. “You’re going to pick the lock, are you not?”

He shrugged and said nothing.

Enthusiasm bubbled up within her. “I shall come with you.”

“Absolutely not.”

The words had been spoken firmly enough, she thought, but his tone had a certain practiced, automatic quality. A matter of form. Resigned, almost.

She could win this match.

“It will be an excellent opportunity for me to observe you at work. I was thinking just the other day that I must perfect my lock-picking skills, and you have been very lax about demonstrations.”

“Not lax. Cautious.”

“Rubbish. I will not allow you to prevent me from learning all of the secrets of our profession, sir. We are partners, if you will recall. You really must be more forthcoming—”

She broke off when the curtains that covered the doorway behind the counter parted. A plump, middle-aged man dressed in a flowered satin waistcoat, a maroon jacket, and an extravagantly tied cravat emerged. His hair was suspiciously dark for a man of his years, Lavinia thought. There was not a speck of gray in the mass of tightly crimped curls that sprang up all around his head.

“Ah, sir, madam.” He beamed at them through a pair of gold spectacles. “Welcome, welcome, welcome to my shop. J. P. Cork, at your service.” He switched his attention to Lavinia, his eyes widening first in shock and then narrowing in pity. “Madam, you have come to the right place, I assure you. I can rescue you from your sad plight.”

“Indeed,” Lavinia murmured. She ignored the annoyance that darkened Tobias’s eyes.

This was not the first time she had been greeted with such enthusiasm in the past two days. Every wig-maker they had interviewed had been horrified by the sight of her red hair and had vowed to save her from what those in the profession evidently considered a fate worse than death.

“Do not fear, madam.” Cork bustled out from behind the counter and seized one of Lavinia’s gloved hands in two pudgy palms. “When you leave this shop today, you will be a new woman.”

“That would be an interesting experience, I’m sure,” she said. “But I’m afraid that my companion and I did not come here to purchase a wig.”

The proprietor made a tut-tutting sound with his tongue and shook his head gravely. “If your natural shade were brown or black, you would be able to make do with a toupee or a chignon, but given that unfortunate red, I’m afraid you will find that only a full wig will solve your problem. Nothing else will entirely conceal your own hair.”

Tobias moved slightly, just enough to draw the wig-maker’s attention. “Cork, my name is March. I would like to ask you a few questions about your wigs.”

“I see.” Cork studied Tobias’s closely cut dark hair with a professionally troubled expression. “Forgive me, I was so stunned by madam’s dreadful plight, I failed to notice your own misfortune. But now that I look more closely, I can, indeed, see those telltale signs of silver at the temples.” He tut-tutted again. “You are quite right to take action now, sir, before you turn entirely gray. I have just the thing.”

“Devil take it,” Tobias growled. “I am not interested in a wig for myself.”

But Cork had already gone to one of the male busts and whipped off a brown wig. He held it up in triumph, rather like a hunter displaying a fresh kill. “I guarantee that this will do the trick, sir. It will conceal the ravages of time and make you appear at least a decade younger.”

“I said, I am not here to purchase a wig.” Tobias eyed the brown hairpiece as though it were a dead rodent. “Mrs. Lake and I wish to ask you a few questions. Nothing more.”

“We will make it worth your while,” Lavinia put in quickly, trying hard not to smile. Tobias had made no secret of the fact that he found these interviews exceedingly trying. Persons engaged in the business of wig-making and hairdressing considered themselves to be artists, and Tobias did not have a great deal of patience with the artistic temperament.

“Humph.” Cork’s smile lost its warmth. “What sort of questions?”

“Just one or two small inquiries concerning sales of blond wigs,” she assured him.

“Blond?” Cork screwed his face into a disapproving glare. “Haven’t had a commission for a full blond wig in months. Very unfashionable color, you know. Has been for some time. The shade never really recovered its popularity after Madam Tallien declared black to be the most elegant hair color some twenty years ago.”

“Madam Tallien?” Lavinia repeated curiously. “The wife of the French revolutionary?”

“Never mind her dreadful politics.” Cork brushed that issue aside with one pudgy hand. “The important thing is that her salons were truly splendid affairs, and she reigned supreme in the world of French fashion. Owned a vast assortment of wigs. Legend has it that she switched them several times a day. Wore one color in the morning and another in the evening. All of the most exclusive sort here in England strove to follow in her brilliant footsteps. I don’t mind telling you that those of us in the wig-making and hairdressing professions were exceedingly grateful to her.”

“I can imagine,” Lavinia said. She was well-aware that the war between England and France had done nothing to hinder French influence on English fashion. Some things transcended politics. “But what we’d like to know is—”

“She came along at a most critical moment, you see.” Croft sniffed disdainfully. “The Crown had just placed that perfectly absurd tax on wig powder, which caused the demand for powdered wigs to plummet. When they went out of fashion, so did the taste for the truly grand coiffeurs. It was a sad passing. Very nearly ruined Mr. Todd and myself.”

Lavinia caught Tobias’s eye and made another attempt to interrupt the wig-maker. “Mr. Cork, what we would like to know—”

“Ah, yes, those were the days,” Cork said reverently. “I have a nasty suspicion that we shall never see another such golden era for wigs in my lifetime. Back then every great house possessed a special wig closet where the false hair could be curled and papered and powdered. The hairdressers had to be extremely skilled. And they rose to the occasion, I must say. Why, I knew some who could create headdresses of such enormous height and magnificence that the ladies who wore them could not travel in their carriages unless they knelt on the floor or stuck their heads out the windows.”

“Mr. Cork.” Lavinia injected a bit more firmness into her tone. “We want to know—”

The door of the shop opened at that moment. A dapper-looking man, of about Mr. Cork’s age but less than half his girth, entered. He carried a package under his arm.

“Mr. Todd.” Cork greeted him with a familiarity that spoke of an old friendship. “There you are. I was wondering what had become of you.”

“Lady Brockton changed her mind at least three times about whether or not her daughter should have braids or ringlets.” Todd snorted. “It was obvious to me that what the chit really required was a great many curls in front to conceal her rather high forehead. But convincing Lady Brockton of that obvious fact required the most extreme diplomacy and a good deal of my time. Luckily I had no other appointments this afternoon.”

“I know you find Lady Brockton quite trying, but she is a regular client.”

“Yes, yes, I am well aware of that.” Todd peered at Lavinia and Tobias. “I say, I did not mean to interrupt.”

“Charles Todd, allow me to introduce Mrs. Lake and Mr. March,” Cork said. “They called to ask some questions. I was just telling them about the grand old days of our profession.” He turned back to Lavinia and Tobias. “As I was about to say, there was no need to worry overmuch about the exact shade of the false hair in those days, because one knew that it would all be covered in powder and pomade.”

Todd put his package down on the counter. “And what lovely stuff the powder was.” He put his palms together and closed his eyes against what was evidently an excess of strong emotion. “The variety of the tints one could create was nothing short of inspiring. When I mixed them I knew myself to be a true artist.”

“Todd here had a master’s touch with the powder,” Cork confided. “I vow, he had recipes for the most delicate shades of pink and blue, yellow, lavender, and pale violet. And the exquisite intricacy of his chignons had to be seen to be believed. At night in the ballrooms one could always identify his work. His headdresses outshone those of every other hairdresser in London.”

“Those were the days,” Todd agreed.

“I was just telling Mrs. Lake and Mr. March how Madam Tallien saved us when she set a new fashion for natural-colored wigs,” Cork said. “And now we do very nicely with chignons, puffs, and toupees and such. But the wig business has never been quite the same.”

“There was another bit of uncertainty a few years back when the ladies all insisted upon cutting their hair very short to suit the taste for Greek and Roman fashions. But the demand for skilled hairdressers rebounded once more when they all wanted long hair again,” Todd said, not without a good deal of satisfaction.

“Thank heaven for the ever-changing tastes of fashion,” Cork added. “Mr. Todd is, I am happy to say, one of the most distinguished hairdressers in town. He has a very elegant clientele. His designs are truly unique and original works of art. The trained eye can spot them immediately on the street or in the ballroom.”

“Is that so?” Tobias said with very little interest.

“Indeed. Many of his competitors have attempted to copy his chignons, but they have all failed. No one can imitate a true artist.”

“A hairdresser is only as good as his chignon, I always say,” Todd declared. “It is the basis upon which the entire headdress must rest. It is what gives the creation its true distinguishing elegance. If the chignon is uninspired in design or poorly situated on the head, no amount of frizzing or curling will save it.”

Lavinia thought about the designs Mrs. Dove’s hairdresser had created for Emeline and herself for certain important balls during the recent Season. The chignons had, indeed, been works of art, she thought, almost architectural in design.

“It is not just the design of the chignon that is critical,” Todd continued. “The ornaments that are used to decorate the finished work of art must be chosen and placed with an eye to the overall effect. I regret to say that many in my profession are inclined to overdo the pearls and flowers, to say nothing of the feathers. Restraint must be a hairdresser’s motto in such matters, just as Lafoy says.”

“Who the devil is Lafoy?” Tobias asked, apparently having abandoned any hope of regaining control of the interview.

Todd and Cork looked at him as though he were a barbarian at the gate.

“You are not acquainted with Lafoy?” Charles opened the package on the counter with a flourish and produced a book. “I refer to
the
Lafoy.”

“Never heard of him,” Tobias said.

“Lafoy is not only an artist in the world of hairdressing, he is a great poet.” Todd opened the book. “He published this excellent volume on the art of the coiffeur last year. This is my second copy. I was obliged to purchase another because I had quite worn out my first.”

Cork winked. “He fell asleep while reading it in the bath one evening last month. The book was ruined.”

“Just listen to these verses on the noble art of hairdressing,” Charles urged. “The sensitivity and the intensity of the emotions quite overcome one. Why, Lafoy’s ode to his comb alone brings the tears to my eyes every time I read it.”

He cleared his throat, preparing to read aloud.

“Another time, perhaps, Mr. Todd.” Cork held up one hand to silence his associate. “Mrs. Lake and Mr. March are here on business.”

“Yes, of course. Forgive me.” Todd closed the book and surveyed Lavinia with pursed lips. “You were right to come to us, madam. There really is nothing one can do about red hair except conceal it. I have some dyes that will darken hair, but nothing that is strong enough to tint yours. Once you have made your selection of a wig, I would be delighted to dress it for you. I see you in black hair, don’t you, Cork?”

“Yes, indeed.” Cork beamed. “Madam would be stunning in black.”

Todd circled Lavinia, assessing her hair very closely. “I believe I will use one of my chignons
à la Minerva
. It will add height. What do you say, Mr. Cork?”

“As always, when it comes to such matters, you are correct, Mr. Todd,” Cork said. “But, sadly, madam has made it clear that she does not wish to make a purchase today.”