Late for the Wedding (18 page)

He opened each of the desk drawers in turn and discovered the usual assortment of objects—a penknife, bottles of ink, various papers, and some journals of accounts.

He took out the journals and paged through them swiftly, hoping that luck would favor him.

He saw immediately that Swaine had, indeed, maintained meticulous business records. Each transaction was detailed and dated quite precisely. He selected the most recent one and tucked it under his arm.

Perhaps his luck had finally changed.

Raising the candle on high, he prowled once more through both rooms, pausing to look closely at the top of the night table and the washstand. He crouched on one knee to check beneath the bed.

There was no ring.

He stood in the middle of the dead man’s sitting room for a while, thinking. When he experienced no inspiring flashes of insight or logic, he made his way back downstairs, stepping carefully over the body a second time.

Lavinia waited for him in the back room. “What are we to do with the shopkeeper’s body? We cannot just leave him here. There is no saying when someone will finally realize that something is wrong.”

“I will send word to the proper authorities. Matters will be handled quietly. I do not want it widely known that you and I were in here tonight.”

“Why not?”

“The less the killer knows of our progress in this case, the better.” He blew out the candle and led the way to the rear door. “Not that we have made much. Unless you found something helpful?”

“No. But I agree that this was not the work of a burglar. There was no sign that anyone went through the cupboards searching for valuables.” She followed him outside and closed the door. “What is that under your arm?”

“The wig-maker’s journal of accounts for the past six months.”

“Do you think this was the shop where the Memento-Mori Man acquired the blond wig?”

“I think that is a distinct possibility, yes. But Swaine was killed quite recently. I suspect the murderer discovered that we were making inquiries at the wig shops and decided that it would be a good idea to silence the one wig-maker who might be able to describe him.”

“Dear God. Tobias, that means that we are—”

“In part responsible for Swaine’s death.” He gripped the journal tightly. “Yes, I’m afraid that is one way of looking at the situation.”

“I feel ill,” she whispered.

“We must find him, Lavinia. That is the only way to stop him.”

“Do you think there will be some clue in that journal?”

“I don’t know. I can only hope that is the case.” He walked with her toward the end of the alley. “I found no ring either.”

She glanced at him, her expression invisible in the shadow of the cloak hood. “What do you think that means?”

“I believe it means that the killer did not consider this murder to be a matter of professional pride. This was not a commissioned kill, but rather a matter of expediency.” He looked back over his shoulder at the door of the dead wig-maker’s shop. “Just part of the cost of doing business.”

Chapter 17

The new commission was an extremely lucrative one. The Memento-Mori Man was quite pleased with it. True, Sir Rupert did not meet all of the specifications set down by the one who had trained him, but he had concluded that those requirements were too stringent.

It was all very well for his mentor to carry on about the noble objectives of the firm, the Memento-Mori Man thought, but the reality of the matter was that the commission for Sir Rupert would earn him twice as much money as he had been paid for any of the last three projects.

In addition, it was a simple, straightforward operation. Sir Rupert was elderly and bedridden. True, his only crime was that, in the eyes of one of his very greedy heirs, he had lived a little too long, but that was not a great concern.

A farsighted man of business could not allow outdated notions of honor to stand in the way of profits.

The details of the new commission would be handled in the usual anonymous manner. The client was to leave the full payment at the appointed place in the small lane behind Bond Street. The Memento-Mori Man would retrieve his fee later, when there was no possibility that anyone would notice.

Business was picking up nicely. Word of mouth was, indeed, the best sort of advertising. In addition, the dangerous chess match with March added a euphoric excitement that no drug could equal.

He was well on his way to proving that he was as skilled and clever as Zachary had been. When he had surpassed Zachary’s record of successfully completed commissions and made certain that March knew of that accomplishment, there would be time enough to take his revenge.

Chapter 18

The following morning Tobias dropped heavily into the chair across from Crackenburne. It was early in the day and the club room was nearly empty.

Crackenburne lowered his newspaper and peered at Tobias through his spectacles. “You do not look to be in a good temper. This new investigation is not going well, I take it?”

“Nothing but dead ends and dangling threads thus far.” Tobias sat forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and gazing at the unlit hearth. It was too warm to warrant a fire today, he reflected. “This case is like some damned Gordian knot. No matter how I approach it I cannot seem to find the key to untying it.”

“No luck at the wig-maker’s last night, I take it?”

“I believe the Memento-Mori Man got there ahead of me and murdered the poor man.”

“That must have been the shop where he acquired the wig,” Crackenburne said quietly.

“It is the only explanation that makes sense. But I spent most of the night going through that damned journal, and there was no record of a sale of a blond wig in the entire six months preceding the events at Beaumont Castle. There was, in fact, only one purchase of yellow false hair recorded, and that took place two days
after
Fullerton fell off that roof.”

“You must not blame yourself for the wig-maker’s death.”

Tobias said nothing.

“But of course you do. It is your nature.” Crackenburne exhaled deeply and fell silent for a moment. “What is your next step?” he said eventually.

“Lavinia and Mrs. Dove are pursuing their notion that the murders have all been commissioned by people who wish to stop a marriage from taking place. I must admit their theory is as good as any I’ve managed to concoct. Meanwhile, I’m hoping for word from Smiling Jack.”

“What makes you think that he will be able to assist you?”

“The fact that Zachary Elland seemed to have come out of nowhere has been nagging at me. Perhaps he was not born a gentleman, after all. Perhaps he invented himself as one.”

“He certainly would not have been the first to do so.” Crackenburne frowned. “But I confess, I had not considered that possibility. He moved so easily in Society. All polish and charm and wit. There was no reason not to believe his claim that he was an orphan who was raised by a distant relative who had died.”

“I should have probed more deeply into his past after his death.”

“Do not torture yourself with recriminations,” Crackenburne ordered sternly. “We all assumed that the affair of the Memento-Mori Man had ended with Elland’s suicide. It was a very logical conclusion.”

“It certainly seemed logical at the time,” Tobias muttered.

Crackenburne peered at him. “You look like you aren’t getting enough sleep.”

“The last thing I can afford to do is waste time sleeping. The Memento-Mori Man is not the only problem I have at the moment. Do you know anything about a young man named Dominic Hood? He is about Anthony’s age. Has a keen interest in science. Lodgings over on Stelling Street. Enough money to patronize an expensive tailor.”

“The name is unfamiliar to me. What is your interest in this young man?”

“Anthony has taken a strong dislike to him.”

Crackenburne’s brows bunched in surprise. “Thought Anthony got along well with most people.”

“Indeed. But he seems to feel that Hood is a rival for Miss Emeline’s affections. Although I must say that I saw no sign Miss Emeline was interested in Hood. Nevertheless, I am worried that Tony will do something reckless in that direction.”

“I understand. Young men are hot-blooded creatures, inclined to do foolish things, especially when there is a lady in the middle.” Crackenburne folded his newspaper and set it aside. “Does this Mr. Hood belong to a club?”

“Yes. Anthony's, as a matter of fact.”

“In that case, I can no doubt make some discreet inquiries for you.”

“Thank you, sir. I am grateful.”

The porter, a hunched man of indeterminate years, came to stand near Tobias’s chair.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but there is a rather dirty little boy outside. He claims he has a message for you. Most insistent.”

“I will deal with it.” Tobias gripped the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet. He nodded at Crackenburne. “Good day, sir.”

“Tobias.”

That gave him pause. Crackenburne rarely called him by his given name.

“I am as concerned about this new Memento-Mori Man as you are,” Crackenburne said quietly. “But I am equally concerned about the way in which it is affecting you. Remember, you have no reason to blame yourself because of what happened three years ago. It was not your fault that Zachary Elland became a killer.”

“That is what Lavinia tells me, but I cannot escape the notion that had I not taught him the work of a spy, he would never have developed a taste for dark excitement.”

“That is not true. Elland would have gone to hell one way or another. You must trust me on this matter. I have lived long enough to know that no man becomes a cold-blooded murderer because of some passing twist of fate. The malignancy must be there in him from the very start of his life, either born or bred early in the bone.”

Tobias nodded again, politely, and walked to the door. For all he knew Crackenburne and Lavinia were right. But deep down he feared that he bore some responsibility for what Elland had become. He was well-aware that Aspasia Gray agreed with that view.

The sun shone warmly enough overhead, but it seemed to Lavinia that very little of its heat and light reached into the shadows of the graveyard. The shade cast by the leafy trees fell across the headstones and sepulchral monuments like a dark, transparent shroud.

There was a sad, shabby, unkempt air about the cemetery. The heavy iron gates sagged on their rusted hinges. The high stone wall that surrounded the graves blocked out the sights and sounds of the street. The tiny stone church loomed forlornly. The doors at the top of the steps were closed.

All in all, Lavinia thought, it was a singularly depressing scene. This was the sort of cemetery that was frequented by the so-called Resurrection Men, who supplied fresh bodies to the medical schools. She would not be at all surprised to discover that a good many of these graves had been emptied of their contents long ago.

Not that progress in the field of medical science was not a worthy goal, she reflected. One just hoped that, when the time came, one’s own mortal remains did not end up on a dissecting table at the mercy of a bunch of eager students.

Then again, the vision of being locked up inside a coffin and buried in the ground or walled up in one of these stone crypts was hardly more pleasant. Something deep inside her became quite frantic whenever she pictured herself confined inside a very small, closed space. Even now, just looking at the dark entrance of one of the nearby vaults caused the tiny little insects of panic to nibble at the edges of her mind.

Enough. Stop these silly imaginings. What on earth are you thinking to let this place affect you so strongly? It is just a graveyard, for heaven’s sake.

Perhaps it was her nerves, she thought. They had been in an edgy state all morning. It was easy to blame it on the fact that she had been unable to sleep last night after she and Tobias discovered Swaine’s body. But the truth was, this jumpy, overstimulated sensation had become noticeably worse when she left the house a short time ago. She had hoped that a brisk walk in the warm sunshine would clear her head and calm her. But the reverse had proved true.

Stop thinking about your nerves. There is work to be done.

She drew a deep breath and called upon her mesmeric training to push aside the disturbing thoughts.

She walked along a weedy gravel path and stopped beside Aspasia Gray.

“I got your message,” she said.

“Thank you for meeting me,” Aspasia said in a subdued voice. “I realize that this is not the most cheerful location for a conversation. Indeed, I hope you will not conclude that I am generally inclined toward melodrama. But I wanted to impress upon you something that I feel you have not fully comprehended.”

“What is that?”

“I know you believe that I have designs on Tobias, but that is not the case.” Aspasia looked down at the gravestone. “There is only one man whom I have ever loved or ever will love, and he lies here.”

Lavinia glanced at the simple inscription on the gray stone.
Zachary Elland. Died 1815.
A draft of cold wind seemed to whisper in the dead leaves that covered the grave.

“I see,” she said neutrally.

“We did not know the date of his birth, so we decided to leave it off the stone.” Aspasia gazed fixedly at the granite. “We discovered too late that there was a great deal we did not know about Zachary.”

“We?”

“Tobias and I. We handled the arrangements together. There was no one else, you see.” Aspasia paused. “We were the only ones who bothered to attend the funeral.”

“I understand.”

“Tobias and I shared much together because of Zachary. But we were never intimate. I want you to know that.”

“I am already aware of that fact. Tobias told me.”

Aspasia smiled slightly, knowingly. “And you believe him because you love him and trust him.”

“Yes.”

“That is how I felt about Zachary, you know.”

“I assumed as much. I am very sorry, Aspasia.”

Aspasia returned her attention to the gravestone. “When I first met Zachary, I had no plans to fall in love, let alone commit myself to marriage. I learned my lessons early on, you see.”

“What do you mean?”

“My father was an exceedingly cruel man. He made my mother’s life a hell on earth. Eventually she took an overdose of laudanum to escape. But there was no way out for me. I was forced to suffer his rages and, worse, his unnatural advances until I was sixteen. At that time he contracted a marriage for me. I did not object, even though my husband was many years older. I thought I had been rescued, you see.”

Lavinia said nothing, but it seemed to her that the dead leaves on top of the grave whispered more loudly. She sensed that Aspasia was speaking the truth.

“Instead, I found myself in another kind of hell. My husband was as vicious and cold as my father. It was my great good fortune that he was shot dead by a highwayman one night as he rode home from London. My father died of a fever a short time later.”

“There is no need to talk about these things to me, Aspasia. I know they must be very painful to you.”

“Yes. So exceedingly painful that I have never spoken of them with anyone other than Zachary. I never even told Tobias. But I want you to understand. At seventeen I found myself alone in the world and in command of a substantial fortune. I made up my mind that I would never again allow any man to control my destiny.”

“I know how you must have felt,” Lavinia said quietly.

“I was twenty-five when I met Zachary. I had become a woman of the world. I had taken lovers, but I had never loved. I certainly never imagined for one moment that I could be fooled by a man. But all of my fine plans and convictions flew out the window when I lost my heart to Zachary.”

The dead leaves skittered as though stirred by skeletal fingers.

“I can only imagine what it must have been like for you when you realized that you were engaged to a man who made a career of murder,” Lavinia said. “What caused you to realize his true nature?”

“It was not one single thing that aroused my suspicion. Rather, it was several tiny little events that eventually wove themselves into a pattern I could no longer ignore.”

“What sort of events?”

“There was his obsessive interest in Tobias’s inquiries into the mysterious murders, for one thing. And his comings and goings at odd hours. Zachary always had an excellent, entirely reasonable explanation for his occasional disappearances. But one day, quite by accident, I learned that he had lied to me about where he had been the previous evening. As it happened, it was a night when the Memento-Mori Man had struck.”

“Was that when you realized he might be the killer?”

“No.” Aspasia linked her fingers. “To be honest, I prepared myself for the possibility that Zachary had betrayed me with another woman. I thought my heart would shatter. I had to know the truth.”

“What did you do?”

“He had a safe. I reasoned that if he had any secrets they would be hidden inside. He always kept the key on his person. But one night after we had made love, he fell asleep. I seized the opportunity to make a wax copy of the key. A few evenings later I found an opportunity to go into his study. I opened the safe.” Aspasia grimaced. “I’m sure you can imagine my relief when the first thing I saw was a journal of accounts.”

“What made you realize that the journal was no ordinary record of business transactions?”

“I grew curious when I realized that it was not a journal of household expenses such as many gentlemen keep. Rather, it was a list of dates and fees. It looked like a tradesman’s book of accounts. But that made no sense.”

“Because Zachary Elland was a gentleman?”

“Precisely. He did not operate a business. I told myself that it was a record of his wins at the gaming tables. But I soon realized that the dates of the so-called transactions matched some of the information concerning the deaths that Tobias was investigating.”

“You knew about the details of his inquiries?”

“Of course.” Aspasia sighed. “Tobias sat up many a night discussing the murders with Zachary. I was with them on several of those occasions. I even offered my own opinions. Tobias is one of those rare men who actually listens when a woman has something to say, as I’m sure you know. Zachary shared that trait. It was one of the many things that I . . . loved about him.”

“What happened after you found the journal?”

“I discovered the small casket of memento-mori rings at the back of the safe.” Aspasia’s voice dropped to a tortured whisper. “I could not believe my own eyes. I went straight to Tobias with the journal. I wanted him to tell me that I had got it all wrong. But I think I knew, deep in my heart, that all was lost. When Zachary found the open safe with the journal gone, he realized that his secrets had been stolen.”