Late for the Wedding (27 page)

Anthony saw the flare of candlelight emanating from the door of a bedchamber at the end of a long hall. A cloaked figure appeared in the entrance of the room, silhouetted by the glare behind him.

“There he is,” he yelled at Dominic.

They charged forward. The intruder left the doorway and fled in the opposite direction. When he reached the end of the hall, he whirled to face them, the wings of his cloak flaring wide.

“Watch out,” Dominic said. “He might have a pistol.”

They slowed warily. But the intruder did not pull out a weapon. Instead, he yanked open another door and disappeared down the back stairs.

“Bloody hell.” Anthony launched himself forward again. “He’s getting away.”

“Tony, the bedchamber,” Dominic shouted. “He set it ablaze.”

Anthony became aware of the fact that the glow of light from the doorway of the bedchamber was too intense for a candle flame. He slammed to a halt, spinning around to stare into the room. Dominic was already inside, using a blanket to beat at the flames that leaped at the end of a massive four-poster bed.

A thin man in a nightcap cowered against the pillows, arms flailing helplessly. “Save me, save me! She tried to smother me. Tried to murder me in my own bed.”

Anthony seized a heavy quilt. Dominic grabbed the other end. They flung it over the bedding in an attempt to smother the flames.

The killer ran through the streets, barely able to think clearly enough to follow the map in his mind. When he could not run any farther, he ducked into an alley to catch his breath. He yanked off the blond wig and the cloak and dropped both on the paving stones.

Chest heaving, he stood for a moment, trying to collect his senses and his nerve. Bloody hell, but that had been close. Much too close this time. His heart was pounding, and he knew it was not just because of the mad dash to safety. He could no longer deny the fear. It surged through him, clouding his brain and making him want to vomit.
Was this how it was for you, Zachary? Did you ever know this frantic, gut-twisting sensation?

He still could not fathom the fact that he had been so nearly caught in the act. Where had those two come from to loose that shower of fire in the street and hound him through the house, chasing him away before he could complete his business?

But he knew the answer. Miss Emeline and Miss Priscilla had lied through their pretty teeth. March and his companion had not only made significant progress in their investigations, they had identified him as a suspect.

March had set that pair to watch him tonight. They had followed him, hoping to catch him in the act.

The game was finished. March had won.

He glanced back at the little heap of clothing and the blond wig. That was all the evidence that existed to connect him to this night’s botched business. He would leave them here. Even if someone found the items, they could not be linked to him.

Nevertheless, he dared not take any more chances. March had friends in high places.

He moved cautiously out of the alley. When he was sure that there was no one about, he broke into a run again. He had a good head start. It would take those two some time to deal with the fire and make their report to March. He needed only a few minutes, he reminded himself. He had been well-trained in his craft. He was prepared for any contingency, even failure.

He would vanish for a while, he promised himself. Perhaps he would go to Paris for a year or two. Or mayhap Italy. When he returned the next time, he would come back as a gentleman. No one would recognize him, let alone connect him to the murders he had committed this summer.

The thought steadied his nerves as he fled through the moonlit night.

A short time later Anthony stood beside Dominic and peered glumly into the darkness of the back stairs. He slammed the palm of his hand against the wall.

“Damnation. We almost had him.”

“He set that fire to distract us when he realized we were about to awaken the household with the fireworks.” Dominic shoved his fingers through his hair. “He gave himself plenty of time to get away.”

“Well, one thing is for certain. He knows now that he’s been found out. He’ll no doubt have disappeared into the stews or bolted for some safe place where he thinks he can hide.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any point going back to his lodgings,” Anthony muttered. “He won’t be fool enough to hang around now.”

“I do not look forward to informing March that we flushed out our quarry and then lost him.”

“Neither do I.” Anthony closed his fist around the ring he had discovered on the bedside table. “But it is not as though we had a great deal of choice in the matter. That damned hairdresser was willing to burn down this entire house and everyone inside in order to make good his escape.”

“Come.” Dominic turned away from the staircase. “We’ve got to find March. I hope he has returned from his latest visit to the stews.”

Anthony swung around and followed him swiftly down the hall.

The killer entered his lodgings through the back door, the same way he had left a short while ago. He stood there in the deep shadows, breathing so hard that the air rasped in his lungs. The rage and fear were still pouring through him. He wanted to smash something.

“Damn him, damn him, damn him,” he chanted into the darkness.

He could not dawdle, he reminded himself. He had to move swiftly. There would be time enough for vengeance against March later. Time enough to prove that the man could be beaten.

He went into the bedchamber and shifted aside the picture on the wall. Placing the flat of his hand on a section of the wood, he pressed gently. The panel slid open on a soundless whisper of well-oiled hinges.

He opened the safe and took out the pistol, the letter, the remaining memento-mori rings, and the jewelry and money that his clients had given him in exchange for his services.

His next stop was the wardrobe. He would take only one change of clothing. He hated to leave the rest of his fine garments behind, but he could not afford to be encumbered with luggage. The tenets of his training were strict on that point. When flight was necessary, one fled with as little as possible.

He opened the door of the wardrobe and found himself looking into the face of his killer.

Before he could even react to the shock, the murderer put the pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger.

Chapter 29

Tobias held the lantern up so that the glare illuminated the back door of the hairdresser’s lodgings. Anthony and Dominic stood slightly behind him, watching tensely as he tried the knob.

“Unlocked.” Tobias handed the lantern to Dominic and took out his pistol. “I doubt if he is still here, but I do not want either of you to take chances. Stay behind me.”

“He will be miles away by now,” Anthony grumbled. “We almost had him, Tobias.”

“If he had not had the wit to set that fire, we would have caught him,” Dominic agreed.

“You did the right thing,” Tobias said. “You had no choice but to deal with the blaze. Do not blame yourselves for Pierce’s escape. If you had not interfered, Sir Rupert would be dead by now. The old cook as well, I suspect.”

He opened the door so suddenly that it banged against the wall. The lantern light slanted across the empty kitchen.

He moved warily through the small room. Anthony and Dominic followed.

“Give me the lantern,” Tobias said quietly.

Anthony handed it to him. He set it on the floor and used the toe of his boot to push it out into the narrow hall. No shadows flickered on the wall. There was no movement in the small parlor.

Tobias leaned around the corner. From here he had a clear view of the sitting room. Satisfied that it was empty, he stepped out into the hall, picked up the lantern, and, hugging the wall, went swiftly toward the door of the darkened bedchamber.

The scent of fresh death hit him before he saw the body on the floor.

“The hairdresser is still here,” he said flatly.

Dominic and Anthony came to stand beside him. They stared at the horrific scene.

“His head.” Dominic sounded odd. “His head. There’s so much blood and . . . and other stuff.”

“God have mercy,” Anthony whispered.

It occurred to Tobias that this was the first time either of the younger men had encountered violent death.

“Stay here, both of you,” he ordered.

He went cautiously into the room so as to avoid damaging any useful evidence. But there were no bloody footprints, no bits of fabric torn in a scuffle. No signs at all that anyone other than Pierce had been here tonight.

The hairdresser lay sprawled facedown in a dark pool of congealing liquid, lifeless fingers loosely wrapped around the handle of the pistol.

“He must have known that it was over.” Anthony swallowed audibly. “He realized that we were hard on his heels and that it was only a matter of time before we saw him hang. So he elected to cheat the gallows.”

“He took his own life.” Dominic wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “The gentleman’s way out.”

Tobias looked down at the dead man. “Just like his brother.”

Shortly before daybreak, Lavinia went with Tobias to give the news to Aspasia. She came downstairs at once when her sleepy housekeeper informed her that she had callers. She had obviously still been in bed, but Lavinia noted that she somehow managed to appear very fashionable in a dark satin dressing gown, soft kid slippers, and a little lace cap.

“Pierce shot himself?” Aspasia sank down onto the sofa. “Dear heaven. Just like Zachary.”

“After Anthony and Dominic nearly caught him in the act of committing murder tonight, he must have realized that it was finished,” Tobias said.

Lavinia watched him move to stand in front of the darkened hearth. She sensed the tension in him. He had been like this, restless and brooding, when she opened the door to him a short while ago. She had given him a large glass of the brandy he had provided for himself, but it did nothing to soothe his spirits. He told her the tale of the night’s events. She had elected to accompany him when he said that he was going to take the news to Aspasia.

“I don’t understand,” Aspasia said, clutching the edges of the dressing gown at her throat. She looked bewildered. “From what you tell me, he had a head start. Why would he not simply flee the country?”

“I cannot pretend to know his mind,” Tobias said. “But from the beginning, this entire affair has been about imitating his brother. Perhaps when he realized that he had been found out, he decided to leave this world the same way Zachary did.”

“By his own hand.” Aspasia closed her eyes briefly. “It is all so dreadful.”

“Tobias talked to an old woman in the stews tonight who once sold babes and children,” Lavinia said gently. “Several years ago she provided two young boys to a man who told her that he had no sons of his own and wanted apprentices to take over his business.”

“I think her client was the original Memento-Mori Man,” Tobias said, never taking his eyes off the cold hearth. “It appears that his apprentices did, indeed, try to carry on in his footsteps.”

“And now both are dead,” Lavinia said quietly.

The battered hackney carriage that had conveyed them to Aspasia’s address was waiting for them in the street when they left a short time later. Tobias handed Lavinia up into the cab and then got in and took the seat across from her. In the weak glow of the interior lamp, his face was stark and grim.

“I know how this case has plagued you.” She grasped the handhold to steady herself as the aging vehicle jerked into motion. “But it is over now.”

“Yes.” He looked out the window into the night.

She sensed the darkness in him and knew that he was in danger of sinking down into his own private little corner of hell.

“You will no doubt feel more yourself in the morning,” she assured him.

“No doubt.”

She searched her brain for some other means of breaking through the ice in which he had encased himself. When she came up with nothing helpful, she decided to take the forthright approach.

“Very well, sir, out with it. You are in a very odd mood for a man who has just concluded a successful inquiry into a case of murder. What is wrong?”

For a moment she did not think that he would respond. But eventually he turned his head to look at her.

“Pierce was not much older than Anthony and Dominic,” he said without inflection.

Quite suddenly she understood.

“And not much older than Sweet Ned either.” She reached across the small space and took his big hands in hers. “Tobias, you cannot save them all. You do what you can and that is all that you can do. It is enough. It
must
be enough. If you do not accept that truth, you will succumb to a sense of despair that will make it impossible for you to save anyone.”

His fingers clamped fiercely around hers. The storms in his eyes threatened to sweep her down into the depths. He did not speak, but after a while he pulled her into his arms.

They held each other until the hackney came to a halt at her front door.

Tobias got out, handed her down, and walked with her up the steps. She opened her reticule and found her key.

“There is something else,” he said, watching her fit the key into the lock.

She looked up quickly. “What is it?”

“This affair is not yet finished.”

“But Pierce is dead by his own hand. What else is there to discover?”

“The identity of the Memento-Mori Man.”

“But, Tobias, you said yourself, it is likely that he is no longer alive and, if he is, he will be quite elderly. Why do you feel you must find him?”

“I want to know who was responsible for turning two young boys into professional murderers.”

Chapter 30

Lavinia saw the lamp in the shop window the following afternoon. It was a lovely piece designed to imitate an antiquity in the Roman style. The delicately carved relief depicted the story of Alexander cutting the Gordian knot.

It was perfect.

Without a moment’s hesitation, she entered the shop.

“Wedgwood,” the shopkeeper informed her. “Lovely, is it not? Just the thing for a gentleman’s study.”

She held the lamp in the palm of her hand for a moment, enjoying the feel of it and imagining what it would look like sitting on Tobias’s desk.

“Yes, it will do nicely,” she said.

A few minutes later she was back outside on the street, the lamp safely swathed in several layers of protective paper tied up with a string. She put the package into the basket she carried on her arm, nestling it among the ripe peaches she had purchased on a whim from a fruit seller on the corner. If nothing else, the fruit would make a pleasant change of pace from currants.

She paused in the shop doorway to raise her parasol.

At the end of the street Aspasia Gray, dressed in a stunning walking gown and fine kid half boots, alighted from a dashing little carriage. She walked toward the door of a dressmaker’s shop.

Lavinia watched her disappear through the doorway.

On impulse, she decided to take a different route back to Claremont Lane.

This was probably not the most brilliant notion that she’d had in her brief career as a private-inquiry agent, she thought a short time later when she found herself in the park across the street from Aspasia’s town house. But now that the notion had come to her, she found she could not put it aside. Her intuition was in full bloom, filling her with a sense of great urgency.

It was not only Tobias who was obsessed with the sense that this case had not yet ended, she realized. She had awakened with a similar certainty this morning.

There was only one other person in the small park. An elderly man dozed on a wrought-iron bench, his gloved hands folded on the head of the walking stick propped between his knees.

He opened his eyes when she went past and regarded her with politely veiled masculine appreciation. She suspected that he had been something of a charmer in his younger days.

“There is nothing lovelier than a redheaded woman in a park on a summer afternoon,” he said in a low, raspy voice. “Good day to you, madam.”

She paused and smiled. “Good day to you, sir. I did not mean to awaken you from your nap.”

He moved one hand in a surprisingly graceful gesture. “I have no objection to being awakened. My dreams are those of an old man and therefore not of great import.”

“Rubbish. Everyone’s dreams are important.” Impulsively, she reached into her basket, selected a peach, and held it out to him. “Would you like one of these? I could not resist them. They looked so plump and juicy.”

“How kind of you.” He took the peach from her gloved fingers and regarded it with a small, private smile. “I will enjoy this very much.”

“You’re welcome. And do not ever tell yourself that your dreams are not important.”

“Even if they are the dreams of my younger days and came to naught?”

She contemplated that for a moment. “It is surely a wonderful thing when one’s dreams are realized. But in truth, that does not happen very often, does it?”

“No, it does not.”

“Perhaps it is for the best. Not all dreams are good. Some are no doubt best left unfulfilled, and others are probably never meant to be given shape and substance.”

“I will not quarrel with that, my dear,” he murmured. “But allow me to tell you that, from the perspective of my years, some dreams are worth the risk required to make them real.”

“I believe you.” She hesitated. “Perhaps what really matters in the end is that we took some action to make our finest dreams come true. Even if we fail, we will have the satisfaction of knowing that it was not because we lacked for strength of will and determination.”

“Ah, a philosopher after my own heart.” He smiled. “I could not agree with you more, my dear. It would be a sad thing, indeed, to look back at the end of one’s life and know that one had lacked the resolve to take a few risks, eh?”

She found herself transfixed by his vivid blue eyes. “Something tells me, sir, that if your dreams failed, it was not because you lacked resolve.”

“And something tells me, my dear, that we are alike in that regard.” He took a small penknife out of his pocket and started to peel the peach. “I am glad that you still have many years left in which to shape your dreams. My doctor has informed me that I only have about six months. A bad heart, I’m told.”

She frowned. “Bah, pay no attention to the doctors. They are wrong more often than not when it comes to predicting that sort of thing. None of us knows how much time is allotted to us.”

“True enough.” He took a bite of the peach, eyes narrowed with a pleasure that was almost sensual.

“There is an herbalist in Wren Street named Mrs. Morgan,” she said. “My mother always claimed that she was far more skilled than any doctor. I suggest that you seek her out and tell her about your symptoms. She may be able to prescribe a tonic that will help you.”

“Thank you for the advice. I shall follow it.” He ate another bite of peach. “Come here to enjoy the sun, did you?”

“Well, no, not exactly.” She glanced at the door of Aspasia’s town house. “I am going to call on someone who lives here in the square.”

He followed her gaze, squinting a little. “Would that be Number Seventeen you’re looking at?”

“It would.”

He returned his attention to the peach. “The lady who lives there has gone out for the afternoon. Saw her depart in her carriage a short time ago.”

“Really?” Lavinia murmured smoothly. “How unfortunate. It appears I have missed her. Well, then, I’ll just leave my card with her housekeeper.”

“Housekeeper’s not home either.” He took another loving bite of the peach. “I saw an urchin go to the door. He must have given her a message, because a short time later she took off in a great hurry.”

“Indeed.”

She had planned to talk her way into the house by persuading the housekeeper that she had important news for Aspasia and would await her return.
No need to put me in the drawing room. The library or Mrs. Gray’s study will do nicely.
She had hoped to have an opportunity to look around a bit when the housekeeper inevitably retreated to the kitchen to make tea. If nothing else, a visitor could always make the excuse that she needed to use the necessary.

Admittedly, the plan had been somewhat vague and she really had no idea whatsoever of what it was she hoped to discover. But she felt compelled to learn more about Aspasia Gray.

“There is no one at home.” The old man raised his bushy brows. “It would appear that you’ll have to come back another time.”

“Evidently.” She stepped back. “Well, I must be off. Do not forget the herbalist in Wren Street.”

“I won’t.” He pocketed the knife. “I shall not forget our little discussion of dreams either.”

“Neither will I. Good day, sir.” She gave him another smile and walked away.

She crossed the street and went to the corner. There she paused to glance back over her shoulder. The old man had finished the peach and returned to his nap. His chin was tipped forward onto his chest.

She darted into the narrow alley that led behind the town houses and counted garden gates until she reached the one that serviced Number 17.

The gate was latched from the other side, and the top of the stone wall was several inches above her head. She required something to stand on if she hoped to get over it.

She glanced around and saw an old ladder that had doubtless been left behind by a gardener. It was the work of only a moment to angle it against the stone wall of Number 17. She climbed quickly to the top. When she looked down she saw a conveniently placed bench.

Hiking up her skirts, she got first one leg and then the other over the top of the wall. She lowered herself to the bench.

All was silent and still at the back of Number 17. She made her way to the kitchen door and opened her reticule to remove her new lock picks.

She was chagrined that the business of picking the lock took her far longer than it would have taken Tobias. But in the end, she heard the satisfying
clink
that told her she had been successful.

She stopped breathing for a few seconds, opened the door, and stepped stealthily into the back hall. A cramped staircase designed for the use of the servants was to her left. The lure was irresistible.

Intuition told her that if Aspasia Gray had any secrets, they would be hidden upstairs in her most private chambers.

Tobias sat down at his desk and slowly opened the journal of accounts that had belonged to the murdered wig-maker. He did not know what he hoped to discover this time that he had not found the first time he went through Swaine’s transactions, but he was certain he had missed something important.

Last night he had told Lavinia that he wanted to find out who schooled Zachary Elland and Pierce in the art of murder. But later, alone in his bed, he had dreamed about wigs, the journal of accounts, and the memory of Pierce handing a small business card to Lavinia.

When he awoke shortly before dawn he knew that the case was not yet concluded. There was another murderer, one who would soon kill again.

Emeline stood in the lobby of the Institute with Priscilla and watched Anthony and Dominic come up the steps.

Each was once again dressed in the first stare of fashion, and there did not appear to be any signs of hostility between them. Nevertheless, she could see at once that something was wrong. Both men moved in a somber and deliberate manner.

“I vow, they look as if they have been asked to dig some graves,” Priscilla said.

Emeline recalled what Lavinia had told her about how Anthony and Dominic were with Mr. March when the hairdresser’s body was found. “The scene in Mr. Pierce’s bedchamber must have been quite ghastly last night.”

Priscilla swallowed. “I can certainly understand that it might not have left either of them in a mood for a science lecture today. I am not feeling particularly enthusiastic myself. It is quite troubling to imagine Mr. Pierce lying there on the floor in a puddle of blood, is it not? He was so young and handsome and talented.”

“Indeed, and if it is difficult for us, one can only imagine how it must have been for Anthony and Dominic. I know that they have both lost people they loved in the past, but I heard Tobias tell Aunt Lavinia that neither of them had ever before witnessed such a violent and bloody end.”

“I suggest we forgo the lecture and find a shop where we can purchase some lemonade and talk quietly,” Priscilla said.

“Excellent notion.”

The entry in the wig-maker’s journal was so succinct as to be maddening.

One wig of medium-length yellow hair

The price and the date of sale were neatly noted, but there was no clue to the identity of the person who had made the purchase. Tobias contemplated the date for a long moment. There was no getting around the fact that it had been sold two days
after
the Beaumont house party. The murderer could not have worn it at the castle.

There had to be an earlier sale of a blond wig. There was no other reason for the wig-maker to have been murdered. Perhaps Swaine had forgotten to note the color in one of the transactions. Rather than search for the records of blond or yellow wigs, maybe he would do well to examine each entry individually and see if he had missed something of significance, Tobias thought.

Fashionable ladies used a variety of fanciful names to describe the colors of their gowns, he reminded himself. He’d heard Lavinia and Emeline toss around words and phrases such as
Russian flame, aurora,
and
pomona
when talking about the latest hues and shades. Perhaps the wig-maker had applied some word other than yellow or blond to describe a pale-haired wig.

Emeline caught Priscilla’s eye across the small table and nodded slightly. Priscilla responded with a knowing look. Forgoing the lecture had been the correct decision.

Anthony and Dominic had been willing enough to agree to the change in plans and had accompanied them to the little shop where they all purchased glasses of lemonade and some small cakes. But both men remained subdued. Conversation had been stilted at best, until Emeline came straight out and asked for a complete description of what had occurred the previous night.

“I think we have the right to know,” she said gently. “After all, Priscilla and I were both involved in the investigation.”

It was as though a dam had been breached. Anthony and Dominic started to talk, taking turns to relate the entire tale from beginning to end. Eventually they reached the conclusion.

“There was so much blood.” Anthony wrapped his fingers very tightly around the glass. “It was impossible to credit how much of it there was.”

Dominic stared into his own lemonade. “Mr. March turned him over to examine the wound. I vow, I could not have done such a thing myself.”

“Mr. March has encountered violent death on several occasions,” Emeline pointed out. “I expect that he has learned how to fortify himself against the sight.”

“And the smell,” Anthony muttered.

Priscilla clasped her hands in her lap. “I cannot imagine putting a pistol to one’s own head and pulling the trigger.”

Dominic said nothing. He continued to ponder his glass of lemonade.

“The pistol was still there in his hand when we found him,” Anthony said. He looked down at his own fingers clutching the lemonade glass.

They all followed his gaze. No one said a word for a few seconds; they just gazed morbidly at his right hand.

A prickle of dread crept through Emeline. She did not take her eyes off Anthony’s fingers.

“Which hand?” she whispered.

Anthony looked up with a quizzical expression. “I beg your pardon?”

“You are holding that glass in your right hand.” She swallowed. “Was that how you found Mr. Pierce last night? With the pistol clutched in his right hand?”