Late for the Wedding

by Amanda Quick

  It struck Anthony that he had never seen a lady sitting on the floor.

  “How exciting,” Emeline said. She hurried around to the other side of the desk to watch. “May I come with you?”

  “No, you may not,” Tobias said decisively. “One overeager apprentice is all I can manage to supervise at a time.” He eyed Anthony over the rim of the sherry glass. “You look pleased with yourself. Did you learn something useful today?”

  This was a perfect opportunity to affect the same air of cool competence that Tobias always exhibited on this sort of occasion, Anthony reminded himself.

  He lounged very deliberately against the side of the desk and folded his arms. “I think we may have found the source of the memento-mori rings.”

  Lavinia’s head shot up again, her eyes bright with admiration. “Did you, indeed? Why, that is excellent news.”

  “Very good work,” Tobias said quietly.

  Anthony felt the facade of coolness slip a little, allowing some of his pride and satisfaction to show. Praise from Tobias always had this effect on him, he thought. This was the man he admired most in the world, his model and pattern for all things masculine—except for matters sartorial, he reminded himself with affectionate amusement. His mentor’s insistence that his coats be cut for ease of movement rather than style and his lack of interest in intricate neckcloth knots would forever keep Tobias from becoming a paragon of fashion.

  “Emeline deserves most of the credit,” he said, nodding in her direction. “She charmed the owner of the museum into admitting the loss of the rings.”

  “But it was Anthony who suggested that we make some inquiries at that odd little museum after we had no luck with the antiquities dealers,” Emeline said quickly. “It was a stroke of genius.”

  Anthony grimaced. “More like a stroke of desperation.”

  “What’s this about a museum?” Lavinia asked.

  “We were getting nowhere with the dealers,” Anthony explained. “But one of them mentioned that there was a large collection of memento-mori rings at a certain little museum in Peg Street. I thought we had little to lose, so we decided to make inquiries there.”

  “The proprietor insisted that we purchase a ticket before he would talk to us,” Emeline said. “And when we told him that we were especially interested in the rings, he became quite agitated.”

  “But Emeline soothed him with a few smiles and gentle words,” Anthony said. “And eventually he confided that his collection had been stolen.”

  Tobias did not move in his chair. “When?”

  Anthony recognized the lethally sharp edge on the single word.

  It was a very fortunate thing, indeed, he thought, that his brother-in-law was obsessed with justice and the righting of wrongs. Such skills in a man who was not bound by such a strict private code of honor would have been terrifying.

  “The museum proprietor said that he noticed the rings had gone missing some two months back.” Anthony pulled out his notebook and flipped it open. “I asked him if he could recall anyone expressing a special interest in them shortly before the theft.”

  “Excellent question,” Tobias said. “And the answer?”

  Anthony glanced at Emeline and inclined his head.

  She could scarcely contain herself. “A day or two before the rings vanished, the proprietor noticed a woman with yellow hair examining them quite closely.”

  Lavinia scrambled to her feet. “A blond woman? Really?”

  “Yes.” Anthony snapped the notebook shut. “Unfortunately, the proprietor did not get a good look at her features because she wore a large hat with a heavy veil.”

  “Age?” Tobias demanded in that same edgy tone. “Physical size?”

  “Unfortunately, he was very vague on such details,” Anthony said. “It has been over two months, after all. The only thing that seems to have stood out clearly in his memory was the woman’s yellow hair.”

  Tobias raised his brows. “He recalled that detail, did he?”

  “Quite vividly,” Anthony said.

  “A lady in disguise?” Emeline asked.

  “More likely a man dressed as a woman,” Tobias said.

  Anthony snorted. “I must tell you, your theory that we are chasing a man who wears women’s clothes to conceal his identity strikes me as extremely bizarre.”

  Tobias cocked a brow. “It is not as uncommon as one might think.”

  Anthony chuckled. “You jest, sir.”

  “Why should it be so startling?” Lavinia said. “Ladies’ fashions have often imitated those of gentlemen. One need only recall all those stylish little hats and jackets that resembled military uniforms a few years ago, for example. I vow, every fashionable lady owned one or two such garments.”

  “Yes, but they were designed to be worn with gowns,” Anthony said. “Not trousers.”

  “You know, I have often thought that there are occasions when it would be very convenient to wear trousers rather than skirts,” Lavinia mused.

  “Yes, indeed,” Emeline said enthusiastically. “So much more comfortable and practical.”

  Anthony stared at her, too shocked to speak.

  “Take tonight, for example,” Lavinia continued. “If I were to wear trousers when we break into the wig-maker’s shop, I could move far more freely.”

  “When you consider the matter,” Emeline said, “our profession is of such a nature that there will no doubt be many occasions when trousers would be the perfect attire. I wonder if we could persuade Madam Francesca to design some for us?”

  Lavinia looked at her. “What a positively brilliant notion.”

  Anthony finally found his voice. He glared at Emeline. “What the devil are you saying? You know perfectly well that you cannot go about in trousers.”

  She smiled very sweetly. “Whyever not, sir?”

  “Uh.” The simple question brought him to a grinding halt. He looked at Tobias for assistance.

  “Bloody hell.” Tobias downed the last of his sherry, got to his feet, and went toward the door. “Come along, Tony. We had best make our escape while we can. I do not believe that it would be wise for either of us to hang about for the rest of this conversation.”

  Anthony took one last look at Emeline’s determined expression and concluded that Tobias was right. He was not prepared to fight this particular battle.

  He quickly made his farewells and followed his brother-in-law into the front hall.

  “You do not think they are serious, do you?” he asked as they went down the steps to the street. “About the trousers, I mean?”

  “When it comes to Mrs. Lake I have learned to take everything she says quite seriously. I suspect you had best do the same with Miss Emeline. The alternative is to risk being taken by surprise. Never a wise position for one in our profession.”

  “They were no doubt teasing us.”

  “I would not depend upon that assumption, if I were you.”

  Anthony hesitated and then elected to abandon the topic. “Speaking of our profession, there is a question I wish to ask. It has to do with technique.”

  “What is it?”

  “How does one set about making inquiries into a gentleman’s background?”

  Tobias gave him a hard, searching look. “With extreme caution. Why do you ask?”

  “I am concerned about Hood.”

  “You mean that you are jealous of him, do you not?” Tobias asked in a low tone. “I assure you, there is no need.”

  Anthony set his jaw. “I do not like the way he watches Emeline.”

  “Calm yourself, Tony. Miss Emeline has eyes for no man but you. Take my advice and do not go prying into Hood’s affairs. Gentlemen, as a rule, do not take kindly to invasions of privacy. Some would view such inquiries as extreme insults. One misstep and you could find yourself invited to a dawn appointment.”

  “I just want to be assured that he is no threat to Miss Emeline.”

  Tobias was quiet for a moment. “I’ll ask Crackenburne to s
ee what he can find out about Hood,” he said finally. “He is in a position to make discreet inquiries without arousing interest or suspicion.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Meanwhile, I want your word that you will not do anything foolish in that direction,” Tobias said. “I am very serious about this, Tony. Men have died in duels for lesser cause.”

  “Yes, I know.” He adjusted the tilt of his hat with unnecessary care, angling the brim just enough to keep the afternoon sun out of his eyes. “My father, for example.”

  Tobias shielded the small flame of the candle with his hand and watched Lavinia work on the lock of the back door of the wig-maker’s shop. She crouched on the step, the folds of her dark cloak draped around her, and bent industriously to her task.

  There was a near-full moon tonight and no clouds. The silvery light illuminated the entire city in an otherworldly glow. The beams seeped into even the narrowest alleys and lanes, making their task simpler in some ways and more dangerous in others: the same moon that made it easier for them to see also made it easier for others to see them.

  There was a soft click.

  “I’ve got it,” she whispered, sounding thrilled with herself.

  “Hush.” He glanced over his shoulder, checking once again for shadows or signs of movement.

  Nothing shifted in the night. A lamp shone faintly in a room above a shop at the far end of the street, but all of the neighboring establishments were shrouded in darkness. He listened to the silence for a few seconds and was satisfied.

  “All right,” he said quietly. “Let’s go inside.”

  Lavinia rose and twisted the knob cautiously. The door opened with a rusty squeak.

  Stale, fetid air wafted out of the interior of the shop. It was laced with an underlying stench that was all too familiar.

  “Dear God.” Lavinia gasped and tugged the edge of her cloak across her nose and mouth. She looked at Tobias, her eyes widening in appalled comprehension.

  He realized that she, too, understood what the dreadful smell implied. This was not the first time they had engaged in a midnight encounter with the dead.

  “I’ll go first,” he said.

  Lavinia did not object.

  He raised the candle and surveyed the small back room of the wig shop. It was tightly packed with the articles of the proprietor’s trade.

  Bald display busts were heaped in a large basket. In the flickering light the heads resembled nothing so much as the ghastly fruits of the guillotine.

  Several wigs of various shades and shapes were spread out across a table. To Tobias, they looked like the skins of dead animals. Implements including scissors and combs were neatly arranged beside a stack of toupees. A small loom designed for weaving false hair occupied a nearby bench. The half-finished length of a dark brown hairpiece hung from it.

  He raised the candle higher and saw a narrow flight of stairs that led to the rooms above the shop. The steps extended upward into thick gloom.

  The foot of the staircase was concealed behind a crate, but he could make out a bit of crumpled white cloth and a stocking-clad foot.

  “I think we have just found Swaine.” He went toward the bottom of the stairs.

  Lavinia trailed after him.

  Tobias came to a halt and raised the candle to examine the scene. The body was that of a balding elderly man dressed in a nightshirt. The victim sprawled facedown in a dreadfully tangled, most unnatural manner. There was a vast amount of dried blood on the floor beneath his head.

  Lavinia stopped a short distance away and pulled her cloak more tightly around her. She gazed sadly at the body.

  “Do you think he got up in the middle of the night and perhaps tripped and fell on the stairs?” she whispered without much hope.

  “No.” Tobias bent down to examine the head wound. “I suspect he was struck from behind with some heavy object and then pushed down these stairs so the deed would appear to be an accident. I would say that the murder was done fairly recently. Sometime within the past day or two, I believe.”

  “Perhaps he surprised a burglar.”

  He straightened and looked up into the darkness at the top of the stairs. “Perhaps.” But his instincts told him that whoever had murdered the shopkeeper had been no ordinary burglar. “I will go upstairs and look around.”

  Lavinia turned on her heel, spotted a candlestick with an unlit taper, and picked it up. She lit the candle from his flame.

  “I’ll search the front room of the shop,” she said.

  He stepped cautiously over the body and started up the steps. “Look for business records and recent receipts.” He paused briefly. “And a ring.”

  She looked up at him. “You think this is the work of the Memento-Mori Man?”

  “You know how I feel about coincidences.”

  At the top of the staircase he found a cozy room furnished with a desk, chair, table, and a small carpet. The quality of the objects gave evidence of quiet prosperity but not great wealth. A doorway led to a tiny bedchamber.

  One of the fireplace pokers lay on the cold hearth. He picked it up and examined it in the light of the candle. There were tiny bits of gore and gray hair stuck to it. The wig-maker had certainly not fallen accidentally to his death.

  He searched the adjoining room, rummaging methodically through the small wardrobe and the drawers of the washstand. A variety of wigs hung from pegs on the wall. Evidently the late Mr. Swaine had worn some of his own creations.

  When he was finished, he went back into the front room and started to search the desk. Downstairs he heard muffled noises that told him Lavinia was going through some cupboards.

  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.