Late For The Wedding l&m-3

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  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 red headed 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 Domini
c were with Mr. March when the hairdresser’s body was found. “The scene in Mr. Pierce’s bed chamber 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?”

  “Yes,” Anthony said.

  Priscilla went very still. “You’re quite certain that it was his right hand?”

  “Flung out to the side beside his head.” Dominic demonstrated by holding up his own right hand. “Like this.”

  Emeline looked at Priscilla and saw evidence of the same shocked comprehension that was sweeping through her.

  “Oh, dear,” Priscilla said. “Something is very wrong here.”

  Tobias ran his finger once again along the list of transactions that Swaine had made the day of the house party at Beaumont Castle. Again he stopped cold midway down the page. He studied the wig-maker’s brief notation concerning one particular sale as intently as though it had been written down in a secret code. He knew how Alexander must have felt when he finally gave up trying to untie the Gordian knot and took a sword to the problem.

  He closed the journal of accounts and got to his feet. A great sense of impending doom descended on him. “Of course.”

  He heard footsteps pounding in the hall just as he reached for his coat. Anthony had not run through the house like that since he was a youngster. There was someone else with him. Dominic, no doubt. Those two were rapidly becoming inseparable.

  The door of the study burst open. Anthony and Dominic rushed into the room looking like two tubes of fireworks ready to explode.

  “Tobias, he was left-handed,” Anthony shouted.

  “Emeline and Priscilla are sure of it.” Dominic slammed to a halt. “They spent an entire afternoon with him when he curled their hair, and they remember very clearly that Mr. Pierce was left-handed.”

  “Thank you, gentlemen.” Tobias opened the desk and took out his pistol. Your information conforms with my own memory. I recall that when he handed Mrs. Lake his business card, Pierce used his left hand. No, the hairdresser did not commit suicide. He was murdered, just as Zachary Elland was murdered three years ago.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To continue my investigation.” He came around the edge of the desk and strode toward the door. “This matter is far from finished. I need your assistance once again.”

  “Of course,” Anthony said.

  “What do you want us to do?” Dominic asked.

  The shock of the sobering events of last night was wearing off rapidly, Tobias thought. Perhaps both of them were, indeed, cut out for this line of work.

  “Where are Miss Emeline and Miss Priscilla?”

  “We left them in the lemonade shop.”

  “Go back and collect them immediately. Escort them to Mrs. Lake’s house.” Tobias walked swiftly along the hall. “Stay there with them, and do not let any of the ladies out of your sight until I come to tell you that they are safe.”

  Whitby, a stoic expression on his face, already had the front door open. Tobias went through it and down the steps to the street.

  “What is it?” Dominic was hard on his heels. “Do you have reason to believe that they may be in danger?”

  “Yes,” Tobias said. “Mrs. Lake most of all.”

  The old man looked up at the woman who had stopped in front of his bench.

  “There is nothing lovelier than the sight of a beautiful woman in the park on a sunny day,” he murmured.

  “I doubt that you have been capable of doing anything more than look at a woman in several decades, old man,” she said coldly.

  He shrugged. “I still have a few dreams.”

  “They are no doubt as tired and faded as you are.”

  “You may be right. My doctor tells me that I have only six months. “A bad heart, you see.”

  Aspasia Gray reached into her reticule and removed a pistol. “In that case, I’m sure you will not mind doing a lady one last favor before you cock up your toes.”


  Lavinia pulled open the last drawer in the back of the large wardrobe and saw the blond wig. Satisfaction blazed through her.

  “I knew it had to be here somewhere.”

  The wig alone hardly constituted proof of murder, she reminded herself. She needed more evidence, preferably something that would link Aspasia to the events of the past. But the false hair was most certainly a start. She could not wait to tell Tobias.

  At that moment she heard the muffled sound of the front door opening downstairs. Her palms tingled. For a second or two she could not move or breathe. With an effort, she broke through the paralyzing fear. She jerked back out of the wardrobe and turned quickly toward the door.

  Whoever had just come into the house had entered through the front hall. If she moved quietly, she could retreat the same way she had come, down the back stairs.

  She crossed the carpet and paused at the doorway to listen.

  “I am well-aware that you are up there, Lavinia,” Aspasia called from the foot of the master staircase. “Come out at once or I will lodge a bullet in the old man’s head. That should take care of his faded dreams once and for all, don’t you agree?”

  A queasy, weightless feeling seized Lavinia. Aspasia had taken the old man hostage.

  “I knew from the start of this affair that you would likely make things difficult,” Aspasia said. “You never cared much for me, did you? That is why I set a pair of street boys to keep an eye on you today, even though the affair of the Memento-Mori Man was supposedly over. When they saw you leave the shop and start toward my house, they came to tell me.”

  She sounded closer now. Lavinia heard heavy, muffled footsteps and realized that Aspasia was forcing the old man up the stairs.