Morosely, he contemplated the study. It was filled with the things he had acquired over the years, his books, globe, telescope, and brandy decanter.

This house was not only his greatest financial asset, it was his home. He had purchased it with the help of a loan from Crackenburne shortly before he met Ann and her younger brother, Anthony.

He and Ann had had five happy years in this house before he losther and his stillborn son to childbed. He and Anthony had endured their shared grief together under this roof.

Anthony had been thirteen at the time of his beloved sister’s death. Her passing left him bereft. He felt himself to be utterly alone in the world. His mother had expired when he was eight, not long after his wastrel father had been killed in a quarrel over a disputed hand of cards.

Anthony and Ann had gone to live with their only remaining relatives, a ghastly aunt and uncle. They had lived in that grim household for only a few months before the aunt arranged to rid herself of her unwanted burden by forcing Ann into a compromising position with Tobias. Her goal had been to marry off her niece and then place her nephew in an orphanage.

Tobias had taken one look at the desperate plight of Ann and her small brother and determined to rescue them both. He had not intended to marry Ann that day when he took her and Anthony away from their aunt’s house, but he had soon changed his mind.

Ann was not only very beautiful, she was gentle and kind, the sort of woman the poets described as ethereal.

The feelings that she had aroused in him had been tender and protective. He had always been careful to treat her with the care he would have given a delicate blossom. Looking back, he knew that he had kept his passions in check with her, ever conscious of the need for restraint. He recalled no quarrels between them. He had never lost his temper with her.

But in the end he had been unable to protect her. Perhaps, as Anthony had often observed, Ann had, indeed, been too good for this world.

She may well have gone to a better place, but Tobias and Anthony had been left to deal with the harsh realities of this world. Anthony initially fought his fears the only way he knew how: with anger. He had assumed the defiant air that only a thirteen-year-old boy could manage and demanded to know when he should pack his bags and leave.

You’ll not be wanting me hanging around now that she’s gone. It was Ann you loved. You only took me in because she would not be parted from me. I understand. I’m not your responsibility anymore. I can look after myself.

Tobias had worked hard to reassure the desperate, frightened boy, even as he himself dealt with what he now recognized as a form of melancholia. After Ann was buried he had been consumed with his feelings of guilt. He was all too aware that it was his passion-controlled and restrained as it had been-that had got her with child and in the end had brought about her death. There were days when he told himself that he should never have wed her. He’d had no right to expose her to the perils and risks of the marriage bed.

She had never been intended for such earthy pursuits.

He and Anthony had blundered around for a long time in this house, two wounded creatures swimming together through a sunless sea of emotions. But life made its inexorable demands.

Dragging Anthony with him, Tobias had set about meeting those demands. Together they had found a curious solace in daily routine.

Eventually, in a process that was so gradual that neither noticed it was taking place, he and Anthony had made their way into more tranquil waters. This house had seen them both through the long struggle.

But today, sitting here in his study, surrounded with his books, globe, telescope, and brandy decanter, he found himself thinking about how much he had come to look forward to stretching out his legs in front of Lavinia’s cozy hearth.

At ten-thirty that evening, dressed as a rough-looking laborer, he sat in Smiling Jack’s office, drinking his host’s excellent smuggled brandy. The noise from the adjoining tavern was muffled by the heavy wall.

Jack had opened the Gryphon two years ago when he retired from his career as a smuggler. During the war, he had imported information on French shipping and military movements as well as illegal brandy. Tobias, in his role as a spy, had been a steady customer.

They came from very different worlds, but somehow a strong bond had been forged between them. It was based on mutual respect as well as mutual profit.

Their association had continued after each of them had gone on to new careers. Jack’s tavern had proved to be an excellent collecting point for the streams of rumors and gossip that swirled out of London’s criminal underworld. And, in his new line as a private inquiry agent, Tobias frequently found himself in the market for information from that world.

“The Memento-Mori Man.” Smiling Jack lounged his great bulk in his massive chair. He absently scratched the grisly scar that curved from the corner of his mouth to a point just below his ear. “Would that be the first one or the second one you’re talking about?”

“I came here to talk about the second man, Zachary Elland, but I’ll take any information I can get on the subject of either Memento

“Mori Man.”

“I’m not sure I can help you.” Jack cradled his brandy glass in his big hands. “There were rumors about a gentleman murderer when Elland was active but, as you well know, he operated in a better part of town and mingled with a more exclusive sort. As far as I know he never dipped into the stews for his clients, his victims, or his pleasures. In that way, at least, I reckon you could say that he was like the one who came before him.”

“Tobias paused in the act of swallowing some of the brandy. Slowly he lowered the glass. You’d have been a small boy when the tales about the first Memento-Mori Man began to circulate. What do you remember?”

“They used to talk about him in hushed whispers. It was said he was so skillful that no one ever knew how many commissions he’d taken in the course of his career. The murders all looked like accidents or suicides or heart attacks. He was a legend.”

“Because he got away with murder?”

“No, because it was said that in his own way, he was a man of honor. He only took commissions for those he thought deserved to die. According to the tales we heard, he preferred to hunt the vicious and the vile in Society, the wealthy, powerful sort who would have otherwise got away with their crimes. He would kill for you, for a price, but only if he decided that it was a matter of rough justice.”

“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.”