The small group had reached the far side of the park. They separated, Mr. March and Mrs. Lake heading to the left, Anthony with his two companions turning right.

He waited, trying to keep his attention on Anthony until the very last moment. He must not lose his concentration, he told himself. He must not allow himself to be distracted. But for some reason it was Priscilla’s bright blond ringlets peeking out from beneath the edge of her pink straw bonnet that held his gaze until they all vanished around a corner.

After a while he reached down to pick up the iron pot. He stared for a long time at the charred remains of the papers he had set afire.

Revenge was a harsh taskmaster. He was beginning to wonder if, in the end, all he would have to show for it would be a handful of ashes.

Two days later, toward the end of another long afternoon, Lavinia accompanied Tobias into one of the few remaining wig shops on their list. Thus far their inquiries had resulted in no clues, and she was fast losing hope that they would have any more luck today.

She glanced around the premises of Cork amp; Todd and experienced the now familiar flicker of unease.

“The interior of the shop was similar to those of the other wigmakers she and Tobias had investigated. She had concluded that it was the sight of the rows of display busts topped with false hair that disturbed her. She told herself that it was not the proprietors’ fault that the models reminded her of so many severed heads.

The majority of the wax busts in Cork amp; Todd were female, but there were also a goodly number of masculine heads fitted with wigs styled for gentlemen.

There was no one behind the counter, but a cheerful rustling sound came from the back room.

“I shall be with you in a moment.”

Tobias removed the torn sheet of paper from his pocket and checked it with grim attention. “Only three more wig shops after this one and then we will be finished with the lot. For all the good it has done us. We have wasted nearly three days trying to find whoever sold that blond wig to the killer, and we have nothing to show for it.”

“Perhaps Anthony and Emeline are having better luck with the antiquities dealers,” Lavinia said. She wandered over to one of the counters to take a closer look at an elaborately styled wig. “Do not forget the first wig-maker’s shop we tried this morning, the one with the sign in the window saying that it was closed for the month.

“What do you propose to do about it?”

“I shall take care of that one tonight.”

“She spun around. You’re going to pick the lock, are you not?”

He shrugged and said nothing.

Enthusiasm bubbled up within her. “I shall come with you.”

“Absolutely not.”

The words had been spoken firmly enough, she thought, but his tone had a certain practiced, automatic quality. A matter of form.

Resigned, almost.

She could win this match.

“It will be an excellent opportunity for me to observe you at work.

“I was thinking just the other day that I must perfect my lock-picking skills, and you have been very lax about demonstrations.”

“Not lax. Cautious.”

“Rubbish. I will not allow you to prevent me from learning all of the secrets of our profession, sir. We are partners, if you will recall.

“You really must be more forthcoming”

She broke off when the curtains that covered the doorway behind the counter parted. A plump, middle-aged man dressed in a flowered satin waistcoat, a maroon jacket, and an extravagantly tied cravat emerged. His hair was suspiciously dark for a man of his years, Lavinia thought. There was not a speck of gray in the mass of tightly crimped curls that sprang up all around his head.

“Ah, sir, madam.” He beamed at them through a pair of gold spectacles. “Welcome, welcome, welcome to my shop. J. P. Cork, at your service.” He switched his attention to Lavinia, his eyes widening first in shock and then narrowing in pity. “Madam, you have come to the right place, I assure you. I can rescue you from your sad plight.”

“Indeed,” Lavinia murmured. She ignored the annoyance that darkened Tobias’s eyes.

This was not the first time she had been greeted with such enthusiasm in the past two days. Every wig-maker they had interviewed had been horrified by the sight of her red hair and had vowed to save her from what those in the profession evidently considered a fate worse than death.

“Do not fear, madam.” Cork bustled out from behind the counter and seized one of Lavinia’s gloved hands in two pudgy palms. “When you leave this shop today, you will be a new woman.”

“That would be an interesting experience, I’m sure,” she said. “But I’m afraid that my companion and I did not come here to purchase a wig.”

The proprietor made a tut-tutting sound with his tongue and shook his head gravely. “If your natural shade were brown or black, you would be able to make do with a toupee or a chignon, but given that unfortunate red, I’m afraid you will find that only a full wig will solve your problem. Nothing else will entirely conceal your own hair.”

Tobias moved slightly, just enough to draw the wig-maker’s attention. “Cork, my name is March. I would like to ask you a few questions about your wigs.”

“I see.” Cork studied Tobias’s closely cut dark hair with a professionally troubled expression. “Forgive me, I was so stunned by madam’s dreadful plight, I failed to notice your own misfortune. But now that I look more closely, I can, indeed, see those telltale signs of silver at the temples.” He tut-tutted again. You are quite right to take action now, sir, before you turn entirely gray. I have just the thing.”

“Devil take it,” Tobias growled. “I am not interested in a wig for myself.”

But Cork had already gone to one of the male busts and whipped off a brown wig. He held it up in triumph, rather like a hunter displaying a fresh kill. “I guarantee that this will do the trick, sir. It will conceal the ravages of time and make you appear at least a decade younger.”

“I said, I am not here to purchase a wig.” Tobias eyed the brown hairpiece as though it were a dead rodent. “Mrs. Lake and I wish to ask you a few questions. Nothing more.”

“We will make it worth your while,” Lavinia put in quickly, trying hard not to smile. Tobias had made no secret of the fact that he found these interviews exceedingly trying. Persons engaged in the business of wig-making and hairdressing considered themselves to be artists, and Tobias did not have a great deal of patience with the artistic temperament.

“Humph.” Cork’s smile lost its warmth. “What sort of questions?”

“Just one or two small inquiries concerning sales of blond wigs,”

she assured him.

“Blond?” Cork screwed his face into a disapproving glare. “Haven’t had a commission for a full blond wig in months. Very unfashionable color, you know. Has been for some time. The shade never really recovered its popularity after Madam Tallien declared black to be the most elegant hair color some twenty years ago.”

“Madam Tallien?” Lavinia repeated curiously. The wife of the French revolutionary?”

“Never mind her dreadful politics.” Cork brushed that issue aside with one pudgy hand. “The important thing is that her salons were truly splendid affairs, and she reigned supreme in the world of French fashion. Owned a vast assortment of wigs.

“Legend has it that she switched them several times a day. Wore one color in the morning and another in the evening. All of the most exclusive sort here in England strove to follow in her brilliant footsteps. I don’t mind telling you that those of us in the wig-making and hairdressing professions were exceedingly grateful to her.”

“I can imagine,” Lavinia said. She was well-aware that the war between England and France had done nothing to hinder French influence on English fashion. Some things transcended politics. “But what we’d like to know is-”