He was well on his way to proving that he was as skilled and clever as Zachary had been. When he had surpassed Zachary’s record of successfully completed commissions and made certain that March knew of that accomplishment, there would be time enough to take his revenge.

The following morning, Tobias dropped heavily into the chair across from Crackenburne. It was early in the day and the club room was nearly empty.

Crackenburne lowered his newspaper and peered at Tobias through his spectacles. “You do not look to be in a good temper. This new investigation is not going well, I take it?”

“Nothing but dead ends and dangling threads thus far.” Tobias sat forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and gazing at the unlit hearth. It was too warm to warrant a fire today, he reflected. This case is like some damned Gordian knot. No matter how I approach it I cannot seem to find the key to untying it.”

“No luck at the wig-maker’s last night, I take it?”

“I believe the Memento-Mori Man got there ahead of me and murdered the poor man.”

“That must have been the shop where he acquired the wig,”

Crackenburne said quietly.

“It is the only explanation that makes sense. But I spent most of the night going through that damned journal, and there was no record of a sale of a blond wig in the entire six months preceding the events at Beaumont Castle. There was, in fact, only one purchase of yellow false hair recorded, and that took place two days after Fullerton fell off that roof.”

“You must not blame yourself for the wig-maker’s death.”

Tobias said nothing.

“But of course you do. It is your nature.” Crackenburne exhaled deeply and fell silent for a moment. “What is your next step?” he said eventually.

“Lavinia and Mrs. Dove are pursuing their notion that the murders have all been commissioned by people who wish to stop a marriage from taking place. I must admit their theory is as good as any I’ve managed to concoct. Meanwhile, I’m hoping for word from Smiling Jack.”

“What makes you think that he will be able to assist you?”

“The fact that Zachary Elland seemed to have come out of nowhere has been nagging at me. Perhaps he was not born a gentleman, after all. Perhaps he invented himself as one.”

“He certainly would not have been the first to do so.”

Crackenburne frowned. “But I confess, I had not considered that possibility. He moved so easily in Society. All polish and charm and wit. There was no reason not to believe his claim that he was an orphan who was raised by a distant relative who had died.”

“I should have probed more deeply into his past after his death.”

“Do not torture yourself with recriminations,” Crackenburne ordered sternly. “We all assumed that the affair of the Memento

“Mori Man had ended with Elland’s suicide. It was a very logical conclusion.”

“It certainly seemed logical at the time,” Tobias muttered.

Crackenburne peered at him. “You look like you aren’t getting enough sleep.”

“The last thing I can afford to do is waste time sleeping. The Memento-Mori Man is not the only problem I have at the moment.

Do you know anything about a young man named Dominic Hood?

“He is about Anthony’s age. Has a keen interest in science. Lodgings over on Stelling Street. Enough money to patronize an expensive tailor.”

“The name is unfamiliar to me. What is your interest in this young man?”

“Anthony has taken a strong dislike to him.”

Crackenburne’s brows bunched in surprise. “Thought Anthony got along well with most people.”

“Indeed. But he seems to feel that Hood is a rival for Miss Emeline’s affections. Although I must say that I saw no sign Miss Emeline was interested in Hood. Nevertheless, I am worried that Tony will do something reckless in that direction.”

“I understand. Young men are hot-blooded creatures, inclined to do foolish things, especially when there is a lady in the middle.” Crackenburne folded his newspaper and set it aside.

“Does this Mr. Hood belong to a club?”

“Yes. Anthony’s, as a matter of fact.”

“In that case, I can no doubt make some discreet inquiries for you.”

“Thank you, sir. I am grateful.”

The porter, a hunched man of indeterminate years, came to stand near Tobias’s chair.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but there is a rather dirty little boy outside. He claims he has a message for you. Most insistent.”

“I will deal with it.” Tobias gripped the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet. He nodded at Crackenburne. “Good day, sir.”

“Tobias.”

That gave him pause. Crackenburne rarely called him by his given name.

“I am as concerned about this new Memento-Mori Man as you are,” Crackenburne said quietly. “But I am equally concerned about the way in which it is affecting you. Remember, you have no reason to blame yourself because of what happened three years ago. It was not your fault that Zachary Elland became a killer.”

“That is what Lavinia tells me, but I cannot escape the notion that had I not taught him the work of a spy, he would never have developed a taste for dark excitement.”

“That is not true. Elland would have gone to hell one way or another. You must trust me on this matter. I have lived long enough to know that no man becomes a cold-blooded murderer because of some passing twist of fate. The malignancy must be there in him from the very start of his life, either born or bred early in the bone.”

Tobias nodded again, politely, and walked to the door. For all he knew Crackenburne and Lavinia were right. But deep down he feared that he bore some responsibility for what Elland had become.

He was well-aware that Aspasia Gray agreed with that view.

The sun shone warmly enough overhead, but it seemed to Lavinia that very little of its heat and light reached into the shadows of the graveyard. The shade cast by the leafy trees fell across the headstones and sepulchral monuments like a dark, transparent shroud.

There was a sad, shabby, unkempt air about the cemetery. The heavy iron gates sagged on their rusted hinges. The high stone wall that surrounded the graves blocked out the sights and sounds of the street. The tiny stone church loomed forlornly. The doors at the top of the steps were closed.

All in all, Lavinia thought, it was a singularly depressing scene.

This was the sort of cemetery that was frequented by the so-called Resurrection Men, who supplied fresh bodies to the medical schools.

She would not be at all surprised to discover that a good many of these graves had been emptied of their contents long ago.

Not that progress in the field of medical science was not a worthy goal, she reflected. One just hoped that, when the time came, one’s own mortal remains did not end up on a dissecting table at the mercy of a bunch of eager students.

Then again, the vision of being locked up inside a coffin and buried in the ground or walled up in one of these stone crypts was hardly more pleasant. Something deep inside her became quite frantic whenever she pictured herself confined inside a very small, closed space. Even now, just looking at the dark entrance of one of the nearby vaults caused the tiny little insects of panic to nibble at the edges of her mind.

Enough. Stop these silly imaginings. What on earth are you thinking to let this place affect you so strongly? It is just a graveyard, for heaven’s sake.

Perhaps it was her nerves, she thought. They had been in an edgy state all morning. It was easy to blame it on the fact that she had been unable to sleep last night after she and Tobias discovered Swaine’s body. But the truth was, this jumpy, overstimulated sensation had become noticeably worse when she left the house a short time ago. She had hoped that a brisk walk in the warm sunshine would clear her head and calm her. But the reverse had proved true.