“Tobias, how can he possibly know so many things about Elland?

“The rings, the style of the murders. Even the same type of hiding place? It is uncanny. He must have been well acquainted with him.”

“That is certainly the theory I am working on.” He pried more forcefully. “Jack has arranged for me to meet tonight with someone who might be able to tell me something about Elland’s past.”

She heard a faint squeak, and then a section of flooring swung upward.

“Good heavens.” She rushed forward and crouched down.

Together they gazed into the small space that had been revealed.

“Empty.” Tobias did not bother to hide his disgust. He let the hinged square of flooring drop back into place, rose, and kicked the carpet back over the boards. He turned slowly on his heel, examining the room, a hawk searching for prey. “It has to be here somewhere.”

“What has to be here?”

“His financial records. I told you, Elland had a head for business.

“He kept an extremely detailed journal of accounts.”

“Tobias,” she said quietly, bear in mind that, although they may have been acquainted, this is not Zachary Elland we are dealing with here. There is no reason to think that he conducts his business in precisely the same manner as the other Memento-Mori Man.”

“I disagree. The more I try to untangle this Gordian knot of a case, the more I am convinced that the most striking clue is the great similarity in the methods and practices used by both Elland and this new killer. It is as if they studied their craft together.”

“Or perhaps one taught the other?” she suggested uneasily.

“Precisely.”

Tobias glanced down into the small space between the desk and the wall. His irritated expression told her that there was nothing hidden there. He went to a small table in the corner and opened the little drawer.

“I knew it,” he whispered with exquisite satisfaction. He reached into the drawer and removed a leather-bound volume.

“What did you find?” She went to stand beside him and watched him open the journal. Names, dates, and times were written down in an orderly fashion. “It looks like an appointment book, not a journal of accounts.”

“You’re right.” He flipped through the pages. “It is merely a record of his daily activities and clients. But perhaps those who commission the murders are in here as well.”

“Somehow I do not think that Pierce would be so careless. He is, after all, a professional.”

“You need not remind me.” Tobias removed a sheet of paper and a pen from his pocket and started to jot down the names of recent clients. “Nevertheless, this is better than nothing. At the very least it will give us some notion of his schedule for the next few days. That may be helpful.”

Lavinia studied the names. One popped off the page. “Lady Huxford. Look, there was an appointment with her on the third.

“That would be a fortnight before the house party at Beaumont Castle.”

“It establishes a connection between Lady Huxford and Pierce, but we were already aware of it, thanks to your observations at Vauxhall. I wonder if we Tobias turned the page and went very still. His eyes were riveted on one of the entries. “Bloody hell.”

“What’s wrong?”

He put a finger on a name. “His client this afternoon.”

She looked down and felt her blood chill. “Oh, my God. He went to Lady Wortham’s house. He is doing Priscilla’s hair. That was the boring appointment that Priscilla did not want to endure alone.”

“I think we had better assume the worst. This is no coincidence.

“Pierce evidently knows of Priscilla’s association with Emeline and therefore of Emeline’s connection to you. He no doubt arranged this appointment with the goal of interrogating your niece’s best friend in hopes of discovering what progress we have made on this case.”

“My dear Miss Priscilla, we cannot escape the reality of nature.” Mr. Pierce drew his comb through the long, golden length of Priscilla’s hair and met his client’s eyes in the mirror. You are most certainly blond.”

Priscilla’s cheeks burned. “I am aware that it is not the most fashionable color.”

Emeline sat tensely in a chair a short distance away from the dressing table, feeling as though she were acting out a part in some strange, nightmarish play. To her enormous relief and never-ending admiration, Priscilla had stepped into the leading role without any sign of nerves whatsoever.

They’d had less than ten minutes to prepare.

Emeline was stunned when she had arrived at the Wortham residence and was told that Lady Wortham had scheduled a hairdresser for the afternoon. She had hoped that it was some amazing coincidence, but her work as an assistant to the firm of Lake amp; March had taught her not to trust such events. She had quickly briefed Priscilla, who had in turn made it clear that her mother was to remain innocent and oblivious. She feared her parent would fly into a panic if she discovered she had hired a murderer to dress her daughter’s hair.

When Mr. Pierce arrived at the door with his leather satchel filled with combs, curling irons, papers, scissors, and false hairpieces, Priscilla had risen to the occasion with great aplomb.

She had sat down in front of her dressing-table mirror, her shoulders draped in a pristine white cloth, and abandoned herself to the ministrations of the murderous hairdresser as though it was the most normal thing in the world.

She was, in fact, behaving so naturally and with so much enthusiasm that Emeline had begun to wonder if she was actually enjoying herself. Perhaps the fact that Mr. Pierce was quite handsome, even dashing, with that black ribbon at his throat and those carelessly tousled curls, made things easier for her.

Emeline had to admit that it was difficult to imagine Pierce as a murderer-for-hire.

Lady Wortham was ensconced in a chair on the other side of the dressing table, blithely unaware that the man who was wielding a large pair of scissors in the vicinity of her daughter’s throat had likely killed three people in the past few months.

“Do you think we should consider dyeing Priscilla’s hair a darker shade, Mr. Pierce?” Lady Wortham asked anxiously.

“Dye this hair? Perish the thought.” Pierce seized a length of Priscilla’s mane and held it aloft with a flourish worthy of a magician. “This is pure spun gold. It would be a crime against nature to alter it with elderberry or Grecian waters.” He rapped the comb against the edge of the dressing table and glared at Priscilla in the mirror. “And I absolutely forbid you to even contemplate the use of henna. Is that quite clear?”

“Yes, Mr. Pierce,” she murmured dutifully.

Lady Wortham fanned herself agitatedly. “But if you say her hair must not be dyed, what do you suggest? A wig, perhaps?”

“Out of the question for one of her tender years. Also, it would be a shame to set false hair against such clear, fresh skin and classical profile.” Mr. Pierce swept Lady Wortham a low bow. “Both of which I can see that she inherited from you, madam.”

Lady Wortham stared at him, open-mouthed, for a few seconds.

Emelinp was astonished to see a dark blush rise in her cheeks.

“Why, thank you, Mr. Pierce.” She fanned herself with even more energy. “I don’t mind saying that in my youth I never lacked for partners in the ballrooms. Priscilla does take after me.” She cleared her throat. “Except for her hair, of course. That is a legacy from her papa, I’m sorry to say.”

“Indeed. Well, as I was saying, I try not to put any of my young ladies into wigs unless there is no alternative.” Mr. Pierce paused for emphasis. And in this case there is an alternative. A glorious one at that.”

There was a breathless silence. Emeline realized that, in spite of the almost intolerable tension she and Priscilla were under, they were both as curious to hear what Pierce had to offer as Lady Wortham was.