“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.