Late for the Wedding by Amanda Quick
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.”
“Elland was very good at that sort of thing.” Tobias got to his feet. “Thanks for the brandy, Jack. I’d appreciate it if you’d put it about that I’ll pay well for any useful information on the subject of Elland or this new Memento-Mori Man.”
“I’ll send word if I find anyone who knows anything. But I warn you, my friend, the odds are not good. This killer comes from your world, not mine.”
Chapter 14
Dominic angled the burning lens to catch and focus the rays of the morning sun. The day was perfect for this demonstration, he thought, cloudless and warm. The little heap of papers he had put into the iron pot should flare up nicely. It was a silly sort of project, but people always responded with exclamations of excitement when the contents of the pot burst into flames.
Following the tour of his laboratory and several suitably spectacular demonstrations with the electrical machine, he had chosen the small park near his lodgings to show the power of his burning lens.
His little audience gathered around him expectantly. Mrs. Lake, Emeline, and Priscilla had made no secret of their i
At that instant, the papers in the pot caught fire under the intensely focused sunlight. Right on schedule, Dominic thought, satisfied.
“Good heavens.” Mrs. Lake watched the flames leap. “That is really quite amazing, Mr. Hood.”
She had appeared distracted and a bit impatient when she arrived with Emeline and Priscilla an hour ago. Somewhat apologetically, Emeline had explained that, with the exception of Priscilla, they were all involved in a new investigation and could not spend much time viewing the experiments.
But as the demonstrations had become more complicated and elaborate, Mrs. Lake had begun to take a lively interest.
“Clever enough, I suppose,” Anthony allowed offhandedly. “But I fail to see any useful purpose for a burning lens.”
“It enables one to conduct experiments that require intense heat,” Priscilla said eagerly. She gazed at the instrument with an enraptured expression. “I wish I had one. But Mama would never allow it.”
For some reason, her fascination with the burning lens irritated Dominic. He found himself wondering what it would be like to have her look at him with that same degree of admiration. He reminded himself that she was not important. Emeline was his target. He had hoped to gain her attention with the flashy experiments earlier, and he had succeeded in part.
But it was Priscilla who had responded most favorably to his painstakingly prepared explosions and exhibits. She was the one who had understood the deeper implications and foresaw variations and possibilities.
He had been startled by the depths of her knowledge. With her sun-bright hair and sky-blue eyes, she looked as though she would have nothing in her head but air and fluff. Instead, she quoted Newton and Boyle with a casual facility that unsettled him. Her questions had been persistent and endless. What’s more, she had taken voluminous notes.
Emeline had not been nearly as enthralled.
“Well, that was really most educational,” Mrs. Lake said when the small blaze burned itself out in the pot. “Thank you, Mr. Hood.” She checked the dainty watch she wore pinned to her walking dress and gave Dominic a warm smile. “Unfortunately, we must be on our way. Come along, Emeline and Priscilla.”
“Yes, of course, Mrs. Lake.” Priscilla was reluctant to leave, but she did her best to conceal her disappointment. “I cannot thank you enough for taking the time to come with us this morning to see Mr. Hood’s laboratory. Knowing you would be here was the only reason Mama allowed me to come today.”
“My pleasure.” Mrs. Lake paused to glance past Dominic’s shoulder. “Ah, here is Mr. March. I told him that we would be finished by ten o’clock. He must have grown impatient and decided to seek us out.”
“He does not appear to be in a pleasant temper,” Emeline observed.
“He has not been in a good mood since Beaumont Castle,” Anthony muttered.
Dominic turned to follow their gazes. A small chill went through him at the sight of the hard-faced man walking toward them.
March had cut across the small park to shorten the distance. Against the field of verdant greens and flowery pastels, he was a dark, resolute force of nature. There was a slight hitch in his long stride. Dominic wondered if he had been injured at some time in the past. The faint limp should have implied weakness, but instead it gave March the appearance of a battle-scarred soldier who would be far more dangerous than any young, untried recruit.
Dominic gripped the burning-lens stand tightly in one hand. He must be very, very careful around this man, he reminded himself.
“Mr. March,” Mrs. Lake said, “have you met Mr. Hood?”
March came to a halt and gave Dominic an assessing look. He inclined his head an inch. “Hood.”
“Sir.”
“What a pity that you were not able to join us sooner, Mr. March,” Priscilla said. “Mr. Hood has just finished conducting the most interesting experiments.”
“Some other time, perhaps.” He switched his attention to Mrs. Lake. “Madam, if you are quite finished here, I would remind you that we have pressing matters to attend to.” He looked at Anthony. “As do you and Miss Emeline.”
“Yes, sir,” Anthony said, obviously eager to leave the park. “Emeline and I will see Priscilla home and then we will continue our inquiries.”
“There is no need to be concerned, sir,” Mrs. Lake said, adjusting her gloves. “The wig shops and antiquities dealers have only just opened for the day. We have not lost any time.”
Dominic told himself he should remain silent, but his curiosity got the better of him. “May I ask what your inquiries are about?”
“We are searching for a man who has made a profession of murder,” Mrs. Lake explained. “He takes commissions, if you can imagine. Mr. March is quite rightly concerned that he will kill again soon if we do not find him and stop him.”
“You hunt a murderer?” Dominic glanced at Anthony and then quickly looked away. “I would have thought that was a job for Bow Street.”
“This killer is far too clever for the Runners,” Anthony said. “So clever, in fact, that he leaves no evidence of a crime.” He gave Emeline his arm. “Let us be off.”
Emeline smiled at Dominic. “Thank you again for a most instructive morning, Mr. Hood.”
“It was all quite fascinating.” Priscilla gave him a brilliant smile.
“My pleasure,” Dominic said brusquely.
Anthony did not bother with a polite farewell. He escorted Emeline and Priscilla away across the park.
March put a hand on Mrs. Lake’s elbow. “Good day to you, Hood.”
“The same to you, sir.” Dominic bowed to Mrs. Lake. “And to you, madam. Thank you for accompanying Miss Emeline and Miss Priscilla this morning. I am well-aware that the dictates of propriety would have made it impossible for them to enter my lodgings without you in attendance.”
“I enjoyed myself immensely,” she assured him. “I trust we will meet up again, Mr. Hood, perhaps when we have more time.”
Dominic stood alone and watched them all walk away from him. He hated to admit it, but he was envious of Anthony. Tracking a murderer sounded like exciting work. He reminded himself that he had his own important task to carry out.
He knew now that he would have to come up with another strategy to achieve his goal. The plan he had devised to lure Emeline away from Anthony was not working.
A faint breeze stirred the nearby foliage. He thought he heard his mother’s whisper in it, reminding him that his course had been set and must not be altered. He was the only one who could avenge her, he thought. There was no one else left to do it.
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.
Chapter 15
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 & Todd and experienced the now familiar flicker of unease.
The interior of the shop was similar to those of the other wig-makers she and Tobias ha
The majority of the wax busts in Cork & 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—”