Late For The Wedding

Eighteen

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.

Stop thinking about your nerves. There is work to be done.

She drew a deep breath and called upon her mesmeric training to push aside the disturbing thoughts.

She walked along a weedy gravel path and stopped beside Aspasia Gray.

“I got your message,” she said.

“Thank you for meeting me,” Aspasia said in a subdued voice. “I realize that this is not the most cheerful location for a conversation.

“Indeed, I hope you will not conclude that I am generally inclined toward melodrama. But I wanted to impress upon you something that I feel you have not fully comprehended.”

“What is that?”

“I know you believe that I have designs on Tobias, but that is not the case.” Aspasia looked down at the gravestone. “There is only one man whom I have ever loved or ever will love, and he lies here.”

Lavinia glanced at the simple inscription on the gray stone.

Zachary Elland. Died 1815. A draft of cold wind seemed to whisper in the dead leaves that covered the grave.

“I see,” she said neutrally.

“We did not know the date of his birth, so we decided to leave it off the stone.” Aspasia gazed fixedly at the granite. “We discovered too late that there was a great deal we did not know about Zachary.”

“We?”

“Tobias and I. We handled the arrangements together. There was no one else, you see.” Aspasia paused. “We were the only ones who bothered to attend the funeral.”

“I understand.”

“Tobias and I shared much together because of Zachary. But we were never intimate. I want you to know that.”

“I am already aware of that fact. Tobias told me.”

Aspasia smiled slightly, knowingly. “And you believe him because you love him and trust him.”

“Yes.”

“That is how I felt about Zachary, you know.

“I assumed as much. I am very sorry, Aspasia.”

Aspasia returned her attention to the gravestone. “When I first met Zachary, I had no plans to fall in love, let alone commit myself to marriage. I learned my lessons early on, you see.”

“What do you mean?”

“My father was an exceedingly cruel man. He made my mother’s life a hell on earth. Eventually she took an overdose of laudanum to escape. But there was no way out for me. I was forced to suffer his rages and, worse, his unnatural advances until I was sixteen. At that time he contracted a marriage for me. I did not object, even though my husband was many years older. I thought I had been rescued, you see.”

Lavinia said nothing, but it seemed to her that the dead leaves on top of the grave whispered more loudly. She sensed that Aspasia was speaking the truth.

“Instead, I found myself in another kind of hell. My husband was as vicious and cold as my father. It was my great good fortune that he was shot dead by a highwayman one night as he rode home from

“London. My father died of a fever a short time later.”

“There is no need to talk about these things to me, Aspasia. I know they must be very painful to you.”

“Yes. So exceedingly painful that I have never spoken of them with anyone other than Zachary. I never even told Tobias. But I want you to understand. At seventeen I found myself alone in the world and in command of a substantial fortune. I made up my mind that I would never again allow any man to control my destiny.”

“I know how you must have felt,” Lavinia said quietly.

“I was twenty-five when I met Zachary. I had become a woman of the world. I had taken lovers, but I had never loved. I certainly never imagined for one moment that I could be fooled by a man. But all of my fine plans and convictions flew out the window when I lost my heart to Zachary.”

The dead leaves skittered as though stirred by skeletal fingers.

“I can only imagine what it must have been like for you when you realized that you were engaged to a man who made a career of murder,” Lavinia said. “What caused you to realize his true nature?”

“It was not one single thing that aroused my suspicion. Rather, it was several tiny little events that eventually wove themselves into a pattern I could no longer ignore.”

“What sort of events?”

“There was his obsessive interest in Tobias’s inquiries into the mysterious murders, for one thing. And his comings and goings at odd hours. Zachary always had an excellent, entirely reasonable explanation for his occasional disappearances. But one day, quite by accident, I learned that he had lied to me about where he had been the previous evening. As it happened, it was a night when the Memento-Mori Man had struck.”

“Was that when you realized he might be the killer?”

“No.” Aspasia linked her fingers. “To be honest, I prepared myself for the possibility that Zachary had betrayed me with another woman. I thought my heart would shatter. I had to know the truth.”

“What did you do?”

“He had a safe. I reasoned that if he had any secrets they would be hidden inside. He always kept the key on his person. But one night after we had made love, he fell asleep. I seized the opportunity to make a wax copy of the key. A few evenings later I found an opportunity to go into his study. I opened the safe.” Aspasia grimaced. “I’m sure you can imagine my relief when the first thing I saw was a journal of accounts.”

“What made you realize that the journal was no ordinary record of business transactions?”

“I grew curious when I realized that it was not a journal of household expenses such as many gentlemen keep. Rather, it was a list of dates and fees. It looked like a tradesman’s book of accounts. But that made no sense.”

“Because Zachary Elland was a gentleman?”

“Precisely. He did not operate a business. I told myself that it was a record of his wins at the gaming tables. But I soon realized that the dates of the so-called transactions matched some of the information concerning the deaths that Tobias was investigating.”

“You knew about the details of his inquiries?”

“Of course.” Aspasia sighed. “Tobias sat up many a night discussing the murders with Zachary. I was with them on several of those occasions. I even offered my own opinions. Tobias is one of those rare men who actually listens when a woman has something to say, as I’m sure you know. Zachary shared that trait. It was one of the many things that I loved about him.”

“What happened after you found the journal?”

“I discovered the small casket of memento-mori rings at the back of the safe.” Aspasia’s voice dropped to a tortured whisper. “I could not believe my own eyes. I went straight to Tobias with the journal. I wanted him to tell me that I had got it all wrong. But I think I knew, deep in my heart, that all was lost. When Zachary found the open safe with the journal gone, he realized that his secrets had been stolen.”

“He put a pistol to his head.”

Aspasia’s mouth twisted. “They say it is a gentleman’s way out. I suppose that it is, indeed, a better end than the gallows.”

It was all so dreadfully tragic, Lavinia thought. After years of shielding herself from the pain men had caused her, Aspasia had fallen for a cold-blooded murderer.

“My condolences on your loss,” Lavinia said eventually.

“Forgive me.” Aspasia blinked away the moisture that glittered in her eyes. “I just wanted you to know that Tobias is quite safe from me. Even if I did think to seduce him, it would not be possible. It is obvious that he loves you. As for me, I will never take the risk of giving my heart to any man again.”

Lavinia could think of nothing to say to that, so she held her tongue.

“Good day, Lavinia. I wish you joy with Tobias. He is a fine man.

“I envy you, but not even for him would I trade places with you.”

Aspasia turned and walked swiftly away along the path. Lavinia watched her go out through the iron gates that guarded the entrance to the cemetery.

She stood alone at Zachary Elland’s grave for a time and thought about the twists and turns of fate.

“You certainly did a great deal of damage while you were walking around up here,” she whispered. “Who could possibly have admired you so much that he would wish to emulate you?”

The dead leaves danced a ghostly waltz across the grass.