Late for the Wedding (23 page)

“I do not doubt that for a moment.” Lavinia turned around to glance at Lady Huxford and Lady Ferring.

The progress of the two women was quite slow, almost stately. They had not gone far.

Lavinia stared at the backs of the voluminous silver-gray wigs.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered.

“What is it?” Joan followed her gaze, frowning. “Is something amiss?”

“Their chignons.”

Joan peered at the two elegantly styled hairpieces. “They are certainly quite elaborate, are they not? What about them?”

“They’re identical in design. Do you see the little rows of curls at the top of the upper portion and the manner in which the lower section is twisted around a braided coil?”

“Yes, but what of it?”

At that moment the music swelled, the lights in the trees dimmed as though by magic, and a series of crackles and explosions announced the start of the fireworks display.

Sparkling showers of fire filled the night sky. The crowds oohed and aahed. A roar of applause went up.

“The hairdresser,” Lavinia said.

“What?” Joan raised her voice to be heard above the din. “I cannot hear you.”

“The same hairdresser did both wigs,” Lavinia shouted back.

“That is hardly a surprise. It is obvious that the same dressmaker designed both of their gowns. I told you, Lady Huxford and Lady Ferring have been close friends for years. Why would they not share a dressmaker and a hairdresser?”

“You don’t understand,” Lavinia yelled above the uproar. “The hairdresser who did those two wigs was the same one who accompanied Mrs. Oakes to Beaumont Castle. He styled her false hair in precisely the same manner for the costume ball. He told me that the row of curls at the top of the chignon and the loop around the coil are his signature.”

“What are you implying?”

“Don’t you see? The hairdresser is the Memento-Mori Man.”

Tobias came down the steps of his town house in two long strides. The great sweep of the high-collared coat he wore over his dark shirt and trousers gave him the appearance of a thoroughly menacing highwayman.

One of Joan’s liveried footmen hastened to open the door of the maroon carriage. In spite of his bad leg, Tobias did not wait for the step to be lowered. He grabbed the handhold on the side of the opening and hauled himself up into the softly lit interior of the cab. He sat down beside Lavinia and looked first at her and then at Joan.

“What the devil is this about?” he asked. “I was just about to leave to visit Jack at the Gryphon. He thinks he may have found someone who knows something about Zachary Elland.”

“Lavinia is convinced that she has just identified the Memento-Mori Man,” Joan said.

Tobias turned his highwayman’s gaze on Lavinia. “You mean to say that you actually learned something useful at Vauxhall tonight?”

“You need not sound so astounded, sir.” She drew herself up in the seat. “I told you that it would pay for me to question Lady Huxford and Lady Ferring, and I was right. I believe that the hairdresser who traveled to Beaumont Castle with Lady Oakes may be the murderer-for-hire whom we are seeking.”

To his credit, Tobias did not immediately reject the possibility. Then again, she reflected, he was desperate for clues.

“Are you referring to that fool who told you red hair was unfashionable?” he asked warily.

“He is one of many who have pointed that out to me recently, but, yes, I am talking about Mr. Pierce. You will recall that he dressed Lady Oakes’s wig with an extremely elaborate chignon.” Lavinia touched the back of her head. “Lots of little curls and a braided coil?” She used her finger to trace the design in the air. “It was a very unusual creation.”

“I have no recollection whatsoever of Lady Oakes’s headdress.”

“The thing is, Tobias, I got a close look at Lady Huxford’s and Lady Ferring’s chignons this evening when they left the supper box. Both were wearing wigs and both of their headdresses were identical to the one Lady Oakes wore at Beaumont Castle.”

“What of it?”

“Really, sir, were you not paying attention when we interviewed the wig-maker, Mr. Cork, and his associate, Mr. Todd? They made it quite clear that a fashionable hairdresser takes great pride in creating his own unique designs. Mr. Todd emphasized that he considered his chignons his signature.”

Tobias looked at Joan as though seeking assistance. She moved one shoulder in an elegant little shrug.

“I tried to tell her that it could, indeed, be a coincidence,” Joan said. “But the more I consider the matter, the less I am inclined to believe that myself. It is, indeed, quite odd that the hairdresser who created coiffeurs for the two women we believe hired the killer was also at Beaumont Castle the night of Fullerton’s death.”

Lavinia watched Tobias’s face closely. She could see that he was not entirely convinced but he was considering the possibilities closely.

“It would explain a great deal about this case,” she said persuasively.

He frowned. “You refer to the blond wig?”

“Yes. A hairdresser would be well aware of just how memorable such a shade would be in the event that he was spotted in the course of his crime. If Mr. Pierce is the killer, it would also explain the unusual height of the maid. The hairdresser’s stature was not particularly remarkable for a man—indeed, he was slightly on the short side—but dressed in women’s attire, he would have appeared rather tall.”

Joan adjusted her glove. “It would also explain how three high-ranking ladies of the ton came to meet a professional murderer. A hairdresser, after all, is invited directly into the house. Indeed, he often practices his art in a lady’s dressing room or her bedchamber.”

Tobias narrowed his eyes. “If you are correct, it would imply that all three of these wealthy ladies discussed the most personal and confidential matters with their hairdresser.”

“Well, yes,” Lavinia said. “What of it?”

“Do you really expect me to believe that a lady would confide secrets to her hairdresser that she would not discuss with anyone other than her closest friends?”

Lavinia exchanged a glance with Joan.

“You had best tell the poor man the truth,” Joan murmured.

“What truth is that?” Tobias demanded.

“I know this will likely come as a shock to your nerves,” Lavinia said gently, “but I must tell you that ladies routinely confide secrets to their hairdressers that they would not think of telling anyone else. There is a certain intimacy about the process of having one’s hair dressed, you see. There you are, alone in your bedchamber with a man who is concerned only with combing and curling your hair. It is really quite pleasant.”

“Pleasant?”

“Alone with a man who is only too happy to discuss matters of fashion and style,” Joan added. “A man who brings with him the latest gossip. A man who listens to every word you say. Yes, I think it is entirely possible that a woman might plot murder with just such a man.”

“Hell’s teeth,” Tobias muttered. “What an unnerving thought.”

Lavinia met Joan’s eyes again in silent, mutual understanding. How did one explain the intimacy between hairdresser and client to a man?

“Who in her right mind would trust a hairdresser to know how to carry out a murder without getting caught?” Tobias asked. “What if he betrayed her and accused her of commissioning the crime?”

“I very much doubt that anyone in a position of authority would take a hairdresser’s word over that of a high-ranking member of the ton,” Lavinia said. “Also, as you have so frequently pointed out, who would believe that an elderly lady of the ton who has spent her entire life in the most exclusive drawing rooms would know how to go about finding and hiring a professional killer?”

“The clients probably did not realize that they were hiring the hairdresser,” Joan said, sounding thoughtful. “I suspect that they believed he was simply a sort of go-between. I’m sure it was all done with a wink and a nod. Mr. Pierce may have told them that he knew someone who knew someone who could arrange for this sort of thing to be done, as it were. I doubt very much that he billed himself as a murderer-for-hire.”

“What of his fees?” Tobias asked.

Joan moved one hand slightly. “Anonymous payments are easy enough to arrange.”

Lavinia looked at Tobias and knew that he was thinking the same thing she was. As the widow of a man who had run a vast criminal organization, Joan undoubtedly knew a great deal about how such matters were handled.

“Very well,” Tobias said eventually. “I cannot deny that there is a coincidence here, and you know how I feel about coincidences. So let us say for the sake of argument that Mr. Pierce is involved in this affair. I wonder how he persuaded Lady Oakes to take him to Beaumont Castle. Do you think she might have known what he was about that night?”

“Personally, I’m inclined to believe that Lady Oakes had nothing to do with the plot to kill Fullerton,” Joan said firmly. “She is very sweet-natured but she is not known for her sharp intellect, to put it kindly. I do not think it would have been at all difficult for Pierce to convince her that she needed her hairdresser with her the night of the costume ball.”

Silence welled up in the interior of the carriage.

Tobias sat back in the seat and studied the front door of his house. Absently, he massaged his left thigh. “As astonishing as it is, I cannot deny that the hairdresser is a link between the suspects and the death of at least one of the victims. Tomorrow I will see if I can discover some connections between him and the other two murders.”

Lavinia felt both relieved and vindicated. “I knew you would see reason eventually, sir. It was just a matter of time.”

“Your faith in my powers of logic is deeply gratifying,” he said grimly.

“What happens next?” Joan asked with great interest.

Tobias glanced at Lavinia. “Do you still have Pierce’s card? The one he gave you that night at the castle?”

“Yes. His lodgings are in Piper Street.”

“I am not entirely convinced that the hairdresser is the Memento-Mori Man,” Tobias said. “But until we can sort through the chaos of this affair, I think it would be wise to keep an eye on him.”

Chapter 24

The gaming room of the club was thick with the invisible miasma of frenzied excitement that radiated from the players. For the most part, the fierce passions that accompanied each roll of the dice or new wager at the card tables were concealed behind the requisite masks of ennui and jaded amusement. Good form demanded that each of the elegantly dressed gentlemen vie to outdo his companions in expressing a supreme lack of concern for the outcome of the play.

But nothing could conceal the smell of sweat and anxiety that mingled with the smoky haze, Anthony thought. It was a stench that permeated the entire room.

This was the hellish atmosphere of feverish desperation that his father had chosen to breathe. In the end it had lured Edward Sinclair to his death.

He stood in the doorway for a time, listening to the click of the dice and the clink of bottles and glasses on the card tables. It likely made no difference how much one drank while playing hazard. The result of a toss of the dice was in the hands of the fates, unless the management had secretly weighted the small cubes. But it made no sense at all to drink oneself into a stupor while attempting to employ some logic to a hand of whist, he thought. Yet drinking deeply was precisely what almost all of the players chose to do.

With the exception of Dominic Hood.

Dominic played whist in the same style as the others, with a bottle of claret at hand. But Anthony noticed that he did not sip from his half-filled glass. There was a small pile of papers on the table. Vouchers from those who had lost to him.

Anthony studied him closely, searching for the evidence of their shared blood. There were, indeed, some similarities between them, he concluded. Their father had left his stamp on the shape of their noses and the angle of their shoulders.
And on the color of our eyes,
he thought. Why had he not noticed until now that Dominic’s eyes were the same shade of golden brown as those he saw in his shaving mirror every morning?

The hand of whist came to an end at Dominic’s table. In spite of his caution with the claret, this time he was the one who was obliged to scrawl his promise to make good on his wager on a small slip of paper. Sobriety might increase one’s odds of winning at cards, Anthony thought, but it certainly did not guarantee the outcome of the game. No amount of astute and logical play could make up for a bad hand.

With an easy smile and a bored nod to his companions, Dominic left the table and turned to walk toward the door. When he saw Anthony, he hesitated ever so slightly. Then his jaw clenched. He continued forward.

“I’m surprised to see you here this evening,” he said as he made to move past Anthony. “I got the impression that you avoided the gaming tables.” He smiled with faint derision. “Something to do with a fear of losing, no doubt.”

The insult sliced to the bone, but Anthony was proud that he was able to manage a thin, cold smile in return. “Something to do with a strong desire to avoid ending up dead because of a foolish dispute over a hand of cards.” He paused deliberately. “As our father did.”

A flicker of dark emotion came and went in Dominic’s eyes. He swiftly veiled the expression. “So you finally reasoned it out, did you? It certainly took you long enough. Perhaps you would do well to reconsider your choice of profession. One would expect a private-inquiry agent to be somewhat more astute, don’t you agree?”

“I believe that I shall stick with my career. Unlike you, I do not have the option of amusing myself with science experiments all day and card-playing all night. That sort of pleasant idleness is only for those who were so fortunate as to inherit property and an income.”

Dominic nodded. “I retract what I said about you not being observant, Sinclair. You are quite right. I never knew my father, but I do, indeed, have an inheritance. Which means that I have a good deal more to offer to a lady such as Miss Emeline than you do.”

He turned on his heel and walked off without waiting for a response.

Anger flashed through Anthony. “Bloody hell,” he whispered.

He pursued Dominic across the coffee room and out into the front hall, where an uneasy porter quickly handed both of them their hats and hastened to open the door.

“Stay away from Emeline,” Anthony said fiercely from the top of the steps.

Dominic came to a halt and spun around. In the harsh glare of the gas lamps, his face was a mask of barely contained rage. “Now, why should I deprive myself of the pleasure of her company,
brother
?”

“You do not love her.” Anthony went slowly down the steps, hat clenched in his fist. “You seek to use her in order to exact your revenge against me. Admit it, Hood.”

“I do not intend to discuss my interest in Miss Emeline with you.”

“Hell’s teeth, man, this has nothing to do with Emeline. I am the one you want to destroy. Would you hide behind a woman’s skirts to gain your vengeance?”

“Damn you, I could call you out for that insult.”

“Be my guest,” Anthony said. “But at least have the courage to admit why you are challenging me. I ask you again, sir, why do you hate me? Is it because your mother allowed herself to be seduced by our father? You cannot blame me for that. You cannot blame her either. The only one you can fault is Edward Sinclair, and he’s been dead and buried for some fourteen years.”

“Damn you to hell, Sinclair.” Dominic hurled his hat aside and launched himself forward. “Do not dare to mention my mother. Your father ruined her.”

Anthony employed the sliding maneuver that Tobias had taught him and managed to duck his brother’s wildly swinging fist.

Although Dominic’s blow did not strike its target, Anthony was unable to avoid him altogether. The impact of the collision spun him around and carried both of them to the pavement. They rolled together across the hard stones. He found himself struggling to ward off a series of erratically aimed punches while he tried to fight back.

In the heat of the first real fight in which he had ever participated, his brain ceased to function logically. Tobias had warned him that it would be like this. It was impossible to think clearly, impossible to recall the nuances of the art and science of the various pugilistic techniques they had practiced together. Anthony fell back on what seemed blind instinct, not even feeling the pain of Dominic’s blows.

But the lessons Tobias had taught him must have taken root somewhere deep inside, because he succeeded in landing a number of solid-sounding punches to Dominic’s ribs and one to his jaw. Each time he felt a shudder go through his opponent’s body, a fierce satisfaction roared through his veins.

He never heard the rattle of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves. The first indication he had that he and Dominic were no longer alone on the street was when he felt himself seized by the collar and hauled forcibly off his brother. He was then dropped rather carelessly onto the pavement beside Dominic.

He opened his eyes, blinked away the blood that blurred his vision, and found himself looking up at Tobias.

A familiar maroon carriage stood a short distance away. Mrs. Lake and Joan Dove peered anxiously from the windows. His first rational thought was that he was in luck. Emeline was not with them.

He sat up cautiously, raising his sleeve to mop the blood he could feel trickling down his face.

“Tobias? What the devil are you doing here?” he muttered.

Beside him, Dominic got to his knees, one hand on his ribs. He watched Tobias warily.

“I apologize for interrupting your entertainment this evening, gentlemen.” Tobias contemplated both of them with cold eyes. “But I happen to be in great need of some able-bodied assistants. There may well be a life hanging in the balance. I would take it as a great favor if you would both agree to continue this wholesome exercise at some other time.”

“What is going on?” Anthony staggered to his feet, grabbing the iron step railing to steady himself. Then the reason for Mrs. Lake’s and Mrs. Dove’s presence in front of a gentleman’s club at this hour finally registered. Excitement flashed through him, temporarily overriding his anger. “Have you found the killer?”

“Mrs. Lake believes we may have identified him,” Tobias said. “But I am not so certain. Nevertheless, we cannot afford to take chances.” Tobias switched his attention to Dominic. “I propose to mount a clandestine watch on our suspect. I think it would be best to use two men rather than one, in case action is required. Are you interested?”

“Action?” Dominic got to his feet, wincing again. “I don’t understand.”

“If my associate is right, the man is a cold-blooded murderer. There is every reason to believe that he plans to kill again. If someone tries to interfere or if he feels cornered, he will likely become desperate and quite dangerous. Better to have two men on hand to stop him in that event.”

“Why do you need me?” Dominic scowled and gingerly touched his jaw. “You’ve got Sinclair and yourself, sir.”

“I cannot spare the time from my inquiries to watch one possible suspect. What about it, Hood? Would you be willing to aid me in this endeavor? As I said, a life may be hanging in the balance.”

Dominic gave Anthony a quick, unreadable glance and then slowly lowered his hand from his jaw. “You think this man will kill again?”

“It is only a matter of time. I will consider myself very much in your debt if you could see your way clear to help me keep this villain under surveillance tonight.”

“I suppose I could afford to spend some time keeping an eye on this suspect for you,” Dominic said carefully.

“Thank you,” Tobias said. “All the murders thus far have occurred at night, so I think we can assume that our killer prefers to act under cover of darkness. Therefore, for the rest of this evening, I want you two to watch his lodgings. You must not let him see you. Follow him if he leaves his residence, but do not interfere with him unless he looks as though he is about to commit another act of violence. Is that clear?”

“Who is this person?” Anthony asked, his blood heating again, not with anger but with anticipation of the hunt.

“I was afraid you would ask that question,” Tobias said.

“We’re to keep watch on a bloody
hairdresser
?” Dominic lounged deep in the shadows of the narrow alley and gazed glumly at the door of Mr. Pierce’s lodgings. “I don’t believe it. How do you suppose he goes about the job of murdering his victims? Do you think he smothers them in wigs?”

“It was your decision to agree to assist Tobias in this matter,” Anthony growled from the other side of the alley. “No one forced you to volunteer.”

“March said there was a life at stake. But I must tell you that it is extremely difficult to envision a hairdresser as a cold-blooded murderer-for-hire.”

“Perhaps that is why he has been successful thus far,” Anthony offered dryly. “No one suspects him.”

“Huh.” Dominic sounded struck by that possibility. “Hadn’t thought of it that way.”

“I think Tobias has a few doubts about this theory too,” Anthony said. “But he has learned not to discount Mrs. Lake’s intuition.”

Conversation lapsed. They went back to watching the front door of Pierce’s lodgings in silence. Moonlight and a sprinkling of weakly glowing gas lamps lit the narrow, night-shrouded street. The occasional hackney or nightman’s wagon rumbled past now and again, but otherwise it was quiet.

Anthony was aware of tenderness and swelling in the vicinity of his eye, and his ribs ached in numerous places. He suspected that he would have some bruises by morning. He consoled himself with the knowledge that Dominic was almost certainly nursing similar mementos of their skirmish.

“Mrs. Lake is an exceedingly strong-minded lady,” Dominic said after a while.

Anthony almost laughed at that comment. But he stopped, wincing, when he felt the cut on his lip open and dampen with blood. “Tobias frequently makes a similar observation. But not usually in such restrained terms.”

He raised the cloth soaked in clear, strong spirits that Mrs. Lake had given him and dabbed at the corner of his mouth. Dominic had a similar spirit-drenched cloth. Mrs. Lake had insisted upon ordering one for each of them from the harried club porter before she had allowed them to be driven here to take up their posts.

After a moment he heard Dominic unwrap the packet of meat pies that Mrs. Lake had also commissioned from the porter.

“She may be somewhat forceful in her temperament,” Dominic said, “but I’m glad she thought about the pies.” He paused. “Do you want one?”

Anthony realized that he was famished. “Yes.”

Dominic handed him a pie and took one for himself. They ate without speaking for a few minutes.

Dominic brushed crumbs from his hands. “What was he like?”

Anthony knew whom he meant. “I do not remember a great deal about him. He got himself killed shortly after I turned eight. Mother died later that same year. Ann and I went to live with relatives for a few months.”

“You must recall something about him.” Dominic sounded angry again. “You had him for over seven years.”

“Father wasn’t around much.” Anthony shrugged. “We lived in the country. He spent most of his time in London. He preferred the hells to family life.” He paused. “Ann had a miniature of him that she left to me.”

“Describe him.”

“I’ll show you the portrait tomorrow. He looked a lot like—”

“Like who?”

“Like us. Same eyes. Same physique. Same nose.”

“Was he ill-tempered? Quick to laugh? Clever?”

“Not clever enough to avoid a stupid argument over a hand of cards, apparently,” Anthony said. “As for the rest, I believe women found him quite charming.”

There was a heavy sigh from Dominic. “Yes, I suppose that must have been the case.”

“What I recall is that he made my mother cry often and that he lost everything, including our house, in that last game of cards.”

“That’s the lot? That is all you can remember?”

Anthony felt his temper start to slip again. “You want to know what I remember most vividly? I remember the man who raised me to manhood. I remember that it was Tobias who taught me how to play chess. It was Tobias who hired a tutor for me so I did not have to go away to school after Ann died. It was Tobias who gave me my first razor and showed me how to use it. It was Tobias who talked to me about what was expected of a man and the importance of honor. It was Tobias who—”