by Amanda Quick
“It is hardly the same thing, Tobias.”
“It is damned unfair, that’s what it is, not to mention extremely inconvenient. I have been meaning to discuss the matter with you.”
Her fingers froze on the knob of the wardrobe door. She waited, forgetting to breathe.
There was a short pause from the other room.
“Well, well, well,” Tobias murmured.
She took a deep breath. Her fingers relaxed around the knob. She could not say just what it was she experienced in those few seconds. Relief? Disappointment?
What had she expected? she wondered. Tobias was highly unlikely to raise the subject of marriage in the middle of the search of a murderer’s residence.
She went to the doorway and saw that he had gone down on his good knee and raised a section of a carpet. He studied the floorboards with great attention.
“Find something?” she called softly.
“Perhaps.”
He took one of the lock picks out of its leather sheath and slipped it into the long crack where two boards met.
“I think there may be an opening here in the floor.” He probed gently with the pick. “Wouldn’t surprise me. Elland hid his safe in the boards beneath the carpet in his study. That was where Aspasia found his journal and the rings. Perhaps this new Memento-Mori Man seeks to imitate him in every particular.”
“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.”
Chapter 26
“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 & 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-hair pieces, 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.
Mrs. 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. Emeline 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.
“Yes, Mr. Pierce?” Lady Wortham urged. “What is the alternative?”
Pierce half-closed his eyes, as though sighting down the barrel of a pistol. “As we cannot make it possible for your daughter to follow the fashion, madam, we have no choice but to transform her into a paragon of style who sets the fashion.”
“Oh, my.” Lady Wortham looked as though she might faint. “Oh, my gracious. A paragon of style.”
“Leave it to me, madam. I studied my art in Paris. I know what I am about.” Mr. Pierce reached into his satchel and took out some hairpins and curling papers. “But before I proceed, I must have your word that my creation will never again be framed in pink.”
Lady Wortham stiffened, mouth agape, eyes wide. She was speechless.
Pierce picked up his scissors and fixed her with a stern gaze. “Miss Priscilla does have some other colors in her wardrobe, I presume? Surely she does not always go about in this ridiculous color?”
Priscilla made a tiny choking sound and seized the cup of tea that sat on the dressing table. Emeline met her eyes in the mirror. Neither of them dared to speak.
Lady Wortham cleared her throat. “I thought pink very suitable for her age and looks.”
Pierce sighed and went to work with the scissors. “Allow me to tell you, madam, that pink, when added to pale gold hair, creates the impression of a cream cake topped with a great deal of overly sweet icing. A gentleman looks at such a cake and thinks, Well, now, that is a tasty-looking little treat. If it is available, I shall help myself to a bite or two and discard the rest.”
Lady Wortham went red with shock and outrage. “A pink-and-white cream cake? My daughter? How dare you, sir.”
“There is no sense of substance or style to an iced cream cake, you see. It leaves no lasting impression on the tongue.” Pierce continued to work, paying no attention to Lady Wortham’s scandalized expression. “But when one puts a lady with Miss Priscilla’s hair and excellent profile into a darker, jewel-toned gown—an emerald green, perhaps, or a deep sapphire blue—one no longer sees a cream cake.”
“What does one see?” Lady Wortham demanded warily.
“A goddess.”
Lady Wortham blinked. “A goddess? My Priscilla?”
Pierce looked at Priscilla in the mirror. “Do you have any such gowns in your wardrobe, madam? If not, you must make an appointment with your dressmaker immediately.”
“Well,” Priscilla murmured, “there is the new walking gown that Aunt Beatrice ordered for me for my birthday.”
“I really don’t think that it is at all suited to her,” Lady Wortham said, uncertain now. “Beatrice ordered it without consulting with me.”
“Let me see it,” Pierce commanded.
“I’ll fetch it.” Emeline leaped out of her chair. “I think that it is quite striking.”
She went to the wardrobe and took out the new gown.
They all looked at the turquoise walking dress, awaiting Pierce’s verdict.
“Perfect.” Pierce bowed deeply toward Priscilla. “Absolutely perfect.” He turned to Lady Wortham. “Rest assured, madam. Gentlemen will fall to their knees to worship at her altar.”
A short time later, Lady Wortham gazed, transfixed, at Priscilla. “Incredible. She is spectacular. I would never have believed that such a simple style could look so elegant.”
Pierce smoothed Priscilla’s sleekly arranged hair with professional pride. “Simplicity is at the heart of all true elegance, madam.”
Emeline was almost as astonished as Lady Wortham. Pierce had defied the current fashion for intricately braided coils and a profusion of curls at the forehead and temples. Instead, he had brushed Priscilla’s hair straight back from her face and, with the aid of only a few pins, had created a graceful twist high on the back of her head. The design emphasized the long, delicate line of her neck and her fine profile. Only a few wispy ringlets danced in front of her ears.
Priscilla had always been lovely, Emeline thought, but now her friend appeared more self-confident and assured. There was a touch of feminine mystery about her that had not been there before.
“Priscilla, you are magnificent,” Emeline whispered.
Priscilla blushed furiously, but she could not seem to take her eyes off the image of herself in the mirror. “Do you really like it?”
“Oh, yes. I cannot wait to see you in your new gown.”
“I am delighted that you are all pleased.” Mr. Pierce smiled at Emeline. “As it happens, I am free for another hour or so. Would you care to have your hair dressed, Miss Emeline? I believe I can improve upon your present arrangement. Not that your style is unattractive—quite the opposite. But it is a bit too much in the current mode, if you know what I mean. You require a more original look.”
“Oh, I could not possibly presume on your time and Lady Wortham’s hospitality,” Emeline said hastily, and not without a twinge of regret. Pierce might be a murderer, but there was no denying that he was an artist when it came to hair. It would have been so much fun to find out just how he would have transformed her.
“Of course you must let him dress your hair, Emeline.” Priscilla got up from the dressing table. “Mama will not mind in the least.”
“Not at all,” Lady Wortham said magnanimously. “Indeed, it is quite exciting to watch Mr. Pierce at work. One feels oneself to be in the vicinity of a great talent.”
Reluctantly, Emeline sat down at the dressing table. “Thank you.”
Pierce shook out the white cloth and arranged it around her shoulders. He picked up his comb and met her eyes in the mirror.
“Yes, I know just what to do here,” he said. “It is such a pleasure to work on young ladies who are concerned with the latest fashions. Most of my clients are older women who insist upon the more elaborate coiffeurs of the past, the sort that were designed for those towering powdered wigs they wore in their youth.”
“I must admit, I remember those wigs all too well,” Lady Wortham said. “They looked quite elegant on the dance floor, but they were ever so hot and heavy.”
Mr. Pierce removed the pins that anchored Emeline’s hair with a few quick motions. “As I was saying, I generally cater to an older clientele. But it is so much more entertaining to work on the heads of young ladies. Tell me, Miss Emeline, did your aunt happen to mention that I made her acquaintance at Beaumont Castle?”
Emeline went cold inside. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Priscilla tense. Lady Wortham, still blithely oblivious, poured some tea.
Emeline steadied herself. “She mentioned that she had met a hairdresser who told her that red hair was not a fashionable shade. But she did not recall his name.”
Pierce was clearly offended. “I did give her my card.”
“She must have lost it,” Eme
line said smoothly.
“I see. Understandable, I suppose. I know that she and her friend Mr. March were rather preoccupied at the time. They were convinced that Lord Fullerton’s death was not an accident. I believe they were attempting to prove it.”
“Not an accident?” Lady Wortham looked surprised. “I had not heard any mention of foul play in connection with Fullerton’s death.”
“That is because Mr. March and my aunt were not able to find any evidence of murder,” Emeline explained. “Furthermore, Lord Beaumont made it clear that he did not want an investigation taking place under his roof.”
“So, all in all, their inquiries came to naught?” Priscilla asked in a casual, innocent tone.
“I’m afraid so,” Emeline murmured. “It is difficult to investigate a case of murder if no one believes that one has occurred.”
“Fascinating.” Pierce paused in the act of combing out her hair and looked at her with great interest. “Have they made any progress here in Town?”
“None. Mr. March is quite frustrated, I’m afraid. My aunt feels that they are wasting their time. She is attempting to persuade him to abandon his inquiries.”
She was rather proud of that last bit, she thought.
“I see.” Pierce’s expression did not change. “Do you think that she will be successful?”
“Oh, yes,” Emeline said. She lowered her tone to a confidential level and prepared to lie outright. “Fullerton’s family does not want any inquiries made, nor does anyone else. My aunt is very concerned with the collection of fees, and, as there is no client in this case, she feels that she and Mr. March must turn their attentions to other matters.”
“No offense, my dear,” Lady Wortham said in tones that dripped with disapproval, “but I must tell you that Mrs. Lake’s little hobby strikes me as quite odd.”
Emeline wondered what Lavinia would say if she were to tell her that Lady Wortham considered her career a mere hobby.
“I imagine that an intelligent lady such as Mrs. Lake no doubt finds such work an interesting challenge,” Pierce murmured.
