I retracted the silver blades into my hands, flexed my shining fingers, and looked around to see how Molly was doing. She was staring disgustedly at the Hungry Heart, who was squatting over the disassembled Frankenstein creatures, feasting on their ancient flesh. He looked up and smiled apologetically.

“Tastes like dust, but flesh is flesh and beggars can’t be choosers. If you really must find Mr. Stab, and I can’t think of any good reason why you’d want to . . . I suggest you try the old Woolwich Cemetery.”

“What would he be doing there?” said Molly.

“You ask him,” said the Hungry Heart. “I wouldn’t dare.”

The Merlin Glass transported us instantly to a gloomy, overgrown, and deserted cemetery in Woolwich Arsenal, down in the dark heart of the East End, on the far side of the Thames. The cemetery was dominated by Victorian styles, with oversized tombs and mausoleums, and fancy graves. That whole period was fascinated with death and all its trappings, and the graveyard was positively littered with statues of weeping angels, mourning cherubs, and enough morbid carvings and engravings to make even an undertaker shout Jesus! Get a life, dammit! Long exposure to the elements had scoured away the angels’ faces, giving the statues a sour, surrealistic look. The cherubs still looked like dead babies, though. In fact, I think that was the name of a cartoon series I saw as a kid: Casper the Dead Baby.

Molly and I set off down the single gravel path, heading deeper into the extensive cemetery grounds. The place looked abandoned. The grass had been left to grow and there were weeds everywhere, even pushing thick tufts up though the gravel path. There were no flowers on any of the graves, and the headstones were so weathered it was hard to make out the inscriptions. A cold wind was blowing, light was fading as evening descended, and shadows were creeping everywhere.

“I like this place,” said Molly.

“You would,” I said.

“No, really; it’s . . . restful. Modern cemeteries are far too busy for my tastes. Once I’m gone, I don’t want to be bothered with visitors or flowers. Just bury me deep, set up perimeter mines to discourage the body snatchers, and let me rest easy till Judgement Day. I’m going to need the peace and quiet to think up some good excuses.”

“All Droods get cremated,” I said. “Just to make sure none of our enemies can play unpleasant tricks with our remains.”

“Maybe you could have your ashes shot into outer space, like Timothy Leary,” said Molly.

I had to smile. “Anything, to get away from my family.”

“I don’t see Mr. Stab anywhere,” said Molly. “And I don’t see what he would be doing in a place like this anyway.”

“We’re not that far from his original killing grounds,” I said. “Back when he first made a name for himself, in 1888.”