“Maybe some of his victims are buried here.”

“Somehow, I don’t see Mr. Stab as the sentimental kind,” I said. “And anyway, from what I’ve been able to make out on these tombstones, most of them date from long before Jack the Ripper.”

We walked up and down and back and forth in the cemetery, and still no sign anywhere of Mr. Stab. Given the sheer size and scale of the cemetery grounds, it would take hours to cover it all, and besides, I was getting impatient. And cold. I’d dropped my armour when I left Café Night, but now I subvocalised the Words, and called up just enough of my armour to cover my face. With a little concentration, I can see infrared though the mask, and it didn’t take me long to locate the only other human heat source in the darkening graveyard. I armoured down again, rather than risk putting Mr. Stab on the defensive, and led the way over to where he was standing, doing my best to appear calm and unthreatening and not in any way worried. He doesn’t like it when people he’s trying to have a conversation with are clearly scared shitless of him. In fact, for an immortal serial killer, Mr. Stab could be quite remarkably touchy.

He was dressed in the formal clothes of his original period, all stark black and white, with a top hat and even an opera cloak. When stalking his victims he could blend in just like anyone else, but when he was off duty, so to speak, he preferred the clothes he was most comfortable with. He was a tall and powerful man, with broad shoulders and long arms. He had a broad, paternal face, like a kindly old family doctor . . . until you looked into his eyes. And saw all the horrors of Hell looking back at you.

He turned slowly to face us as we drew nearer. “Molly,” he said. “How nice. And Edwin Drood, again. An honour.”

“What are you doing in a place like this?” said Molly, blunt as ever.

“Just . . . visiting,” said Mr. Stab. He smiled vaguely, showing large, blocky teeth grown brown with age. He gestured at the graves around him. “Once this was a fashionable place, with people just dying to get in. Special trains brought the fortunate deceased here from all over the country. Long ago now, and no one remembers anymore. Except me. I have friends and family here, people who knew me when I was just a man. The last people to remember me as I was, before I became a name to frighten people with.”

I found it hard to think of Mr. Stab as ever being normal, with a normal life, and he must have sensed it, because he made a brief dismissive gesture and looked at me coldly.

“What do you want with me, Edwin Drood?”