Guy blinked at her. “Well, now,” he said after a moment, “he hasn’t seen it before, has he?”

Catherine knew just what he meant and she didn’t like it. “Don’t be absurd.”

“It’s only a suggestion. We’ve plenty of old watches lying around the shop. If I gave you one, and you gave it to him, will he know it isn’t the one he’s after? I think there’s a chance he won’t.” His gaze drifted past her, and he stood up, placing a hand flat over his waistcoat. “Mr. Smith, there you are. Grand.”

Owen pulled on his coat. “Will we be heading back to your flat now?” He clutched Guy’s cast-off hat in his gloved hands, looking between the two of them.

“Yes, let’s. You may even stay downstairs in the shop, if you like.”

Catherine tugged on her own coat. She smoothed back loose strands of her hair and tied her bonnet in place. She turned down the lamps, leaving the room in shadow.

CHAPTER TEN

OUT ON THE STREET, the sun shone through a gap in the cloud cover. It was close to midday, and a crowded omnibus rolled past them, the coach painted green and yellow, the horses’ hooves clicking against the cobbles. They started in the direction of the watchmaker’s shop, heading away from the river, to the narrow stretches of smaller streets, the dark alleys that cut between them. When they passed the way to the public cemetery, Catherine couldn’t help but glance back. It’d be wise to return before dark; if Owen was to stay with Guy, she ought to turn back and search the grounds alone.

Reaching the corner, Catherine spotted a young man sitting on the low front step of the Nolans’ shop. His hat was placed beside him, his blond hair a stark contrast to the green front of the building.

“Mr. Nolan,” she said, “who’s that on your step?”

Guy paused on the pavement. “Sydney Mallory.” Meeting her gaze, he added, “I believe I’ve mentioned him to you, Miss Daly.”

And Catherine realized who this person must be.

Sydney Mallory was the resurrectionist.

In that same moment, Sydney noticed them. Getting up from the step, he set his hat on his head and made his way over to them. “Guy!” he said. “I tried knocking—isn’t your father in? It hardly seems advantageous to close up every time you step out.” Though he looked to be the same age as Guy, he was a little taller, wearing a dark-gray overcoat. His blue eyes alit on Catherine, and he doffed his hat. “Good day, miss.”

Guy said, “Sydney, please meet Miss Daly. She’s a compositor at the Chronicle. Miss Daly, this is Sydney Mallory.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mallory,” said Catherine, though she wasn’t yet sure of that. She wondered if he had a daytime profession, or if resurrecting bodies was his only work. Though she supposed if he did have another occupation, Guy would’ve remarked on it.