Owen stood motionless, wide-eyed and pale. His voice was faint as he said, “What can you remember about him? Can you—do you remember his name?”

“No. He worked here years ago, mind.” The man scratched the back of his head. “Kept to himself. Quiet-like, you know? Then he up and vanished—never saw him after that.”

Owen shared a look with Catherine. He raised a shaky hand to his throat, as if to reassure himself of his pulse.

Vanished.

So it was true. Owen had worked in this shop, at least for a time, and something awful had happened to him. A shiver crept over her spine as she considered again the nightmare he’d spoken of that morning.

“I’m afraid that’s all the help I can offer. You go on now, the pair of you.”

The coffin maker headed for the counter. Catherine turned toward the door, hoping Owen would follow, but stopped as he called out, “Wait.”

He stood looking at the coffin maker. There was a desperate, peculiar light to his eyes, and when the man met his gaze, Owen asked him, “What’s your name?”

The man tilted his head. “Reed,” he said after a pause. “James Reed.”

“Mr. Reed.” Owen took a breath and nodded. “Thank you. I’m Owen Smith.”

The man put his hands in his trouser pockets. “Right. Good day, Mr. Smith.”

They stepped back out onto the lane, and the wind pulled at the ribbons of Catherine’s bonnet. The day was settling into late afternoon, the chill in the air becoming crisp and cold as the light dwindled. Owen put on his hat, shading his eyes. Catherine waited for him to speak.

He said, “That man knew me. James Reed. He knew me.” His words ran together, tumbling out. “Whoever I was—he knew that person. And I knew him. I was—I was quiet and kept to myself. That seems all right, doesn’t it? I mean…”

“It must be a shock,” Catherine offered. She eyed the darkening sky, the shadowed peaks of the buildings up ahead. It was the watercolor painting washed in gray, a motley collection of soot-stained brick and stone. The thought of the timepiece was incessant as pins and needles, but if there was some clue of it in Owen’s past, they hadn’t found it in the obituary pages or the coffin shop. Catherine imagined being dismissed from the Chronicle, but it didn’t bear thinking on.

The day was not yet done.

“A shock? Yes. I suppose it is, Miss Daly.” Owen rubbed at his eyes. “My head is aching something terrible.”

“We’ll return to Mr. Nolan’s and get him to make us tea.”

He nodded, sniffed, and ran a hand over his eyes a second time as they turned the corner. She knew he was crying again. She passed him a handkerchief, saying, “It’s all right,” when he choked out, “Sorry,” and, “Thank you,” in quick succession.

Dry leaves whirled up in the breeze, fluttering across their path. Catherine shivered, the cold biting at her cheeks, but she only ducked her head, continuing on.