Catherine simply stared at him. The words washed over her, sinking in. Ainsworth had signed away his business. She might return to her work as a printer. She shook her head. “But why would Mr. Ainsworth do such a thing?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Spencer’s eyes flitted to the closed door. “He was faring poorly. It’s why he started the farewell service. It’s why he wanted that timepiece.” He looked back at her, solemn-faced. “You haven’t found it, have you?”

“No.” She turned her gaze on the door.

“I’ll head to the police station. They’ll identify the cause, I’m sure.”

“Of course.” She reached out then, meaning to place a hand on his arm, but he flinched, and she hid her hands away in her coat pockets. “Spencer,” she said. “Are you all right?”

He ignored the question. “I don’t know how long I’ll be at the station. Will you be here?”

Catherine took a step back down the hall, wanting to put some distance between herself and the door concealing Ainsworth’s body. “I need to collect my things,” she said hastily. “But I’ll come back in the morning.”

“Very well.”

He made no move to accompany her downstairs, so she left him in the hall, hurrying down the steps. The ground didn’t feel quite solid beneath her, and she had to catch hold of the handrail to keep steady.

Spencer had supposed Ainsworth had died of shock. But to her, it looked for all the world like he’d been poisoned.

Stepping out of the building, Catherine blinked in the sunlight. The cold air on her face was a relief for once; it was as if she’d broken free of a nightmare. Only she couldn’t cast aside her memories as she might a dream.

“Miss Daly!”

Guy stood waiting on the opposite sidewalk. He took off his hat, waving it at her. A passing carriage pulled to a stop before him, the horses tossing their heads. Guy’s face reddened, and he called up apologies to the driver. Then he jammed his hat back on and dashed across the street, bright-eyed and grinning. “Miss Daly,” he said. “Thank goodness. I was just about to commence the most magnificent distraction to aid in your escape.” He noted her expression, and his eyebrows pinched together. “What’s the matter?”

Catherine started away from the print shop. Any minute now, Spencer would be coming through those doors, and she didn’t wish for him to find her lingering there.

She told Guy, “Mr. Ainsworth is dead,” and the words came out terribly steady. They were the tidy detachment of a death notice set to be printed. Yet as she continued, the steadiness of her voice wavered, drawing thin. “I went up to his office and he—he was on the floor. I think he must’ve been lying there all night. He was cold.”

“My God,” said Guy. “Are you quite all right?”

Catherine met his gaze. “It looked like he’d been poisoned, Mr. Nolan. There was a teacup all in pieces on the floor.”