“I don’t think it’s the same killer.” Catherine turned to him, dread working through her veins. “It’s likely someone at the print shop poisoned Mr. Ainsworth.”

A sharp gust of wind lifted the fallen leaves off the ground. They tumbled over the cobbles, fetching up against the carriage house. Catherine pulled her coat close. “When I return tomorrow,” she said, “I’m going to search.”

“For arsenic? Catherine, you can’t be caught poking around. If whoever did this knows you suspect something, I can’t imagine they’ll be pleased.”

She started for the front gates. Just down the street, there were the university buildings, weather-darkened and imposing, their clay chimney pots set against the overcast sky.

Guy fell into step beside her. “Where are we going?”

“I’d like to pay a call on Mr. Williams,” she said. “I saw Mr. Boyd at the university the other day. I want to know what he was doing there.”

“You suppose he’s after the timepiece as well?”

“When I spoke to him, he said he knew I didn’t have it.” Catherine ducked her head against the wind. “He may have said that because he knows it’s still out there. Perhaps he discovered where it might be from someone at the university.”

“Mr. Williams didn’t seem very knowledgeable on the subject,” Guy put in.

They reached the same building Sydney had brought them to. Up on the fourth floor, Catherine knocked on Francis’s door, and this time, he answered.

“Well, hello,” he said. “Miss Daly, yes? And Mr. Nolan?”

Catherine smiled. “Good morning, Mr. Williams.”

He was dressed tidily—his shirt collar starched, his trousers pressed—but he also looked like he’d been up half the night and then some. “What can I do for you? Is Mr. Mallory here?”

“No, it’s only us,” said Catherine. “May we come in?”

Francis scratched the back of his neck, his expression more than a little puzzled. “Of course,” he said, his tone well mannered despite his bewilderment. “Would you like tea?”

Guy had been gazing down the hall, but now he looked over and said, “Yes, thank you.”

They settled in chairs around the fireplace, the flames flickering in the grate. Catherine felt cold nonetheless; she hadn’t taken off her coat. Fear had burrowed into her heart like a splinter. “Mr. Williams,” she said, “last time we were here, I noticed Mr. Boyd from the Journal. Are you acquainted with him?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Boyd. He’s a fine fellow, I think.”

Catherine clutched her teacup. “Do you know what he was doing here? Was he asking about the timepiece?”

Francis tipped his head to the side, regarding her. “Still looking for it, are you?”

“Mr. Ainsworth, my former employer, wished to find it. Now he’s dead. Someone poisoned him.”

His eyes widened a little. “Poisoned? How so?”

“We’ve just come from the hospital. An attendant there told us it was arsenic.” Catherine didn’t look away from him. “Was Mr. Boyd inquiring about the timepiece or not, Mr. Williams?”

“I don’t believe so,” he replied. “But he was—about a fortnight ago. There was word going around it was buried in an unmarked plot.”