Catherine sat back in her chair. When she closed her eyes, she saw Owen as he looked in the cemetery, pale-faced, standing at the edge of his grave.

“What about Mr. Ainsworth? You said he was here the other day.”

Francis frowned. “Mr. Ainsworth? I haven’t seen him in some time.”

Catherine lowered her teacup, narrowing her eyes. “You mentioned a man from the Chronicle was asking around about the timepiece.”

“Oh, but not Mr. Ainsworth.” Francis’s gaze shifted to the fire as he took up the poker. Shadows flitted across his face. “I can’t recall his name now. I thought he was a student.”

Catherine shared a look with Guy. His eyes met hers, dark and wondering, but Catherine could venture a guess as to who Francis meant. “Mr. Carlyle?” she said.

“Ah, yes.” Francis smiled, placing the poker back against the wall. “That might’ve been it. As I said, I didn’t speak to him myself.”

Catherine pressed her lips thin, staring into her tea. Spencer could’ve been on an errand for Ainsworth, but if so, she wondered why he hadn’t told her of it.

In the chair next to her, Guy said, “Thank you, Mr. Williams.” Turning toward Catherine, his voice quieted, rising softly in a question. “Shall we be on our way?”

But when they got outside, they were met with rain falling in sheets. The two of them waited beneath the entranceway, watching it pour down across the curve of stone above their heads. The courtyard was already miry, marked with puddles, the sight to the road a blur of gray, rain striking the wrought-iron fence in the distance.

“It’ll let up in a moment,” Guy said. He held his hat at his side, and his hair was tangled, made wavy by the damp air. He pushed a lock of it out of his eyes, looking over at her. “Are you all right?”

Catherine put her hands in her coat pockets. “I don’t know why Spencer would be asking about the timepiece. Unless he was asking on Mr. Ainsworth’s behalf.” She gazed out at the rain, and the steadiness of it, however battering, calmed her nerves. This was the way it rained back home, too—consistent and relentless in the colder months.

Guy said, “Are we going to the cemetery tonight? We’ve yet to ask Mr. Smith.”

“And what are we to do if he does remember? If he did hide the timepiece?”

“Then we’ll know,” Guy said simply. “And if he did not, it’s possible he might remember who did.” He surveyed the way ahead of them, his expression creasing in concern. “I do hope he’s not caught in this rain.”

They fell silent, waiting, both of them looking out from the shadows of the arch. Guy stood near to her, near enough Catherine felt the brush of his arm against hers. The sound of carriages on the street was muffled by the pounding rain, and the world seemed small, close, just she and Guy in the slate-gray November morning.