Geoffrey Watt resided in a fine two-story house lined with windows. Smoke curled above the chimneys, the white-painted door a stark contrast to the gray evening. Inside, they were shown into a parlor room, and Catherine seated herself in an armchair near the fire. Guy and Owen sat in chairs across from her. The walls were papered in dark red, the furniture heavy and polished. Guy took his pocket watch from his waistcoat, not to mark the time; he merely pressed it against the palm of his hand. The firelight drew attention to the tangle of his hair, the pallor of his countenance. There was a glassiness to his brown eyes that suggested he was somewhere else entirely.

Leaning forward, Catherine said softly, “Guy, you needn’t stay here. Perhaps…”

He blinked and looked her way, coming back to himself. “Pardon?”

“I said you needn’t—”

The parlor door opened. Watt walked in, regarding the three of them. He’d not yet changed for the evening; he wore a fitted frock coat and dark trousers, his cravat tied in a centered bow. Catherine remembered how he’d stood before his sister’s grave, melancholy and unsure. He seemed an altogether different man in his own house, surrounded by the elegance of the parlor. He was clearly a little bewildered at their presence, but he welcomed them in all manner of politeness.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting. I assume this is not a social call.” He took a seat on the sofa. “Good evening to you, Miss Daly. Mr. Nolan.” His eyes caught on Owen. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

Guy cleared his throat. “This is my cousin,” he said. “Owen Smith.”

“A pleasure,” said Watt. “I wasn’t aware Henry Nolan had much in the way of family.”

“He is a cousin on my mother’s side.” Guy paused, clutching his pocket watch in a white-knuckled grip. “My father… my father passed away earlier today.”

“Oh, gracious. I’m sorry, Mr. Nolan.”

“Mr. Watt,” Catherine said, “we’re here because we have questions. You’ve no doubt heard news of Mr. Ainsworth’s death. We’ve reason to believe both deaths were a result of poisoning.”

Watt’s eyes widened. He leaned back against the sofa, his hands on his knees. “Well,” he said. “Good heavens.”

Guy returned his gaze to the fire, saying nothing. Catherine continued. “I know you had information Mr. Ainsworth was seeking—the location of a timepiece. You gave him directions to an unmarked plot in the cemetery, yet when he sent me to retrieve it, there was no such thing to be found.”

Watt cast his eyes down. “I didn’t think he’d dig up the grave for it.”

“He didn’t.” Catherine gripped the seat of her chair. “I did.”

With a sigh, Watt lifted his gaze to meet hers. “I directed him there thinking it would discourage him. The timepiece wasn’t left in that coffin.” He looked over at Guy, his brow creased. “I imagine it’s still in your shop, Mr. Nolan.”

Catherine turned to Guy in confusion. He didn’t move; he seemed not to have heard, but slowly, voice rasping, he said, “Why would it be there?”