The House That Jack Built by Robert Asprin & Linda Evans

“Well, somebody’s got to know him. Dominica Nosette and Guy Pendergast figured out who he is, I’m willing to bet on it. Whatever William Butler Yeats and his friend said, that night at the Carlton Club, Pendergast figured out who the mystery doctor was.”

“Or maybe he just saw the bloody chap and followed him,” Melvyn muttered, flushing with embarrassment over the affair. The police inspector had not taken it well, that a reporter had given him the slip while he’d been focused on a famous poet.

“Maybe. That might mean he could have an occult connection, if he was there on the night of the Theosophical meeting. Or even if he wasn’t there, because Malcolm said you were discussing Celtic religions and other stuff that would interest someone like Yeats.”

“Bloody hell . . .” The inspector’s footsteps faltered as a look of surprise crossed his face.

“What?” Margo asked. “What did I say?”

“Perhaps nothing. Perhaps everything.” The policeman was staring at the newspaper they’d just bought. “It’s this.” He tapped the newspaper, then opened it hastily, skimming one finger down the newsprint columns. “There was a lecture notice on the front page . . .” he muttered. “Jumped out at me just as you spoke about Celtic religions. There! Got it.”

He held the newspaper open so she could see the article.

“Dr. John Lachley,” Margo read out loud. “SoHo scholar of the occult, mesmeric physician . . .” Her eyes widened. She clutched at the policeman’s sleeve. “He keeps a surgery in Cleveland Street, in a house he calls Tibor.”