The police inspector grinned as Malcolm purchased tickets for the lecture. He and Melvyn escorted the ladies inside, where a sizeable crowd had already gathered. Frock-coated gentlemen and elegant ladies murmured pleasantries while they waited for the speaker to put in appearance. Malcolm steered the way toward a far corner, where he and Margo could watch newcomers while remaining unobserved, themselves. Conroy Melvyn and Shahdi Feroz strolled through the room, circulating through the crowd, speaking to such luminaries as Madame Blavatsky and filming the event through concealed cameras. They had been waiting for perhaps six or seven minutes when Margo clutched at Malcolm’s arm, denting his fine woolen sleeve with her nails. “Look!” She was staring toward the entrance, where three gentlemen had just appeared. “My God, it’s Marcus!”
He frowned. “Surely you’re mistaken?” One of the trio did, indeed, look very much like Ianira Cassondra’s missing husband. Yet there was too much grey in his hair and he’d aged in other ways, with a deep-set look of fear and frustration etched into his features. Then Malcolm noticed the mutton-chopped gentleman at his side and stiffened. “Great Scott! That may or may not be Marcus, but the chap with him is most certainly Benny Catlin!”
“It is, too, Marcus,” she insisted stubbornly. “If somebody were trying to kill me and my whole family, I might’ve gone grey overnight, too! But what’s he doing in London with Benny Catlin? And who’s that guy with them?”