“Cheer up, Mr. Dumfrey,” Thomas said half an hour later.

Mr. Dumfrey was doubled over the table, clutching his head in his hands. The other residents of the museum had been awakened by a storm of cursing and by now had trickled down into the kitchen, in various stages of sleep and undress. Only Sam was missing. He had refused to leave his bed, grunting a rude response when Thomas had told him to get downstairs.

“We’re ruined,” Mr. Dumfrey said in a trembling voice.

“Ruined!” Monsieur Cabillaud wailed.

Howie repressed a small smile. Thomas glared at him.

“Well, here’s two pieces of good news to cheer you up.” Pippa had been reading the article about Manfred’s death, which Thomas had skimmed, feeling increasingly sick with every new detail. Manfred Richstone had apparently been stabbed during a prison brawl he’d attempted to stop. Now she turned the page. “‘Police have identified the man responsible for the murder of renowned sculptor Siegfried Eckleberger.’”

“What?” Thomas nearly choked on his own tongue.

Pippa raised her eyebrows, then returned her attention to the paper. “At five thirty a.m. this morning, the body of an unidentified homeless man was fished from the East River. In his pockets were Mr. Eckleberger’s wallet and gold watch. Police speculate that Mr. Eckleberger was killed when he surprised the man during an attempted break-in.”

“Poor Freckles,” Mr. Dumfrey murmured in a trembling voice. “My dear friend, killed for a pittance.”

Pippa, evidently judging that her attempt to cheer Mr. Dumfrey had backfired, quickly changed tactics. “I’ve got even better news for you,” she said brightly. “Listen to this: ‘Rattigan trapped like a rat! The FBI in cooperation with the Chicago police are closing in on Rattigan, according to an unnamed source familiar with the investigation.’” Pippa looked up. “How about that, Mr. Dumfrey? That has to make you feel better.”

She spoke lightly, but Thomas detected a slight edge to her voice—other than the children and Miss Fitch, the residents of the museum knew nothing about Mr. Dumfrey’s relationship to the deranged scientist, and they certainly didn’t know that Rattigan had used the children for his terrible experiments.

Or did they? Did someone know? Was it possible that the note posted on the door last night was a horrible practical joke? Thomas knew Miss Fitch wasn’t to blame. She had no sense of humor, not even a bad one.

Mr. Dumfrey heaved a long sigh. “Thank you, Pippa,” he said, absentmindedly patting her hand as he stood up from the table. A little more quietly, he added, “But I’m afraid I won’t feel happy until he is in jail.” To the others, he said, “I’m afraid that a marching band seems to have taken up residence behind my head. Until further notice, I will be in my study.”

“Mr. Dumfrey,” Monsieur Cabillaud burst out. “We really must discuss—”

“Please, Henri,” Mr. Dumfrey said. “Not now.”

Monsieur Cabillaud muttered something in French. Thomas could only assume, from the way he was scowling, that it was very rude.

Once Mr. Dumfrey left the room, there was a long moment of gloomy silence. But Thomas couldn’t bring himself to care about the museum’s troubles. His mind was whirling so fast, he could barely keep his thoughts together.

The police believed that Freckles had been killed by some homeless man during a routine robbery. But why would a random thief have taken Rachel’s picture? The thief hadn’t even stolen the frame, which he might at least have pawned—and he’d left plenty more valuable items in the studio. It didn’t make any sense. But it might mean, at least, that Chubby was off the hook.

Still, Thomas was convinced, more than ever, that the murders of Rachel Richstone and Siegfried Eckleberger were connected. Even if Chubby no longer needed him, didn’t he owe it to Manfred Richstone? Now that he was dead, Thomas’s might have been the last letter he ever answered.

“Well.” Miss Fitch sniffed. “It’s ten o’clock already. Curtain’s up for the matinee in an hour and we’ve plenty to do. Thomas, please see to it that Sam hasn’t suffocated in his pillows. William—er, Lash—make sure the stage has been properly cleaned. Yesterday I counted four black spots.”

“Anything you say, Miss Fitch,” Lash said with a tip of his hat.

“What’s the point?” Quinn wailed. “You heard Mr. Dumfrey. We’re ruined. We’ll all be put out on the street.”

“She’s right,” Monsieur Cabillaud said. “Zer is no hope for us now.”

“Be that as it may,” Miss Fitch said, rounding on him, her dark eyebrows quivering with rage, “the show must go on. As long as we have a roof over our heads and an audience to perform for—whether it’s one person or twelve—we will perform. Is that clear?”

No one argued with Miss Fitch, particularly when her eyebrows were involved. So the performers filed out of the kitchen and up the spiral staircase. Max fell into step next to Thomas.

“Did you hear that?” she whispered. “Rattigan’s a thousand miles away, and caught like a fish in a barrel. So he can’t be after us.”

“I hope not,” Thomas said sincerely. With everyone fighting, Dumfrey distracted, Sam sulking, and Max half stupid over Howie, Thomas didn’t know what would happen if Rattigan decided to make a reappearance. He did know they would not be as lucky as the last time. “I really, really hope not.”