“I’m not sure of anything,” he admitted, and for the first time, I sensed some doubt. Maybe even a hint of fear. “I don’t even know why I was in the cemetery that night.”

“You have amnesia?” A surreal question if ever there was one.

“About the events surrounding that night? It would seem so.”

He gazed out at the street as I searched his profile. The detail I could see in the twilight was amazing. The strong line of his jaw and chin, the sharp shelf of his cheekbone, the outline of his lips. Even knowing what I knew, I still found it difficult to accept that he was dead.

“I suppose that makes sense,” I said, tearing my gaze away. “I’ve read that accident victims often can’t recall details leading up to the crash. This is similar. You suffered a severe trauma.”

“Yes, the trauma was severe,” he murmured.

“What’s the last thing you do remember? Before you died, I mean.”

He fell silent, and now I sensed some turmoil, some inner conflict. “I remember meeting someone.”

“At the cemetery?”

“I don’t know. All I remember is the scent of her perfume. The smell was still on my clothes when I died.”

“So the killer could have been a woman.”

“It’s possible. I have a vague recollection of an argument.”

“Do you know who she was?”

Another hesitation. “Her name eludes me.”

“What did she look like?”

In the split second before he answered, I could have sworn I saw a shudder go through him, but it seemed unlikely a ghost would be affected in so earthly a manner. Surely I was ascribing my own human emotions to him.

“I don’t know. But her perfume…”

“Go on.”

“The scent is still on my clothes,” he said, almost in defeat. “I can smell it even now.”

I thought of the exotic fragrance that had drifted to me earlier, riding the same ghostly breeze as the nightingale’s song. If Fremont had been following me then, the scent might have come from him.