by Amanda Quick
She had faced them with an air of icy disdain that would have suited a very displeased Queen Victoria.
“I do not read mirrors for the purpose of entertaining others or satisfying their curiosity. When I accepted this commission, I believed it to be a serious request. I did not realize that I was to be tested and examined. I’m afraid I don’t have time for that sort of nonsense.”
At that point she had given them her back and walked out the door without another word. The shock that had momentarily electrified the small group that was left behind in the drawing room had amused Owen to no end. Lady Pomeroy and the researchers from the Arcane Society all moved in eminently respectable—and in some cases exclusive—circles. They were not accustomed to enduring the cold scorn of a lowly psychical practitioner, a woman who actually went into the world to earn her living with her talents.
When they had recovered, they awaited the verdict from a flushed and very annoyed Lady Pomeroy.
“What did she tell you, madam?” Hedgeworth asked.
“Miss Dean informed me that my husband was not murdered, nor was his death a suicide, as some suspected,” Lady Pomeroy said brusquely. “According to her, Carlton was alone here in the drawing room when he died of natural causes, as I have always believed. There was no indication of violence.”
“Well, that was a perfectly safe thing for her to say, wasn’t it?” one of the other observers pointed out. “There is no proving otherwise after all these months.”
“She no doubt researched the matter of your husband’s death before she came here today, Lady Pomeroy,” Hobson said. “The particulars were in the papers, after all. The press called it a stroke.”
“Quite right,” one of the others said. “The Dean woman could well be a fraud. The charlatans in that field are very clever. And since none of us is a glasslight-talent, we cannot be certain that we, ourselves, were not deceived.”
But Owen had known with every fiber of his being that Virginia Dean possessed a true talent. The shadows in her eyes told him that she had witnessed death many times over. He knew those shadows well. He saw similar ghosts in his own eyes every time he looked into a mirror.
He turned down another hallway, Virginia and Becky at his heels.
“I admire your fortitude, Miss Dean,” he said. “And that of Miss Becky, as well. You have both been through a great deal tonight. Many people, male or female, would have been thoroughly rattled by now.”
“Never fear, Mr. Sweetwater,” Virginia said. “Becky and I will indulge ourselves in a bracing case of shattered nerves at a more convenient time, won’t we, Becky?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Becky said. “Right now I just want to get out of this place.”
“My sentiments precisely,” Virginia said. “Becky, are you certain you can’t recall anything after getting into the man’s carriage earlier today?”
“No, ma’am.” Becky hesitated. “Just that the gentleman seemed so handsome and so charming. And the flowers. I remember those as well.”
“What flowers?”
“I’m not sure, but I think I smelled something sickeningly sweet, like dying roses.”
“Chloroform,” Virginia said grimly. “You were drugged, Becky. That is why you don’t remember what happened to you.”
Owen opened the door at the top of the stairs and ushered them into the old drying shed.
“Please do not mistake me, sir, ma’am,” Becky said. “I am truly grateful to both of you. But I don’t understand how the two of you managed to find me tonight. How did you know where I was?”
“Mr. Sweetwater is an investigator,” Virginia said. “A sort of private inquiry agent. Finding people is what he does. Isn’t that right, sir?”
“In a manner of speaking,” Owen said.
“Oh, I see.” Becky’s expression cleared. “I’ve never met a private inquiry agent. It sounds a very interesting profession.”
“It has its moments,” Owen said.
He opened the door, heightened his senses and looked out into the night-shrouded gardens. Nothing moved in the fogbound darkness. The walled grounds that surrounded the mansion were as eerily silent as they had been earlier, when he had arrived. The mansion also appeared deserted. No light glowed in any of the windows.
He led the women out of the shed.
Behind him, Becky spoke quietly to Virginia.
“Are you Mr. Sweetwater’s assistant, ma’am?” she asked.
“No,” Virginia said firmly. “I do not work for Mr. Sweetwater.”
“Ah, then you are his mistress,” Becky said, speaking with the wisdom of the streets. “I thought so. It must be very exciting to be the mistress of a private inquiry agent.”
Owen winced and braced himself for the thunderstorm he knew was about to light up the garden. But to his amazement, Virginia did not lose her temper. She kept her voice polite, almost gentle. One would never know that she had just been grievously insulted.
“No, Becky,” she said. “I do not have any sort of personal or intimate relationship with Mr. Sweetwater.”
“I don’t understand,” Becky said. “If you don’t work for him and if you’re not his mistress, why are you out here with him in the middle of the night?”
“I was at loose ends this evening,” Virginia said. “I thought it might be amusing to go out on an adventure with a private inquiry agent.”
“I expect it was thrilling,” Becky said.
“Yes, indeed,” Virginia said.
Owen glanced back over his shoulder. “Thrilling, was it, Miss Dean?”
“Perhaps that is not the perfect word,” Virginia said.
He got them through the garden gate and down the alley to the waiting carriage. The figure on the box stirred and looked down.
“I see you found not one but two ladies, Uncle Owen,” Matt said. “A good night’s work.”
“There was a bit of luck involved, but everyone is safe.” Owen opened the door of the cab. “We are going to drop our guests off at their respective addresses.”
“Aye, sir,” Matt said.
Virginia drew Owen aside while Becky got into the vehicle.
“We will take Becky to the charity house in Elm Street,” she said quietly. “She will be well taken care of there tonight. The woman who operates the house will give Becky a clean bed, a good meal, and offer her a way off the streets.”
“I know the place,” Owen said. He smiled. “Are you aware that it has recently come under the auspices of the Arcane Society?”
“Arcane is operating a refuge for young prostitutes?” Disbelief rang in Virginia’s voice. “I don’t believe it. When did the Society develop an interest in charity?”
“I’m told it is the modern era, Miss Dean. The world is changing, and so is the Arcane Society.”
“Hah. I sincerely doubt that lot of arrogant, hidebound old alchemists is capable of change.”
She turned and went up the steps and into the cab. He climbed in behind the women, put the clockwork weapon on the floor of the vehicle, sat down and closed the door. The carriage rattled forward down the lane.
Becky frowned at the clockwork device. “Is that a toy?”
“No,” Owen said. “It is an automaton, a clockwork curiosity. Someone evidently left it behind. Thought I’d salvage it.”
“Oh,” Becky said. “It is very pretty.”
“Yes,” he said.
She lost interest immediately and sank back into the corner of the seat with a small sigh. “Do you think the handsome man in the carriage will try to find me? He will no doubt be very angry when he discovers that I am gone. He knows the corner where I conduct my business.”
“I promise you that you will never see him again,” Virginia said. She touched the girl’s hand. “You are safe.”
THREE
They delivered Becky into the warmth and welcome of the Elm Street charity house’s matron, Mrs. Mallory. Becky seemed bewildered, but the prospect of a hot meal and a safe bed persuaded her to tole
rate the situation, at least for the night.
“Whether or not she accepts the offer of going off to the charityhouse school for girls, where she can learn a respectable trade, like typewriting or telegraphy, will be up to her,” Virginia said when she got back into the carriage. “But Mrs. Mallory is very skilled at encouraging the girls to enter the school.”
Owen sat down on the opposite seat.
“You are a strong believer in education for the girls of the streets?” he said.
The carriage rolled forward.
“It is the only hope for a woman alone in the world,” Virginia said.
“You speak from experience?”
“I was orphaned at the age of thirteen. If my father had not left me a small inheritance that ensured that my boarding school fees were paid until I was seventeen, I would very likely have wound up on the streets like young Becky.”
“No,” Owen said. “Not you. With your talent and intelligence you would have found another way to survive.”
She looked out into the darkness. “Who knows? It does seem rather ironic that I am pursuing a career that requires me to work at night.”
“Will there be anyone who will have been concerned about you tonight?” he asked. “Aside from your housekeeper, I mean.”
“No. Actually, I’m surprised Mrs. Crofton was worried. She is new and still learning my unusual routine. I am often out late in the evenings, although rarely this late.”
From the way Virginia spoke he knew that she was not accustomed to the notion of anyone worrying about her or fretting because she was late returning home.
“Why do you work at night?” he asked.
“The energy in the mirrors is usually stronger and more easily read at night. I can work in a heavily draped room if necessary, but I prefer to do my analysis in the evenings. I see things more clearly then.”
“I hadn’t realized that.” Intrigued, he considered the matter briefly. “My talent is sharper and more focused at night as well. I wonder if it has something to do with the absence of the energy produced by sunlight. Perhaps those sorts of currents interfere with certain paranormal wavelengths.”
She looked at him. “I am aware that you and your associates within Arcane hold a low opinion of those of us who make our livings with our talents. I know that you consider the vast majority of us to be charlatans. I also realize that the fact that I have frequent evening appointments does nothing to improve my reputation in your eyes or those of the Society’s. I would like to make it clear that I do not give a fig what you or the arrogant members of Arcane think of me and my colleagues at the Leybrook Institute.”
“You have already made your opinion of me and the Society quite clear, Miss Dean. Perhaps I should mention that I am not a member of Arcane.”
“Why were you in that group of so-called researchers who wanted to test my talent at the Pomeroy reading?”
“It’s a long story. You are exhausted. You need rest and time to recover from your ordeal tonight. I promise to tell you everything in the morning.”
She ignored that. “You risked your own neck to come looking for me tonight. Why?”
“I told you, I have been keeping an eye on you. I think you may be in danger, although I admit I had not anticipated the situation in which I found you tonight. I have been searching in another direction.”
“You said you were not a member of Arcane.”
“Arcane is a client.”
“A client?” She appeared stunned. “You work for the Society?”
“I am currently conducting an investigation for Arcane’s new psychical investigation agency, Jones & Jones. Perhaps you have heard of it?”
Her jaw tightened. “I have heard rumors of the new agency, yes.”
“You do not approve?”
“In my world, there is a strong suspicion that J & J is in the business of putting those of us who use our talents to make a living out of business. Arcane believes that psychical practitioners, in particular those at the Leybrook Institute, give legitimate study and research of the paranormal a bad reputation.”
“Because there are so many charlatans in your midst, and those frauds deceive and mislead the public. I understand. But I think it is safe to say that J & J currently has more work than it can handle dealing with truly dangerous psychical criminals. Trust me when I tell you that Caleb and Lucinda Jones, the directors of J & J, are not concerning themselves over much with mediums, séance-givers and other fraudulent practitioners these days.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“I comprehend that you do not trust Arcane, but I need your help. I am hunting a killer, Virginia, one who is operating in your world.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“Two glass-readers have died recently. J & J has asked me to investigate.”
“Why would J & J care about the deaths of two practitioners? The police certainly weren’t interested. They don’t even believe that Mrs. Ratford and Mrs. Hackett were murdered. Neither does anyone else. The authorities concluded both women died of natural causes.”
“But you suspect that is not the case, don’t you?”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“So does J & J. So do I. As I said, it is a long story, and the hour grows late. I give you my word that I will explain everything in the morning.”
“You will not fob me off without some further explanation, sir. You said you are investigating the glass-reader deaths on behalf of Arcane. What talent do you possess that enables you to conduct such an investigation?”
“Let’s just say that you were close to the truth when you told Becky that I am a sort of private inquiry agent. I am, in fact, a hunter.”
“Who or what do you hunt, Mr. Sweetwater?”
“Monsters of the human variety, Miss Dean. Like you, I do my best work at night.”
His own house was dark and silent when he got home, but that was the way it always was at night. He lived alone. His housekeeper arrived early in the morning and left in the late afternoon. The arrangement provided him with the solitude that he found himself seeking more and more after dark. There was no one about to notice when he went out to walk the night, no one who might casually mention the new habit to another member of his closely knit family.
At least the glass-reader case was temporarily distracting him from the late-night strolls and the abyss that beckoned ever more strongly.
Owen carried the clockwork carriage into the cluttered library and set it down on a table. The dark windows of the miniature vehicle glittered malevolently in the light of the gas lamp. Before he went to bed tonight, he would lock the device securely in the safe in the basement. He was certain that he had disabled the weapon, but he did not intend to take any chances. The thing was something entirely new in his experience. He would proceed with great caution.
He crossed the room to the brandy table and poured himself a healthy dose of the spirits. Glass in hand, he sat down in front of the cold hearth and contemplated the beautifully crafted curiosity. The inquiry he was conducting had taken an ominous twist. Hollister’s death was the least of it. There were still far more questions than answers, but one thing was clear. Virginia Dean was the key to the entire affair.
FOUR
The following morning Owen took the carriage out of the safe, hauled it upstairs to the library and put it on a table. He collected a variety of small tools and set to work dismantling the curiosity. He was in the process of carefully removing one of the windows in the cab when a knock sounded on the door.
“Not now, Mrs. Brent.” He did not look up from the delicate task of disassembling the carriage. “I told you, I do not want to be disturbed this morning.”
“Yes, sir, I know, sir.” The housekeeper’s voice was muffled by the door. “It’s Mrs. Sweetwater, sir.”
“Which Mrs. Sweetwater? There are half a dozen of them in London at any given moment.”
The door opened. Mrs. Brent fixed him with a stern
look. “Mrs. Aurelia Sweetwater, sir. She just arrived, and she insists on speaking with you.”
Of course it would be Aurelia, he thought. She was the oldest of his great-aunts and enjoyed the status of being the family matriarch. He had known this visitation was coming, he reminded himself. But he had been dreading it.
“Damn it to hell,” he said. But he said it very softly. “Very well, Mrs. Brent, show her in here, if you would.”
“Yes, sir.” Mrs. Brent started to retreat into the hall.
“But I warn you that it will be worth your position in this household if you bring in a tea tray,” Owen vowed. “I do not want to give my aunt any excuse to hang about here.”
Mrs. Brent’s mouth twitched in amusement, but she kept her professional composure. “Yes, sir.”
“I heard that,” Aurelia Sweetwater announced. She swept into the library, elegantly regal in a dark purple gown. Her gray hair was caught up in a towering chignon and crowned with a feather-trimmed hat that matched the dress. Her street-sweeper petticoats rustled ominously on the carpet. “As it happens, I do not have time for tea today, but that is beside the point.”
“Good morning, Aunt Aurelia,” Owen said. He left the table and crossed the carpet to give her an affectionate kiss on the cheek. “You are looking in excellent spirits today. A bit early, is it not? What brings you here at this hour?”
“You know perfectly well why I was forced to call on you at this ungodly hour of the morning. It is the only time I can hope to find you at home. You have been avoiding me, Owen.”
“Not at all. I have been busy of late. New client, you know.”
“I am aware that the family has taken on Arcane as a client. I’m not certain that is a wise move, but we shall see.”
“Arcane is changing,” Owen said. “Under the new Master, it has assumed new responsibilities. It seems the Joneses feel an obligation to protect the public from the monsters.”
