Quicksilver

by Amanda Quick

  “A second killer?”

  “Yes. But why does the energy blur with Hollister’s?” Owen crouched on the floor, removed one glove and touched the stone. A visible frisson of awareness went through him, and his eyes got a little hotter. “Ah, yes. I understand now.”

  “What is it?” Virginia asked.

  Owen rose to his feet. The energy in the atmosphere around him raised the hairs on the nape of Virginia’s neck.

  “My aunt assured me Hollister had no close relatives, but I am certain that the second man in this chamber is related by blood to him,” Owen said.

  “Hollister left no surviving children.”

  “None that we know of. It does not necessarily follow that he did not leave any offspring.”

  “Illegitimate offspring,” Virginia said quietly. “Yes, that is always a possibility, isn’t it?”

  Owen glanced at her, curiosity in his eyes. “What are you thinking?”

  She forced herself to concentrate. “I am thinking about Lady Hollister.”

  “What of her?”

  “She is a very small woman. In a fever of insane rage she might have been able to kill her husband, but how did she manage to lift him onto the bed? For that matter, how did she get me out of the dead daughter’s bedroom and into this chamber?”

  “Obviously she had help.”

  Virginia thought about it. “The companion, perhaps. Or one of the servants.” She composed herself and prepared to raise her talent. “Now it is my turn to see if I can add anything more to the evidence that you have discovered.”

  She summoned her inner control and raised her senses cautiously.

  Shadows began to shift in the mirrors. Her pulse beat faster.

  “What do you see?” Owen asked.

  She took a firm grip on her nerves and rode the waves of energy higher, opening her talent more fully. The dreadful afterimages appeared like dim, moving photographs deep within the glass.

  “I see the victims,” she whispered. “So many of them. They are all about Becky’s age. Some of the afterimages are quite faded. Hollister started murdering in here years ago.”

  Owen watched her in the looking glass.

  “Virginia,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  She could not answer him. The ghastly afterimages shifted and seethed in the mirrors. The visions transformed the room into a chamber of horrors. The ghostly figures screamed silently and reached out to her as if to pull her into their dark universe behind the looking glasses.

  Owen’s voice came to her out of the storm.

  “Virginia, if you can’t handle this, tell me.”

  Rage spiked through her. She would not allow the monster who had created this chamber to win. She pulled mightily on her control.

  And found it.

  The afterimages in the mirrors sank back into the glass. She could still see them, but they were no longer inundating her senses.

  “I’m all right,” she managed. “It was just the initial shock. I thought I was prepared, but I did not realize how many afterimages had been captured in these mirrors. Hollister was truly one of the monsters.”

  “I regret that he did not come to the attention of my family early on in his career,” Owen said. He sounded grim. “That is the problem with monsters. They find it easy to conceal themselves, especially in a large city like London. In the future perhaps Jones & Jones will be able to assist us in the hunt.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You do not have a lot of faith in J & J, do you?”

  “No.”

  “I would remind you that it was Caleb Jones who sensed that there was a strong possibility that Ratford and Hackett had been murdered by paranormal means. Furthermore, he commissioned me to hunt for the killer even though neither of the victims were members of the Arcane Society.”

  She made a face. “Very well, I will concede that this new J & J appears to be taking an interest in investigating psychical murders outside the Society. But there is no getting around the fact that those in Arcane do not approve of people like me and likely never will. That is not important now, though. There is something else in these mirrors.”

  “Besides the afterimages, do you mean?”

  “Yes. There are faint flames burning deep in these looking glasses, just as there were in the mirror on Mrs. Ratford’s dressing table.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Yes. The fire in these mirrors is weak, but it is perceptible. I think that when the curiosities are used to commit murder they somehow lock energy, not just afterimages, into the glass.”

  “You said the fire trapped in Mrs. Ratford’s mirror was stronger. Why would that be? More people died in this chamber.”

  “Yes, but those who died here were not glasslight-talents. Mrs. Ratford was. I think that may make all the difference.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Owen said softly. “That’s why he is now focusing on victims who are glass-readers.”

  “Yes, I think so. They provide more of the kind of energy he wants to trap in the mirrors.”

  “But why does he seek to lock the fire in the glass?” Owen asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is there any way to release the flames?”

  “The energy seems to be in stasis. I’m not sure if I can ignite it. But even if it is possible, I don’t think it would be a good idea. What I see is pure, raw energy. There isn’t a lot of it, to be sure. Nevertheless, there is no telling what would happen if I tried to pull it out of the mirrors.”

  “Enough.” He urged her toward the door. “We have our answers. I think we have spent enough time in this miniature hell.”

  EIGHTEEN

  The hunter in him sensed that he was closing in on his prey. He ought to be feeling the icy-cold rush of energy that always hit toward the end of the hunt, Owen thought. But for some reason he was consumed with an edgy, restless sensation that told him he had left at least one door unopened.

  “Owen?” Virginia said. “Is there something wrong?”

  He realized he was hurrying her so swiftly along the stone passage that she was obliged to hold her skirts up almost to her knees and trot briskly to keep up with him.

  “Sorry,” he muttered. He forced himself to slow to a rapid walk. “I am eager to get you out of here.”

  “I appreciate that. I assure you I have no desire to linger. But I have the impression that you are not satisfied with what we learned in that chamber. At least we have some clue to the identity of the man who murdered Mrs. Ratford and Mrs. Hackett. We know that he is a blood relative of Hollister’s.”

  “That information is useful,” he agreed. “I will ask my aunt to pursue her genealogical research.”

  “You are concerned about the fire that is trapped in the mirrors, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. Hollister was an out-and-out killer. He raped his victims, and then he murdered them. That was all he cared about. But there is something different about the second man. He does not assault his victims physically before he kills them.”

  “I see what you mean.” Virginia sounded thoughtful.

  “It is almost as if he has been conducting experiments.”

  “To what purpose?”

  “To trap fire in mirrors, or so it appears. There is much more to this affair than meets the eye, Virginia.”

  “Lady Hollister might be able to tell us something useful, but she really is quite insane, Owen.”

  He turned another corner and saw an ancient wood-and-iron door set into the wall of the tunnel. He stopped abruptly. So did Virginia.

  “Lady Hollister,” he said softly.

  “Surely you are not going to pursue her? Speaking personally, I am grateful that she murdered her husband.”

  “She certainly did the world a favor.” He contemplated the door. “But I am curious about how she came and went from the scene of the murder.”

  Virginia looked at the door. “Do you think that leads to the mansion?”

  “Yes. The loc
k on it is new.”

  He took the pick out of his pocket and set to work. “The house is empty. We may as well search the premises while we are here.”

  “That could take hours, even days. It is a very big house, Owen. What do you hope to find?”

  “I don’t know. I never do until I see it.”

  When he got the door open they found themselves in an empty basement room. A well-worn trail of footprints cut through the decades of dust and grime that covered the stone floor.

  “Someone came this way often over the years,” Virginia said.

  He angled the lantern and crouched to view the footprints. “It is impossible to make out individual tracks because there are so many of them, but most appear to have been left by a man.”

  “Hollister.”

  “No doubt. I see the prints of a woman’s shoes, as well. More than one woman, to be precise. Whoever they were, they came through here recently.”

  “Lady Hollister and the servant who helped her carry me down here, perhaps.”

  “No doubt.” He straightened and aimed the lantern at the flight of steps at the far end of the room. “Let us see where that leads.”

  They climbed the steps. The door at the top opened onto a darkened library. When they emerged into the room Owen saw that the opening they had come through was concealed as a section of bookshelves.

  “A house of secrets,” Virginia said. “But obviously Lady Hollister knew at least some of those secrets.”

  Owen set the lantern on the desk and began opening and closing drawers. “Others may have known them as well. Lady Hollister’s companion, for example. Or some of the servants.”

  “I do not recall seeing any servants other than the housekeeper when I arrived. There must have been a couple of daily maids and a gardener, at the very least. One simply cannot run a household this size without staff. But I can’t believe that they would have remained silent if they had suspected what was going on down in that chamber.”

  “By all accounts this was a rather eccentric household.” He closed one drawer and opened another. “If most of the staff came in daily and did not live on the premises, it’s possible that they never knew about their employer’s unpleasant hobby down in the basement.”

  Virginia came toward him. Her shoes made no sound on the expensive carpet. “Are you searching for anything in particular?”

  “It would be rather useful to find a record of the purchase of one or more of those damned clockwork devices.” He closed the last drawer. “But there is nothing of that sort here. Just some blank paper and a few odds and ends.”

  Virginia began plucking books at random off the shelves. After half a dozen volumes, she opened one and paused.

  “This is interesting,” she said.

  He rounded the desk. “What have you got there?”

  “There are a number of photographs concealed in this book. They all appear to be of young women and girls about Becky’s age.” Virginia looked up quickly. “Dear heaven. I fear that this is a record of Hollister’s victims.”

  He took the book from her and examined the photographs. Each showed a young woman dressed like a prostitute. Each girl in the pictures was lying on the bed in the mirrored room, clearly dead.

  Wearily Owen closed the book. More victims he had failed to save, he thought. More images to haunt his nights. “He indulged his obsession for years, and no one ever knew.”

  Virginia touched his hand. The knowing look in her eyes told him that she understood what was going through his mind.

  “There is no changing the past,” she said. “There will always be monsters. You cannot hunt them all. You will do what you can, but you must accept that you will not be able to save every victim.”

  “Knowing that truth and accepting it are two very different things.”

  “One accepts such truths by concentrating on the present and the future, not the past.”

  He smiled. “Where did you learn such wisdom?”

  “My mother told me that when I was thirteen and just coming into my talent. She said I must never forget that although I would see a great deal of evil in the mirrors, once in a while I would be able to find justice for some of the victims and provide a sense of peace to some of those left behind. She said those rare moments must be enough to sustain me or I would be driven mad by the afterimages I would view in the years ahead.”

  “Your mother sounds like a very wise woman.” He tucked the book under one arm. “I will give these pictures to Caleb Jones. He can turn them over to his friend at Scotland Yard. Perhaps the police will be able to notify the families of some of Hollister’s victims and assure them that the killer is dead.”

  “That is a good plan,” she said.

  He went toward the door that opened onto the hall. “Let’s go upstairs. People are inclined to keep their most closely held secrets in their bedrooms.”

  They went down a long hallway and started up the broad stairs to the floor above.

  “I remember coming up this staircase,” Virginia said. She looked around uneasily. “The bedroom that Lady Hollister wanted me to examine was on this floor at the end of the hall.”

  “That was the room in which you were overcome by the drug?”

  “Yes. I remember nothing after that until I woke up in that mirrored chamber.”

  The faint creak of a rope twisting on wood brought him to an abrupt halt. He looked up.

  “Virginia,” he said quietly.

  She froze. “What is it?”

  “If I am not mistaken, it is Lady Hollister.”

  The flaring light of the lantern revealed the body of a woman hanging from a rope secured to the banister two floors above.

  “Dear heaven,” Virginia whispered. “I’m sure that’s her.”

  Owen went swiftly up the next flight of stairs. Virginia followed on his heels. They both looked over the banister. The light fell on the face of the dead woman.

  “It is, indeed, Lady Hollister,” Virginia whispered. “Was she murdered, too?”

  Owen opened his senses and looked at the fluorescing light that clung to the rope and the wooden banister. Madness and despair radiated like a terrible poison.

  “No. It is the same psychical energy that I saw downstairs in the tunnels where Hollister was killed. After she avenged her murdered daughter, Lady Hollister went about her wifely duties. She saw to it that her husband’s body was quietly removed. She made up the bed and dismissed the servants. And then she hanged herself.”

  “And she managed it all without creating a scandal in the family.”

  NINETEEN

  Virginia was in her study, a cup of tea in one hand, a note from a grateful client in the other, when she heard the carriage in the street. She ignored the rattle of wheels and the stamp of shod hooves until she realized that the vehicle had stopped in front of Number Seven. Her pulse kicked up a beat and then immediately settled back into its normal rhythm. Not Owen, she thought. If he came by cab today it would be in a fast, sleek hansom, not a large, private equipage.

  She listened to Mrs. Crofton’s quick footsteps in the hall and knew that the housekeeper had also recognized the unmistakable clatter of an expensive vehicle.

  The front door opened. There followed a low, indistinguishable murmur of voices. Not a client, Virginia knew. She met those at the Institute. It was one of Gilmore Leybrook’s policies, and she thought that it was a very sound one.

  In her early years as a glass-reader she had been obliged to interview clients in her personal lodgings. Some of those who sought out the assistance of a glasslight-talent were more than a bit odd, to say the least. A few of the truly distraught had appeared on her doorstep at midnight, demanding second or even third readings, convinced that she had been wrong the first time. There had been some threats from time to time. All in all, life was vastly more peaceful when clients did not know the address of the reader.

  But if the new arrival was not a client and not Owen, Virginia could not imagine who w
ould be calling on her in such a fine carriage.

  The door of the study opened abruptly. For all her professional polish and aplomb, Mrs. Crofton’s eyes sparkled with excitement. She raised her chin and assumed a commanding tone of voice that was certain to carry out into the front hall.

  “Lady Mansfield to see you, ma’am. Shall I tell her that you are at home?”

  “Good grief, no.”

  Virginia set down the teacup with more force than she had intended. There was a sharp, jolting crack of china on china. Tea sprayed across her hand and the note she had been reading. Mrs. Crofton frowned.

  “Did you burn yourself, ma’am?”

  “No, no, the tea has gone cold.” Virginia seized a napkin and dabbed at her hand. “There must be some mistake.”

  “With the tea, ma’am? I’ll bring in a fresh pot.”

  “I’m not talking about the tea, I meant the identity of my visitor. Are you certain it is Lady Mansfield?”

  “Her card, ma’am.” Mrs. Crofton produced the calling card with a triumphant flourish. “I put her in the parlor.”

  “Well, get her out of there.” Virginia crumpled the napkin. “Please tell Lady Mansfield that I am not at home.”

  Mrs. Crofton got a steely look in her eyes. She moved into the study, closed the door and lowered her voice. “Too late to send her away. I already told her that you would be with her shortly.”

  “Now, see here, Mrs. Crofton, I am well aware that you feel you came down in the world when you accepted the post in this household. Nevertheless, I regret to inform you that I am your employer and I give the orders under this roof.”

  “Have you lost your senses, ma’am? Lady Mansfield is quality of the most exclusive sort. She moves in very elevated circles. Why, I cannot believe that she has called upon you in person.”

  “Neither can I,” Virginia muttered.

  “It is extraordinary. Most ladies of her station would have sent around a note summoning you to their homes to give them a psychical consultation.” Mrs. Crofton waved her hands in exasperation. “You would likely have been shown in through the tradesmen’s entrance.”