by Àìàíäà Êâèê
"Yes, well, as long as you are going into this with your eyes wide open. Promise me that you will be very careful."
"Believe me when I tell you that being careful is my highest priority," Virginia said. "But let's move on to a more interesting topic. How goes your research into medical therapies for female hysteria?"
"I am still making inquiries, but the name of one doctor in particular keeps popping up," Charlotte said. "Dr. Spinner. His patients rave about his skill in treating hysteria. They say he uses the very latest electrical medical device to achieve astonishing results."
"How does it work?"
"I have heard that the instrument vibrates. Evidently a number of women have booked standing, weekly appointments with Dr. Spinner. They say they wouldn't miss a treatment for the world."
"It is always good to hear positive testimonials about a doctor before one books an appointment," Virginia said. "But I must admit I am not keen on the notion of a medical procedure that involves an electrical device. It sounds rather dangerous."
"According to what I have heard, Spinner's treatment is very safe. I have been assured that the vibrating device he uses to induce the therapeutic paroxysm is of the most modern design and extremely efficient."
"The treatment he prescribes is for female hysteria," Virginia reminded her. "Neither of us actually suffers from that condition."
"How difficult can it be to fake an attack of female hysteria, for goodness' sake?"
"Good point," Virginia agreed. "In any event, after what I went through last night, I'm certain my nerves are very fragile indeed."
"Of course they are," Charlotte said enthusiastically. "So are mine. I doubt very much that Dr. Spinner is overly exacting when it comes to establishing a diagnosis, in any event. After all, the one thing everyone knows about patients who suffer from female hysteria is that they represent a great source of repeat business for a doctor."
"The disease doesn't kill the patient, but the patient must be treated on a regular basis in order to achieve a therapeutic effect."
"In short, the hysteria patient is the ideal patient," Charlotte said. "Furthermore, those in the medical profession are convinced that spinsterhood itself is enough to produce hysteria in women. Something to do with the problem of female congestion. We both qualify as spinsters now. Very hard on the nerves, they say."
"I expect an unfortunate marriage would be equally hard on the nerves." Virginia shuddered. "Only consider poor Lady Hollister's situation. She must have suspected that she was wedded to a monster, but there was nothing she could do about it. In the end it obviously drove her mad. I would much prefer the problem of female congestion."
"Let's be honest here," Charlotte said. "Neither of us would have put up with a creature as vile as Hollister any longer than it took to determine his true nature. Had he married either one of us, he would have expired on his honeymoon."
"Well, there is that," Virginia agreed. "But you and I both possess a considerable degree of talent, and with strong talent comes strong intuition. I doubt very much that either one of us would have married such a beast in the first place. We would have sensed the monster in him."
"We both know that one of the reasons we are facing spinsterhood in the first place is because of our talents." Charlotte wrinkled her nose. "Strong intuition is all well and good, but it certainly gets in the way of romantic relationships. Just think, Ginny, we will both be twenty-seven years old, and neither one of us has found a man we could love with any degree of passion. Which is why we really must give serious consideration to Dr. Spinner's therapy."
"I agree, but I'm afraid I won't be free to try Spinner's treatment until after I've finished assisting Mr. Sweetwater with his investigation." Virginia put down her empty cup and rose from the table. "Let us hope that my nerves survive intact long enough for me to seek medical therapy for my hysteria and congestion when this business is completed."
Chapter 8
Virginia left the bookshop a short time later. It was late afternoon, but the fog had brought on an early twilight. The buildings on either side of the narrow street loomed in the eerie gray dusk. The vaporous mist was so thick that she did not notice the carriage in front of her town house until she was close to the front steps.
Owen vaulted down from the cab and came toward her. He wore a long, dark coat and a low-crowned hat pulled down over his eyes. At the sight of him, a thrill of excitement flared deep inside her. It had been this way when he had walked into her study yesterday. She responded to his presence in a way that was new and intoxicating to her senses. It was also somewhat disorienting. She had never experienced this reaction around any other man.
She paused at the bottom of her front steps, aware of a pleasant sensation that she had not experienced for a very long time. It took her a heartbeat or two to recognize the feeling. In spite of recent events, she felt happy, a little exhilarated.
She smiled. "Mr. Sweetwater. I wasn't expecting you."
"I have been waiting for you," he said coldly. "Your housekeeper told me that you had gone to visit a friend."
The sparkling excitement inside her was instantly transformed into irritation. The one great, extremely positive aspect of spinsterhood, she thought, was that a woman was not obliged to answer to any man.
"I am returning from paying a call on a very good friend," she said crisply. "Not that it is any of your affair, sir."
"Under the circumstance, I had hoped that you would have the good sense to exercise some caution when it comes to your daily schedule. I told you that I have people watching your house at night, but I did not think it necessary during the day."
She raised her chin. "What did you expect, sir? That I would lock myself in the house and sit by the fire until you concluded your investigation? I'm afraid that will not be possible. I have a living to make."
"I comprehend that fact. But I do not like the idea of you going out, unescorted, while there is a killer running around who preys on women with your talent."
"I am not an idiot, Mr. Sweetwater. This afternoon I walked along crowded streets and spent some time in the company of my friend in a shop. I was never alone at any time. I did not stroll down dark alleys or take shortcuts through empty parks. I even managed to refrain from accepting rides in carriages with strangers. Not that any strangers offered me a ride."
He contemplated her with faintly narrowed eyes. "You are correct, of course. I have no right to tell you how to go about your daily life."
"Is that an apology?"
"No, an observation. There is no point in my apologizing, because I will very likely lecture you again on the same subject in the near future. You can probably place a wager on it."
"Why?"
"Because I'm trying to keep you safe and catch a killer, damn it. And because between the two of us, I am the one who has had some experience in dealing with the monsters."
"I do realize that your intentions are honorable, sir," she said, gentling her voice a little. "The problem we have is that you are obviously accustomed to issuing orders, and I am not at all accustomed to taking them."
"I can see that."
"I'm certain we shall muddle through. Now, then, why did you come here to see me today? Have you some news?"
For a moment she thought he was going to ignite the embers of their disagreement into a full-blown quarrel. But evidently concluding that he did not have logic on his side, he abandoned the field. She suspected the retreat was only temporary.
"Later tonight I would like you to accompany me on a visit to the house of one of the glass-readers who was murdered, Mrs. Ratford," he said. "I noticed at least two mirrors on the premises when I went inside. Perhaps you will be able to perceive something helpful in one of them."
Anticipation ghosted through her. "Yes, of course." She went up the steps to the front door. "There is no reason to stand around out here. Won't you come in? I'm sure Mrs. Crofton will want to serve tea. I fear that if I do not invite a few more guests into the
house, she will grow bored and quit."
Mrs. Crofton opened the door. She gave Virginia a disapproving look.
"Mr. Sweetwater has been waiting for you, ma'am."
"Yes, I know, Mrs. Crofton," Virginia said. She removed her bonnet and stepped into the hall. "It is his own fault. He did not send word that he intended to call this afternoon."
"I invited him to wait in the parlor and offered tea, but he declined," Mrs. Crofton said. "He and his carriage have been standing in the street for nearly forty-five minutes."
"I understand, Mrs. Crofton." Virginia put some steel into her words. "You may serve tea to him now. We will be in my study."
"Yes, ma'am." Mrs. Crofton took Owen's hat and gloves with a solicitous air. "I have some tarts fresh out of the oven that will go nicely with the tea."
Owen smiled at her. "That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Crofton. I haven't eaten in hours."
Mrs. Crofton beamed and sailed away in the direction of the kitchen.
Owen followed Virginia down the hall. This was only his second time on the premises, but she was acutely aware that he seemed very much at ease in her house now, as if he were in the home of a longtime friend.Or the home of his lover. Where in blazes had that thought come from? She had obviously spent far too much time discussing treatments for female hysteria with Charlotte today.
"Your housekeeper is an interesting woman," Owen said. He sounded amused.
"I'm afraid Mrs. Crofton does not really approve of me," Virginia confided as she led the way into the study. "She has recently come down in the world, you see. Her previous employer was a wealthy woman who moved in exclusive circles. Sadly, the lady was somewhat absentminded. She died owing her staff several quarters' worth of back wages."
"Let me hazard a guess. The heirs saw no reason to pay the back wages."
"No. Poor Mrs. Crofton found herself without funds and without a post. She was obliged to accept the first position that came along. I'm afraid the post was in the household of a woman who not only conducts business but often does so at night."
"You."
"Indeed." Virginia sat down behind her desk.
Owen lowered himself into one of the reading chairs with a fluid, masculine grace that struck Virginia as decidedly sensual. She realized that he had brought an aura of energy into the room that stirred her senses.
"Have you considered letting Mrs. Crofton go and perhaps replacing her with an employee who might not be so concerned with her own social status?" he asked.
She took a grip on her overheated imagination and forced herself to pay attention to the conversation.
"That would be quite impossible," she explained. "Those in service are every bit as concerned with their social standing as those who move in society. Besides, Mrs. Crofton is an excellent housekeeper. I am very fortunate to have her."
Laughter glittered in Owen's eyes. "I have the impression she is well aware of that."
Virginia sighed. "Yes, and there is no doubt but that she can do better than this household. In fact, between you and me, I am quite certain that I will not have her much longer."
"Why do you say that?"
"She received a letter earlier this week. I could not help but notice the return address. The letter was from the Billings Agency. That is the agency that sent her to me. I have a feeling that Mrs. Billings now has a better post to offer Mrs. Crofton. But enough of my domestic problems. Did you learn anything when you examined the clockwork carriage?"
"A few things," he said, "but I'm not sure any will prove helpful. The quality of the materials used to construct the device and the fine detailing are reminiscent of some of the elaborate clockwork curiosities crafted during the Renaissance. That leads me to believe that the person who created the carriage considers himself to be a true artist."
"But the carriage is a weapon, not a work of art."
"The distinction between the artist and the armorer has not always been obvious. During the Renaissance, fine weapons were produced that were also masterpieces of craftsmanship. There is a long tradition of swords and armor and daggers that are encrusted with jewels and detailed with gold."
"Have you started searching for the clock maker?"
"I've asked my cousin Nicholas Sweetwater to pursue that angle of the investigation."
"There are no doubt a great many clock makers in London."
"Yes," he said. "But Nick has a talent for that sort of hunting."
Owen went home an hour later, satiated by the excellent tea and tarts that Mrs. Crofton had served, and energized by the time spent with Virginia. He could grow accustomed to calling regularly on Number Seven Garnet Lane, he reflected.
Chapter 9
Owen returned to Garnet Lane that evening in an anonymous hired carriage. Virginia was waiting for him. She wore a hooded cloak against the chill of the night. He sensed the mix of excitement and foreboding that animated her. When he took her gloved hand to assist her into the carriage he could have sworn that electricity sparked between them. The hair stirred on the nape of his neck.
They spoke little on the drive to the quiet street where Mrs. Ratford had rented a small house, but Owen was intensely conscious of Virginia's nearness the entire time. He would have given a great deal to know if she felt the same sense of awareness.
When they reached their destination he sent the carriage on its way. There would be other cabs about later, when they left the scene of the murder.
There was an empty, shuttered feeling about the house where Mrs. Ratford had died. The curtains were drawn closed across the windows.
"You're certain there is no one home?" Virginia asked.
"I checked again earlier today. The house is still vacant. The rumors concerning the former occupant's death have probably made it difficult to attract new tenants. Prospective renters are no doubt reluctant to move into a house in which the previous resident may have been dispatched by spirits from the Other Side."
Virginia looked at him. A gas lamp burned close by in the mist, but he could not see her face clearly. Her features were shadowed by the hood of her cloak.
"There are always rumors about those of us who read mirrors," she said. "Many people are convinced that we see ghosts and spirits. They do not understand that what we perceive are simply afterimages caught in the glass. Mirrors are nothing more than paranormal cameras that capture some of the energy given off at the time of death or near death."
"I understand."
They went down the alley behind Number Fourteen. Owen opened the gate that guarded the tiny garden. They went up the back steps. Owen inserted the lock pick into the kitchen door. The lock gave way immediately.
"May I ask where one buys that sort of tool?" Virginia asked.
He smiled a little at the bright curiosity in her voice.
"This particular pick was crafted by one of my uncles. He has a knack for that sort of thing."
"Yours is an interesting family, sir."
"That is certainly one way to describe my relatives." He opened the door and listened for a moment with all of his senses. "Still vacant."
Virginia moved past him to enter the house. He heard the soft, sultry swish of the ruffles at the hem of her gown as they brushed across the toe of his boot. Her scent briefly clouded his mind. He was aroused not just by the anticipation of the hunt but by the woman who shared it with him tonight.
He followed her into the narrow hall, closed the door and turned up the lantern he had brought along. The light did little to alleviate the heavy gloom.
"Death always affects a house, doesn't it?" Virginia looked around. "One can sense it in the atmosphere."
"Yes. Which is why so many people find it easy to believe in ghosts."
"What, exactly, are we looking for?" she asked.
"Something, anything, that will give us a clue to how Mrs. Ratford was killed. I went through this house, and Mrs. Hackett's as well, shortly after I accepted the case. I am certain that both deaths were caused by paranormal means,
but I do not think the killer was present at the time of the actual murders. He has come and gone on several occasions since the murders, however."
"You can detect those sorts of details so plainly?"
"It is the nature of my talent, Virginia," he said, willing her to understand and accept the compulsion that drove him.
Virginia said nothing. She halted in the doorway of the small parlor. "There is a mirror over the fireplace. I may be able to discern something in the glass."
Owen stood behind her and waited. The light of the lantern flashed on the mirror, casting ominous shadows around the room.
Virginia walked forward and stopped in front of the fireplace. Her eyes met his in the darkly silvered glass. He felt the atmosphere heat and knew that she had raised her talent.
She turned her full attention on the mirror, gazing into it as though into another dimension. She concentrated intently, not speaking for a time.
A moment later she lowered her talent and turned to face him with eyes that were still filled with mysteries.
"The mirror has been hanging above the fireplace for a very long time," she said. "There are certainly shadows in it but nothing distinct. Certainly nothing of violent death."
"That makes sense. The body was found upstairs in a bedroom. There is a mirror on the dressing table."
They went back out into the hall and up the narrow staircase.
"I noticed that the mirror over your own mantel is new," he said.
"I purchased it when I rented the house. There was an old one in that room and another in the front hall. I removed both of them."
"You do not like old mirrors?"
"Looking glasses absorb energy over the years. The old ones hold a lot of shadows. I find them disturbing."
"Yet Mrs. Ratford kept the old one in this house."
