Quicksilver

by Amanda Quick

  “I see. What are the odds that that policy will be effective in this case?”

  “Very poor.”

  She watched him intently. “But one way or another, the killer will be stopped, is that what you are telling me?”

  “One does not hire the Sweetwaters if there is anything normal or routine about the investigation,” he said gently. “Our clients come to us when they have run out of options. We are the last resort.”

  SEVEN

  The following morning, Virginia called on her closest friend, Charlotte Tate, and told her the whole story.

  “Thank heavens you are safe and were able to save that poor street girl.” Charlotte poured tea into two cups. Behind the lenses of her spectacles, her unusual amber eyes were shadowed with concern. “But I still can’t believe that you came so close to being arrested for murder.”

  “I expect that I will have nightmares about waking up next to Hollister’s body for some time,” Virginia said.

  Charlotte set the pot down. “I don’t want to even think about what might have happened if Mr. Sweetwater had not come along when he did. You would likely never have escaped from that mirrored chamber, let alone figured out how to rescue the girl from that underground cell.”

  “It’s true, I do lack lock-picking skills,” Virginia said. “Perhaps I will ask Mr. Sweetwater to teach them to me. He was very adept, I must say.”

  They were sitting at the small table in the back room of Charlotte’s bookshop. Charlotte had inherited the shop from her mother, who had, in turn, received it from her mother. The women of Charlotte’s family had a true talent for locating ancient and rare books and manuscripts linked to the paranormal.

  The bookshop did not stock the latest sensation novels or penny dreadfuls. The weighty, leather-bound tomes on the shelves ranged from archaic treatises on ancient Egyptian, Indian and Greek theories of the paranormal to journals devoted to the investigations of modern researchers. In between there were medieval works on metaphysics and Newton’s speculations on alchemy.

  Three of the shelves in the shop contained an extensive collection of the Journal of Paranormal and Psychical Research, the Arcane Society’s official publication. There were, however, no copies of the Leybrook Institute’s own very popular Leybrook Journal of Paranormal Investigations. Unfortunately, the Institute’s publication was replete with papers that bore titles such as “An Investigation of the Usefulness of Certain Musical Instruments in the Summoning of Spirits” and “A Study of Levitation and Astral Travel.” In other words, Virginia thought, Leybrook published a great deal of fiction. But as Gilmore Leybrook had explained, the Institute’s Journal sold far more copies than Arcane’s decidedly more esoteric publication.

  “Lock-picking is no doubt a useful ability for a man in Mr. Sweetwater’s profession,” Charlotte said. She frowned. “I certainly didn’t turn up any information about psychical talent in the bloodline when I looked into Mr. Sweetwater’s background for you a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Something tells me the Sweetwater family keeps a lot of secrets.”

  Shortly after Owen Sweetwater had embarked upon his investigations of Leybrook Institute mediums, Virginia’s intuition had been aroused. She had asked Charlotte to see what she could find out about the dangerous newcomer in their midst. When it came to research, no one was more talented than Charlotte. It was an aspect of her ability.

  “I’ll dig deeper and see what I can learn,” Charlotte said. “All I could discover for certain is that the family is an old, established one with a reputation for being reclusive. Evidently the Sweetwaters rarely go into society, although with their money and connections they could probably do so if they wished.”

  “The Sweetwaters appear to have a few things in common with the Joneses,” Virginia said. “That no doubt explains why they are doing business together.”

  “A very odd business it is, if you ask me. I can’t stop thinking about what would have happened if you had been found in that room with Hollister’s body.”

  “Ah, but there was no murder.” Virginia glanced at the copy of the Flying Intelligencer on the table. “According to the morning papers, Lord Hollister expired from natural causes.”

  “Right, a heart attack. Obviously someone had to come up with a different version of events when it was discovered that you had departed from the scene. Imagine overlooking a knife wound in a man’s chest.”

  “It’s amazing what can be covered up by a wealthy, exclusive family.”

  “Well, I doubt that anyone is in deep mourning, least of all his poor wife. Do you really think that she was the one who killed him?”

  “That is what Mr. Sweetwater believes. He perceived traces of energy that were left by the killer. He said whoever put the knife in Hollister’s chest was definitely unbalanced. He also feels certain that the killer was a woman.”

  “Hmm.” Charlotte pursed her lips and looked thoughtful. “He can tell that much from the residue of energy at the scene?”

  “So he says.”

  “And you believe him?”

  “Why not?” Virginia smiled wryly. “After all, he believes in my talent.”

  A bright, sparkly look appeared in Charlotte’s eyes.

  “I see,” she said. “Well, now, that’s certainly interesting.”

  There was no need to discuss the matter further. Charlotte understood the situation perfectly. Virginia’s talent had always created problems for her when it came to romantic relationships. Over the years there had been men who had found her attractive. Strong talents often drew the attention of the opposite sex. The energy of a powerful sensitive could be felt even by those who did not possess any measurable talent themselves.

  But although men were sometimes intrigued, even fascinated, by her psychical nature, sooner or later the very quality that had initially drawn them to her began to make them uneasy and eventually repelled them. Virginia did not entirely blame them. The prospect of marrying a woman who claimed to see the dead and the dying in mirrors struck most gentlemen as daunting, to say the least.

  When she turned twenty-six several months ago, she had shared a bottle of wine with Charlotte and officially abandoned the last of her romantic dreams. She would never marry. Charlotte had arrived at a similar conclusion regarding her own fate. Faced with lonely spinsterhood and inspired by the wine, they had resolved to chart an alternative course for themselves.

  The initial plans had involved flinging themselves recklessly into a series of romantic liaisons with handsome men. Simple and brilliant though the scheme seemed to be in the glow of the wine, in reality things had not worked out very well. It transpired that there was a severe shortage of handsome men who were sufficiently interesting to warrant the risks involved.

  They were now engaged in researching another safer and far more sensible option. The new plans appeared promising.

  “I’m not telling anyone except you about the true nature of my association with Mr. Sweetwater,” Virginia said. “As far as everyone else at the Institute is concerned, I have agreed to allow Mr. Sweetwater to study and observe me as I work.”

  Charlotte frowned. “Are you certain you can trust Owen Sweetwater? He may be using you for his own ends.”

  “Oh, he makes no bones about doing just that,” Virginia agreed. “He has been quite open about the fact that he needs my assistance in his investigation. My intuition tells me that he can be trusted insofar as my personal safety is concerned. After the events of last night, I feel certain that he means me no harm. But I am well aware that the only reason he has taken an interest in me is because he thinks I’m the key to the case he is trying to solve.”

  “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.”

  EIGHT

  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.

&nb
sp; “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.”