Quicksilver as-11

by Àìàíäà Êâèê

  "Tomorrow or the following day, you will read of the tragic death of Lord Hollister in the morning papers," Owen said. "The official cause of his demise will likely be a heart attack or stroke. In reality, he died of a knife in the chest."

  Caleb raised his brows. "Your work?"

  "I cannot take the credit. I suspect the wife. I found the body when I explored the basement beneath the mansion."

  "What the devil were you doing in Hollister's basement?" Gabe asked.

  "That is where my investigation led me," Owen said a little too smoothly. "What the press will not be aware of is that Hollister preyed on young prostitutes for years. He lured them into his carriage and took them to the basement beneath his mansion, where he raped and murdered them. There is no telling how many he killed. While I was on the premises, I found another girl who was still alive. I took her to the charity house in Elm Street."

  "I have seen nothing in the papers about missing streetwalkers," Caleb said.

  "That is because the press rarely notices when girls go missing," Owen said. "Prostitutes are forever vanishing from the streets. Sometimes they turn up in the river, sometimes they simply disappear. But unless the death is a particularly bloody one, the public has no interest. Hollister was careful to dispose of the bodies so that they did not draw attention."

  Gabe thought about that. "You say Hollister was a talent?"

  "Yes, I'm sure of it, possibly a glass-reader."

  "That is why your investigation led you to his basement," Caleb said, mentally assembling the pieces of the puzzle. "Was he the one who murdered the glass-readers?"

  "No, but there is some connection between Hollister and the murders of the glass-readers," Owen said. "My investigation is ongoing."

  "That does not tell us a great deal," Gabe said without inflection.

  "I can give you one or two other interesting facts. I came across a rather dangerous psychical weapon disguised as a clockwork curiosity in the Hollister mansion. There may be other such devices out there."

  Caleb groaned. "I had hoped that the crystal guns that gave us so much trouble in the course of a recent case were the end of our problems with paranormal weaponry."

  "Evidently not," Owen said. "I can also tell you that the link between Hollister's death and the deaths of the glass-readers runs through the Leybrook Institute."

  Irritation flashed through Caleb. "That damned Institute is rife with charlatans and frauds."

  "When you consider the matter closely," Gabe said, "it is the ideal place for a true psychical killer to conceal himself."

  "A genuine talent hidden among the fakes." Caleb sighed. "Very clever."

  "It's called hiding in plain sight," Owen said. "The monsters are very good at that."

  It seemed to Caleb that there was a new chill in the atmosphere. It was not coming from the river or the fog that shrouded the warehouse. It emanated from Owen Sweetwater's aura.We are doing business with avery dangerous man, he thought.

  "It seems you were right, Caleb," Gabe said. "But then, you generally are when it comes to this sort of thing."

  Caleb did not respond. There was nothing to say. He was almost always right when it came to seeing patterns. He was especially skilled at noting the dark evidence that indicated crimes that had been committed by villains endowed with psychical talent. But no one was right one hundred percent of the time. Deep inside, he lived with the knowledge that someday he would miscalculate and innocents might die. It was the theme of his darkest dreams.

  He frowned at Owen. "How do you intend to proceed?"

  Owen shrugged, as if the question had an obvious answer.

  "I will identify the killer and remove him," he said. "I will then, of course, send you a bill for services rendered."

  Gabe leaned back against a large, empty wooden cask and folded his arms. "A simple plan."

  "I have always found that they work best," Owen said. "Now, then, I am rather busy at the moment. If there is nothing else, I trust you will excuse me."

  He turned and walked away through the deep shadows at the back of the warehouse. In a moment he was gone.

  Gabe watched the darkness where Sweetwater had vanished. "I do not think that he told us everything he knows."

  "You can place a wager on that assumption," Caleb agreed.

  "He's one of us, though, isn't he?"

  "A hunter?" Caleb said. "Yes, I'm sure of it. But he is not like any hunter-talent I have ever met."

  "How do you think he hunts?"

  "From what little I have learned about him, I suspect that he has the ability to discern what it is that compels the killer. Once he knows that, he can make some predictions."

  "Such as the possible identity of the killer's next victim?"

  "Yes."

  "What if he's wrong?"

  "Then I was wrong to employ him," Caleb said. "If another innocent glass-reader dies, I will bear a good portion of the blame."

  "No," Gabe said. "You took the only step you could take to try to stop the person who is murdering the glass-readers. And as the Master of the Society, I authorized the hiring of Sweetwater for this venture. It was, I believe, a very logical move. We are sending a man who hunts monsters out to hunt his natural prey."

  Caleb exhaled slowly. "What gives us the right to do such a thing?"

  "Damned if I know," Gabe said. "But if J J doesn't go after the psychical villains, who will? It is not as if the police are equipped to track down killers who are endowed with paranormal talents."

  "No."

  "I would remind you this is not an act of pure altruism on our parts," Gabe said. "Our survival and the survival of those like us may well be at stake. Arcane has a great interest in protecting the public from the monsters."

  "I am aware of that."

  At the moment, the press and the public were fascinated by the paranormal. But if it became common knowledge that there were those who could use their psychical abilities to commit murder, the popular interest would transmute instantly into panic.

  Gabe strode toward the door. "As long as I am Master, I will do everything in my power to ensure that we do not return to the days when those with even a scrap of paranormal talent were branded as witches and sorcerers. If that means occasionally hiring a psychical assassin, so be it."

  Caleb fell into step beside him. "You have certainly become a good deal more obsessed with protecting the members of the Society and future generations of talents since Venetia delivered your firstborn last month."

  Gabe opened the door and moved out into the fog-shrouded night. "It is astonishing how becoming a father focuses one's priorities."

  Chapter 6

  Owen went up the steps of the modest town house in Garnet Lane, keenly aware of the sense of anticipation that had been whispering through him all morning. The prospect of seeing Virginia again energized him in ways that probably should have been deeply disturbing or at least mildly concerning. It was invariably a mistake to allow himself to give free rein to any strong emotion when he was on the hunt. The Sweetwaters were a notoriously passionate lot. A side effect of their talents, some said. But indulging in strong passions while hunting violated all of the family rules.

  Virginia Dean was proving to be the exception to every rule he had lived by for all of his life.

  The door at the top of the steps opened before he could knock more than twice. Mrs. Crofton, the housekeeper, stood before him. She was a tall woman in her late thirties, garbed in a gray housedress trimmed with a white, crisply starched apron. A neatly pleated white cap covered most of her tightly pinned blond hair. There was a mix of curiosity and veiled assessment in her blue eyes. He knew from their initial encounter that she was not accustomed to finding a man on her employer's front steps. The knowledge that Virginia did not, apparently, receive a lot of gentlemen callers pleased him more than he wanted to admit.

  "You're back, then, Mr. Sweetwater," Mrs. Crofton said.

  Her voice was laced with the cool, professional a
ccents of a woman who at one time or another had served in a far more exclusive household. He wondered how she had come to work for an employer who was obliged to go out into the world to earn a living. Housekeepers and others in service were as concerned with their social status as everyone else. The social standing of one's employer mattered.

  "I believe I am expected." He gave her his card.

  "Yes, sir. Miss Dean said you would be calling today, sir. She will see you." Mrs. Crofton stepped back and held out a hand for his hat and gloves. "I'll show you into her study."

  When she closed the door, a heavy gloom descended on the front hall. It took him a moment to realize that there was no mirror on the wall over the console as was commonplace in many homes, to add the illusion of light and space.

  He followed Mrs. Crofton down a narrow corridor and into a snug, book-lined study. The window at the far end overlooked a small, attractive garden. There was a mirror in this room, he noted. It looked new.

  Virginia was seated behind a compact rolltop desk. She looked up, pen in hand. For a heartbeat, he just looked at her, fascinated by the way the morning light burnished her red-and-gold hair.

  "Mr. Sweetwater to see you, ma'am," Mrs. Crofton announced.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Crofton," Virginia said. She put aside the pen. "Please sit down, Mr. Sweetwater."

  Mrs. Crofton hesitated in the doorway. "Will you be wanting tea, ma'am?"

  Virginia looked suddenly uncertain. Having faced the same weighty question earlier that day, Owen smiled to himself. Offering tea was a silent way of inviting a guest to linger longer than might otherwise be necessary. Virginia's decision would provide him with a clue to how she viewed their association.

  "Yes, please," Virginia said with an air of sudden decision. "Thank you, Mrs. Crofton."

  He had his answer, Owen thought. Virginia was still wary of him, but she had accepted the fact that she could no longer avoid him. Serving tea did not mean that she would cooperate fully, but it was a silent acknowledgment that they were bound together, if only temporarily, by the events of the night.

  Mrs. Crofton closed the door. Owen sat down in a chair facing the desk and the window.

  "I must admit I'm curious to know how you explained your late return home last night to your housekeeper," he said.

  "I simply said that I had been detained at the client's house longer than expected." Virginia indicated the copy of theFlying Intelligencer on top of the desk. "There is nothing on Hollister's death in the morning papers, so Mrs. Crofton has no reason to ask any questions."

  "Do not be too sure of that. In my experience, housekeepers always know more than anyone realizes. The reason there is no gossip yet is because, as of midnight last night, no one except us and the killer was aware that Hollister was dead. For all we know the body is still down there in that chamber, waiting to be discovered. When it does appear in the papers, the death will no doubt be attributed to natural causes."

  "Yes, of course. The family will make certain of it. They will not want the scandal of a murder investigation, especially if the killer was the wife, as we suspect."

  "No."

  Virginia clasped her hands on the blotter. "Given that no high-ranking family wants to become involved with the police, I cannot understand why someone tried to arrange matters so that I would be found at the scene of the murder with a knife in my hand."

  "I'm almost certain that was not part of the original plan. I think it is far more likely that something went very wrong with a carefully set scheme last night."

  "Do you think it was a coincidence that Lady Hollister commissioned a reading last night?"

  "When it comes to murder, there are no coincidences. But in this situation there are other possibilities."

  "Such as?"

  "Perhaps you were the intended victim all along."

  Virginia stilled. "Me?"

  "If you had been found at the scene, you would have been arrested and very likely hung for murder."

  "Good grief."

  "Do you have any enemies or rivals, Miss Dean?"

  She drew a breath. "No outright enemies that I know of, but there is always a great deal of competition among practitioners. So yes, I have some rivals, but I cannot think of any who would go so far as to implicate me in the murder of a high-ranking gentleman just to get me out of the way."

  "It is only one possible explanation for events. I'm sure there are others."

  "What a cheerful thought. You must have spent some time thinking about the case last night, sir. Is that the best you could come up with?"

  "I will admit that my thinking last night was not terribly productive. There are too many unknowns at this stage."

  She raised her brows. "Did you get any sleep at all?"

  "Very little."

  "Neither did I." Virginia sighed. "I spent most of the night trying to make some sense of events. I am absolutely baffled."

  "There is a great mystery here. The one thing I am certain of is that although we succeeded in destroying someone's carefully laid trap, you are still in danger."

  "But why?"

  "Because you are a very powerful glasslight-talent, Miss Dean. Your psychical ability is the key to this affair. Tell me what you remember of last night."

  "I have gone over each moment again and again." She rose and went to stand at the window. She gripped the edge of the green velvet drapery and looked out into the garden. "Mr. Welch, the gentleman who manages the consultation appointments at the Institute, booked a reading for me at the request of Lady Hollister. I arrived at the Hollister mansion at the specified time, eight o'clock in the evening."

  "Did Lady Hollister send a carriage for you?"

  Virginia's mouth curved into a faint, wry smile. "No, of course not. People like Lady Hollister only extend that courtesy to those they perceive to be their social equals. As far as my clients are concerned, I rank a rung or two lower on the social ladder than a governess or a paid companion, because unlike women in those two respectable careers, I go out into the world to make my living."

  "But judging by the fact that you have your own house, employ a housekeeper and dress rather fashionably, I would hazard a guess that you make considerably more money than women in either of those two professions."

  She laughed a little and turned her head to look at him. "Your guess would be correct, Mr. Sweetwater. The house is rented, Mrs. Crofton kindly agreed to take wages that she assures me are considerably lower than those she received from her last employer, and my dressmaker does not even pretend to be French, as the most exclusive ones do. But yes, I do manage nicely. What is more, my business has flourished now that I am affiliated with the Leybrook Institute. Mr. Leybrook is very skilled at attracting high-quality clients."

  "Such as Lady Hollister?" he asked without inflection.

  Virginia winced. "In retrospect, it would appear that she was not the best of clients."

  "Go on with your recollection of events."

  Virginia returned to the view from the study window. "Let me think. I recall being shown into the library. The room seemed cold and dark, although there was a fire on the hearth and the lamps were lit. Something about the energy in that house, I suppose. Very depressing. Lady Hollister was waiting for me together with her companion. Tea was served. I asked Lady Hollister to tell me why she had requested the reading."

  "Did she explain?"

  "It was obvious almost immediately that Lady Hollister was not entirely sane. Her conversation was disjointed, and she became easily agitated. Her companion had to calm her at several points. But Lady Hollister was very clear about why she had summoned me."

  "What mirror did she want you to read?"

  "The looking glass in her dead daughter's bedroom." A slight but unmistakable shudder shivered through Virginia. "I dread those sorts of readings. The children..."

  "I understand."

  She glanced at him again. "Do you?"

  "I have seen the taint of the monsters who prey on chil
dren. If you dread those readings, why do you do them?"

  "I feel somehow compelled." Virginia returned her attention to the window. "Sometimes, not always, I am able to provide a sense of finality to the bereaved parents. It is as if the reading closes a gate into the past and frees them to move forward into the future. And on rare occasions, I have been able to perceive clues that have led the police to the killer."

  "You take satisfaction from those readings? The ones that lead to justice for the victim?"

  "Yes," she said. "They comfort me in some way I cannot explain. But last night I was unable to give Lady Hollister what she wanted and needed. Instead, I suspect that I drove her deeper into madness."

  "What happened?"

  "Lady Hollister told me that her daughter had died at the age of eleven. Officially it was declared an accident. The girl's body was found at the foot of the staircase. When I was shown into the bedroom, it was clear that nothing had been changed in the room since the poor child's death."

  "Where was the mirror?"

  "On a small dressing table," Virginia said. "It faced the bed. I knew that I did not want to look into it, but I felt I owed the truth to Lady Hollister."

  "What did you see?"

  Virginia closed her eyes. "The girl was assaulted by someone she knew well. Someone who terrified her. She cried. That is probably why he strangled her. He wanted to silence her and used too much force. Afterward I suspect that he tossed her body down the stairs in an effort to feign an accident. But I know where she died."

  "In the bed."

  Virginia crushed the green velvet drapery in her tightly clenched fist. "Yes."

  "Hollister. She was raped and murdered by her own father."

  "I think so, yes."

  The familiar ice-and-fire energy of the hunt splashed through Owen's veins. He suppressed it with an act of will. That particular monster was dead, he reminded himself. He needed to concentrate on the new prey.

  "Did you tell Lady Hollister the truth?" he asked.

  "I did not name Hollister as the killer. After all, I had no proof to offer. A woman in my position must be very careful with her words in a situation like that. The thing is, I do not see the afterimages of the murderers, only those of the dead. The visions tell me a great deal, but they do not provide all of the answers. It was possible that another close family member was the killer, an uncle or a grandfather, perhaps."