Quicksilver as-11

by Àìàíäà Êâèê

  "I see." That certainly crushed any romantic notions he might have entertained concerning the nature of their relationship. She had given herself to him tonight because she had concluded that nothing better was likely to happen along.

  "Actually, I did reach that conclusion a few months ago on my twenty-sixth birthday," Virginia continued. "But unfortunately, the situation did not become any less complicated."

  "Why was that?"

  "There remained the problem of employing the right man for the position, as it were."

  "You intended tohire someone?" He had never envisioned himself as a man who was easily shocked, but Virginia had just succeeded in stunning him.

  She reddened. "Perhaps that was not the best way to put it. One wants this sort of thing to be accompanied by strong passions, of course."

  "One would certainly hope so."

  "Really, it is not at all like hiring a gardener."

  "I'm relieved to hear that. I think."

  Her brows snapped together. "It is not as if there is a wide selection of suitable gentlemen just lolling about, waiting to be picked up like ripe tomatoes in a market. There are so many requirements to be met. And as it turns out, the older a woman gets, the more requirements she accumulates."

  "I see."

  "By the time one reaches my age, the list is very long and one knows that it will be impossible to find the right man. So one must be prepared to compromise."

  He caught her chin on the heel of his hand. "What were your requirements, Virginia?"

  "I had cut my list back to include only strong passions," she said.

  "But I failed to meet even that minimal requirement?"

  She blinked. Her eyes widened. "Not at all. Whatever gave you that notion, sir?"

  "As I recall, somewhere in the middle of the exercise you mentioned that you had been hoping for a transcendent metaphysical experience."

  "But it was transcendent," she said earnestly. "Exceedingly so." She waved the issue aside. "Well, perhaps not in the middle, but certainly at the beginning and most assuredly at the end, it was quite transcendent."

  He smiled and brushed his mouth across hers. "I cannot tell you how pleased I am to hear that. Because it was transcendent for me, as well."

  She smiled, radiant and relieved. "Oh, good. I was concerned about that aspect of the matter, what with my limited experience and all. But I am a quick learner, I assure you. I expect it will all get more efficient with practice."

  "Efficiency is not a priority for me." He whispered another kiss across her mouth and then released her. Turning away, he scooped up his coat and shrugged into it. "I must be off. It is late. You need rest, and so do I."

  "Do you want me to examine the scene of the other glass-reader murder?"

  "In due time." He went to the door and opened it. "After what we learned tonight, my intuition tells me that it is more important to take another look at the mirrored chamber where Hollister died."

  "How do you intend for us to do that?"

  "We will go in the same way we got out the other night."

  In the front hall he collected his hat and gloves and overcoat. She opened the door. He went out onto the steps and stopped, aware that he did not want to leave.

  "Good night, Owen," she said softly.

  "Good night, my sweet. Lock the door."

  "I will."

  He went down one step and paused. "You're sure it was transcendent?"

  "Absolutely. And very stimulating. I vow, I don't feel the least bit exhausted anymore. Do you know I was seriously considering taking one of Dr. Spinner's treatments for female hysteria in order to experience the hysterical paroxysm that his patients rave about? But I very much doubt that his therapy can compare with the sort of transcendence we experienced tonight."

  "Who the devil is Dr. Spinner? And what is this therapy for female hysteria? I have never heard of it."

  "I'm not precisely certain of the details, but evidently it involves an electromechanical machine called a vibrator. It's a very modern medical instrument."

  "Good Lord. How long has he been offering this treatment?"

  "Quite a while, from what I understand. It is a very common treatment, of course."

  "It is?"

  "Oh, yes, it has been for years. There are any number of doctors who offer a similar therapy for hysteria, but not all of them use such a modern device to induce the therapeutic paroxysm. Many still do it manually, which, I understand, can take a great deal of time. Dr. Spinner's machine is said to be extremely efficient."

  "Damnation. You say these treatments are widely available to the women of London?"

  "Yes, of course. I understand they are quite popular in America, as well. Good night, Owen."

  "Hang on." He started back up the steps. "I want to ask you a few more questions about this Dr. Spinner."

  "Some other time. I'm really not in the mood to discuss the latest medical practices. Good night, Owen. Be careful on the way home. London streets can be dangerous at night."

  She closed the door gently but firmly in his face.

  Chapter 15

  Clive Sweetwater was seated in his favorite chair, feet propped on a leather ottoman, when Owen walked into the library the following morning.

  "Good morning, Uncle," Owen said.

  "Huh." Clive did not look up from his copy of theFlying Intelligencer. The day's edition ofThe Times was lying on the table next to the chair, but Clive always read the scandal sheet first. He claimed it was far more interesting. "Hollister's death finally made the papers. Heart attack, of course."

  "Of course."

  "How goes the Arcane investigation?"

  "All I have at the moment are a great many questions." Owen picked up the silver pot on the table and poured himself a cup of coffee. "I stopped in to see Nick. I called at his lodgings a few minutes ago. His housekeeper informed me that he was on his way here, to make use of your library."

  "He arrived shortly before you showed up. Headed straight for the kitchen, as is his habit. Matt and Tony returned home just before dawn, after keeping watch on the Dean house for you. They slept for only a couple of hours, and now they're in the kitchen as well. Don't know where they get the energy."

  "Youth."

  "The three of them are eating me out of house and home."

  "Blame your housekeeper." Owen swallowed some coffee. "Mrs. Morgan's cooking is remarkably good."

  Clive lowered the paper with a sharp, rustling motion and peered at Owen with his hunter's eyes.

  "Your Aunt Aurelia has announced that she's going to register you with Arcane's new matchmaking agency," he said.

  "That won't be necessary." Owen kept his tone very even.

  "When you think about it," Nick said from the doorway, "it makes great sense to employ a matrimonial agency that specializes in matching people of talent. It sounds like a very efficient way to proceed with the business."

  "Do not," Owen warned, "use the word 'efficient' in my presence today, unless it is to describe your progress in locating that damned clock maker."

  "What's the matter with you? Did you get enough sleep last night?"

  Owen looked at him, not speaking.

  "Right," Nick said. He sauntered into the room and headed for the coffeepot. "Got a solid lead from a collector who specializes in paranormal artifacts. Said he'd heard rumors of a clock maker who created exquisite mechanisms that could induce unconsciousness and create hallucinations. There were hints that for a suitable amount of money, the clock maker will take a commission for a curiosity that can kill."

  Owen halted his cup halfway to his mouth. "Which clock maker?"

  "He didn't have a name, but he said that the clock maker is said to use an alchemical symbol as a signature."

  "That fits. There was a small alchemical sign on both devices."

  "I'm doing some research on those marks. I'm hoping to turn up more information today." Nick peered at him with keen interest. "What is your problem with the word
'efficient' today?"

  Owen looked at his cousin. Nick was a couple of years younger. He was tall and lanky, with the sharp, ascetic features that were common to the men of the Sweetwater family. But unlike most of the males in the clan who possessed a certain intuitive good taste in clothes, Nick had a perpetual air of scruffiness about him. It had been too long since he'd bothered to get his curly brown hair cut. His gray coat and trousers, although expensively tailored, were already rumpled, even though it was only eight-thirty in the morning.

  Nick struggled manfully with the latest fashion in neckties, but he invariably produced lumpy mounds of fabric instead of elegant knots. He had always had a difficult time, sartorially speaking, but there was no denying that the situation had worsened after he moved into his own lodgings, because his mother was no longer able to keep an eye on him.

  The unkempt appearance concealed a razor-sharp psychical gift for unraveling the secrets of dead languages, codes and other such mysteries. Nick was never happier than when he was deciphering an ancient manuscript, especially one that contained paranormal secrets. It was the nature of his version of the Sweetwater family talent.

  Ethel Sweetwater appeared in the doorway, saving Owen from having to come up with an answer to Nick's question about the word "efficient."

  Ethel was a fine-looking woman, fashionably dressed in a dark red-and-black gown. Like all of the women in the Sweetwater family, she was formidable, a force of nature. The Sweetwater men did not marry weak women. They required women who could handle the talent of the men of the line, women who could keep dark secrets.

  "What is this about efficiency?" Ethel asked.

  "Good morning, Aunt," Owen said. "You are looking spectacular today."

  "Do not evade the question," she said crisply.

  Like many of the women who married into the Sweetwater family, Ethel was highly intuitive.

  "Have you ever heard of a Dr. Spinner?" Owen asked.

  "Yes, of course," Ethel said. "He has an excellent reputation. Noted for his very modern treatment of female hysteria, I believe."

  "I am told his therapy is highly efficient," Owen said.

  "I wouldn't know," Ethel said. "I have never experienced an attack of hysteria in my entire life."

  "But you are aware of his therapy?"

  "Certainly. Dr. Spinner is a very fashionable doctor at the moment. He uses a new electrical instrument to achieve excellent results. Why do you ask?"

  Owen cleared his throat. "The subject came up in conversation recently."

  Ethel raised her brows. "It must have been a very interesting conversation."

  "Yes," Owen said. "It was." He made a valiant effort to change the subject. "Were you able to learn anything from your research into the Hollister family tree?"

  "Very little that will be useful, I'm afraid. The line ended with Hollister. There are no surviving close relatives, no uncles, brothers or cousins. It was not a prolific family. I did, however, turn up traces of madness here and there in the family tree. At least one cousin and a grandfather were confined to asylums. I suspect there were others who were mentally unstable, but in earlier times families generally kept their mad relations in the attic."

  "But there is evidence of strong talent in the line?"

  "Yes," Ethel said. "However, from what I could tell, the truly powerful talents in the family were the ones most likely to show indications of instability and insanity."

  Chapter 16

  The door of the shop opened just as Millicent Bridewell started to wind up the gleaming silver-and-bronze lobster. The latest creation from her workshop was exquisite, complete in every detail, right down to the snapping claws. She had not yet infused energy into the eyes. That was the last step of the process, an added touch that she provided for only her very special customers. There was, of course, an additional charge.

  She removed the key and put it into her pocket. The customer who called himself Mr. Newton entered the shop, bringing with him an air of unsettling energy.

  "I wish to commission some more curiosities, Mrs. Bridewell," he announced in a low, raspy voice. "They must be powerful."

  Everything about Mr. Newton, from his fine clothes to his watch fob, screamed money. By rights he should have appeared distinguished, Mrs. Bridewell thought. He ought to have commanded respect. Instead he seemed oddly bland and innocuous, more like a butler than a gentleman. He was rather short, with thinning hair that was a dingy shade of blond. His features were neither handsome nor ugly. In every aspect he was monumentally forgettable, the sort one passed on the street without a second glance.

  But Newton had now purchased several of her special curiosities, and she was becoming very uneasy. In general, her customers tended to be desperate wives or impatient heirs. They preferred to rent a clockwork device with the intention of using it only a single time. When the difficult husband or the lingering wealthy relation was out of the way, clients were more than eager to return the toys. The power infused in the devices made most of her customers nervous. Beautiful as they were, the curiosities were not the sort of objects that one put on display in the library, where well-meaning maids, visitors or children might attempt to wind them up.

  But Newton was different from her customary clients. He bought the toys outright, and he had not returned any of them, although she had assured him she would refund some of his money if he did so. She did not care to know how Newton was using her lovely creations. She never questioned her customers. What they did with the devices was their business.

  What concerned her about Newton was that he was using the toys far too often. If he got careless the police might stumble onto her profitable little sideline. The police, however, did not worry her nearly as much as Arcane's new psychical investigation agency did. Rumor had it that the firm of Jones Jones had assumed the responsibility of looking into crimes of a paranormal nature. Not that the agency had any right to interfere in the private business affairs of those who happened to possess a little talent, she thought. Nevertheless, she did not want any trouble from that quarter. The Joneses were a dangerous lot.

  "I don't have any more curiosities prepared, Mr. Newton," she said. She bustled around behind the counter, instinctively putting some distance and some glass between herself and the client. "I thought I made it clear that my special curiosities are made to order. It takes time to infuse the energy into the glass."

  "Yes, yes, I know. I want you to start work immediately. I am in something of a hurry."

  She cleared her throat discreetly. "May I ask if there was a problem with any of the other curiosities that you purchased? Did they fail to work?"

  "No, no, they functioned as you said they would. But I need more power. I have concluded that if I employ several of them at once I will be able to achieve the effect I require."

  She hesitated. The sad truth was that the pursuit of her art took money, a great deal of it. There was never enough. The fine materials and components required to create the curiosities were expensive. Many of her clients had trouble coming up with the rental fee, but Newton never questioned her prices. Clients who did not try to bargain were scarce and, therefore, valuable.

  "I suppose I could have some more curiosities ready for you in three days," she said finally.

  "Excellent. Remember, they must be as powerful as you can make them."

  "I will see what I can do," she said briskly. "But I must have the full amount in advance."

  He was not pleased with that, but he did not argue. "Very well."

  She waved a hand to indicate the several curiosities on display. "You may choose the ones you want me to enhance."

  "Let's start with the Queen," Mr. Newton said. "She'll be quite appropriate for what I have in mind."

  Chapter 17

  Virginia followed Owen through the iron gate and into the night-shrouded gardens that surrounded the Hollister mansion. She contemplated the darkened house from beneath the hood of her long gray cloak. The windows appeared to be fashio
ned of obsidian. They glinted, black and opaque, in the moonlight. No gaslight or candles lit the interior of the house. There was no sign of a glowing hearth.

  "You were right," she said. "It does appear to be vacant."

  There was a muted clang of iron on iron as Owen closed the gate.

  "I made a few inquiries. I learned that Lady Hollister dismissed the staff very early on the morning after we found Hollister's body," he said. "A discreet undertaker took away the body. No one has seen Lady Hollister since that day."

  "Where did she go?"

  "No one seems to know. Hollister had a country house in the north. She may have gone there by train."

  "One can hardly blame her for wanting to escape this dreadful place."

  They made their way into the old drying shed. Nothing inside had been disturbed, as far as Virginia could tell. She waited while Owen turned up the lantern. When the yellow light flared they started down the stone steps into the ancient abbey ruins beneath the mansion. She sensed Owen heightening his talent.

  "Do you perceive anything?" she asked.

  "Nothing to indicate fresh violence," he said. "But the old energy is still here. He brought the girls in through this passageway and removed the bodies the same way. That kind of thing soaks into the very walls."

  "Just as it does into mirrors."

  "I suspect that there is a second entrance inside the house."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Convenience, if nothing else."

  They went past a familiar intersection.

  "That is the corridor where we found the carriage," Virginia said. "The one that leads to the cell where Becky was held prisoner."

  "Yes. We are not far from the mirrored chamber."

  They rounded another corner. The lantern light splashed down a short stone passage. There was a door midway along the hall. It was closed.

  Owen stopped. "That is the door to the mirrored room."

  She halted beside him. They were standing so close together in the narrow confines of the stone passage that the hem of her cloak brushed against his leg.