Quicksilver

already.

An oddly disturbing shock of awareness whispered through him. He had embarked upon the investigation because his talent had compelled him to accept the case from J & J. There was a monster preying on the paranormal practitioners of London, and he had been called to the hunt. It was what the Sweetwaters did. It was in the blood.

But somewhere along the line the driving force behind his decision to find the killer had altered. Now he hunted to protect Virginia. The only way to do that, it seemed, was to put her at risk by involving her in the investigation. Be careful what you wish for, Sweetwater.

“I have one more question,” Virginia said.

“Only one?”

“What do you intend to do if we are able to identify the killer?”

He set his cup and saucer aside, propped his elbows on the arms of the chair and put his fingertips together. “Caleb Jones informs me that J & J has developed a policy that it applies to situations such as this.”

“What is J & J’s policy?”

“If there is sufficient evidence that is not of a paranormal nature, evidence that will hold up in a court of law, said evidence will be turned over to Scotland Yard. The authorities will then take charge, and the criminal will be arrested and tried in the normal, routine manner.”

“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