not approve of people like me and likely never will. That is not important now, though. There is something else in these mirrors.”
“Besides the afterimages, do you mean?”
“Yes. There are faint flames burning deep in these looking glasses, just as there were in the mirror on Mrs. Ratford’s dressing table.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes. The fire in these mirrors is weak, but it is perceptible. I think that when the curiosities are used to commit murder they somehow lock energy, not just afterimages, into the glass.”
“You said the fire trapped in Mrs. Ratford’s mirror was stronger. Why would that be? More people died in this chamber.”
“Yes, but those who died here were not glasslight-talents. Mrs. Ratford was. I think that may make all the difference.”
“Son of a bitch,” Owen said softly. “That’s why he is now focusing on victims who are glass-readers.”
“Yes, I think so. They provide more of the kind of energy he wants to trap in the mirrors.”
“But why does he seek to lock the fire in the glass?” Owen asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Is there any way to release the flames?”
“The energy seems to be in stasis. I’m not sure if I can ignite it. But even if it is possible, I don’t think it would be a good idea. What I see is pure, raw energy. There isn’t a lot of it, to be sure. Nevertheless, there is no telling what would happen if I tried to pull it out of the mirrors.”
“Enough.” He urged her toward the door. “We have our answers. I think we have spent enough time in this miniature hell.”
EIGHTEEN
The hunter in him sensed that he was closing in on his prey. He ought to be feeling the icy-cold rush of energy that always hit toward the end of the hunt, Owen thought. But for some reason he was consumed with an edgy, restless sensation that told him he had left at least one door unopened.
“Owen?” Virginia said. “Is there something wrong?”
He realized he was hurrying her so swiftly along the stone passage that she was obliged to hold her skirts up almost to her knees and trot briskly to keep up with him.
“Sorry,” he muttered. He forced himself to slow to a rapid walk. “I am eager to get you out of here.”
“I appreciate that. I assure you I have no desire to linger. But I have the impression that you are not satisfied with what we learned in that chamber. At least we have some clue to the identity of the man who murdered Mrs. Ratford and Mrs. Hackett. We know that he is a blood relative of Hollister’s.”
“That information is useful,” he agreed. “I will ask my aunt to pursue her genealogical research.”
“You are concerned about the fire that is trapped in the mirrors, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Hollister was an out-and-out killer. He raped his victims, and then he murdered them. That was all he cared about. But there is something different about the second man. He does not assault his victims physically before he kills them.”
“I see what you mean.” Virginia sounded thoughtful.
“It is almost as if he has been conducting experiments.”
“To what purpose?”
“To trap fire in mirrors, or so it appears. There is much more to this affair than meets the eye, Virginia.”
“Lady Hollister might be able to tell us something useful, but she really is quite insane, Owen.”
He turned another corner and saw an ancient wood-and-iron door set into the wall of the tunnel. He stopped abruptly. So did Virginia.
“Lady Hollister,” he said softly.
“Surely you are not going to pursue her? Speaking personally, I am grateful that she murdered her husband.”
“She certainly did the world a favor.” He contemplated the door. “But I am curious about how she came and went from the scene of the murder.”
Virginia looked at the door. “Do you think that leads to the mansion?”
“Yes. The lock on it is new.”
He took the pick out of his pocket and set to work. “The house is empty. We may as well search the premises while we are here.”
“That could take hours, even days. It is a very big house, Owen. What do you hope to find?”
“I don’t know. I never do until I see it.”
When he got the door open they found themselves in an empty basement room. A well-worn trail of footprints cut through the decades of dust and grime that covered the stone floor.
“Someone came this way often over the years,” Virginia said.
He angled the lantern and crouched to view the footprints. “It is impossible to make out individual tracks because there are so many of them, but most appear to have been left by a man.”
“Hollister.”
“No doubt. I see the prints of a woman’s shoes, as well. More than one woman, to be precise. Whoever they were, they came through here recently.”
“Lady Hollister and the servant who helped her carry me down here, perhaps.”
“No doubt.” He straightened and aimed the lantern at the flight of steps at the far end of the room. “Let us see where that leads.”
They climbed the steps. The door at the top opened onto a darkened library. When they emerged into the room Owen saw that the opening they had come through was concealed as a section of bookshelves.
“A house of secrets,” Virginia said. “But obviously Lady Hollister knew at least some of those secrets.”
Owen set the lantern on the desk and began opening and closing drawers. “Others may have known them as well. Lady Hollister’s companion, for example. Or some of the servants.”
“I do not recall seeing any servants other than the housekeeper when I arrived. There must have been a couple of daily maids and a gardener, at the very least. One simply cannot run a household this size without staff. But I can’t believe that they would have remained silent if they had suspected what was going on down in that chamber.”
“By all accounts this was a rather eccentric household.” He closed one drawer and opened another. “If most of the staff came in daily and did not live on the premises, it’s possible that they never knew about their employer’s unpleasant hobby down in the basement.”
Virginia came toward him. Her shoes made no sound on the expensive carpet. “Are you searching for anything in particular?”
“It would be rather useful to find a record of the purchase of one or more of those damned clockwork devices.” He closed the last drawer. “But there is nothing of that sort here. Just some blank paper and a few odds and ends.”
Virginia began plucking books at random off the shelves. After half a dozen volumes, she opened one and paused.
“This is interesting,” she said.
He rounded the desk. “What have you got there?”
“There are a number of photographs concealed in this book. They all appear to be of young women and girls about Becky’s age.” Virginia looked up quickly. “Dear heaven. I fear that this is a record of Hollister’s victims.”
He took the book from her and examined the photographs. Each showed a young woman dressed like a prostitute. Each girl in the pictures was lying on the bed in the mirrored room, clearly dead.
Wearily Owen closed the book. More victims he had failed to save, he thought. More images to haunt his
