THREE
They delivered Becky into the warmth and welcome of the Elm Street charity house’s matron, Mrs. Mallory. Becky seemed bewildered, but the prospect of a hot meal and a safe bed persuaded her to tolerate the situation, at least for the night.
“Whether or not she accepts the offer of going off to the charityhouse school for girls, where she can learn a respectable trade, like typewriting or telegraphy, will be up to her,” Virginia said when she got back into the carriage. “But Mrs. Mallory is very skilled at encouraging the girls to enter the school.”
Owen sat down on the opposite seat.
“You are a strong believer in education for the girls of the streets?” he said.
The carriage rolled forward.
“It is the only hope for a woman alone in the world,” Virginia said.
“You speak from experience?”
“I was orphaned at the age of thirteen. If my father had not left me a small inheritance that ensured that my boarding school fees were paid until I was seventeen, I would very likely have wound up on the streets like young Becky.”
“No,” Owen said. “Not you. With your talent and intelligence you would have found another way to survive.”
She looked out into the darkness. “Who knows? It does seem rather ironic that I am pursuing a career that requires me to work at night.”
“Will there be anyone who will have been concerned about you tonight?” he asked. “Aside from your housekeeper, I mean.”
“No. Actually, I’m surprised Mrs. Crofton was worried. She is new and still learning my unusual routine. I am often out late in the evenings, although rarely this late.”
From the way Virginia spoke he knew that she was not accustomed to the notion of anyone worrying about her or fretting because she was late returning home.
“Why do you work at night?” he asked.
“The energy in the mirrors is usually stronger and more easily read at night. I can work in a heavily draped room if necessary, but I prefer to do my analysis in the evenings. I see things more clearly then.”
“I hadn’t realized that.” Intrigued, he considered the matter briefly. “My talent is sharper and more focused at night as well. I wonder if it has something to do with the absence of the energy produced by sunlight. Perhaps those sorts of currents interfere with certain paranormal wavelengths.”
She looked at him. “I am aware that you and your associates within Arcane hold a low opinion of those of us who make our livings with our talents. I know that you consider the vast majority of us to be charlatans. I also realize that the fact that I have frequent evening appointments does nothing to improve my reputation in your eyes or those of the Society’s. I would like to make it clear that I do not give a fig what you or the arrogant members of Arcane think of me and my colleagues at the Leybrook Institute.”
“You have already made your opinion of me and the Society quite clear, Miss Dean. Perhaps I should mention that I am not a member of Arcane.”
“Why were you in that group of so-called researchers who wanted to test my talent at the Pomeroy reading?”
“It’s a long story. You are exhausted. You need rest and time to recover from your ordeal tonight. I promise to tell you everything in the morning.”
She ignored that. “You risked your own neck to come looking for me tonight. Why?”
“I told you, I have been keeping an eye on you. I think you may be in danger, although I admit I had not anticipated the situation in which I found you tonight. I have been searching in another direction.”
“You said you were not a member of Arcane.”
“Arcane is a client.”
“A
“I am currently conducting an investigation for Arcane’s new psychical investigation agency, Jones & Jones. Perhaps you have heard of it?”
Her jaw tightened. “I have heard rumors of the new agency, yes.”
“You do not approve?”
“In my world, there is a strong suspicion that J & J is in the business of putting those of us who use our talents to make a living out of business. Arcane believes that psychical practitioners, in particular those at the Leybrook Institute, give legitimate study and research of the paranormal a bad reputation.”
“Because there are so many charlatans in your midst, and those frauds deceive and mislead the public. I understand. But I think it is safe to say that J & J currently has more work than it can handle dealing with truly dangerous psychical criminals. Trust me when I tell you that Caleb and Lucinda Jones, the directors of J & J, are not concerning themselves over much with mediums, seance-givers and other fraudulent practitioners these days.”
“That remains to be seen.”
“I comprehend that you do not trust Arcane, but I need your help. I am hunting a killer, Virginia, one who is operating in your world.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“Two glass-readers have died recently. J & J has asked me to investigate.”
“Why would J & J care about the deaths of two practitioners? The police certainly weren’t interested. They don’t even believe that Mrs. Ratford and Mrs. Hackett were murdered. Neither does anyone else. The authorities concluded both women died of natural causes.”
“But you suspect that is not the case, don’t you?”
She hesitated. “Yes.”
“So does J & J. So do I. As I said, it is a long story, and the hour grows late. I give you my word that I will explain everything in the morning.”
“You will not fob me off without some further explanation, sir. You said you are investigating the glass-reader deaths on behalf of Arcane. What talent do you possess that enables you to conduct such an investigation?”
“Let’s just say that you were close to the truth when you told Becky that I am a sort of private inquiry agent. I am, in fact, a hunter.”
“Who or what do you hunt, Mr. Sweetwater?”
“Monsters of the human variety, Miss Dean. Like you, I do my best work at night.”
His own house was dark and silent when he got home, but that was the way it always was at night. He lived alone. His housekeeper arrived early in the morning and left in the late afternoon. The arrangement provided him with the solitude that he found himself seeking more and more after dark. There was no one about to notice when he went out to walk the night, no one who might casually mention the new habit to another member of his closely knit family.
At least the glass-reader case was temporarily distracting him from the late-night strolls and the abyss that beckoned ever more strongly.
Owen carried the clockwork carriage into the cluttered library and set it down on a table. The dark windows of the miniature vehicle glittered malevolently in the light of the gas lamp. Before he went to bed tonight, he would lock the device securely in the safe in the basement. He was certain that he had disabled the weapon, but he did not intend to take any chances. The thing was something entirely new in his experience. He would proceed with great caution.
He crossed the room to the brandy table and poured himself a healthy dose of the spirits. Glass in hand, he sat down in front of the cold hearth and contemplated the beautifully crafted curiosity. The inquiry he was conducting had taken an ominous twist. Hollister’s death was the least of it. There were still far more questions than answers, but one thing was clear. Virginia Dean was the key to the entire affair.
