“If there is something of value in the last bedroom, there may be another clockwork curiosity guarding it,” Virginia warned.
He glanced at her, but it was impossible to tell if she had experienced the same surge of psychical connection. In the glare of the lantern her intelligent face appeared concerned but resolute. A casual observer would never guess that she had just faced a withering hail of nightmares. She was concentrating on the project at hand. He should be doing the same, he reminded himself.
“This time we are prepared,” he said.
He put his back against the wall and opened the door with great care, listening for the telltale clink and thud of another clockwork device. But no sound came from the room.
He pushed the door wider, moved into the opening and held the lantern aloft. The light fell on the bed, an old chest of drawers and the dressing table.
“Everything is just as it was the last time I was here,” he said.
“You’re right, there is nothing in this room that is obviously of great value.” Virginia crossed her arms, hugging herself, and surveyed the small space. “But the energy is certainly disturbing, is it not?”
“This is the room where Mrs. Ratford was murdered,” Owen said. “I am certain of it. And I am equally certain that the killer has been here a number of times since committing the crime. So, yes, there is a lot of bad energy in this room.”
He walked into the small space and heightened his senses. The hot, dark currents of violence fluoresced in the shadows, painting the room in the deepest shades of ultralight. Although he was braced for the impact, there was nothing he could do to suppress his response. The hunter in him was always aroused by such energy.
Virginia watched him. “What do you see?”
“What I perceived the last time I was here. She was murdered, but no gun or knife was used to commit the crime. It was murder by paranormal means, but it was not a swift kill. Whoever did this wanted Mrs. Ratford to suffer for a time.”
“But you are sure that psychical energy was involved?”
“There can be no doubt.” He concentrated on the residue of iridescent energy in the room. “Strong psychical currents were employed to commit murder in this room, but the killer was not present at the time. I can usually identify the precise location where he or she stood at the moment the murder took place. There is always a great deal of energy generated when one kills.”
“As the adage says, murder always leaves a stain.”
“Yes. We have made some progress this evening. We have found a means by which the killer could have committed the crime without being physically present in the room.”
“He used a clockwork curiosity,” Virginia said. “Perhaps the dragon.”
“It is a possibility.” Mentally he went through the logic and nodded once, satisfied. “He would have had to enter the room to set up the device, of course. Then he would have left and returned later when he was certain the clockwork weapon had performed the kill and had time to wind down. He retrieved the dragon but brought it back when he realized an intruder had been inside the house.”
“You said he has been here several times since the murder.”
“Yes.” Owen opened a drawer and glanced inside to make certain he had not overlooked anything on his first visit.
“Why would he do that?”
“To savor the energy of the kill,” he said absently.
There was a short, awful silence behind him. He closed the drawer and looked at Virginia.
“The killer comes here to savor the energy of death?” Virginia asked uneasily.
“In my experience it is not uncommon.”
“I see.” Virginia turned back to the mirror. “There were rumors after Mrs. Ratford died. She made her living claiming to communicate with spirits through mirrors. There are some who are convinced she really did manage to summon a malevolent entity from the Other Side. They believe it killed her.”
“We know one thing for certain: If Mrs. Ratford claimed to communicate with the dead, she was, by definition, a fraud.”
“No, not in her own mind.”
“I thought we agreed that there is no such thing as communicating with the dead,” he said flatly. “All those who claim to be mediums are, by definition, frauds of the lowest order, because they prey on the gullible and those who are made vulnerable by grief or a weak mind.”
“I was acquainted with Mrs. Ratford because she was a member of the Institute.” Virginia contemplated the mirror on the dressing table. “We were not close, but we had what you would call a professional connection. We occasionally had tea together in the Institute’s tearoom. We talked. I am convinced that she actually did have some degree of genuine glasslight talent.”
“Then why the devil would she claim to speak with spirits? Why not use her talent in an honest fashion, as you do?”
“Probably because she did not understand what she saw in the mirrors, let alone know how to interpret the visions and images. I told you, her talent was only middling at best. She did not comprehend that what she was viewing was the psychical residue that is absorbed by a looking glass. She was convinced that she really did see ghosts. One cannot blame her.”
“It’s true that most people with psychical abilities lack a scientific understanding of their talents,” he said. “I will concede that some with certain forms of clairvoyance might mistakenly believe that they are, in fact, sensing ghosts or spirits.”
“That is very broad-minded of you, sir.”
“Gabriel Jones is right. One of Arcane’s primary missions in the years ahead should be to educate the public on the physics of the paranormal.”
Virginia raised her brows. “You refer to the new Master of the Society?”
“Right. Jones is convinced that until there is a scientific understanding of psychical energy, those who possess talent will continue to be treated at best as entertainers. At worst, we will be regarded with fear and suspicion.”
“I wish Mr. Jones luck with his plans to inform and enlighten the public.”
Her dry tone caught his attention. “You don’t think it can be done?”
“I suspect it will be very long indeed before attitudes change. Meanwhile, those of us with a little talent must rely on our wits.”
“You have more than a little talent, Virginia Dean. And we are wasting time. If you would be so good as to examine the looking glass?”
“Yes, of course.” She turned her attention to the dressing-table mirror. Once again he felt currents of energy pulse in the atmosphere. He heightened his own talent so that he could watch Virginia with all of his senses.
She concentrated intently for a long moment.
“There are some images here,” she said at last. Her brows came together in a baffled frown. “I can see the afterimage of the victim. It is burned deeply into the mirror. But there is something else in there as well.”
“What?”
“There is raw energy trapped in the mirror. It is very odd. Like frozen fire.”
“Take your time. Describe the victim.”
“She is sitting at the table, gazing into the mirror. She is dying, and she knows it. She clutches her chest and looks to the right. She is both terrified and bewildered by whatever she sees.”
Owen glanced to the right of the dressing table. “The bed. The killer hid the device underneath it. The dragon, or whatever curiosity was used to commit the murder, emerged when it sensed the victim enter the room and sit down at her dressing table.”
“She never had a chance. She died just at the instant she began to comprehend the means of her death.”
“Is there any indication that she knew her killer?”
“No. I think all she can see is the device that is murdering her.”
“It is, nevertheless, quite possible that she did know the killer. She simply was not aware that he was the one who placed the clockwork device under the bed.”
“I think you’re right.” A visible shudder went thr
ough Virginia. In the mirror her eyes were wide and haunted.
Owen crossed the room and stopped behind her. Instinctively he put his hand on her shoulder. He could feel the heat generated by the use of her talent through the fabric of her cloak and gown. He knew that particular fever in the blood. He had experienced it often.
“That’s enough,” he said gently. “We have discovered what we came here to find, the cause of death. It is time to go home.”
They found a hired carriage two streets over. Both horse and driver were asleep. The coachman roused himself when Owen opened the door of the carriage and ushered Virginia up inside.
“Garnet Lane,” Owen said.
“Aye, sir.” The driver collected the reins.
Owen had wrapped the dragon in a quilt. He set the shrouded automaton on the floor of the carriage and sat down across from Virginia. His senses were still flaring. That was only to be expected, he thought. A close brush with danger or violence always resulted in an edgy tension that lingered, sometimes for hours or even days. But the events in the Ratford house had left him physically as well as psychically aroused. He knew that part of what he was feeling now was directly linked to Virginia’s presence. Something had happened when they had held hands to battle the clockwork dragon, something as intimate as it was inexplicable.
He was certain the experience had strengthened the growing bond between them. He longed to ask Virginia if she was aware of the connection, but he was worried that the intimate question would alarm her. She was already wary enough about their association.
He did not know how much longer he could wait for her to acknowledge the link between them. For now the bond was of a psychical nature, but the need to seal it with the hot energy of physical passion was stirring his blood.
He looked at her. In the low glow cast by the carriage lamps he could have sworn that he saw some heat in her eyes. She feels it, too, he thought. But perhaps the energy he perceived in her was simply the remnants of the fever that had resulted from the use of her talent tonight. It always took one a while to cool down after such an intense burn.
“Are you all right?” he asked, unable to think of anything else to say.
“Yes,” she said. She pulled her cloak more snugly around herself. “But I must admit that my senses are still rattled. I have never before encountered anything like that storm of hallucinations.”
“Neither have I. If it is any consolation, my nerves are also badly frayed.”
She smiled. “It would take more than a clockwork dragon to shatter your nerves, sir.”
“Or yours. You are the one who slew the dragon tonight.”
“I could not have done it without you.” She looked down at the blanket-wrapped dragon. “It is very powerful. Unlike a human, it would not tire until it winds down. It is a machine, capable of radiating that high level of energy for a considerable length of time. No person of talent, regardless of the degree of that talent, could control such a device for long before exhausting the senses.”
“It is astonishing that someone actually possesses the ability to construct such a weapon. I talked to my cousin Nick today. Thus far he has not had any luck finding the clock maker, but he has picked up a few intriguing rumors from some rather eccentric collectors.”
The carriage halted in front of Virginia’s town house. He opened the door, vaulted down to the pavement and turned to lower the carriage steps. Virginia gave him her hand and descended to the pavement. She had put her gloves back on, he noticed.
“I believe I need a strong dose of medicinal spirits tonight,” she said.
He smiled. “I certainly plan to take the same therapeutic medicine when I get home.”
She contemplated the dark windows of the town house for a moment, and then she turned back to face him. In the shadows cast by the gas lamp and the hood of her cloak it was impossible to make out the expression on her face. But he could sense the heat in her eyes.
“Would you care to share a glass of my tonic with me, sir?” she asked. “I have some excellent brandy.”
His blood was suddenly several degrees warmer. He felt as if he had just received an invitation to enter paradise.
TWELVE
Virginia held her breath. She could not believe what she had just done. The invitation had been an uncharacteristically impulsive act inspired by the edgy sensation that was generating a fever deep inside her. It was surely a mistake, one she was certain she would regret. If Owen hesitated for even a heartbeat she would change her mind.
He did not give her time enough to catch her breath.
“I would like that very much,” he said.
The even, casually polite tone of his voice told her absolutely nothing. But his eyes heated a little in the darkness. She knew that he was in the grip of the aftermath of a heavy burn, just as she was. No one but another powerful talent could understand the sensation.
She pulled her cloak around her and started up the front steps. “It is not as if either of us will be getting much sleep tonight, is it?”
“No,” he agreed.
He paused long enough to pay the coachman. Then he followed her up the steps.
She dug her key out of the small chatelaine purse she wore. “And like it or not, we appear to be colleagues, at least for a while. We might as well share a drink and discuss the case.”
“It sounds like a very useful way to proceed,” he said.
She fumbled with her key and managed to drop it.
Owen snagged it in midair with no apparent effort.
“Allow me,” he said.
He inserted the key into the lock and opened the door. She moved into the dimly lit hall. Mrs. Crofton had taken herself off to bed two floors above, but she had left a wall sconce burning.
She’ll know I’m home, Virginia thought. She’ll know that I am not alone. Housekeepers always knew everything that went on in their domain.
Owen set the dragon on the floor, stripped off his leather gloves and reached out to help Virginia with the cloak. When his warm fingers brushed the sensitive nape of her neck, another flicker of awareness went through her. The feverish sensation got more intense, but she did not feel the least bit ill.
He hung her cloak on a brass wall hook and then he set his hat on the console table alongside his leather gloves.
It is as if we were two lovers coming home late after an evening at the theater, she thought.
Her imagination was running wild, and her nerves were still tingling with the icy-hot sensation. She desperately needed a shot of brandy.
She led the way down the hall and into the darkened study. Inside the small, cozy room she turned up a lamp and went to the little table that held the brandy decanter.
Owen crossed to the hearth, struck a light and lit the fire with the easy familiarity of a man making himself at home. When he was finished he rose, peeled off his coat and tossed it over the back of a chair. He was not wearing a waistcoat, Virginia noticed. He unknotted his tie and left it hanging loosely around his neck. Next he opened the collar of his shirt. With deft movements of his fingers he removed the cuff links that secured the sleeves of his shirt, and tucked them into a pocket.
Virginia caught her breath. Oh, yes, he was definitely making himself at home.
She splashed brandy into two glasses. The decanter clinked lightly against the rim of one glass. She realized her hands were trembling. She set the decanter aside and gave Owen one of the glasses.
“To both of us getting some sleep tonight,” she said, raising her glass.
“To us.”
Not quite the same toast, she thought, but she did not think it would be a good idea to correct him.
His eyes never left hers as he downed some of the brandy.
She took a more cautious sip and lowered the glass.
“May I ask what you saw tonight when that storm of hallucinations struck?” she said.
“I saw the victims of the murders that I have investigated over the years,” he said. ?
??The ones I failed.”
She exhaled slowly. “You mean those poor souls for whom you could not find justice?”
“And those I arrived too late to save. They are the ones who haunt me.” He went to stand in front of the fire. “What did you see, Virginia?”
She crossed the carpet to join him at the hearth. “My visions were not unlike your own. Like you, I saw the ones I failed, those who died by violence. The ones for whom there was no justice because the killer was never caught.”
He nodded once, understanding.
For a long moment they stood side by side, gazing into the fire.
“Do you ever wonder why we have been cursed with talents such as ours?” she asked after a time.
“There is no such thing as a curse,” he said. “That is superstitious nonsense.”
She almost smiled. “I was speaking metaphorically, Mr. Sweetwater.”
“Of course. My apologies.” He drank some more brandy. “I tend to be quite literal when it comes to matters involving para-physics.”
“I understand.”
“I will tell you the truth, Virginia. The reason I responded so sharply just now is because there have been many times when I have asked myself the very same question.”
He had used her first name again. But she now thought of him as Owen, she reminded herself. It was astonishing how sharing danger had a way of injecting a degree of intimacy into the atmosphere between two people who were otherwise barely acquainted.
“I am a modern thinker, sir,” she said. “Like you, I certainly do not believe in the supernatural. But have you ever come up with an answer to the question?”
He gripped the edge of the mantel and contemplated the fire. “I can give you an answer that conforms to the laws of para-physics, at least what I know of those laws. There is, as I’m sure you know, a great deal left to be discovered in the field.”
“I am aware of that. Well? What is the scientific answer to the question?”
“A person who commits murder or an act of violence generates a heavy surge of psychical energy. Even the coldest of killers leaves a hot trail.”