THIRTEEN
The scientist entered the laboratory the way he always did, through the kitchen door. He stood quietly for a moment, savoring the faint currents of energy that still shivered in the atmosphere. They were starting to fade. That was only to be expected. The experiment was concluded.
He took out the specially designed gold pocket watch that the clock maker had given him and walked down the narrow hall to the stairs.
The atmosphere thickened quite pleasantly as he made his way to the floor above. There were still hints of dread interlaced with the exciting nuances of incipient panic. He admired the aura of escalating fear that he had succeeded in capturing. But it was the dark power of the energy preserved at the moment when the subject understood that death was imminent that was the signature of his great talent.
The subject in this particular experiment had not been a strong talent. There were very few truly powerful glass-readers. But like Ratford, Hackett had served well enough for his purposes.
A muffled clink and thud stopped him at the top of the stairs. In spite of the fact that he was prepared, a cold chill wafted across his senses, rattling his nerves. The clockwork devices that he used to conduct the experiments were ideally suited to the great work. They were, in fact, the key to the perfection of his engine. But they were extraordinarily dangerous, not to mention expensive. He did not like having to leave them on guard, but after discovering that burglars had contaminated the scenes of both experiments, he’d been forced to take precautions. That was a problem with letting a house stand empty. They were magnets for housebreakers and thieves.
He struck a light and then flipped open the pocket watch. The interior of the watchcase was fitted with a special mirror. He held the watch so that the mirror inside was focused on the dark doorway.
The flaring light fell on a praying mantis the size of a house cat. The eyes of the clockwork insect glittered with malevolent energy. The increasing chill in the atmosphere warned him that the device had obtained a focus on him. The energy level started to escalate. His insides chilled. For an instant, panic assailed him. What if the mirror in the pocket watch no longer worked?
He shuddered with relief when the mantis clanked to a halt. The icy currents ceased emanating from the faceted glass eyes.
The scientist breathed a shaky sigh and continued down the hall.
The Hackett and Ratford experiments had both been unqualified successes, thanks to what he had learned during his preliminary research in the basement of the Hollister mansion. In the course of that work he had discovered how to calibrate the clockwork devices.
After Hackett and Ratford, he had been satisfied that the devices worked on glasslight-talents precisely as he had theorized. He had been ready for the final experiment, the one that, if successful, would energize his magnificent engine. But everything had gone wrong the other night.
That was always the way with scientific progress, he reminded himself. One had to expect setbacks.
He opened the door of the bedroom. Inside, all was just as he had fashioned it on the night of the experiment. The body of the subject and her personal possessions had been removed immediately after the death, of course. They were not important. What mattered was that he had achieved his goal of igniting some energy deep inside the dressing-table mirror. The currents were quite weak, because Hackett had been weak, but that was not important. What mattered was that he had proven the validity of the theory.
He opened his senses. The mirror on the dressing table still contained a little fire, but the energy was fading rapidly. There was no reason to return again to this house. He had learned all he could from this experiment.
He left the bedroom and went back along the hall, pausing long enough to collect the praying mantis. The device was still frozen as a result of the effects of the mirror, but he knew that status would not last long. The only certain method of ensuring that the curiosity would not activate was to remove the key from the back of the machine. He set about the task cautiously, holding his breath until he had the key safely out. When the mantis was secured he put the key in the pocket of his coat and dropped the curiosity into the canvas bag that he had brought with him for that purpose.
He carried the mantis downstairs. Outside on the street, he walked to the corner and whistled for a hansom. It was only a short distance to the scene of the second experiment, but he did not feel comfortable walking alone at such a late hour. The newspapers were full of stories of hapless citizens who had been set upon by violent criminals at night.
Ten minutes later he got out of the hansom at the corner, paid the driver and walked quickly to Ratford’s address. Excitement and anticipation built rapidly within him. The second experiment was still fairly fresh. In addition, Ratford had been somewhat stronger than Hackett. He was very curious to see if the fires in the glass would last longer.
He opened the door and moved into the kitchen, pausing to absorb the atmosphere.
The first faint, discordant currents drifted across his senses. The atmosphere in the house had been disturbed again. Anger flashed through him. Another ruffian had entered the premises. Really, the rise in crime was appalling. The dragon would have taken care of the problem, but there would likely be a body in the upstairs hall. Disposing of the corpse would be a nuisance.
Annoyed at the thought that yet another intruder had entered the carefully staged experiment, the scientist took out his pocket watch and went up the stairs. At the top he paused, struck a light and listened tensely for the mechanical clink and thump of the clockwork dragon he had left on guard.
He was greeted with a disturbing silence. He looked around, fearful that he might accidentally stumble over the lethal device. But there was no sign of the automaton.
It occurred to him that the weapon might have failed. When all was said and done it was only a clockwork mechanism, and clocks sometimes stopped for no good reason. Holding the pocket watch at the ready, he went slowly along the hallway, searching the darkened rooms. At the far end he was forced to come to the inescapable conclusion: Not only was there no corpse, the dragon was gone.
Panic shot through him. He threw open the door of the laboratory. Everything inside appeared to be untouched, but when he heightened his senses he could detect the faint currents of energy that told him the experiment had been disturbed again, this time by someone who had been capable of overcoming the dragon. Only an extremely powerful glasslight-talent could have managed that feat. Even he could not control the toys without the aid of the pocket watch.
Rage boiled inside him. The vast majority of glass-readers were weak, insipid creatures like Ratford and Hackett who did not begin to comprehend their own abilities. Many actually believed that the images they saw in the mirrors were genuine spirits. But he knew of one who might have been able to survive the dragon long enough to disable it.
He had saved Virginia Dean for last because he had sensed that she was the one he needed, the glass-reader who might be strong enough to ignite the fire in the mirrors of his Great Engine. She had now proven that she was even more powerful than he had realized. Excitement shivered through him.
Two questions immediately sprang to mind: Why had Virginia Dean come here tonight? And had she come alone?
FOURTEEN
Owen opened his eyes when Virginia started to extricate herself from the chair and his arms. He watched her get to her feet, aware of a deep sense of satisfaction that went beyond the physical. She had no notion of how deliciously disheveled and erotic she looked dressed only in her rumpled chemise and stockings. Tendrils of her sunset-bright hair had come free of the pins and tumbled around her shoulders.
She looked down at her stained chemise with dismay.
“Oh, dear,” she said. “It was new.”
“I will replace it.”
“There is no need for that,” she said, quite sharply. “I’m sure it will all wash out.”
Flushed, she hurried across the room, stepped into the pile of clothing
and hastily drew first her petticoats and then her gown up around herself.
As if she were putting on a suit of armor, he thought.
He crumpled the handkerchief he had used to clean both of them a short time earlier and put it into a pocket. Reluctantly he pushed himself up out of the chair, closed the front of his trousers and fastened his shirt.
“Virginia,” he said. He stopped. Not certain what to say next.
“Yes?” She concentrated hard on the last hooks of her gown.
He went toward her. “Are you certain that you are all right?”
She raised her chin. “Of course I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“This was your first experience of this sort of thing.”
“Well, yes,” she said. “But that is hardly my fault. Really, society makes it very difficult for a single woman to take a lover.”
“Difficult but not impossible. Many single women find a way around the problem. Why did you wait so long?”
She sighed. “One has to reach the point where one realizes one has nothing left to lose and that there is no reason to save oneself for marriage because it is unlikely that the man of one’s dreams will ever appear.”
“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 to hire 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.
FIFTEEN
C live 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 the Flying Intelligencer . The day’s edition of The 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 s
he’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.