“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 client?” She appeared stunned. “You work for the Society?”

“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, séance-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.

The following morning Owen took the carriage out of the safe, hauled it upstairs to the library and put it on a table. He collected a variety of small tools and set to work dismantling the curiosity. He was in the process of carefully removing one of the windows in the cab when a knock sounded on the door.

“Not now, Mrs. Brent.” He did not look up from the delicate task of disassembling the carriage. “I told you, I do not want to be disturbed this morning.”

“Yes, sir, I know, sir.” The housekeeper’s voice was muffled by the door. “It’s Mrs. Sweetwater, sir.”

“Which Mrs. Sweetwater? There are half a dozen of them in London at any given moment.”

The door opened. Mrs. Brent fixed him with a stern look. “Mrs. Aurelia Sweetwater, sir. She just arrived, and she insists on speaking with you.”

Of course it would be Aurelia, he thought. She was the oldest of his great-aunts and enjoyed the status of being the family matriarch. He had known this visitation was coming, he reminded himself. But he had been dreading it.

“Damn it to hell,” he said. But he said it very softly. “Very well, Mrs. Brent, show her in here, if you would.”

“Yes, sir.” Mrs. Brent started to retreat into the hall.

“But I warn you that it will be worth your position in this household if you bring in a tea tray,” Owen vowed. “I do not want to give my aunt any excuse to hang about here.”

Mrs. Brent’s mouth twitched in amusement, but she kept her professional composure. “Yes, sir.”

“I heard that,” Aurelia Sweetwater announced. She swept into the library, elegantly regal in a dark purple gown. Her gray hair was caught up in a towering chignon and crowned with a feather-trimmed hat that matched the dress. Her street-sweeper petticoats rustled ominously on the carpet. “As it happens, I do not have time for tea today, but that is beside the point.”

“Good morning, Aunt Aurelia,” Owen said. He left the table and crossed the carpet to give her an affectionate kiss on the cheek. “You are looking in excellent spirits today. A bit early, is it not? What brings you here at this hour?”