Amanda Quick - Quicksilver

Virginia Dean was proving to be the exception to every rule he had lived by for all of his life.

The door at the top of the steps opened before he could knock more than twice. Mrs. Crofton, the housekeeper, stood before him. She was a tall woman in her late thirties, garbed in a gray housedress trimmed with a white, crisply starched apron. A neatly pleated white cap covered most of her tightly pinned blond hair. There was a mix of curiosity and veiled assessment in her blue eyes. He knew from their initial encounter that she was not accustomed to finding a man on her employer’s front steps. The knowledge that Virginia did not, apparently, receive a lot of gentlemen callers pleased him more than he wanted to admit.

“You’re back, then, Mr. Sweetwater,” Mrs. Crofton said.

Her voice was laced with the cool, professional accents of a woman who at one time or another had served in a far more exclusive household. He wondered how she had come to work for an employer who was obliged to go out into the world to earn a living. Housekeepers and others in service were as concerned with their social status as everyone else. The social standing of one’s employer mattered.

“I believe I am expected.” He gave her his card.

“Yes, sir. Miss Dean said you would be calling today, sir. She will see you.” Mrs. Crofton stepped back and held out a hand for his hat and gloves. “I’ll show you into her study.”

When she closed the door, a heavy gloom descended on the front hall. It took him a moment to realize that there was no mirror on the wall over the console as was commonplace in many homes, to add the illusion of light and space.

He followed Mrs. Crofton down a narrow corridor and into a snug, book-lined study. The window at the far end overlooked a small, attractive garden. There was a mirror in this room, he noted. It looked new.

Virginia was seated behind a compact rolltop desk. She looked up, pen in hand. For a heartbeat, he just looked at her, fascinated by the way the morning light burnished her red-and-gold hair.

“Mr. Sweetwater to see you, ma’am,” Mrs. Crofton announced.

“Thank you, Mrs. Crofton,” Virginia said. She put aside the pen. “Please sit down, Mr. Sweetwater.”

Mrs. Crofton hesitated in the doorway. “Will you be wanting tea, ma’am?”

Virginia looked suddenly uncertain. Having faced the same weighty question earlier that day, Owen smiled to himself. Offering tea was a silent way of inviting a guest to linger longer than might otherwise be necessary. Virginia’s decision would provide him with a clue to how she viewed their association.

“Yes, please,” Virginia said with an air of sudden decision. “Thank you, Mrs. Crofton.”

He had his answer, Owen thought. Virginia was still wary of him, but she had accepted the fact that she could no longer avoid him. Serving tea did not mean that she would cooperate fully, but it was a silent acknowledgment that they were bound together, if only temporarily, by the events of the night.

Mrs. Crofton closed the door. Owen sat down in a chair facing the desk and the window.

“I must admit I’m curious to know how you explained your late return home last night to your housekeeper,” he said.

“I simply said that I had been detained at the client’s house longer than expected.” Virginia indicated the copy of the Flying Intelligencer on top of the desk. “There is nothing on Hollister’s death in the morning papers, so Mrs. Crofton has no reason to ask any questions.”

“Do not be too sure of that. In my experience, housekeepers always know more than anyone realizes. The reason there is no gossip yet is because, as of midnight last night, no one except us and the killer was aware that Hollister was dead. For all we know the body is still down there in that chamber, waiting to be discovered. When it does appear in the papers, the death will no doubt be attributed to natural causes.”

“Yes, of course. The family will make certain of it. They will not want the scandal of a murder investigation, especially if the killer was the wife, as we suspect.”

“No.”

Virginia clasped her hands on the blotter. “Given that no high-ranking family wants to become involved with the police, I cannot understand why someone tried to arrange matters so that I would be found at the scene of the murder with a knife in my hand.”

“I’m almost certain that was not part of the original plan. I think it is far more likely that something went very wrong with a carefully set scheme last night.”

“Do you think it was a coincidence that Lady Hollister commissioned a reading last night?”

“When it comes to murder, there are no coincidences. But in this situation there are other possibilities.”

“Such as?”

“Perhaps you were the intended victim all along.”

Virginia stilled. “Me?”

“If you had been found at the scene, you would have been arrested and very likely hung for murder.”

“Good grief.”

“Do you have any enemies or rivals, Miss Dean?”

She drew a breath. “No outright enemies that I know of, but there is always a great deal of competition among practitioners. So yes, I have some rivals, but I cannot think of any who would go so far as to implicate me in the murder of a high-ranking gentleman just to get me out of the way.”

“It is only one possible explanation for events. I’m sure there are others.”

“What a cheerful thought. You must have spent some time thinking about the case last night, sir. Is that the best you could come up with?”

“I will admit that my thinking last night was not terribly productive. There are too many unknowns at this stage.”

She raised her brows. “Did you get any sleep at all?”

“Very little.”

“Neither did I.” Virginia sighed. “I spent most of the night trying to make some sense of events. I am absolutely baffled.”

“There is a great mystery here. The one thing I am certain of is that although we succeeded in destroying someone’s carefully laid trap, you are still in danger.”

“But why?”

“Because you are a very powerful glasslight-talent, Miss Dean. Your psychical ability is the key to this affair. Tell me what you remember of last night.”

“I have gone over each moment again and again.” She rose and went to stand at the window. She gripped the edge of the green velvet drapery and looked out into the garden. “Mr. Welch, the gentleman who manages the consultation appointments at the Institute, booked a reading for me at the request of Lady Hollister. I arrived at the Hollister mansion at the specified time, eight o’clock in the evening.”

“Did Lady Hollister send a carriage for you?”

Virginia’s mouth curved into a faint, wry smile. “No, of course not. People like Lady Hollister only extend that courtesy to those they perceive to be their social equals. As far as my clients are concerned, I rank a rung or two lower on the social ladder than a governess or a paid companion, because unlike women in those two respectable careers, I go out into the world to make my living.”

“But judging by the fact that you have your own house, employ a housekeeper and dress rather fashionably, I would hazard a guess that you make considerably more money than women in either of those two professions.”

She laughed a little and turned her head to look at him. “Your guess would be correct, Mr. Sweetwater. The house is rented, Mrs. Crofton kindly agreed to take wages that she assures me are considerably lower than those she received from her last employer, and my dressmaker does not even pretend to be French, as the most exclusive ones do. But yes, I do manage nicely. What is more, my business has flourished now that I am affiliated with the Leybrook Institute. Mr. Leybrook is very skilled at attracting high-quality clients.”