Quicksilver

FORTY-FIVE

“How did you find us last night?” Mrs. Crofton asked.

They were gathered once again in the tiny parlor. The space was crowded. Virginia and Charlotte occupied the sofa. Mrs. Crofton sat on one of the dainty chairs. The four Sweetwater men ignored the spindly furniture. They lounged around the room like great cats or propped themselves gracefully against the walls and mantel.

“I discovered that a woman named Alcina Norgate was the sole beneficiary of Lady Hollister’s will,” Owen said. “But it appeared to be a dead end. So I went back to the start of the case and considered events from another angle.”

“What angle?” Nick asked.

Owen gripped the marble edge of the mantel. “It occurred to me that the killer was too sure of himself, too certain that his experiments with Ratford and Hackett were not likely to be disturbed. Later, after I did disturb them, he felt confident enough to place the curiosities on guard.”

“I understand,” Virginia said. “You wondered why he felt comfortable returning again and again to the scenes of the crimes.”

“It is not uncommon for a villain to do that,” Owen said. “But this particular killer seemed especially casual about it. There was one obvious reason why that might be true. If he owned the houses, he could make sure they remained empty as long as he wished.”

“Of course.” Enthusiasm leaped in Nick’s eyes. “He did not need to fear that a new occupant would move in.”

Owen looked at Virginia. “I paid a call on the agent who rented this house to you. It took some time, but I eventually discovered that Welch was your landlord. I also learned that he owned the two houses that had been rented by the glass-readers who were murdered.”

Tony grinned. “As my father would say, that is an example of the importance of basic detective work. No paranormal talent involved.”

“It wasn’t proof that Welch was a murderer,” Owen said. “But it did raise some interesting questions and suggested some answers.”

Virginia winced. “No wonder Mr. Welch was so helpful when I signed the contract with the Institute. He was delighted to find another glass-reader. He directed me to the agent who rented this house to me. I expect that is how the other two glass-readers came by their leased houses as well.”

“Yes.”

Charlotte looked at him, intrigued. “How did you discover Mr. Welch’s address?”

“That was not so easy,” Owen said. “The agent did not have it. He simply deposited the funds into a bank account. But I was fairly certain someone else did know where Welch lived.”

Mrs. Crofton’s brow wrinkled. “Who was that?”

Owen looked at her. “Gilmore Leybrook.”

Virginia raised her brows. “You called on Leybrook?”

Owen smiled his Sweetwater smile. “He was very helpful.”

Virginia groaned. “I doubt that. Please tell me that he is alive and in reasonably good condition.”

“Leybrook is recovering from a shock to the senses, but he is fine,” Owen said.

Virginia decided not to pursue that subject. She turned to Mrs. Crofton. “What did you learn from the Hollister housekeeper?”

“Mrs. Tapton was deep into her gin when I found her. She talked quite freely. Told me that Lady Hollister was mad but that Hollister himself was the one who terrified the staff. The only reason Mrs. Tapton stayed was out of loyalty to Lady Hollister. She had been with her since Lady Hollister was a girl in her teens. When Lady Hollister entered the mansion as a young bride, the housekeeper went with her.”

“Did the housekeeper and the rest of the staff know what was going on in the basement of the Hollister mansion?” Charlotte asked.

“No, I don’t think so,” Mrs. Crofton said. “I’m sure they sensed that something dreadful was happening inside that house, but they took the sensible approach.”

“In other words, they did not go looking for trouble,” Virginia said.

“They were paid well to look the other way,” Mrs. Crofton said. “And it is not as if the Hollister household was the only one in London that held secrets that the staff preferred not to know.”

“No,” Owen said. He caught Virginia’s eye. “Every house holds a few secrets.”

“Some secrets are decidedly more dreadful than others,” Virginia said briskly. She frowned in thought. “There is still one question that we have not answered. Who helped Lady Hollister stage the scene in the mirrored room under the mansion so that it would appear that I had murdered Hollister?”

Mrs. Crofton looked at her, surprised. “Isn’t it obvious? Who else could the lady of the house count on at such a time?”

“Of course,” Virginia said. “The housekeeper.”