“You were right,” she said. “It does appear to be vacant.”
There was a muted clang of iron on iron as Owen closed the gate.
“I made a few inquiries. I learned that Lady Hollister dismissed the staff very early on the morning after we found Hollister’s body,” he said. “A discreet undertaker took away the body. No one has seen Lady Hollister since that day.”
“Where did she go?”
“No one seems to know. Hollister had a country house in the north. She may have gone there by train.”
“One can hardly blame her for wanting to escape this dreadful place.”
They made their way into the old drying shed. Nothing inside had been disturbed, as far as Virginia could tell. She waited while Owen turned up the lantern. When the yellow light flared they started down the stone steps into the ancient abbey ruins beneath the mansion. She sensed Owen heightening his talent.
“Do you perceive anything?” she asked.
“Nothing to indicate fresh violence,” he said. “But the old energy is still here. He brought the girls in through this passageway and removed the bodies the same way. That kind of thing soaks into the very walls.”
“Just as it does into mirrors.”
“I suspect that there is a second entrance inside the house.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Convenience, if nothing else.”
They went past a familiar intersection.
“That is the corridor where we found the carriage,” Virginia said. “The one that leads to the cell where Becky was held prisoner.”
“Yes. We are not far from the mirrored chamber.”
They rounded another corner. The lantern light splashed down a short stone passage. There was a door midway along the hall. It was closed.
Owen stopped. “That is the door to the mirrored room.”
She halted beside him. They were standing so close together in the narrow confines of the stone passage that the hem of her cloak brushed against his leg.
“This corridor looks just like all the others,” she said. “How did you find me the other night?”
“The place reeks of violent energy. That room is the focal point.” Owen studied the closed door. “The other night when I came down here I feared that I would be too late.”
She knew from the flat, cold way he spoke that if he had found her body in the mirrored chamber, her name would have been added to his personal list of those he had failed.
“But you weren’t too late,” she said gently.
He did not respond to that. He went toward the door, flattened his back against the ancient wall next to it and motioned for her to do the same.
“In the event we encounter another clockwork guard,” he explained. “The stone is our best protection.”
He reached out with one gloved hand and opened the door. It was not locked. The heavy iron-and-wood door swung inward slowly. The interior of the room was drenched in darkness. Virginia listened closely. She knew that Owen was doing the same. There was no clank and thump of mechanical claws.
Owen pushed the door wider and moved into the opening. He held the lantern aloft.
“Empty,” he said. “No clockwork devices. But someone has recently redecorated.”
Virginia looked past him. The bed still stood in the center of the chamber, but it was neatly made up with pristine, crisply ironed linens and a pretty quilt patterned with pink roses. There was no sign of the bloodstained sheets.
“I can understand that the person who removed the body would have taken the bloody sheets,” she said. “The killer did not want to leave any evidence of the crime. But why take the time to remake the bed?”
“If whoever stabbed Hollister had no practical means of getting the bed out of this room,” Owen said, “he or she might have remade it in an attempt to conceal the bloodstained mattress in the event that someone else discovered this chamber.”
Virginia studied the bed. “No, I don’t think that was the motivation. That bed was made up with great care and the highest-quality linens. The quilt is beautiful and expensive.”
“Hollister was a wealthy man,” Owen reminded her. “All the linens in the household are no doubt costly.”
“No, not all,” she said. “The servants would have had separate, much less expensive bedding. Whoever changed the sheets on this bed used the finest available, the ones that would have been reserved for the master and mistress of the household. In fact, that quilt looks feminine. I suspect it was intended for Lady Hollister’s bed.”
“An interesting observation,” Owen said. He looked intrigued. “It fits with my suspicion that Hollister was murdered by his wife.”
“But she is at least half mad,” Virginia said.
“Only a madwoman would kill her monstrous husband and then use her own fine linens to make up the deathbed.”
Virginia shuddered. “Yes.”
Owen walked into the center of the room. Virginia followed, her talent still lowered in an effort to suppress her intuitive reaction to the terrible energy in the chamber. All of her senses were shrieking at her to run. She knew that Owen was aware of the same ghastly currents.
She looked around uneasily. The flaring light of the lantern reflected endlessly off the mirrors, creating walls of cold flames that extended into an infinite darkness.
“It’s as if we were standing in some anteroom of hell,” she said.
“Yes.” Owen turned his attention away from the bed long enough to survey the walls of mirrors. “Which raises the obvious question: Why did Hollister create a room like this? If he was a glasslight-talent, surely he would have found the effects of the reflections disorienting and disturbing.”
She met his eyes in the mirrors. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but I’m afraid that there are some talents with an affinity for mirrors who would find this room thrilling to the senses. I suspect Hollister was one of them.”
He raised his brows. “Something to do with the stimulating effects of the mirrors, do you mean?”
“Yes.” She walked slowly around the room, heightening her senses very cautiously. “Mirrors reflect energy from across the spectrum. Those of us who work glasslight are especially sensitive to that reflected energy. Indeed, one of the difficulties in reading the afterimages in looking glasses is dealing with the reflections. When mirrors are arranged as they are in this chamber, to create an infinity of reflections, the effects can be quite . . . dramatic.”
“When it comes to the laws of para-physics, glass is always unpredictable.”
“Trust me, there is no need to remind me of that fact. I have been dealing with glasslight since I turned thirteen.”
“Yes, of course. My apologies for the lecture. What do you mean when you say that the effects are dramatic?”
She looked at the endlessly repeating scene in the mirrors. “Some glasslight-talents might find that their powers were enhanced by the reflected energy in this chamber.”
The dangerous heat in Owen’s eyes burned hotter. “Permanently enhanced?”
“No,” she said. “The effects would last only while one was inside the mirrored space. But the sensation could be quite exhilarating, I suppose, at least for some talents. The effects would act like a powerful drug on the senses. And if one were inclined toward some dark obsession, as Hollister obviously was . . .” She let the sentence fade.
Owen looked thoughtful. “In other words, this chamber would have acted like an intoxicating elixir on Hollister’s senses while he committed murder.”
“Yes. Once the afterimages were burned into the mirrors, he could come down here to experience them again and again before they began to fade. You told me that some killers return to the scenes of their crimes to savor the energy that is left in the vicinity of the murders. I think the effects of the mirrors in this room would be similar for a murderer who was also a glasslight-talent.”
“And when the images did start to dim?”
She swallowed hard. “He was no doubt driven to kill again. Like any drug, he would crave more and more of the stimulation he got from the mirrors.”