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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.

FOUR
     
    T he 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?”
    “You know perfectly well why I was forced to call on you at this ungodly hour of the morning. It is the only time I can hope to find you at home. You have been avoiding me, Owen.”
    “Not at all. I have been busy of late. New client, you know.”
    “I am aware that the family has taken on Arcane as a client. I’m not certain that is a wise move, but we shall