Текст книги "Quicksilver"

Автор книги: Amanda Quick

Соавторы: Amanda Quick
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FIVE

“ Ido not usually report to clients until the job is finished,” Owen Sweetwater said.

Caleb angled his chin in acknowledgment of the great favor that Sweetwater appeared to think he was granting to Jones & Jones. In the few months that he and Lucinda had been doing business at the agency, they had discovered that the only people more troublesome than the clients were the powerful and unpredictable talents the firm was obliged to hire in order to conduct the investigations.

“We appreciate that you are making an exception for us,” Caleb said.

His cousin Gabe, the Master of the Society, studied Sweetwater with a considering expression.

“You came highly recommended, Mr. Sweetwater, but please understand that this sort of business is new to us,” Gabe said.

The three of them were standing in an abandoned warehouse near the docks. Sweetwater had chosen the location for the meeting, just as he had selected the location the first time, when Caleb had contacted him about the possibility of employment. It had become clear immediately that when one engaged the services of the Sweetwater clan, one accepted the arrangements stipulated by the particular Sweetwater with whom one was dealing.

At the first meeting Caleb had been convinced that Owen Sweetwater was a hunter-talent of some sort but not the traditional variety. The psychical abilities of the average hunter tended to be of a more physical nature. Such talents were usually endowed with preternatural reflexes, speed, hearing and night vision. They hunted by detecting the psychical spoor of their prey.

Owen Sweetwater moved with a predatory ease and control that put one in mind of a hunter, but Caleb had grown up in a family that boasted a number of hunters sprinkled throughout the bloodline. He knew true hunters, and he was quite certain that whatever Sweetwater was, he was not a traditional hunter-talent.

“What we want to know,” Caleb said carefully, “is whether you have found any evidence that supports my belief that the two glass-readers were killed by paranormal means. If not, then this case is not J & J’s problem. I will give what information we have to an acquaintance at Scotland Yard. The police can take responsibility for finding the killer.”

“The way they took responsibility for the murders of an untold number of prostitutes in the past several years?”

Gabe frowned. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Tomorrow or the following day, you will read of the tragic death of Lord Hollister in the morning papers,” Owen said. “The official cause of his demise will likely be a heart attack or stroke. In reality, he died of a knife in the chest.”

Caleb raised his brows. “Your work?”

“I cannot take the credit. I suspect the wife. I found the body when I explored the basement beneath the mansion.”

“What the devil were you doing in Hollister’s basement?” Gabe asked.

“That is where my investigation led me,” Owen said a little too smoothly. “What the press will not be aware of is that Hollister preyed on young prostitutes for years. He lured them into his carriage and took them to the basement beneath his mansion, where he raped and murdered them. There is no telling how many he killed. While I was on the premises, I found another girl who was still alive. I took her to the charity house in Elm Street.”

“I have seen nothing in the papers about missing streetwalkers,” Caleb said.

“That is because the press rarely notices when girls go missing,” Owen said. “Prostitutes are forever vanishing from the streets. Sometimes they turn up in the river, sometimes they simply disappear. But unless the death is a particularly bloody one, the public has no interest. Hollister was careful to dispose of the bodies so that they did not draw attention.”

Gabe thought about that. “You say Hollister was a talent?”

“Yes, I’m sure of it, possibly a glass-reader.”

“That is why your investigation led you to his basement,” Caleb said, mentally assembling the pieces of the puzzle. “Was he the one who murdered the glass-readers?”

“No, but there is some connection between Hollister and the murders of the glass-readers,” Owen said. “My investigation is ongoing.”

“That does not tell us a great deal,” Gabe said without inflection.

“I can give you one or two other interesting facts. I came across a rather dangerous psychical weapon disguised as a clockwork curiosity in the Hollister mansion. There may be other such devices out there.”

Caleb groaned. “I had hoped that the crystal guns that gave us so much trouble in the course of a recent case were the end of our problems with paranormal weaponry.”

“Evidently not,” Owen said. “I can also tell you that the link between Hollister’s death and the deaths of the glass-readers runs through the Leybrook Institute.”

Irritation flashed through Caleb. “That damned Institute is rife with charlatans and frauds.”

“When you consider the matter closely,” Gabe said, “it is the ideal place for a true psychical killer to conceal himself.”

“A genuine talent hidden among the fakes.” Caleb sighed. “Very clever.”

“It’s called hiding in plain sight,” Owen said. “The monsters are very good at that.”

It seemed to Caleb that there was a new chill in the atmosphere. It was not coming from the river or the fog that shrouded the warehouse. It emanated from Owen Sweetwater’s aura. We are doing business witha very dangerous man,he thought.

“It seems you were right, Caleb,” Gabe said. “But then, you generally are when it comes to this sort of thing.”

Caleb did not respond. There was nothing to say. He was almost always right when it came to seeing patterns. He was especially skilled at noting the dark evidence that indicated crimes that had been committed by villains endowed with psychical talent. But no one was right one hundred percent of the time. Deep inside, he lived with the knowledge that someday he would miscalculate and innocents might die. It was the theme of his darkest dreams.

He frowned at Owen. “How do you intend to proceed?”

Owen shrugged, as if the question had an obvious answer.

“I will identify the killer and remove him,” he said. “I will then, of course, send you a bill for services rendered.”

Gabe leaned back against a large, empty wooden cask and folded his arms. “A simple plan.”

“I have always found that they work best,” Owen said. “Now, then, I am rather busy at the moment. If there is nothing else, I trust you will excuse me.”

He turned and walked away through the deep shadows at the back of the warehouse. In a moment he was gone.

Gabe watched the darkness where Sweetwater had vanished. “I do not think that he told us everything he knows.”

“You can place a wager on that assumption,” Caleb agreed.

“He’s one of us, though, isn’t he?”

“A hunter?” Caleb said. “Yes, I’m sure of it. But he is not like any hunter-talent I have ever met.”

“How do you think he hunts?”

“From what little I have learned about him, I suspect that he has the ability to discern what it is that compels the killer. Once he knows that, he can make some predictions.”

“Such as the possible identity of the killer’s next victim?”

“Yes.”

“What if he’s wrong?”

“Then I was wrong to employ him,” Caleb said. “If another innocent glass-reader dies, I will bear a good portion of the blame.”

“No,” Gabe said. “You took the only step you could take to try to stop the person who is murdering the glass-readers. And as the Master of the Society, I authorized the hiring of Sweetwater for this venture. It was, I believe, a very logical move. We are sending a man who hunts monsters out to hunt his natural prey.”

Caleb exhaled slowly. “What gives us the right to do such a thing?”

“Damned if I know,” Gabe said. “But if J & J doesn’t go after the psychical villains, who will? It is not as if the police are equipped to track down killers who are endowed with paranormal talents.”

“No.”

“I would remind you this is not an act of pure altruism on our parts,” Gabe said. “Our survival and the survival of those like us may well be at stake. Arcane has a great interest in protecting the public from the monsters.”

“I am aware of that.”

At the moment, the press and the public were fascinated by the paranormal. But if it became common knowledge that there were those who could use their psychical abilities to commit murder, the popular interest would transmute instantly into panic.

Gabe strode toward the door. “As long as I am Master, I will do everything in my power to ensure that we do not return to the days when those with even a scrap of paranormal talent were branded as witches and sorcerers. If that means occasionally hiring a psychical assassin, so be it.”

Caleb fell into step beside him. “You have certainly become a good deal more obsessed with protecting the members of the Society and future generations of talents since Venetia delivered your firstborn last month.”

Gabe opened the door and moved out into the fog-shrouded night. “It is astonishing how becoming a father focuses one’s priorities.”

SIX

Owen went up the steps of the modest town house in Garnet Lane, keenly aware of the sense of anticipation that had been whispering through him all morning. The prospect of seeing Virginia again energized him in ways that probably should have been deeply disturbing or at least mildly concerning. It was invariably a mistake to allow himself to give free rein to any strong emotion when he was on the hunt. The Sweetwaters were a notoriously passionate lot. A side effect of their talents, some said. But indulging in strong passions while hunting violated all of the family rules.

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 Intelligenceron 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.”

“Such as Lady Hollister?” he asked without inflection.

Virginia winced. “In retrospect, it would appear that she was not the best of clients.”

“Go on with your recollection of events.”

Virginia returned to the view from the study window. “Let me think. I recall being shown into the library. The room seemed cold and dark, although there was a fire on the hearth and the lamps were lit. Something about the energy in that house, I suppose. Very depressing. Lady Hollister was waiting for me together with her companion. Tea was served. I asked Lady Hollister to tell me why she had requested the reading.”

“Did she explain?”

“It was obvious almost immediately that Lady Hollister was not entirely sane. Her conversation was disjointed, and she became easily agitated. Her companion had to calm her at several points. But Lady Hollister was very clear about why she had summoned me.”

“What mirror did she want you to read?”

“The looking glass in her dead daughter’s bedroom.” A slight but unmistakable shudder shivered through Virginia. “I dread those sorts of readings. The children . . .”

“I understand.”

She glanced at him again. “Do you?”

“I have seen the taint of the monsters who prey on children. If you dread those readings, why do you do them?”

“I feel somehow compelled.” Virginia returned her attention to the window. “Sometimes, not always, I am able to provide a sense of finality to the bereaved parents. It is as if the reading closes a gate into the past and frees them to move forward into the future. And on rare occasions, I have been able to perceive clues that have led the police to the killer.”

“You take satisfaction from those readings? The ones that lead to justice for the victim?”

“Yes,” she said. “They comfort me in some way I cannot explain. But last night I was unable to give Lady Hollister what she wanted and needed. Instead, I suspect that I drove her deeper into madness.”

“What happened?”

“Lady Hollister told me that her daughter had died at the age of eleven. Officially it was declared an accident. The girl’s body was found at the foot of the staircase. When I was shown into the bedroom, it was clear that nothing had been changed in the room since the poor child’s death.”

“Where was the mirror?”

“On a small dressing table,” Virginia said. “It faced the bed. I knew that I did not want to look into it, but I felt I owed the truth to Lady Hollister.”

“What did you see?”

Virginia closed her eyes. “The girl was assaulted by someone she knew well. Someone who terrified her. She cried. That is probably why he strangled her. He wanted to silence her and used too much force. Afterward I suspect that he tossed her body down the stairs in an effort to feign an accident. But I know where she died.”

“In the bed.”

Virginia crushed the green velvet drapery in her tightly clenched fist. “Yes.”

“Hollister. She was raped and murdered by her own father.”

“I think so, yes.”

The familiar ice-and-fire energy of the hunt splashed through Owen’s veins. He suppressed it with an act of will. That particular monster was dead, he reminded himself. He needed to concentrate on the new prey.

“Did you tell Lady Hollister the truth?” he asked.

“I did not name Hollister as the killer. After all, I had no proof to offer. A woman in my position must be very careful with her words in a situation like that. The thing is, I do not see the afterimages of the murderers, only those of the dead. The visions tell me a great deal, but they do not provide all of the answers. It was possible that another close family member was the killer, an uncle or a grandfather, perhaps.”

“But you did tell Lady Hollister that the person who had murdered her daughter was someone the girl knew and feared.”

“Yes.”

“How did she respond?”

Virginia’s brows came together in a troubled frown. “I’m not entirely certain. That is where my memory of the night starts to blur. I think she may have left the room without speaking, but I cannot be positive. After that, everything is a blank until I woke up in that mirrored chamber.”

“You were drugged.”

“That is the only explanation,” Virginia agreed. “But by whom? Lady Hollister? Why would she do that?”

“You told her a truth she did not want to hear. You said yourself she was clearly unbalanced.”

“We know Hollister used chloroform on Becky so it may have been on the premises, but I’m sure I would have recalled the smell or at least a struggle.”

“I’m told one does not always remember the odor, but I think in this case, it’s more likely that the drug was in the tea.”

“In which case Lady Hollister intended to drug me even before she knew what I would see in the looking glass,” Virginia said. “But again, why?”

“We do not yet have the answers, but we will get them.”

Virginia turned away from the window. “ ‘We,’Mr. Sweetwater?”

“I cannot conduct this hunt—” He stopped and cleared his throat. “I mean this investigation, without your assistance.”

She went back to her desk and sat down. “You seem very eager to help me, Mr. Sweetwater. I suspect that is because you believe that I am the key to solving the case for your client.”

“You are a very suspicious woman, Miss Dean. Is it not barely possible that my client wishes to protect you and other potential victims of the glass-reader killer?”

“It is highly unlikely that Arcane has any interest in protecting practitioners like myself.”

“Well, as it happens, I am the one requesting your assistance, not J & J. You will be dealing with me, not Arcane.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Oh, yes,” he said very softly. “A vast difference. I am no more a member of Arcane than you are. As I told you, J & J is a client.”

“No offense, sir, but I trust you will understand that I know less about you than I know about Arcane or J & J.”

He smiled. “By the time this affair is concluded, we will know each other very well, Miss Dean. Meanwhile, I give you my word that I am not going to ruin your career, nor will I allow J & J to do so.”

“Hmm.”

“You do not believe me?”

“I’m not sure what to believe,” she said. “There is the matter of your reputation. Only last week you exposed another medium in the press.”

“I admit that I did expose a couple of mediums in order to establish my credentials as a legitimate researcher,” he said. “I can see that it was not the wisest course of action, because now you do not trust me. If it matters, I can tell you that I chose the two mediums because practitioners who claim to speak to the dead annoy me far more than those who pretend to levitate or read minds.”

“Why is that?”

“The levitators and mind readers are harmless entertainers, for the most part. They are guilty only of parlor tricks. But the mediums practice a cruel deception.”

She drummed the fingers of one hand on the desk. “As it happens, I agree with you. Nevertheless, that does not give you the right to interfere in the business affairs of others who are merely trying to make an honest living. Well, mostly honest.”

“Believe me, exposing practitioners is not my goal in this affair. I posed as a researcher who investigates psychical phenomena in order to provide myself with a cover that I could use to enter your world.”

“I see.”

“Your colleagues affiliated with the Leybrook Institute may not trust me, but by now they are convinced that I am a researcher.”

“It is almost impossible to prove the existence of psychical talent. There are no instruments that can measure or record that kind of energy. I doubt if I convinced any of your associates who were present at the Pomeroy reading.”

“They were not my associates. And I am aware that you feel you were tricked into doing that reading for Lady Pomeroy and those Arcane investigators.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Did you arrange for that test?”

“No, Miss Dean. Believe it or not, what I intended that night was a proper introduction. I asked Lady Pomeroy to request a reading so that I could meet you. I knew that she had always had some questions about her husband’s death. I swear to you that I did not know that she intended to invite several researchers from the Society to watch you at work.”

She studied him for a long time with her haunting eyes.

“I believe you,” she said at last.

It was as if a mountain had been lifted off his shoulders.

“Thank you,” he said.

“I almost walked out that evening without doing the reading,” Virginia said. “I have a strict rule when it comes to dealing with those who want to conduct research on me. I always refuse to cooperate in any sort of test. But on a whim, I decided to go through with that reading.”

“Because of Lady Pomeroy?”

“I could tell that she truly did have questions about Lord Pomeroy’s death. But that was not the reason I stayed to read the mirror.”

“You did the reading because of me, didn’t you?”

“I think so, yes.”

“Why?”

“I sensed that you were a man of considerable talent,” Virginia said. “I thought, perhaps, that if you witnessed me at work you might comprehend that my talent was real, also. I suppose it was a challenge of some kind.”

“So you broke your own rule that day. Because of me.”

She smiled coolly. “In my experience, breaking the rules that I have established for myself is almost always a mistake.”

“I have had the same experience.”

“Have you ever broken your own rules, Mr. Sweetwater?”

“It seems I am shattering a number of them in this case.”

An odd silence descended. The housekeeper’s footsteps sounded in the hall. Mrs. Crofton opened the door and brought in the tea tray. She looked at Virginia.

“Shall I pour, madam?”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Crofton,” Virginia said.

Mrs. Crofton poured two cups of tea and handed them out. She left the room, unobtrusively closing the door. It seemed to Owen that the study was suddenly even smaller and more intimate. He opened his senses a little, allowing himself to savor the sensation of being so close to Virginia.

“Will you assist me, Miss Dean?” he asked after a while.

“Someone has murdered two glass-readers in the past two months,” she said. “Yesterday I was lured to the scene of a rather spectacular murder that involved a mirrored room. And then there is that clockwork curiosity that we encountered in the tunnels beneath the Hollister mansion. All in all, there is simply no way to explain any of those events by invoking coincidence. Yes, Mr. Sweetwater, I will assist you in your investigation.”

“I am very pleased to hear that.”

“Before we begin, I trust you will understand when I tell you that I have some concerns for my reputation in this affair.”

Out of nowhere, cold outrage flashed through him. “I assure you, Miss Dean, the men of my family may be hunters, but we consider ourselves gentlemen. I have no intention of harming your good name.”

She blinked in surprise, and then smiled. “Thank you for that assurance, but it is unnecessary. It is not my personal reputation that matters to me. At my advanced age and given the nature of my career, I need no longer worry about that sort of thing.”

“What the devil are you talking about? You are hardly elderly.”

“I am twenty-six, sir. That puts me well and truly on the shelf, as I’m sure you are aware. I will not be looking to contract a respectable marriage. It is my professional reputation among my colleagues that concerns me.”

He frowned. “I don’t see the problem.”

“Really, sir, you are being quite dense. Let me spell it out for you.”

People had called him a great many things, but dense was not among the words that were typically used to describe him.

“Please do,” he said.

“It is imperative that none of my associates conclude that I am assisting you to expose other practitioners. That is the sort of rumor that would ruin me.”

“Of course.” He really had been quite dense, he thought. “I had not considered that aspect of the matter.”

“It must be very clear to one and all that I am allowing you to study and observe my work only because I am convinced I can prove to you that I really do possess some talent.”

“Yes, Miss Dean. That was my plan.”

“If there is any gossip to the effect that I am betraying my colleagues, I will soon lose all of my friends and the connections I require to conduct business in my world.”

“You have made your point, Miss Dean. I will do everything in my power to make certain that your colleagues believe that I am devoting all of my attentions to you and you alone.”

“Excellent.” She sat back in her chair. “In that case, let us discuss your plans. I can advise you whether or not they are viable. I expect you will have to make some modifications. After all, we will be operating in my world, not yours, sir. I am the expert.”

He wondered just when he had lost control of the discussion. If he was not extremely careful, Virginia Dean would take charge of the entire investigation, and that would put her in even more danger than she was in already.

An oddly disturbing shock of awareness whispered through him. He had embarked upon the investigation because his talent had compelled him to accept the case from J & J. There was a monster preying on the paranormal practitioners of London, and he had been called to the hunt. It was what the Sweetwaters did. It was in the blood.