The Diabolical Miss Hyde

by Viola Carr

  Lafayette just smiled gaily at them, nodding to the ladies. “Perhaps you’ve heard of the victim. William Beane?”

  Her pulse quickened. “Oh. Yes. Horrid fellow. I gave evidence at his trial.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Well informed, as usual,” she remarked coldly. “Did he die? What a shame. No doubt they’re weeping from here to Newgate.”

  “I also know you already examined his body.” He shrugged, an arrogant apology. “As you say, Doctor: well informed. What I don’t know is why you’d lie about it.”

  She flushed, wishing for Lizzie’s facility with bending the truth. “I did not lie, thank you very much. I merely withheld certain facts. You of all people should understand that distinction.”

  “I also understand when someone’s avoiding my question.”

  She sighed and countered with a half-truth. “If you must know, Beane’s murder is not Inspector Griffin’s case. I examined the cadaver without authorization, and there are men at the Bow Street Met and elsewhere who’d happily see the last of a ‘lady’ police doctor on any scrap of pretext they can unearth. Surely you understand if I don’t care to make a fuss.”

  “And you imagine me to be one of those men.”

  “On the contrary. I remained silent because I imagined you not caring about me or my career, one way or the other.”

  “Oh, please.” He grinned, dazzling. “Aren’t we past that? I’ve nothing but admiration for your skill.”

  “And nothing but disregard for my schedule, apparently. Really, Captain, I’m in something of a rush—”

  “Then I’ll keep it brief. I found burned aether at Beane’s murder scene. Scorch marks in the wall, same as the other two crimes.”

  Her breath sucked dry. Lizzie scraping in the dirt, fingers sliding over rough charcoal burns, the smell of thunder.

  Lizzie had cornered Billy Beane that fateful night, stiletto in hand, ready to do him all manner of harm . . . and the next thing she knew, she was back in the flash house, drinking gin, and Billy was dead. Time lost, memories vanished, events never recorded.

  They won’t remember what happens next. Marcellus’s words stained bright with fresh meaning. Anterograde amnesia.

  Billy’s murderer had drugged Lizzie. Just like the Chopper.

  But why would the Chopper choose Billy Beane?

  “How unexpected,” Eliza covered brightly. “Do you think it can mean . . .”

  “I’m not sure what else it could mean. Unless, of course, we’re missing the point, and the aether has nothing to do with anything.”

  “Zero correlation improbable,” mumbled Hipp, subdued. “Recompute.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Eliza smoothly. “Don’t tell me you believe in coincidence, Captain.”

  “I believe in material causes. Which rather tend to cancel out coincidence.”

  “Well, I hope to find out more about those causes. Tomorrow morning I’m attending a galvanic demonstration by Dr. Percival.” She named the eminent scientist whose class she and William Sinclair were planning to attend, and her cheeks warmed faintly. She’d forgotten about Will and his shy affections, if that was what they were. “Percival’s an expert on the latest electrical technologies. I’m hoping he might know what kind of machine could produce such a singular discharge.”

  “Excellent notion. Do let me know how you get on.” Lafayette’s smile tweaked. “Perhaps your Mr. Todd could enlighten us. He seems to know a lot about it.”

  “He is not my Mr. Todd,” Eliza retorted. But she squirmed. How much of that conversation had Lafayette overheard?

  “He certainly thinks he is, madam. You should pay more attention to the hearts you break.”

  “Sir, I really must protest—”

  “In any case,” continued Lafayette, as if he hadn’t changed the subject, “there are other similarities between Beane’s assailant and the Chopper.”

  She frowned. “But the B—but Beane wasn’t mutilated in the fashion of the other victims. The wounds I found on his body were entirely different.”

  “Odd, isn’t it?”

  “Nor was he drugged.”

  “Doubly odd. What could be going on?”

  She smiled wryly. “Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.”

  “No traps, Doctor. Merely an observation to which I’d like your response.”

  “Whatever do you mean, sir?”

  “Oh, nothing.” He tugged at his coat front, almost sheepish. “Just that I can find only one other connection between Irina Pavlova, Ophelia Maskelyne, and Billy Beane.”

  Hipp perked up. “New data. Information please.”

  Casually, she fiddled with her gloves to gain a few seconds, and thought desperately. The theater, Geordie the simpleton, severed limbs, stupefying drug . . . nothing that pointed to Billy. The other two victims were female, famous, talented, beautiful. Billy was none of those. And Billy alone had yielded the coarse golden hair, the scratch wounds.

  “I can’t see what that could be,” she said at last. “Other than the aether, nothing seems to—”

  “Actually, it’s you, Dr. Jekyll.” A dark glint of threat in his gaze. “Intriguing, wouldn’t you say?”

  A WHIFF OF CHERRIES

  A SICK YELLOW CLOUD BLOTTED OUT THE SUN.

  Shadows bubbled hot under her skin. She wanted to scream. Grab him, smack his annoyingly handsome face, tell him to stop being so damned obtuse and just tell me what you know, you god-rotted lying son of a dog . . .

  Eliza fidgeted, sweating. “Well, naturally. I work for the police. Murder victims do tend to crop up.”

  “Oh, I think it’s more than that.”

  “Kindly explain, sir.”

  “You went directly from the ballerina’s crime scene to the Old Bailey for Beane’s trial. Where he was found ‘not guilty,’ incidentally, despite your eminently learned and scientific evidence, when everyone within a mile of St. Giles’s steeple knows he was anything but.”

  And then, Lizzie had prowled to the Holy Land in search of Billy. Where someone had stepped in at the critical moment and killed Billy in her place.

  Eliza reeled, seasick. Murderers had been known to lurk at their own crime scenes, enjoying the fun. Maybe someone had followed her from the ballerina to Billy’s trial and thence home. Someone who’d seen Lizzie slip out of Eliza’s house, and followed her, too . . . and then . . .

  Confusion misted, treacherous as any yellow London fog. And then what? Stabbed Billy Beane in the throat? What on earth for? Who was this person who seemingly knew her secret, yet did nothing to blackmail or endanger her? What then was his purpose?

  No one wants a scene, whispered A.R. in her memory. If I have to protect you, I will . . .

  Oh, my. She fought rising panic. Deny. Obfuscate. Insist she knew nothing. If Lafayette dug too deep . . .

  “I fail to understand what Beane’s acquittal has to do with the Chopper murders,” she countered.

  “So do I. Abjectly. Infuriating, isn’t it?”

  Her mouth had already opened to deny whatever accusation he’d been about to make. Foolishly, she clamped it shut.

  “But these are the facts with which we must deal,” he added. “Our killer took time out of his busy and suddenly urgent limb-chopping schedule—two in two days, in case you hadn’t noticed—in order to smite an undrugged, unmutilated, unfemale, unfamous, and otherwise equally unrelated victim.”

  “I’m glad you admit it seems random and ridiculous,” she said tartly.

  “But for your involvement in all three cases.”

  “Astonishing. Truly, my nefarious exploits range far and wide. When you discover how I am an accessory to these murders, please be sure to let me know.”

  “Oh, I shall.” A bright smile. “Depend on it.”

  “And what of our charming Inspector Reeve’s chief suspect?” she added daringly. “Beane was Reeve’s informant, did you know that? He’s determined to catch Billy’s killer at any cost. Where does his famou
s ‘woman in red’ fit into my evil plans?”

  “I believe her to be innocent.”

  “Oh?” She feigned only polite interest. “How so?”

  “I questioned the lady. She convinced me she’s no murderess. At least, not Billy Beane’s.”

  Eliza’s palms prickled, relief and disquiet in equal measure. “Clever of her. How hard did she have to try? I didn’t pick you as a man to be baffled by a pretty smile.”

  “Didn’t you? How inattentive you’ve become. I find I’m routinely baffled by yours.”

  She laughed. “A word of advice, Captain: cross ‘pretending to be a fool’ off your list of interrogation techniques. It becomes you not at all.”

  Lafayette cocked one eyebrow. “Madam, I’ve just given you far more information than you gave me. If this is my interrogation technique, I ought to look for another job.”

  “Yes, perhaps you should,” she retorted. “Seeing as your current one is such a dangerous waste of time. Really, Captain, I must be going—”

  “What exactly did you discover on Beane’s cadaver?” he cut in coolly, abruptly all business. “I’m finding your reluctance to share disappointing. If you have information that tends in another direction, I strongly suggest you tell me now.”

  She halted, heedless of the milling crowd. At her feet, Hipp quivered, belligerent like an angry cat. Defiantly, she folded her arms. “Or what?”

  A steady blue stare. Not threatening. Just . . . calm. Unruffled. Certain. “You really don’t want that answer.”

  Icy wire spiked her veins. Had she truly imagined she could trust him? He’d hurl her in the dungeon in an instant if it suited his purposes.

  Her stomach boiled. Lafayette might seem intelligent and easy-going, but he was just a man in the end, using bullying and brute force to get what he wanted from those weaker than he.

  She’d known that all along. So why was she disappointed?

  “Claw marks.” Her voice was small, dry. What point in dissembling? He’d find out, one way or the other. “Billy was stabbed in the throat, you see. That was the cause of death. But I found claw marks, and hair fragments from an animal.”

  He stared. “I see,” he murmured at last. “What species of animal?”

  “Canine. I’ve no sample that precisely matches. But the animal was large. Perhaps a bear-baiting dog.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate your cooperation.”

  “I feel appreciated,” she said coldly. “Truly.”

  He ruffled his hair beneath his hat and sighed. “Look, you don’t understand. It’s a matter of some urgency for me—”

  “Oh, I understand, Captain Lafayette.” She yanked at her gloves, hard enough to make the leather snap. “I understand that you’ve done little but threaten me since we met. And I understand that you’re accusing me of involvement in some outrageous cover-up of murder, if not the murders themselves. The next time you need a crime scene investigator? Call someone else. Good day.” And she stalked away, fuming.

  He didn’t follow. She barely noticed. God’s blood, she’d been so stupid. She should never have trusted him for a moment . . . well, she hadn’t trusted him, had she? Her fists tightened. That was the most infuriating part. She hadn’t trusted him, yet she’d tolerated his presence anyway.

  What kind of fool was she?

  Should have let me kill him, whispered Lizzie.

  “Then why didn’t you,” snapped Eliza waspishly, “if you’re so clever?”

  Don’t give me that. You know why.

  Her cheeks flamed. “Don’t you dare put this onto me—”

  A crowd swarmed out of the Underground, knocking her almost flat. Hippocrates squawked and scuttled to keep up. She shoved with belligerent elbows towards the entrance. “Come along, Hipp.”

  A shoulder bumped her off balance. Heavy hands caught her, gripping too tight.

  “I say, let go—oof!” A hard object jabbed into her stomach, punching her breath away. Hippocrates screeched. Something black dropped over her head—a bag?—and she sucked in air to scream, but too late she recognized the smell. Cherry blossoms . . .

  And her senses blotted like wet wool, sinking her into warm, fevered darkness.

  THE CLEVEREST MAN IN ENGLAND

  THE WORLD TILTED AND SWAYED, LURCHING ELIZA from drugged insensibility. Thundering hooves, squeaking carriage brakes. It was still black as night. Her head ached, as if she’d indulged the night before. She fumbled for her face to tear the bag away. But two pairs of rough hands grabbed her arms, dragged her from the carriage, set her swaying on her feet.

  Blind, she stumbled in her captors’ grip. Where was she? Who had her? How long had she been traveling? She couldn’t remember. She clutched for her bag, but it was lost. Hippocrates was lost. Everything.

  Dread watered her muscles cold. She opened her mouth to yell, but only a garbled groan came out.

  Distant street noise filtered through. They dragged her struggling up stone steps and inside. A heavy door slammed. She was trapped.

  Her stomach knotted. Was this the Tower? Lafayette had turned her in at last. Damn him.

  Her teeth clenched, fury all the hotter for its impotence. Typical, that he’d walk away and leave the dirty work to someone else. Despite his brash façade, the man was a coward. She should have known he wouldn’t have the guts to face her.

  But her chest ached with bitterness. She’d thought he valued her skills. Respected her as an equal.

  How deplorably, stupidly female.

  Up another stair, her boots slapping on wooden boards. Hinges creaked. She was unceremoniously dumped in a soft upholstered chair. The bag was ripped away, and a door clicked shut.

  Candlelight stung her eyes, a fire’s warmth on her face. Clean coal-scented air, a hint of floor wax, the tang of fresh-brewed tea.

  She blinked, and the world reappeared. A man’s library, sparsely furnished, drapes covering tall twin windows. Desk in the corner, her sofa on a Turkish rug before the fire. All four walls covered in glass-fronted shelves stuffed with books. A tray of tea steamed on a small table. On the marble mantel, below a framed seventeenth-century portrait, a pearl-faced clock steadily ticked. A quarter past five. She’d been out for hours.

  Eliza stared, befuddled. An odd torture chamber, to be sure . . .

  “Oh, I’m not in the business of torture, Dr. Jekyll.”

  Her head jerked up. She hadn’t noticed him. Hadn’t heard him move. Yet there he lingered, in the mantel’s shadow.

  “Though I’ve servants who are,” he added, stepping into the light. “Perhaps you’ve met a few.”

  Slim, not especially tall, wearing the smart coat and gloves of a gentleman. Neither old nor youthful. Rather, ageless. Long hair, curling to his shoulders in the antiquated fashion, not gray but colorless, as if the pigment had drained away. His skin looked brittle and held a similar translucent cast.

  He studied her with timeless eyes the color of rain. Bottomless, like staring back into a ghostly past.

  Eliza smoothed her skirts, wary like prey. “Where am I, sir?”

  “The Tower.”

  Her pulse skipped. “Then this is—”

  “Of course.”

  “And you are . . . ?” Her gaze flicked back to the old picture above the fire. The man seemed familiar. He put her in mind of Finch’s Pharmacy, the dusty likenesses of the Royal’s long-dead heroes on the wall, Boyle and Halley and . . .

  Oh, my.

  That imperious gaze, cast aside from the viewer, as if he’d already noted everything interesting about you and moved on. The arrogant tilt of his mouth, his proud nose, the dark blue coat and pale, unfashionably long hair . . .

  “Come, madam, think it through,” said the Philosopher impatiently. “I don’t have all day. We’ve business to discuss.”

  Eliza’s heart fluttered, awestruck. To meet the great Sir Isaac himself, face-to-face . . . But impossibility thudded in her mind, obliterating all else. “You . . . you died more than a centur
y ago,” she stammered. “Everybody knows that. They held an enormous funeral, there’s a monument in Westminster Abbey . . .”

  “Yet here I stand. What a marvel.”

  “But . . . how?”

  “What are you, a schoolmistress? Don’t weary me with questions to which you know the answers.”

  At her baffled expression, he gave a sepulchral laugh. “Come, did you expect any less? I’ve injected poisons and jabbed needles into my eyes in my quest for truth. Upon whom should I have tested my aqua vitae, if not myself?”

  “You succeeded,” she said numbly. “You found the elixir of life. Where everyone else had failed for centuries. Did you transmute matter, too?”

  “Spare me your thick-headed nonsense.” He stalked before the fire, and the coals flared brighter, as if absorbing unseen energy. “I proved there is no God, madam. Life is no miracle, for it can be trapped in a bottle and absorbed at will. A little more perilous a question than turning lead into gold, wouldn’t you say? Now, shall we get on with business?”

  “But . . .” She stumbled over her words, struggling for coherence. “If you know that alchemy works, why persecute it? Why destroy the very thing that keeps you alive?”

  A nasty grin. “Oh, I’m not destroying it. I’m keeping it out of the hands of the mob. Science and magic are weapons. Look what happened in France when the rabble decided they knew best: a perfectly good revolution spoiled by buffoonery and superstitious bunkum. I can’t have just any fool on the street meddling with my dangerous toys. Who knows where it might lead?”

  “But the new science belongs to us all,” she protested. She wanted to be sick. She felt betrayed. Deceived. Lied to. “You can’t stop people from experimenting because you’re afraid of what they might find.”

  “But I already know what they’ll find. A clockwork heaven with no one winding the mechanism—to which I alone hold the key.” He caught her glance, and smiled. Properly, this time, and it made him look young again. “Oh, I’m not in the business of burning down churches, Doctor. At least, not without help. You should see some of the submissions we get at the Royal. Now that’s the stuff of revolution. There’s one called ‘On the Origin of Species’ that particularly suits my purposes. We’ll see some fun when the world hears of that.”