The Diabolical Miss Hyde

by Viola Carr

  Eliza leaned closer, fascinated. The dead body—a young man’s—was dressed modestly in a shirt and trousers. Dozens of fine wires sprouted from all over his clothing, connected to the battery machine with copper clips. The assistant fussed around, arranging the wires and checking the distance between with a pair of calipers.

  “In this new experiment,” announced Percival, as he shrugged his coat off and rolled up his shirtsleeves one by one, “we go further. By applying the electrical fluid in carefully controlled quantities to discrete parts of the form—to individual muscles, no less, requiring a precise anatomical map—we find we can animate the mechanical structure of the human body ever more accurately.” He hung his coat over a chair, and placed his hat on a table. “As you can imagine, this is a very dangerous procedure. We must ensure the machine is calibrated correctly. Miss Morton, are we prepared?”

  Miss Morton—the assistant—stepped away from the cadaver, skirts swishing. She was about Eliza’s age, her dark hair pulled tightly at the nape of her neck. “You may proceed, sir.”

  “Observe, ladies and gentlemen.” Percival pulled a large lever on the machine, and bang! it slotted into place.

  Sparks flashed. Eliza’s hair stood on end, the air zinging with electrical potential. The wires attached to the cadaver quivered and crackled with tiny blue lightning. The body jerked, every muscle rigid, its face pulled into an ugly rictus.

  And then, it came alive.

  Jerkily, like a grotesque marionette, the cadaver sat up. It raised its arms, pointing straight ahead. Its hands folded and unfolded. One knee rose, then the other. And, woodenly, it turned and stood.

  “Oh, my,” murmured Eliza, entranced. Temple whistled under his breath. Will’s fingers gripped hers, and she squeezed his hand back.

  A murmur raced around the crowd. One woman screamed and abruptly exited the amphitheater.

  “Keep back, ladies and gentlemen.” Miss Morton ushered the more enthusiastic spectators back to their seats.

  Percival manipulated his machine, and awkwardly, the corpse plodded forward. One step, another. Its bare feet slapped the floor. Its arms levered back and forth, a parody of a living thing, and a horrid wheeze—erk, erk, erk—emanated from its grinning mouth. When it reached the chair, it shuffled around and sat, carefully, the crackling wires sprouting from its front. The chair creaked under its weight.

  Eliza stared, her chest tight. Truly amazing. The thing hadn’t fallen or slumped into the chair. It had seated itself precisely, all movements controlled.

  Beside the dead man, Percival’s brushed top hat sat on the table. The cadaver reached for it, grinning, its dead eyes pearlescent. Its fingers folded around the brim without a single fumble, and it set the hat on its head.

  The crowd applauded raucously.

  Percival raised his hand for quiet. “As you see, the muscle contractions are precisely measured. The animated flesh, as we call it, can execute complex movements, even perform simple tasks such as you see, while under my control. However”—he glanced swiftly around the amphitheater, as if to forestall accusations of sorcery—“it is not living. Observe what happens when I cease the flow of electrical fluid.”

  He grabbed the big lever again and slammed it in the opposite direction.

  Snap! The quivering wires fell limp, and the body tumbled to the floor. Flaccid. Dead. Just a lump of flesh and wires.

  “Astounding,” murmured Eliza. Amid more applause, Dr. Percival and Miss Morton hoisted the cadaver back onto the table. Limbs flopped, and the head lolled to one side, the face once more at peace.

  She realized she was still holding Will’s hand, and it seemed he did, too, because he let go and cleared his throat. But his face shone. “That was brilliant,” he announced. “Truly, there are no limits to what we can achieve.”

  “Brilliant,” agreed Temple, that mischievous grin playing. “But no limits? Tosh. The fellow’s dead, isn’t he? Can’t bring him back to life with a spark up his arse.”

  Eliza smothered a grin. “Delicately put, Mr. Temple.”

  “Oh.” He had the grace to blush. “Forgive me, Dr. Jekyll. I am but a crude creature of the street.”

  “I doubt that more every time we meet. But I’ve heard the word before.”

  “Is that what it’s labeled in your anatomy texts?” Temple’s eyes twinkled. “But my point remains. Death is death, and it’s final. You’ve seen enough corpses to know that.”

  “Oh, use your imagination, Matt,” said Will gaily. “Just because we can’t do something now doesn’t mean we never shall. Progress is inevitable, if we but seek to better ourselves. Have we not conquered pain? The scientists of our future might yet conquer death.”

  An image flitted through her mind of the ageless Philosopher, a hundred years dead yet calmly drinking tea in his drawing room and selecting just the right blood to flow in his gutters, and a sense of dumb wrongness tingled her spine. Conquer death, indeed—but at what cost?

  “Hush, Will,” she whispered. “Someone will hear you.”

  “You mean your red-coated shadow?” suggested Temple slyly.

  Her thoughts scattered like marbles. Coincidental choice of words? She recalled her inkling that Temple was following her. “Who?”

  “You know.” Temple glanced at Will. “Your latest admirer. Captain Fancy Royal Society. Where is he this morning? Or did you brush him off already, now that you’ve got what you want?”

  And what was that supposed to mean?

  But she knew. Horrid worms crawled under her skin, and the shining glass walls glared, accusing. God, she wanted to disappear. Surely, everyone was staring . . .

  Will flushed. “Come, Matt, don’t be impertinent.”

  Carefully, she smiled, certain her face was as red as Will’s. But inside, she boiled. “I’ve no idea where the captain is. I’m not his keeper. Perhaps he’s at home, reading about himself in Slaughter at the Egyptian.”

  “Oh, I hope so,” murmured Temple. “I wrote nice things about him. Such a multi-faceted character.”

  Her skin prickled. Was he threatening her? What did he want in return for his silence? Or did he just enjoy watching her squirm? Wouldn’t be the first time he’d fished for information by pretending to know more than he did.

  Abruptly, she tired of the game. “Pleasant as this is, gentlemen, I have business with Dr. Percival. Thank you, Will, for a most interesting morning. Do excuse me.”

  She hopped down the steps, skirts whisking about her ankles. The crowd was dispersing, and the scientist and his assistant were coiling up the nest of wires and putting the machine to bed.

  “Dr. Percival,” she called. “I’m Dr. Eliza Jekyll, it’s so interesting to meet you.” She grabbed the old man’s hand and shook it, pretending not to notice he was taken aback. “That was a most absorbing demonstration. I’ve never seen its like.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” Percival studied her with pale, intelligent eyes. “Any relation to the late Dr. Henry Jekyll, perchance?”

  She hadn’t expected the question. “He was my father. Did you know him?”

  “A little. A team of his colleagues were doing work on electrical phenomena.” Percival shrugged into his coat. “I attended some lectures Henry gave at Barts one summer. Most interesting. Your father was an excellent scientist. Quite the visionary. I was sorry to hear of his passing.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured, because it seemed appropriate, and because suddenly her heart stung afresh with the loss. “Dr. Percival, may I avail myself of your expertise?”

  “Certainly . . .” Bang! A starburst of sparks caught his attention. “Clara, make sure you isolate those two main lines properly.”

  Miss Morton toggled some switches and arched dark brows.

  “Better,” agreed Percival. “Now, Doctor, what can I do for you?”

  Eliza produced the sample tube from her pocket. “What kind of machine could produce an aetheric discharge like this? I believe the reaction makes a sound similar to an ar
c-pistol.”

  He shook the tube, dislodging the clumped black powder. “How much does this weigh?”

  “This sample? Half an ounce.”

  “And the purity?”

  “Eighty-seven percent.” She’d tested it. It was high. Whatever the machine was, it consumed its fuel very efficiently.

  “Something with a voltage gap like so.” He held his thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart, and handed the sample back to her. “As you say, an arc-pistol, or perhaps a large immobilizer. Even a malfunctioning electric valet. It could be many things. Why do you want to know?”

  “And what if there were twelve ounces?”

  Percival’s expression blanked. A muscle in his cheek twitched. “I’m sure I can’t help you,” he said coldly. He retrieved his hat from the floor, where it had fallen from the cadaver, and bowed crisply. “Good day, madam.”

  “Dr. Percival . . .” Her voice trailed off as he marched away, and she sighed. “What did I say?”

  “Are you with the Royal?”

  Eliza turned. “I’m sorry?”

  Clara Morton busily coiled wire and didn’t look up. “If you’re accusing him of unorthodox practices, then why don’t you just say so?” she said brusquely. “We’ve answered your questions many times already. We don’t take kindly to interference around here.”

  Eliza laughed. “I assure you, Miss Morton, nothing could be further from my purpose. Did you help build this wonderful machine?”

  “What if I did?” Clara was a serious-looking woman, whom some might call plain. Her skin was unfashionably healthy instead of pale, her nose proud instead of buttonish, her cheeks narrow instead of daintily curved. Her dress looked coarse and well-worn, something a girl in service might wear.

  But Clara’s dark eyes were sharp, missing nothing. “Women can be scientists too, you know,” she added coldly. “We aren’t all hysterical damsels in distress.”

  Memory scratched with tiny claws. Had they met before? “I realize that,” explained Eliza. “I’m a physician myself. Your demonstration was simply amazing. I wanted to ask—”

  “Well, you can’t,” snapped Clara, whipping the wires tightly. “Think you can win him over with your feminine charms? Use your pretty face to get whatever you want? How many times must you people be told? He doesn’t wish to respond to your ridiculous accusations. If you don’t like it, come back with one of your fancy Royal warrants.”

  Under the Royal’s suspicion already, then. But for what? “You misunderstand,” said Eliza patiently. “I’m not a Royal agent. I’m a police physician. My name’s Eliza. Eliza Jekyll.” She held out her hand.

  Clara just regarded her rudely. “Police, are you? Why don’t you go catch some killers, then?”

  Eliza blinked, taken aback. “That’s why I’m here. I found this aetheric residue at a crime scene. Please, I won’t take up much of your time. I just wish to—”

  “We can’t help you. Kindly leave.” Clara stared her down.

  Eliza stared back, hurt. But Clara didn’t relent, and finally, Eliza shook her head and walked away.

  Will Sinclair waited at the amphitheater’s entrance. He winced at her expression. “Wouldn’t answer your questions, eh?”

  “No,” she admitted as they walked away side by side, along the gravel path back into the garden. She looked for Temple, but he was nowhere in sight. “But who says I was asking questions?”

  “You’re always asking questions. It’s one of the reasons I like you.”

  “Only one?” she teased, and immediately wished she hadn’t.

  “Shall I make a list?” He grinned. “Don’t worry, I shan’t. Your humble quest for self-improvement is quite safe with me.”

  “What a relief.” She watched a pair of butterflies, tumbling and fluttering in the sun, their wings brushing together in an intricate dance. “I was seeking information for a murder case,” she admitted, frustrated. “Electrical apparatus might have been involved. How rude some scientists are when invited to share. I don’t understand it at all.”

  “You know,” Will ventured after a moment, “if you’re interested in electrical machines, you might . . .”

  “Yes?”

  He fidgeted. “Perhaps I shouldn’t say. It’s really none of my business.”

  “William,” she warned.

  “Well, it’s only that Mr. Fairfax is experimenting with electroshock, as you know.” He gazed airily around the garden, as if the matter were of no consequence.

  “And?”

  “And if some of his research was . . . not quite orthodox? Not that I’d know anything about that, of course. I’m merely a humble student. Quite beyond my feeble understanding.”

  “Of course,” she murmured. “These things can be so confusing.”

  Will plucked a leaf from an overhanging branch and inhaled its perfume. “The asylum has quite a library,” he remarked idly. “Why, a madhouse could be a good place to hide documents you don’t want found, don’t you think? Or so I’ve heard.”

  “Have you, indeed?”

  They reached the entrance, and Will held the door for her. Outside, the park was busier now, couples strolling to and fro, children frolicking on the lawns under their nursemaids’ watchful eyes. A swirling breeze rustled between the tall trees, and clouds on the horizon threatened rain.

  “Well, I must to work.” Will eyed the rain clouds with a long-suffering sigh. “Lunatics in bad weather sleep for no man. I imagine I’ll be there until quite late this evening. Perhaps I’ll see you, next time you happen to visit Bethlem. You never know what you might find.” And he made her a little bow and was off.

  She watched him go, unsettled. This aetheric discharge was a vital clue to the murderer’s identity. If Fairfax’s library contained books that could unravel the mystery, she had to see them. Even if it meant leaving her uncomfortably in Will’s debt. And besides, what if . . .

  She hesitated, but the thought was too compelling, too bittersweet.

  Too many of Mr. Todd’s idle remarks had proved accurate. What if his bizarre insights really could help her trap this murderer?

  She shivered, flame and frost. Well, what if he could? Asking why was pointless. The real question was: would he help?

  And what would he take in return?

  She trailed back towards the railway station, feeling strangely alone without Hippocrates scuttling at her ankles. The pale sunshine barely warmed her, and she huddled in her cape against the breeze. Ducks quacked on the pond’s edge, and beside the brick-edged path, a little golden-haired boy in a blue-and-white sailor suit rolled in the grass, giggling. A young governess in an unadorned gray gown called to him, demanding he put on his coat at once . . .

  Bells chimed in Eliza’s mind, resolving into a perfect chord.

  A drab gray dress, as a servant girl might wear. A governess, she’d thought, or a lady’s maid.

  Clara Morton had been among the crowd at the scene of Ophelia Maskelyne’s murder. The scene from which, in full public view, Eliza had collected the very aether sample she’d just tried to show Clara.

  But Clara pretended she’d never seen Eliza before. Why don’t you catch some killers? she’d snapped. Hostile. As if she were dismissive of the failure. Or . . . gloating?

  Eliza shook her head, trying to sort her thoughts clear, but they scattered like blown leaves. Percival’s denials, Temple’s sly remarks, Will and his forbidden books. And now Clara Morton.

  This morning, it seemed, everyone had something to hide.

  CURA TE IPSUM

  ELIZA HURRIED UP THE STEPS INTO BETHLEM ASYLUM in the dark, with a cold blustery breeze tugging wisps of her hair loose. Heavy clouds purpled the sky, blotting out the moon. It had rained, and her skirts were splashed with mud from a puddle she’d stepped in when she’d jumped off the omnibus.

  Her wet boots did nothing to warm her numb feet, and she stumbled on the stone steps as she climbed to the first level. Fairfax’s corridor was dark and silent. No nurse
s walked the halls. Only the groans of lunatics kept her company.

  But at the top, a male keeper in a wire mask grunted at her. A large man, brutal arms stretching his shirtsleeves. “A raw night, Doctor. They’re up and about. What’s your business?”

  “I must see William Sinclair, up in the solitary cells. He telegraphed earlier, you see. I’m afraid it’s an emergency.” She clutched her bag to her hip—a spare bag, which she didn’t like nearly as much as the original—as if it contained something important. In fact, it held only a notebook and pencil, plus a few basic medical supplies. She’d gone to Mr. Finch’s to collect Hippocrates, and the little fellow was so excited, he nearly popped a spring, but she’d left him at home for this visit. Even the placid lunatics made him squeal.

  She grinned weakly at the keeper, wishing for Lizzie’s courage. But Lizzie slept still, the smug slumber of a well-fed cat.

  Down the corridor, frightful wails echoed. The keeper turned to lumber away. “Sinclair? I’ll fetch him.”

  “I think not,” said Eliza quickly. “He’s the only one down there tonight, and this man I must see is very ill. Will can’t leave him unattended.”

  The keeper scrubbed at his cropped hair. A bug scuttled out. “Aye. But you’re not going unescorted. This place is a frigging zoo tonight.”

  She wished he hadn’t mentioned the word zoo. He led the way to the female ward, unlocked the iron-barred door, and ushered her through, gripping his electric whip in one enormous hand.

  The madwomen danced and howled, a shabby circus act. One banged her head against the wall, leaving a splash of blood. The rain-soaked air zinged, heavy with anticipation, and the lunatics drank it in, feeding on its energy. An old woman lay on the ground and screamed, over and over, pausing only for breath. One girl tried to climb the walls, tearing her nails on the rough bricks. Every time she fell, she moaned and sobbed, reaching bloody fingers for the high window.

  Eliza and her escort strode through, unhurried. It was best not to aggravate the patients with any sudden movements. Annie the pig girl rooted in a pile of dirty straw and swatted at another woman who snatched a handful of stalks and stuffed them into her mouth. A girl with bedraggled hair grabbed Eliza’s arm and hissed something unintelligible in her ear.