The Diabolical Miss Hyde

by Viola Carr

  “Whatever you say,” agreed Mrs. Poole happily. “If the good captain comes by again, I’ll give him your best.”

  “You do that.” Wearily, she climbed to her bedroom and stoked the dying fire.

  She peeled off her damp clothes, heaving a sigh as she unhooked her corset. Wet hair snaked on her shoulders. She pulled on her nightdress and turned to hang her gown before the fire to dry.

  The closet door—Eliza’s closet—hung open an inch or two, and a hint of scarlet cloth peeked out.

  She’d dressed in a hurry this morning to make the Crystal Palace train and had tossed Lizzie’s clothes in the bottom of the closet, with no time to open the cabinet and hang them properly. Fine. She’d put them away in the morning.

  She bent over to tuck the cloth out of sight. Lizzie’s corset was thrown in on top, the steel hooks gleaming—and as she closed the closet door, she caught a glimpse of fine gold.

  Caught in the curl of the topmost hook was a single golden-brown hair.

  Breathless, she plucked the hair out between finger and thumb. Firelight licked it with a warm yet sinister gleam. It was about four inches long, not a hint of wave.

  Captain Lafayette’s hair was curly. Longish, true, but not that long. This was the hair of a large animal.

  A wolf’s hair.

  She snatched up her candle and hurried downstairs to her study.

  The sample sat innocently in its glass tube on her desk. She popped the cork, tweezed out the contents. Laid the two strands side by side on the blotter.

  The hair from Billy’s corpse, short and coarse, uniformly yellowish along its length. And the one from Lizzie’s corset, long and fine, brown at the root, golden at the tip.

  She didn’t need a microscope to see they weren’t the same.

  Her knees buckled, and she gripped the desk’s edge.

  Dear God, she’d been convinced he was the murderer. She hadn’t realized. So deeply convinced, she’d lapsed into disbelief, a refusal even to consider the truth. That the thing she’d

  (made love to)

  trusted with her life was a mindless beast.

  But the hair wasn’t his. Lafayette the wolf had, as Lizzie might say, wriggled off the hook.

  Which left her once again with no clear clues. No answers. Nothing.

  Deflated, she gripped her candlestick with chilled fingers and slunk back to bed.

  The room was blessedly warm, the glowing coals hypnotic. She climbed into bed, intending to sit up and wait for Mrs. Poole and her supper. But restless slumber ambushed her, and she tossed and muttered, trapped in dark dreams of Bethlem Asylum, its stone walls running with fresh blood.

  Warm steel hummed and whispered in her hand. In the shadows, a pair of glinting green eyes danced, beckoning. She knew she must reach him, stop him, let her thirsty blade drink, but even though she sprinted until her chest burned, the monster lurked just beyond her reach, mocking. Let me show you, it growled. Let me show you how I’ll devour you. Make you ache. Make you bleed . . .

  She snapped awake, a cry on her lips.

  The fire had burned out. She dragged back sweat-crusted hair. Her palms stung, and she unfolded cramped fingers to find red crescent moons where her nails had dug in.

  She fumbled with the bedside lamp. Pop! Yellow light glared, the faint smell of hot metal. Her bag made a dark blob on the carpet by the bed. Shivering, she reached for the diary. Her fingertips tingled as they touched the cover. The bumpy black leather felt smooth, alive with possibility, the invisible tracks of Mr. Todd’s fingers zinging like fairydust. It looked as if part of the book was missing, torn out, leaving a ragged gap in the spine.

  Todd had wanted her to have this. To what end?

  Did she care?

  Huddling in the twisted quilt, she opened the cover with a creak of old binding and hunched into sweat-fragrant pillows to read.

  ABSENCE OF EVIDENCE

  AT NINE O’CLOCK SHARP THE NEXT MORNING, SHE strode into Inspector Griffin’s office at Bow Street and dropped the open diary onto his desk. “Harley, you must look at this.”

  Griffin’s tiny office was tucked at the top of the stairs, with no windows and the desk jammed in one corner, almost blocking the door. Maps, drawings, and scribbled notes covered the walls, lined up and neatly pinned at each corner. Like the whole building, the room smelled of stale coal and cigar smoke, though Griffin didn’t smoke and likely never would.

  She’d spent the dark of the morning poring over the diary’s contents. Handwriting, old-fashioned copperplate; neatly ruled diagrams, labeled in black ink on moldering paper. A visionary, Mr. Todd said. Whoever the diarist was—the title pages were torn out, frustratingly, any indication of the author’s identity obliterated—whoever this man or woman was, he or she fell not far short of genius . . . or lunacy.

  Griffin shifted in his old wooden chair, grimacing. She’d known he’d be at work. Even a knife wound wasn’t sufficient to keep him away. His top hat still sat on the desk, beside neat stacks of letters and telegrams. His pen was wiped clean, his blotter unstained. “Eliza—”

  “Look,” she insisted, stabbing her finger at the diagrams. “This is the source of the electrical detritus at the crime scenes. This is what he’s built. It’s brilliant!”

  “Brilliant,” chirped Hipp, muffled in the depths of her new bag.

  Griffin glanced at the inked page. “Eliza—”

  “Dr. Percival said a voltage gap of half an inch. But this machine generates twenty-four times that. Twenty-four times!” Her excitement made her sweat, and she tugged at her tight collar. “No wonder it sounded like an arc-pistol. More like a brace of cannon—”

  Griffin leaned forward and gripped her hand, stopping her in mid-flow. “Eliza!”

  “What?”

  On his blotter lay a letter decorated with the Home Office’s fat wax seal.

  Her stomach curdled. She didn’t need to pick the letter up. “It’s Reeve, isn’t it?”

  “He filed a report. First you examined his precious cadaver without permission, and now you’ve been arrested by the Royal. I didn’t say anything,” he added, forestalling her with a raised hand. “He found out all by himself. You’ve given him one excuse too many.”

  That little weasel, snarled Lizzie, freshly awake now. I’ll rip his nose off.

  How did Reeve find out? Had he set someone to follow her? “But they let me go before you even called on them. No charges were laid.”

  “Do you think they care, down at Whitehall? You’ve made the Home Secretary look foolish. A cardinal sin.” Griffin shrugged, resigned. “I’ll contest it, of course. There’ll be a hearing. They can’t keep you out forever. But for now . . .”

  “I’m off the job.” Her mouth soured, the rich flavor of Lizzie’s anger mixing with her own. She wanted to spit it out, scream their unladylike rage to the sky. Stalk Reeve down a dark street, dance our fingertips across his shoulder, show him what it means to be lost and alone . . .

  Griffin squeezed her hand gently. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.” But her guts felt hollow, as if a burning brand had scoured them out. She pressed her fist hard onto the table, lest she punch it. Damn Reeve and his smug woman-hating nonsense to hell. “Fine,” she said stonily, and swept around to depart.

  “Leaving already? What about the case?”

  She halted. “I thought I was excluded from ‘the case.’”

  Griffin quirked his brows. “This is my office, isn’t it? No rule says I can’t entertain a civilian guest. Do take a seat, madam, how kind of you to visit. Perhaps you’d like a tour of the station?”

  She hesitated. “Harley, you’ll only make trouble for yourself.”

  He leaned back in his chair, as far as the tiny room would allow. “Oh, I’m merely delivering bad news in person. It’s only polite. If anyone should ask, you were just leaving.”

  “Thank you. You’re a good friend.”

  “Don’t mention it.” His eyes were reddene
d and ringed with shadow, his cheeks pale. He looked as if he hadn’t slept. She should ask after Mrs. Griffin’s health. Somehow the subject never seemed appropriate. Like poking at an open sore.

  She sat, not bothering to smooth her skirts or cover her ankles, and dumped her bag on the floor, eliciting an indignant clunk! and whir! of cogs. Her blood still boiled, and she forced herself to slow down, take a breath. She wanted to thrust the book into Harley’s face, make him see. “You really need to look at this book. It changes everything. I assume you’re still chasing your lovesick idiot?”

  “Have to follow every lead, and right now he’s all we have. He can’t have wandered far. I have constables hunting for him for streets in every direction. He’ll turn up.”

  She hesitated. “Should you be at home? Is Mrs. Griffin . . . ? Is there anything I can do?”

  He shrugged, but the ghost of incurable sickness haunted his smile.

  “Harley . . .”

  “I can’t bear it, Eliza.” He swallowed, hard, and for once, a fraction of his grief spilled into his eyes. “Do you think me cold? I suppose I am. But she’s fading and I can’t bear to just stand by and watch. She can’t speak, or see. She barely knows if I’m there. Better to fight battles I can win.”

  “Indeed.” Eliza cleared her throat. “Very well. What shall we do when we catch this Geordie?”

  “Question him. It is possible he’s guilty, you know. Occam’s razor, and all that.” Griffin scraped back his already impeccable hair. “But you’re not convinced. Lafayette’s theories getting under your skin?”

  “It’s not that. Please, you have to look at this.” She shoved the diary closer.

  “Is that German? I’m afraid I don’t—”

  “Never mind the words. Look at the diagrams. Remember the burned aether at the scenes?”

  “Left by some electrical equipment, you said.”

  “The very same. A machine requiring extremely high voltage, with some function important to our killer.”

  She waited, expectant.

  Bemused, Griffin peered at the page. “It looks like the contraption on the top of a train carriage. Forgive me, this isn’t my expertise. I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Consider our Chopper’s purpose,” she said earnestly. “He kills his victims with a drug and a blade. So the machine isn’t for that. By the time he activates it, the women are dead, and he’s gotten what he came for. What subsequent aim must a murderer have?”

  Griffin thought for a moment. “To get away undetected. No one saw him go. Just the sound of a pistol shot.”

  “Just so.” She pointed at the diagram, triumphant. “This is how he escapes. It’s—”

  “Inspector!” Sergeant Porter hurtled in, short of breath. He stumbled into Eliza, all but knocking her from her chair. He steadied her, and straightened his hat. “Sorry, Doctor. We’ve found him, sir. The Kelly boy. Skulking in the market, begging for scraps.”

  Griffin was out of his seat before Porter had finished. “Where is he now?”

  “In the cells, sir. He legged it, but we nabbed him easy.”

  “Good. Don’t let anyone else in. If the boy is as dull-witted as they say, it’ll be too easy to put words into his mouth.” Griffin jammed his hat on, and plucked up his notebook. “Do you have confirmed identification from a witness?”

  “Four of ’em, sir.” Porter couldn’t resist a gruff little grin. “Everyone knows this Kelly lad.”

  “Excellent. Good work, Sergeant.” Griffin glanced at Eliza. “Perhaps you’d care for that tour of the station now, madam? Our cells date back to the previous building, you know. Eighteenth century. I’m sure you’ll find them fascinating.”

  Deep beneath the station, the dank stench stifled her, and she covered her nose. Ahead, Griffin ordered Porter to light more lamps. Their footsteps boomed on the stone stairs, then trailed away into darkness.

  Electric light flared. Dripping stone walls, a row of iron-barred cells on each side. Dirt floor puddled with muck, the sour stink of human captivity. The first few cells contained several men each. Their clothes were muddy, their faces unshaven. Most had been beaten bloody. Not all policemen shared Griffin’s civilized attitude towards investigation.

  Curses and rough words greeted her. One or two of the men leered and made coarse gestures. Others ignored her. One spat in the dirt at Griffin’s feet and called him a frightful name.

  “Leave my good lady mother out of it, Mr. Frost,” said Griffin easily, “or I’ll scratch out that drunken affray charge and write ‘treasonable assembly.’ Fancy a trip to Newgate? I hear it’s full of your radical friends.”

  The prisoner glared, sharp as prussic acid, but lapsed into silence.

  “What a pleasant fellow,” murmured Eliza.

  “To be fair, one can understand his ill temper.”

  Eliza pursed her lips, torn between sympathy and disgust. The conditions were horrible, but even the lunatics at Bethlem had an excuse for their behavior. Most of these fellows were merely crude. Common criminals, who acted thoughtlessly and without reason better than greed . . .

  Oh, aye? Lizzie piped up, prickly as a pear. And who the hell are you, missy? Easy to be law-abiding when you’ve got everything you want.

  Everything I want, have I? Inwardly, Eliza snorted. I work for what I’ve got. You don’t see me stealing and cheating.

  Don’t see me doing it, neither, said Lizzie craftily, ’cause I’m way too good.

  Griffin followed Porter along the narrow corridor, past outstretched hands and hostile stares.

  Picking her way through the filth, Eliza followed. One cell lay empty, separating the lone man in the next from the others. Geordie Kelly sat cross-legged in the mud, fiddling with a stick. Black hair fell across his forehead. His frock coat’s skirt flopped in the muck, once a fine blue fabric but now old and torn. His trouser hems hung ragged. Somewhere he’d lost his boots—stolen?—and his bare feet curled, long toes twitching.

  He didn’t look up as they halted in front of his cell.

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Griffin murmured, and Porter dipped his hat and strode away.

  Eliza’s throat tightened. Questioning was important. If Griffin made a mess of it, they’d get the wrong answers. Kelly was innocent. She was sure of it. A scapegoat.

  But whose? The Chopper’s? Or someone else’s?

  “Geordie.” Griffin spoke softly, so as not to alarm.

  Geordie looked up. A boy, really, barely in need of a shave. He blinked, bewildered. A bruise reddened one slanted cheekbone, and his nose was crooked, an old break. Handsome lad, even with a few pox scars.

  “Is that your name? Geordie Kelly?”

  The boy nodded—three times quickly, down-up-down-up-down-up—and fiddled with the stick in his lap.

  “You’re in the Bow Street cells. My name is Detective Inspector Griffin. I’m a policeman, and I’m going to ask you some questions. Do you understand?”

  Down-up-down-up-down-up.

  “Where do you work, son?”

  “For Mr. Underwood, sir.” Not the rough weird-city drawl. More of a West End accent, as if he came from a good family. “At the theater. I work the lights.”

  “Are you acquainted with Miss Ophelia Maskelyne?”

  Geordie rocked back and forth, clutching his knees.

  “When did you last see her?”

  He rocked harder, his head down.

  Eliza crouched, heedless of the muck, and gripped the bars. “Geordie, look at me. You’re not in any trouble. We just need to know when you saw Ophelia last.”

  His soft mouth trembled. “She was so pretty. I liked her. She was nice to me, and now she’s dead.”

  “What happened to her, Geordie?”

  “I saw her lying in the yard. There was blood. The police were there. I ran away.” Tears leaked, unheeded. He didn’t seem to realize he was crying. Perhaps he cried a lot. “Someone did something bad, ma’am. Will the police find them?”

  “I’m sure th
ey’ll do their best,” she murmured. “Why did you run away, Geordie? Were you afraid?”

  “The other lady was there. She’d chased me away. She always chases me away. She doesn’t like me.”

  She glanced up at Griffin, who nodded slightly: go ahead. “Do you mean Mrs. Maskelyne?”

  “The other lady,” Geordie repeated, and gulped a big wet swallow. “Miss Ophelia’s friend.”

  Eliza’s memory bounced back to the crime scene. Clara Morton, in her plain gray servant’s dress. “Do you know her name?”

  A vague shrug. “Miss.”

  “What does she look like?”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Pointy face. She frowns all the time. Not pretty like Miss Ophelia.”

  “And what was she wearing, this other lady?”

  Geordie nodded at Eliza’s dress. “Like you, only not as nice.”

  Eliza’s skin tingled. Clara, then. An electrical expert. “And what about the night before Ophelia died? Did you see Ophelia then?”

  Down-up-down-up-down-up. “In the yard. I waited, by the fence where I always wait. She was crying. The other lady arrived, and they . . .” He muttered something under his breath, his face darkening.

  “They what?”

  “Don’t know.” He rocked again, gripping his knees. “Don’t know.”

  “Did they argue, Geordie?” offered Eliza gently. “Is that what you saw? Were they fighting?”

  “Miss Ophelia cried. Her face was all bruised and bloody. The other lady tried to get her to leave. Then Mr. Lysander called, and Miss Ophelia went back inside. The other lady left.”

  “What happened then?”

  “I went back to Her Majesty’s and I swept the wings and the dressing rooms, like always. Then I went to sleep.”

  “In your loft?”

  His gaze slid aside. “Don’t know.”

  Griffin scribbled in his notebook. “What time was this, when you saw Miss Ophelia in the yard?”

  Geordie squinted, confused. “It was dark. The ballet was finished. I’m not allowed out until the ballet’s finished. I work the lights, see. Without me, there’s no lights.”