The Diabolical Miss Hyde

by Viola Carr

  Briskly, she tucked the papers into her bag. “Thank you so much for your time, Miss Morton. That will be all for now . . .”

  “Do you know what it’s like?” The rage in Clara’s tone roasted Eliza in her place. “For women like me? They call us mad, or hysterical. They lock us up. When I was sixteen, my mother was so ashamed of me that she took me to see a doctor. He suggested I have relations with a man immediately, to ‘set me right,’ or I’d have to be put away.”

  Eliza blanched. She knew all too well the fate of women who loved other women. The Bethlem cells were frequented by those who harbored “unnatural desires.” “Miss Morton . . .”

  “Yes, I loved Ophelia.” Viciously, Clara wiped her nose, but the tears kept streaming. “And she loved me. Is that so hard to stomach? Are you disgusted, Doctor?”

  “Not at all,” said Eliza steadily. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Clara stared, white. “You know,” she said at last, her voice small and trembling, “you’re the first person who’s said that to me.”

  The injustice burned at Eliza’s heart like poison. Had Clara been a man, she’d be inundated with messages of condolence. To live forever in secret, never sharing, never admitting the truth . . .

  She swallowed. “I don’t mean to pry, Miss Morton. All I want is to find out what happened, and catch the murderer.”

  Clara wiped her swollen face and nodded.

  “The family didn’t accept you.” Not a question.

  Clara snorted. “Her brother is a beast, his wife just as bad. They loathe me. Can’t abide the scandal. Their darling girl’s unnatural. You’d think she’d sprinted through the streets naked.”

  Eliza’s palms itched at the callousness of it, and she wanted to scrub them clean. Mrs. Maskelyne’s story was a spiteful half-truth. Lafayette was right: so much for the downtrodden wife. Miss Ophelia is much admired, they’d taught the housemaid to say. Pointed the finger at an innocent half-witted boy. All to cover up the scandalous truth: Ophelia’s secret lover was a woman.

  “Lysander and his wife as much as told me your letters were from Geordie Kelly,” Eliza admitted angrily. “They’d let him go on trial for murder to keep their secret.”

  A flat, humorless laugh. “Forgive me if I’m unsurprised. Lysander had already threatened to marry her off against her will. They’d shackle her to anything in trousers if she’d have it, but she point-blank refused. And word was getting around. None of Lysander’s cronies would have her. That night, he found her with my letters and lost his temper. Told her he’d marry her to the old man who cleans the latrines if she didn’t ‘come to her senses.’”

  “And later, you came to see her?”

  “I wanted her to leave with me. She wouldn’t. Afraid of what might become of her without her livelihood, I suppose.” Clara wiped her reddened face again. “As you can imagine, I didn’t see it quite like that at the time. We argued. I left. That’s the last I saw of her. I returned the next morning to make it up to her, and there she was in a pool of blood, surrounded by a police barricade. I swear to you, I don’t know what happened.”

  “I believe you.” The grief and distress crumpling Clara’s face looked real. Briefly, she wished for Captain Lafayette’s canine facility for sniffing out lies. “And the disappearing machine . . . ?”

  Clara shrugged, rueful. “A party trick. It didn’t really work. All it did was momentarily disrupt the aether and make it look as if she’d vanished. You needed a mirror and some tricks with the lights to get the effect.”

  “I see.” Eliza considered. “Do you think it could work, though? In principle?”

  “A vanishing machine?” Clara made her best effort at a smile. “It does sound far-fetched. But the new science makes anything possible. I suppose if the apparatus were large enough . . . well, who knows?”

  “Who indeed?” Eliza tucked her bag under her arm. “One more thing. Are you acquainted with Sir Jedediah Fairfax?”

  “Not personally. Surgeon, isn’t he? A knighthood for tending some princess’s brain fever? I recall Dr. Percival mentioned something about it.”

  “What about Marcellus Finch?”

  A blank look. “The name isn’t familiar.”

  “He’s a galvanic chemist. Among other things.”

  For a moment, true fear shadowed Clara’s gaze. And then she visibly composed herself, her cold mask dropping into place. Apparently, some types of scandal scared her more than others. “I don’t know anything about those other things, Dr. Jekyll,” she said smoothly, arranging her skirts. “Now forgive me, I’m very busy. Good day.”

  Two hours on a traffic-blocked Strand later, Eliza burst back into Inspector Griffin’s office, with Hippocrates and her precious diagrams tucked safely in her bag. “Harley, I . . .”

  Inspector Reeve waved at her from behind Griffin’s desk, chewing on a cigar.

  She halted, thoughts whirling. “Where’s Inspector Griffin?”

  “I’m afraid Griffin was called away. His wife has only hours to live, they say. Tragic.” Reeve didn’t sound as if he cared one whit.

  Eliza’s stomach knotted, sick. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I’ll take on his cases in the meantime, naturally. The least I can do for a dear friend.” Reeve puffed stinking smoke at her. “I believe you’re trespassing, madam. Good day.”

  “But I have evidence in the Chopper case. I—”

  “That case is closed. We have the murderer in custody.”

  “Geordie Kelly?”

  “The very same.”

  “Inspector, with all due respect, I’ve questioned him and I believe—”

  “I don’t care what you believe. The boy confessed an hour ago.”

  Her mouth soured. She could imagine how Reeve had likely elicited that “confession.” “But it can’t have been Geordie. There’s an electrical machine—”

  “The case is closed,” interrupted Reeve, propping his feet on Harley’s desk. “You no longer work here. Good day.”

  But his gaze flickered, a tiny slip in confidence, and suddenly she spied a different Reeve. An old-fashioned police officer, who’d always relied on the ways of the street, tip-offs and pay-offs and confessions by brute force. Whose job was skidding out from under him, usurped by brighter and younger men, altered beyond recognition in a new world of strange technology and politics he couldn’t comprehend.

  Bizarrely, she felt a twist of sympathy, then stamped on it. He was still a bitter little woman-hater. “But—”

  “Shall I have you escorted from the building?” Reeve didn’t look up from the file he was reading. “Believe me, madam, it’ll hurt you more than it hurts me.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Eliza squared her shoulders and resisted the temptation to punch him in the face. “Good day, Inspector. We’ll talk again when the next woman is murdered.” And she pushed past Sergeant Porter, who hovered at the door, and strode out.

  She stamped down the stairs, conflicting thoughts scrapping like angry rodents. Harley Griffin, praying at his wife’s bedside. Clara Morton, red-eyed and grief-stricken. Geordie Kelly, quivering in the lock-up, thrashed into a confession he didn’t understand.

  Bright sparks of rage blinded her. Curse that Reeve for a stupid ape, hissed Lizzie. Let me at him, I swear . . .

  She took a deep breath, trying to be calm. She needed a plan, not a berserker’s fury. The killer would soon strike again. And all she had to go on were a diagram of an impossible teleporting machine and the perverted insight of a razor-wielding lunatic . . .

  Fuming, she stalked out into the busy street. Late afternoon sun glared along the roofline. Her eyes swam and watered, and suddenly Lizzie’s eyes focused, sharper than a blade . . .

  Thwack! She collided with a hard body and stumbled, skirts dragging in mud. Her vision wobbled, a bright wash of fever, and Lizzie crouched like a tiger, ready to spring . . .

  Matthew Temple steadied her, one hand on her waist, and straightened his cap. His
bottle-green waistcoat dazzled in the sun. “I say, Doctor, are you all right? How fortuitous. Just the lady I need to see—”

  “Not now, Mr. Temple,” she snarled, and pushed him aside.

  But he grabbed her elbow, jostling her bag against her hip. “I really must speak with you.” An odd note of pleading spiked her attention. “It’s urgent. It’s about your murder case—”

  “Are you following me, idiot?” She rounded on him, thrusting her face in close, and he jumped back in alarm. “You’ve been at every crime scene in remarkably quick time this week. Perhaps you do have information about the case. Perhaps the murderer is you.”

  His face greened to match his waistcoat. “That’s ridiculous—”

  She lifted one finger in warning, and he fell silent. Her rage bubbled over, and her muscles juddered eagerly. Grab him, close her fist around his skinny throat, and squeeze . . .

  “Just stay away from me,” she growled, and whirled away.

  People scattered from her path as she strode up towards Long Acre, barely watching where she was going. Shouts and strange laughter echoed, a tornado of confusion. She reeled, stumbled, fought on her way. Was that others laughing? Was it Lizzie? Was it herself? Her bag slipped and fell, papers and bottles scattering. Blindly, she scooped them up, and Hippocrates gurgled and shrank from her touch. She stuffed him back in the bag and hurried on.

  Conflicting urges collided, dragging her in multiple directions. Her wits stretched thin like rubber. Her head swelled, threatening to burst. The bitter taste of her remedy repeated on her, flooding her mouth with burning bile.

  Something was awry with her prescription. No doubt about that now. And only one man could tell her what was happening.

  She waved down a cab, and it shuffled to a halt on brass legs, purple electrical coils snapping sparks. She jumped in. “New Bond Street,” she spat, “and make it fast.”

  About time, whispered Lizzie. He’s been playing you all along. Will you ask the tough questions, or shall I?

  The cab rattled along, legs pistoning, and the rocking motion made her seasick. Did she have the courage? Did she really want the answers?

  In the depths of the darkened cab, she sucked in a deep breath for nerve and let Lizzie out.

  AN ENGLISHMAN’S HOME

  WHEN WE GET THERE, THE STREET’S DARK, AND SO is the shop, the blinds drawn. The front door’s locked, and the door to upstairs too. He’s hiding.

  I want to kick those smug polished windows until they shatter. Inside me, Eliza squirms, unwilling yet compelled. I know how she feels.

  But I’m angry. I can’t breathe in this damn dress. And I won’t be stopped by some prissy locked door.

  So I suck in the biggest breath I can, stretching my laces a little. I wander casually into the entranceway, where no one can see me in the shadows. I yank a pin from Eliza’s swept-up hair-do—Christ, I must look a sight—and shove it in the lock.

  They ain’t much, these cheap door locks, and I’ve learned from the best. In half a minute, pop! The door clicks open in my hand.

  I take the narrow stairs three at a time, hip! hop! The landing has only one door, and I shove it open and stride in.

  He’s reading in his little chair by the fire, wearing a purple smoking jacket, pince-nez perched on his nose. Yellow stuff is plastered in his milky hair, as if he’s wiped his hands in it. The room’s stuffed with books, teetering shelves packed to bursting on every wall, and there’s paper and ink bottles and all manner of mess.

  I grab him by his fluffy jacket. Slam! Into the bookshelf. A few books tumble, and his glasses fall to the floor. I hold him there—he’s right skinny—and grin my maddest grin.

  “Marcellus Finch,” says I, “you sneaky little bastard.”

  Marcellus grins, just as mad. His heart is racing. I probably outweigh him, and he knows it. “Lizzie, my dear—”

  “Don’t you ‘dear’ me.” I bang him a little harder into the books. He smells of alchemy, of burning wood and melting gold. “What’ve you done to our remedy, you white-haired loon?”

  His baby-blue gaze glints, mischievous. “Couldn’t possibly say—”

  The old man’s got courage, I’ll give him that. I grab his scrawny neck, twist his chin higher. “You will bloody say, or I’ll keep right on squeezing. Hell, I don’t know my own strength these days.”

  His throat jumps in my palm. But there’s fire in his eyes. “You’re magnificent,” he chokes. “Just as I told Henry you would be. Remedy, be damned. Why do you even care?”

  He makes a good point. A week ago, I might have agreed. But things are different now.

  “I don’t, you old buffoon. But you’re upsetting Eliza, and that I can’t have.” I squeeze tighter, threatening. “Now tell me what’s going on, or you’ll see just how magnificent I am.”

  Finch’s eyes bulge. “Ugh-mmph. Aant halk.”

  Another good point. I loosen, just a little.

  A wet splutter. “He made me, all right? He wanted to see what would happen—”

  “He who?” I demand. But rich inevitability scorches in my soul.

  “Him. Your guardian. He’s the kind of man you don’t say ‘no’ to.”

  “You’ve worked for him all along,” I accuse. “Why did you lie to her? Jesus, Marcellus, she trusts you.”

  And so did I.

  Never had much doing, Marcellus Finch and I. Once, when I was young and stupid, I tried to turn him, get him on my side. He refused me. Now I stay away from him. He’s Eliza’s friend, not mine, and I see now he’s a loyal man. Just not to us.

  “That was the arrangement,” he protested. “I was never to tell. I was to let you . . . her, that is . . . I was to let her have you, but on his terms. One needs to ease into these things. Accidents can happen.”

  A strange chill ripples through my belly, echoes of long-forgotten childhood memory. Shivering in my nightdress in a midnight corridor, fierce whispers coming from the bedroom of a dead woman. An accident, Henry . . . Poor pretty lady . . . happens all the time . . .

  “Oh, aye?” I venture, just to see what he’ll say, but I’m uneasy, twitchy, reluctant. “Accidents like our mother’s death?”

  Marcellus blinks. “You’d best ask him about that.”

  Oh, lord. What the hell’s gone on here?

  I cover my trouble with a sneer. “Right. And what about Captain Lafayette and his medicine? Did you just want to ‘see what would happen’ to him, too?”

  Finch’s gaze flickers, sullen. “That wasn’t my fault. Curses like his are myriad. I tried. I just got it wrong.”

  I laugh, though it ain’t funny, and let him go. “Whatever you say. Just tell me where I can find my precious guardian.” I salt that last word with sarcasm. Fine job he’s made of it.

  Finch shakes himself, straightening his clothes. “The Rats’ Castle, of course. I thought you knew.”

  My mouth gapes. The King of Rats. That creaky old skeleton from the Royal had it right . . . and like a midnight-black rose, a shadowy new world opens before my eyes.

  “Don’t tell me,” I say at last. “The place with the blue light and the stinky-arse door-keeper.” Not a brothel after all. Now that I’ve finally figured it out, I can’t wait. I’m dying to see this place. Maybe, I’ll finally find where I belong.

  “Just so.” Finch peers blindly at the floor, searching.

  But I find his pince-nez first. He grabs for it, but I hold it away out of his reach. “What’s tonight’s watchword?”

  He gives a cunning serpent grin that puts me in mind of Mr. Todd. “You’re a clever lady, my dear. You figure it out.”

  I snort in disgust and hurl the glasses at him.

  He catches them, surprisingly nimble. “Just one thing,” he calls, as I whirl to leave. “For your own sake.”

  “What?”

  “Let Eliza talk to him.”

  I halt and glance back.

  He’s earnest. “I swear, I never meant her harm. Things are more complicated than
you know. Just let her ask the questions.”

  “Why?” I grumble. “Does he think he’s too good for me, too, same as everyone else?”

  “Because Madeleine was her mother, too.”

  And that, even I can’t argue with.

  Eliza’s feet hit cold flagstones, and behind her, a cab rattled away.

  “Wha—where are we?” She peered down a dark, narrow street littered with garbage. The smell assaulted her, rotten meat and excrement. Rickety buildings teetered inwards, broken shutters dangling over the street, where beggars and sleeping dogs slumped in the muck and drunken fellows sang and staggered. And at the end, a doorway with a flickering blue light . . .

  Rats’ Castle.

  No time like the present, whispered Lizzie. And of their own accord, Eliza’s legs began to walk.

  “Oh, no. Lizzie, don’t. He made us promise not to pry, remember?” And the Philosopher promised to burn us if we don’t . . . Her muscles cramped. Try as she might, she couldn’t control them.

  Be buggered. We’re going in.

  “Lizzie, what are you doing?” But before Eliza could think or do anything, her legs had marched her along the muddy street to the doorway.

  Rap-rap-rap! Her fist thumped the door. “Open up, you crusty old bastard!”

  Her blood burned. Her skin stung, alive. She hadn’t changed. Not all the way. But it felt . . . exciting. Exhilarating, to let Lizzie have her way.

  The door lurched open, and the same crotchety fellow glared out, red-eyed. “You again. Didn’t I tell you to bugger off—ugh!”

  Eliza (Lizzie) grabbed his skinny throat and slammed him against the wall. Her nails dug into greasy skin, and his pulse throbbed against her palm. “The watchword is ‘screw you, rat-squeezer,’” she snarled. “How’d you like that?”

  The fellow spluttered and nodded rapidly, eyes bulging. Beyond him, a dark stairway descended, lit with blue arc-lights that zapped and hissed at the darkness. The faint smells of smoke and hot metal beckoned.