by Viola Carr
Wryly, Eliza shook her head. “Practically manic. That’s what you get for choosing a cheap substitute.”
Lafayette shrugged. “It confirmed Brigham’s story. Machines don’t lie.”
“You don’t trust your blushing beau?”
A spectacular half-smile. “I’m a Royal investigator, Doctor. I don’t trust anyone.”
“I’m sorry, were you including me in that?” She peered at the corpse through her magnifying lens and swabbed crusted blood. “Look: markings cut into his chest. Quite precise. A thin blade, like a penknife. A five-pointed star, encircled, with . . .”
A half-circle, joined to a circle, joined to a cross. An alchemical symbol. Mercury.
Her nerves smarted. What did it mean? Was Lafayette trying to trap her? “Looks like something from a bad gothic novel,” she amended lamely. “What is it?”
“Irrational,” muttered Hipp, scratching the carpet. “Does not compute.”
Lafayette studied the cuts. “A pentacle. Used in, shall we say, doubly unorthodox rituals? And the symbol for mercury,” he added, “as if you didn’t recognize it. Anyone would think you were hiding something.”
“Anyone would think you knew about this before we arrived. First a crucifix, now a pentacle. Tell me you don’t believe in black magic.”
“I did promise sinister enemies unknown.”
Zzap! Hipp jabbed gleefully at the corpse with his glowing coil, making it jerk. “Irrational. Logic flawed. Recompute.” Zzap!
“Stop it, Hipp,” scolded Eliza. She eased one of the cuts apart with her tweezers. “Look how pale this flesh is. The cuts haven’t bled. Post-mortem, same as the heart extraction. You don’t jam your hand into a living man’s chest without making more of a mess.”
“Unless he was insensible. He reeks of that single-malt Scotch, enough to fell a medium-sized horse. Also, that’s Caribbean tobacco, laced with . . . Chinese opium, or some such. See, I come in handy sometimes.”
“A veritable scent encyclopedia.” She scraped ash into a test tube, and pointed at a long bloodstain at the desk’s foot. “But look, the victim was standing when he was stabbed. Not so insensible after all.”
“How’s that?”
“That’s arterial blood, sprayed under pressure. Imagine the victim standing here.” She twirled to assume the position. “Crucifix in the throat, whoosh! Blood all over the assailant. Except . . .” She frowned. “The spatter is unobstructed. It doesn’t make sense. If you’re close enough to stab a man in the throat, there’s no leaping out of the way. You’ll get it all over you.”
Lafayette eyed the carpet, dubious. “Perhaps the killer was very short.”
“An opium-smoking dwarf brandishing a crucifix. How our theories deteriorate. No, the victim was attacked from behind. Which necessitates a killer of a certain height, to achieve that downwards angle of entry.” Gingerly, she freed the bloodied crucifix. “Not exactly sharp, is it? A perverse choice of weapon.”
“Spur of the moment? He grabs whatever was to hand.”
“And lingers afterwards to carve up the corpse? No, this was the spur of no moment that I can perceive. The killer brings a knife, yet chooses this. Why?”
“A sense of theater?”
“Or something in particular to say.” She eyed Lafayette expectantly. “So was Sir Dalziel dabbling in black magic as well as papistry? Is that the real reason the Royal are watching him? Is this a ritual gone wrong?”
The crystalline clock chimed the quarter hour.
“Three minutes to go, Doctor. You tell me.” Lafayette began to rummage through the desk. “Drawer forced, letters and sketches ripped up. And that empty safe, key in the lock, contents missing.” He indicated the mangled painting on the floor. “They knew where it was, or took an educated guess.”
She eased the crucifix back into the wound. “Seems a lot of effort just to cover up a burglary. If I’d killed a man who’d caught me in the act, I don’t believe I’d hang around to mutilate the body.”
“You imagine the fellow who did that”—Lafayette pointed to the extracted heart—“is thinking things through?”
“I’m thinking he had a very particular purpose. Murder was his aim, theft an opportunity.”
“Ah. So he breaks the window to enter. Stabs the old man, tears out his heart, rips his face off, schllpp! Job done. Filches the fellow’s cash for good measure, and off he trots?”
“Plausible. Especially if the killer was hired, and looting the scene for a bonus.” She tested the sliced edges around the dead man’s chin with her scalpel. “A human face isn’t strongly attached to the skull. Cut around the edge, it’ll just peel off. But why?”
“For fun? No point trying to hide this victim’s identity.”
“Hmm. But to hide something else about him . . . ?”
“Like what?”
“I’ve no idea,” she admitted. “Where is it? I wonder. The face, I mean.”
“Perhaps the killer took it with him. Proof of a job well done. A powerful man like Sir Dalziel has enemies. Sending a message?”
She rose to examine the carpet, where Hippocrates snuffled and squeaked. “All this carving and stabbing. Surely he’s left some traces . . . Aha!” She pointed triumphantly at a curved smudge of blood. “Difficult to make footprints when you’re drowning in your own blood. Captain, meet our killer.”
“Man or woman?”
Her brows arched.
“The wife’s always the chief suspect, isn’t she? I get the impression they didn’t like each other.”
“But peeling his face off? Hardly a society wife’s specialty. Simpler to poison the fellow’s port.”
“Given it much thought, have you? Murdering one’s husband, I mean.”
“One should plan for every contingency.”
“Indeed. I sleep with a loaded weapon for that very purpose. Just so you know.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” She squirted a sheet of paper with a clear solution and touched it to the footprint. The outline seeped gently through the paper, its shape copied. “In any case, this belongs to a man. A narrow shoe, a fashionable gentleman’s type.” She pointed to another smudge. “He’s long-legged. So not our lovesick Mr. Brigham.”
“A party guest?”
“Mmm. We must get a list of names.” She walked to the window, frowning. “Smudges in the blood there, as if he strode back and forth. But no footprints back this way. So either he took a different exit, or . . .”
The front door slammed. Eliza groaned. “Ready or not.”
The drawing room door burst open, and in stalked Chief Inspector Reeve, four constables on his heels. “Right, you two. Out.”
Swiftly, Eliza backed towards the body before Lizzie could react. “I say, have the police not already attended? Captain Lafayette, you odious mischief-maker, you deceive me again. I’m terribly sorry . . . Oh!” She stumbled, swiping her skirt hem into the bloodstain. “Dear me. So clumsy.”
Quickly, Lafayette thrust a sheaf of Sir Dalziel’s papers into her bag behind her back. “No need for alarm. We were just leaving.”
“Alarm unnecessary,” chirped Hipp, kicking up his feet. “Exit imminent.”
Furniture crashed in the hall. “Out of my way, you horrid monster-boy!” A flurry of black satin skirts swept in. Lady Fleet, presumably, surprisingly slim and pretty, trailing a dark veil over her elaborate blond chignon. She’d certainly laid hands on the appropriate mourning attire at a moment’s notice.
Suddenly the idea of this fashionable young wife doing away her rich, elderly husband didn’t seem so unlikely.
“You, sir!” Lady Fleet pointed dramatically at Lafayette. “Leave my house immediately. You and your preposterous accusations have hounded my poor husband to his grave. Dispatched in his own home by some vile scion of the criminal classes! Are you satisfied?”
Brava! cheered Lizzie ironically, and Eliza resisted the urge to applaud. If Lady Fleet had held a fan, or a pair of gloves, she’d probably have
slapped him with it.
Lafayette bowed gravely. “My condolences, my lady. Who would do such a terrible thing? And in a secret closet, too. Is no one safe?”
Lady Fleet’s eyes gleamed, calculating. Then—a moment too late—she burst into tears. “My poor Dalziel! How I shall miss him.” She collapsed against Reeve in a paroxysm of weeping. Hippocrates squeaked, and scuttled for the hallway. Eliza could practically smell the onions the lady had rubbed into her eyes.
Reeve’s ruddy face flushed even redder. Awkwardly, he patted Lady Fleet’s hair and off-loaded her to a smirking constable. “We’ll soon have it sorted, my lady. You have my word.”
He fired a sharp glance around. “Window smashed, room ransacked. Burglary gone wrong, I’d say. Shouldn’t take long to flush out the villain. My lady, why don’t you have a nice lie-down, and mend your nerves? You there, fellow,” he ordered, “fetch Lady Fleet some tea.”
“You’re very kind,” Lady Fleet whispered, dabbing streaming eyes, and let the constable help her out.
“A command performance,” remarked Eliza, once the door had closed. “You’re not actually buying into that?”
Reeve didn’t turn. “Still here, missy?”
Lafayette tugged her arm, but she resisted. Like any murdered soul, Sir Dalziel deserved justice, not Reeve’s self-serving pig-headedness. “This man’s heart is ripped out and his face cut off. Elaborate for a burglar, wouldn’t you say? And how would a casual thief know about the hidden closet? Unless it’s an inside job, in which case why—?”
“Yes, yes. Always complicating things, aren’t you?” Reeve glared at her. “Never can solve a case the old-fashioned way. I swear, you’re that upstart Griffin born again.”
We’ll solve you the old-fashioned way, you pumped-up turkey, whispered Lizzie darkly. Come by the Holy Land late one night and I’ll uncomplicate you with a knife in the guts.
Eliza gritted her teeth. “How sad. Have I left you no one convenient from whom to thrash a confession?”
“Remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” Reeve grinned. “Perhaps your friend Razor Jack did it. You know, the lunatic killer you allowed to escape?”
She flushed. “Razor Jack is not my friend, and I didn’t allow anything—”
“Protesting too much, are we?” Reeve rounded on Lafayette. “As for you, Royal Society, I’ll tell you once more, and then I’ll get unpleasant: Homicide’s a police matter. Stay out of it.”
“As you wish, sir. I’m confident you have it fully in hand.” Firmly, Lafayette ushered a squirming Eliza into the hall, with Hipp scampering ahead.
“And stay away from the servants,” called Reeve, “or I’ll nick you for obstructing my investigation.” The door slammed.
“Shouldn’t dream of it, old boy.” Lafayette studied her as they treaded the long hall towards the front door. “Are you well, Doctor? Perhaps we should retire.”
“Why must that man be so obtuse?” she fumed. “He’s no fool, yet he refuses to countenance the simplest police work, let alone any attempt at science. You’d think he was put on this earth to infuriate me.”
“Jealousy makes idiots of us all,” murmured Lafayette.
“Reeve, jealous of me? That’s absurd.”
He laughed, easy. “Allow me to polish your spectacles, Doctor. You’re young, clever, educated, and pretty, with the world at your feet. He’s backward, middle-aged, and unattractive, with two unmarried daughters and a demanding wife who wants to be Lady Police Commissioner someday. I’m only surprised he hasn’t wrung your neck already.”
“What? Nonsense.” But she sniffed, discomfited. She’d never met Mrs. Reeve. Hadn’t wondered whether one existed. As usual, Lafayette was dangerously well informed. But it made her speculate. Could the murder motive be jealousy? A rival slighted, a woman scorned . . .
By the door, the manic clockwork servant jerked like a pecking chicken. A saturnine fellow in livery—Lady Fleet’s footman, presumably—stoically ignored it, glaring in poorly veiled disgust at the butler, who was bailed up in the archway by an eagerly springing Hippocrates. Perhaps the clockwork servant’s problem was catching.
“Mr. Brigham, are you and this fellow here the only human servants?” asked Eliza.
Brigham bowed. “Plus Lady Fleet’s maid and the cook, madam. The rest are clockworks.”
“Odd, isn’t it, for a household to rely so heavily on machines?”
“Couldn’t say, madam.” Brigham ignored Hipp, who scrabbled at his trouser leg.
Eliza hid a grin. “This party last night. Who attended?”
A twitch of besieged knee. “The usual. Sir Dalziel’s students and, um, other friends. We finished around two, and I went to bed.”
“And his ‘um other friends’ would be . . . ?”
Brigham handed Lafayette a scrap of paper. “Thought you’d want a list, sir.”
“Good man.” Lafayette scanned it rapidly. “A bright bunch, I see . . . Why do they all invite her . . . ? Cartwright, M.P., eh? Of the new Reform Bill? Who’d have thought Sir Dalziel would rub shoulders with a radical?”
“You’d be surprised, sir.”
“Would I?” Lafayette frowned at the list. “Zanotti. You don’t mean Carmine Zanotti? His Eve and the Serpent is on show at the Academy.”
“Indeed,” murmured Eliza. “Who knew you were a fan of art?”
“I’m a fan of prodigious talent,” said Lafayette with a quick smile. “It so often goes with malfeasance. Your own, for instance.”
She ignored him. “You said no visitors after the party broke up?”
Brigham shrugged. “Didn’t hear a bell.”
“Bell!” Hipp head-butted Brigham’s knee and bounced off, falling in a heap. “Bell-bell-bell . . .”
“Sir Dalziel might have expected someone,” suggested Lafayette. “Then they wouldn’t need to ring.”
A baffled blink. “But weren’t it just a ruckus? I mean, was the villain not some vile burglar?”
Eliza smiled. “The police certainly think so. Certain you heard nothing?”
“No, I . . .” Brigham toed Hipp away. “Come to think of it, I did, but I didn’t come up. I thought . . .”
“Yes?”
“I heard breaking glass.”
“The window? Why would you not come up?”
Stiffly, Brigham raised his bruised chin. “I thought it was Sir Dalziel throwing crystal. He was worse for drink. They’d been arguing politics. When he’s in a temper, it’s best not to be seen. He’s not so patient.” The lad licked his reddened lip. “With the crystal.”
“Crystal,” agreed Hipp, making another attempt to climb Brigham’s leg.
Old tyrant had it coming, muttered Lizzie. Bat his servants around as he pleased, did he? Arsehole.
“I see. Can you estimate the time you heard the glass break?”
“Ten minutes to four, give or take.”
Lafayette cocked one eyebrow. “So precise?”
“Checked my watch, sir. I sleep poorly, and I’d only just gone off when the noise woke me.”
“Keeps proper time, does it?”
“The best, sir. It’s my job to wind the clocks, and keep the monsters in good repair.”
“Monsters?”
“The mechanical servants, madam.”
“I see . . . Oh, pet him, Mr. Brigham, he won’t relent until you do.”
Cautiously, the butler offered his hand. Hipp bunted it, whirring happily. “A bit overstressed, aren’t you, boy? Could use an overhaul.”
“He certainly could,” threatened Eliza, and Hipp whined, contrite. “Did you know about this secret closet?”
“Of course. Sir Dalziel kept personal things there. Letters and such.”
“And did his friends know?”
“I expect so. It weren’t secret so much as private.”
Her nerves twanged. A person ought to be permitted to keep secrets. Now Sir Dalziel’s were being exposed. “Any oddities in his behavior lately? Keeping strange company
?”
“They’re artists, madam. Behaving oddly’s what they do.”
“So you’ve no idea who might extract his heart and carve a magical symbol into his chest?”
Brigham shook his head, pale.
“One last thing,” put in Lafayette. “How would you characterize Sir Dalziel’s relationship with his lady wife?”
A blank look. “They were married.”
“Yes, but affectionate or at war? Devoted lovebirds or playing around on the side?”
“Not my place to judge the upper classes, sir. Different rules for them.”
“So I’ve heard. Supremely helpful as always, Charles. If ever you need a job, come and see me.” Lafayette flipped Brigham another, larger tip.
“Flirt,” whispered Eliza as they turned to leave.
“Is that an accusation, or an imperative?” Lafayette retrieved his hat from the scowling footman, whose elaborate livery involved breeches, lace-edged cuffs, and a braided coat, fresh from the previous century. The upper classes put their servants into such silly costumes. As if the class divide weren’t clear enough. “What’s your name, good man?”
“James, sir.” Eyes front, chin up. Poor at concealing his hostility in hope of a tip. Lady Fleet must be paying him too well. Buying his silence, perhaps?
“Any point in my questioning you, James, or will you just glare bayonets at me and deny everything about any black magic in this house?”
Coldly, James yanked open the door. “I was in the country, sir. I don’t know anything.”
“Glad we’ve cleared that up.” From the doorstep, Lafayette shot him an icy challenge. “One thing more. You’d better hope nothing nasty happens to Mr. Brigham this morning. Or ever, come to think of it.”
“Sir?”
A bright, threatening Lafayette smile. “You’ve just made a new best friend. If I see any more bruises on his innocent little face? I’ll come looking for you. Understand?”
THE NUMERICAL ENCHANTRESS
OUTSIDE, SUNLIGHT STRUGGLED THROUGH THE gritty haze to bathe the grandiose houses of Grosvenor Square with their ornate plastering and grand brickwork. Their windows gleamed, dulled with greasy coal dust. Next door, a grim-faced maid in a drab apron scrubbed fruitlessly at her front steps. The coal-burning power station upriver had been blown up by home-grown republican outlaws a week ago—the demise at the Royal’s hands of the relatively moderate Thistlewood Club had left the door open for a gang of dangerous radicals dubbed “the Incorruptibles,” led by a cunning rabble-rouser by the unlikely name of Nemo. Since the explosion, which had been heard all the way down at Rotherhithe, London had smothered under a dirty pall of fog that crawled into every crack and crevice. Half the electric lights in town still languished unpowered, and everything was constantly filthy.
