by Viola Carr
But the idea of accepting his charity stung her pride. She wanted to make her own living as a physician. And Mr. Hyde was an evil man. Unhinged. Murderous.
Aye, whispered spectral Lizzie, drifting alongside the fence, just a faint shadow in the fog. Bloodied hands is a real turnoff for you. Never would dream of consorting with no killer.
“I’m sorry, did you speak?” snapped Eliza, but tiny bubbles of hope prickled inside her. Was Lizzie dimmed, by that tiny drop of pink-purple remedy? Had Finch at last found a working formula?
Under her porch, the lamp shed a welcoming glow. She glanced up at her expensive, newly repaired roof, already coated in dirt from the filthy London air, and checked a sigh. The brass shingle on her doorpost—ELIZA JEKYLL M.D., it announced politely—was grimy again, too, the windows dull. She sighed. More work for Molly. In this fog, scrubbing the steps was an endless job. Those Incorruptibles deserved punishment for that alone.
She let herself in, to the delicious smells of hot supper. The polished hall furniture glimmered in soft electric light. She set her things on the hall stand—WHO IS HARLEQUIN? DESPICABLE FRENCH SPYMASTER ELUDES CAPTURE AGAIN read the headline on her evening edition—and Hippocrates bounced from her bag and boinged into his corner. “Welcome home! Welcome!”
“Thank you, Hipp.” He’d calmed, mercifully, but she could still hear the click and whir of overstressed cogs. An overhaul, Mr. Brigham had said. Perhaps he was right.
“You’re home early, Doctor.” Her housekeeper swept in, stocky as a bulldog, her white bonnet tucked over steel-gray hair. “There’s blood on your skirt. Have a pleasant day?”
“No, Mrs. Poole, it was positively disheartening.” Eliza tugged off her gloves, frowning at the blood-smeared leather. “Oh, dear. These are ruined, I think. Perhaps Molly can have them cleaned.”
“Your boots are filthy, too. Where have you been, mudlarking?” Mrs. Poole dusted the already spotless hall stand. “That Chief Inspector’s case take a bad turn?”
“Worse,” admitted Eliza. “A dull turn. The man’s making fun of me. And please don’t say ‘I told you so.’”
“Never did like that Mr. Reeve. Ugly manners, stinks of cigars.” A sly wink. “Your handsome army captain, now, there’s a proper gentleman. Shall we be seeing him again?”
“Who?” Eliza widened her eyes.
“For certain, clever rich fellows pop into your consulting room and propose all the time. Hardly surprising he should slip your mind.”
“Oh, you mean that insufferable Royal Society agent?” Eliza waved carelessly. “Decidedly an improper gentleman, and certainly doesn’t belong to me.”
“He could do. Taking your sweet time, aren’t you?” Mrs. Poole bustled around, assaulting invisible dust. “Dashing officer with prospects and a fortune, pleasing to look at, knows words of more than one syllable. Even you ought to be satisfied with that. He won’t wait forever.”
“What a shame. Perhaps you should marry him.”
“I might, if you dilly-dally much longer.” Mrs. Poole dusted Hipp’s head, eliciting an indignant squeak. “Oh, your new lodger arrived. Miss Burton. Pleasant girl, three shillings a week. I believe she’ll do nicely.”
Eliza’s heart sank. Renting out the spare third-floor rooms was better than selling furniture or pawning her mother’s jewels. But it still smacked of professional failure. And what if this Miss Burton noticed Lizzie’s comings and goings? What if Lizzie . . . interfered?
She forced a smile. She needed to pay Mrs. Poole and Molly. Decision made. “Excellent. Whatever should I do without you?”
“Replace me with one of those brass monstrosities? Why, just the other day, the Bistlethwaites at number twenty-five bought a clockwork butler. Let poor Mr. Simkins go after thirty-four years. He’ll never find another situation at his age.”
“Poor fellow. It’s awful that people are losing their jobs. Still, the technology is marvelous. One must admire progress.”
A doubtful sniff. “Will you be dining early, Doctor?”
“No, thank you. I’ve work to do.”
“Just as well. A patient’s waiting in your consulting room.”
Eliza gaped, stunned. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“I just did.” Mrs. Poole dusted on, as if the news were of no import. “Weren’t you expecting anyone?”
“You know perfectly well I was not.” She’d not had a patient in weeks. Not since the Chopper case, when her name had yet again made the newspapers connected with murderers and escaped lunatics. Once was tantalizing, worthy of gossip. Twice was merely bad manners. She’d devolved from dashing heroine into wicked lady of loose morals and rampant laudanum addiction, probably a poisoner and a suffragette to boot. One particularly garish publication had labeled her “Madam Murder.”
Hastily, Eliza dusted her muddy skirts and shoved loose hair into its pins. “What’s her name? Has she been waiting long? Oh, never mind. How do I look? Shall I impress?”
A cursory glance. “I suppose you’ll do.”
“A fountain of confidence, as ever.” Nervously, Eliza grinned. “Wish me luck.”
“Wouldn’t waste it on you.”
She gulped a steadying breath and opened the door.
Her consulting room was blessedly tidy. Writing desk by the window, medical books lined neatly on tall shelves. On the big rosewood table sat a vase of fresh-scented freesias. Tiny arc-lamps glowed in sconces, and a small coal fire burned. By the low sofa, a velvet-shaded lamp cast her patient into shadow.
Eliza cleared her throat. “Sorry to keep you waiting, madam . . .” Her guts heated. “Oh. I’m so terribly sorry. I was expecting . . .”
“No matter.” The gentleman—fancy that!—jumped up, bowler hat in hand. A youthful fellow, blond with an upturned nose. He bowed, eyes—green or hazel?—twinkling. “Moriarty Quick, at your service or for your entertainment, whichever lasts the longer.”
Despite her embarrassment, the Dubliner’s lilt on that odd greeting charmed her. “Delighted, sir. Dr. Eliza Jekyll.”
“I know who y’are. This is your office.” An impish smile that matched his surname. Expensive bottle-green coat, black satin necktie in an elaborate knot. Not impecunious. Vain, she guessed; he had the kind of rakish aspect that had been fashionable twenty or thirty years ago, but was now considered disreputable.
“Please, sit.” She took her own desk chair, confused. Dozens of physicians worked in the West End alone. Had she come recommended? “Forgive my presumption. It’s only . . . a female physician tends to attract . . .”
“Only the finest clientele, I’m sure. Yours is the clever sex, and mine the humble. I submit eagerly to your expertise.”
He muffled a dry cough, reminding Eliza of her own parched throat, where that new pink remedy’s sweetfire flavor lingered. “Water, sir? Or tea?”
“I could murder a whiskey.” Another cheeky smile. “But we’ve barely met. Water would be grand.”
She poured two glasses, and sipped. Pink iridescence swirled from her lips, coating the water’s surface like oil. “What can I do for you, Mr. Quick?”
“It’s more a question of what I can do for you.” He hooked the brass frames of green-tinted spectacles over his ears. They made him look faintly demented. “I’m something of a professional meself. With a certain specialty, if you take my meaning.”
“I’m afraid I do not.” But her heart sank, despairing. Why could no one take her seriously? After Razor Jack’s sensational trial, she’d been targeted by gossip-mongers and rubber-neckers who wanted a glimpse of the infamous “lady doctor” who’d single-handedly caught the lunatic. She’d felt like a zoo exhibit, poked and prodded for public amusement.
“I’m rather busy,” she added shortly. “If you’re merely curious, I’d prefer you to leave now.”
“But we’ve barely begun. Shall we take a look?” And he circled the room, examining her trinkets and poking at her papers. “Yes. I see. Hmm. Thought so.” From his coat skirts�
��voluminous like a pickpocket’s—he produced a silver tobacco case and a wad of matches. He thumbed the case open and dipped in a match, coating the head in sparkly black powder.
She jumped up. “I’d rather you didn’t smoke. I say, whatever are you doing?”
He just struck his match—ker-pop!—and flicked it into her water glass. Hissst! The match sizzled out . . . but the water’s surface caught alight. A tell-tale lick of strawberry flame.
That oily iridescence, washed from her lips. Finch’s remedy. Unorthodox. Illegal. Dangerous.
“Oh, dear.” Regretfully, Moriarty Quick shook his head . . . but above those sinister glasses, his cunning eyes gleamed. “That’s alchemy, Dr. Jekyll. Whatever shall we do with you?”
THE BEST IN TOWN
WHAT’S THE MEANING OF THIS?” ELIZA DEMANDED. “Slip some noxious poison into my drink, will you, like a common cad?” Lizzie remained oddly quiescent, but still Eliza’s pulse thudded, demanding she act. Scream. Run. Smash those glinting spectacles into his eyes and watch them bleed.
Quick didn’t smile. Not a gloat or threat in sight. “Told ye I know who y’are.”
She edged towards her desk. What was that black powder? Highlighting traces of alchemical flux in the visible spectrum? God help her if the Royal ever got their hands on that. “You make no sense, sir. We have nothing to discuss. Kindly leave my house.”
“But I can help,” insisted Quick. “An improvement on your present pharmaceutical arrangements. At little or no cost to you, of course. Think of me as . . . a talented friend in need.”
“Oh, so I’m to agree to your ignoble demands, whatever they are, to stop you spreading malicious slander?” Eliza whipped her electric stinger from the drawer and kindled it, zzap! “I don’t think so.”
“Whoa, Nellie. Take it easy.” He lifted his hands, with an injured expression. “And I was being so polite—”
“You’ve ambushed the wrong weak female, Mr. Quick. Were you ever stung by one of these? Not lethal current, heavens no. But the voltage is quite ridiculous. I’m told the sensation is most disagreeable. Now get out, before my mood deteriorates.”
“All right, fine, don’t get your garters in a tangle.” Quick swept his hat on with a flourish, tipping his tinted glasses down. Like a stage actor, every movement choreographed. “Truly, I’m pained we couldn’t come to terms. You’re an intelligent woman, Dr. Jekyll. Think on whether it might serve ye well to oblige me.”
“I’ll oblige you with three thousand volts if you don’t get out of my house. And don’t come back. I shall be summoning the police directly.”
He flipped a card onto the sofa. “In case you reconsider. I’ll see meself out.”
In the hall, Hippocrates zzzp!d indignantly at him, and flashed his red unhappy light. Quick tilted his hat ironically, and slammed the front door behind him.
Eliza thumbed off her stinger and ran to the window, peering out. Dusk, a sinister yellow-gray miasma. There he strode, beneath flickering arc-lamps into the fog-bound park. Hands in pockets, bowler hat at a jaunty angle, a whistle on his lips. Who was this Quick? How did he know her secret?
She scooped up the trade card he’d dropped. Stiff white paper, embossed lettering in black and gold, all the barely suppressed excitement of a fairground playbill:
PROFESSOR MORIARTY QUICK!
POTIONS! LOTIONS!
EFFICACIOUS PHARMACEUTICALS!
THE BEST IN TOWN!
and an address along the expensive end of Piccadilly.
At your service, he’d said, or for your entertainment.
She snorted. Professor, indeed. A circus charlatan, with his mysterious powders and flashy matchbook tricks, making a fine living charming unsuspecting ladies out of their husbands’ cash for snake oil and fake fairy dust at inflated prices. Money, that’s what he wanted. Gold in return for his silence.
She almost laughed. He’d picked the wrong target . . . but her stomach twisted. Madam Murder. Had he merely heard rumors, and confronted her to see what she’d do? Or did he know what she was?
No, he was just an opportunist. A con man. Yes. That had to be it.
Mrs. Poole poked her head around the doorframe. “Went well, did it?”
“Another sightseer, I’m afraid. Don’t let him in again.” A thought struck her. “What time did you say he arrived?”
“A quarter hour ago. I told him you’d be out until eight, but he said he was certain you’d be along soon and he’d wait, thank me very much. Wouldn’t take tea either.” A dismissive sniff. “Bless me, Irishmen in your parlor. Next it’ll be Frenchmen and Republicans.” Mrs. Poole handed her the mail tray and bustled out.
Eliza rubbed aching eyes. Quick had waited. As if he’d known to expect her early.
Had he eavesdropped at Finch’s? Was the horrid fellow spying on her?
Ridiculous. Not everyone was plotting against her. She’d attended deluded patients like that at Bethlem. Huddling in corners or under the bed, imagining themselves the target of nefarious plots and persecutions. They’re spying on me. They’re after me. It’s THEM.
But that chilly strawberry sweetness lingered on her tongue, nagging, and she couldn’t escape this creeping unease. Like a sticky rut in the road, dragging her deeper the more she struggled.
She toe-poked Hippocrates, who awoke with a jerk. “Hipp, pop along and wire Mr. Finch. Ask him what he knows about a pestilent Irishman named Professor Moriarty Quick. Oh, and same question to Inspector Griffin.”
“Finch,” echoed Hipp sleepily. “Griffin. Professor.” She opened the front door a crack, and he scuttled out, whistling.
Listless, she wandered back inside, flipping through the post. An account from her book-seller, another from her glove-maker. Always more bills.
She tore open an unmarked envelope with her fingers. Since the business with Razor Jack, she’d avoided letter openers. She didn’t like to touch their smooth silver, recall that wickedly sharp edge.
Inside lurked an antique-white invitation card.
A PRIVATE VIEWING
THE ROYAL ACADEMY OF ARTS
SUMMER EXHIBITION OF NEW WORKS
THE NATIONAL GALLERY, TRAFALGAR SQUARE
She turned it over. Confident, flyaway handwriting, but without a wasted blot of ink:
Dr. J,
In case you change your mind.
Tomorrow night?
Remy
Her smile quirked. Change her mind, indeed. The y’s tail curled, a cocky swirl. Insolent use of his first name. He could wish they were so familiar.
Stubbornly, she tossed the card onto her desk and sat. Notice from the dustman, advertisement for a new dress shop . . .
Trembling, she picked up the last letter.
Delivered by penny post, stamp pasted in one corner. Exquisite linen paper, the kind she wanted to smell or brush across her lips. Folded into three and sealed with crimson wax, the imprint of a tiny rose.
Her name—Eliza Jekyll, M.D.—and address, in narrow left-slanting letters. No sender.
But she knew the handwriting, the paper, the seal. Artist, escaped lunatic, wielder of a bloody straight razor. Murderer of seventeen people; at least, seventeen that the police knew about. The newspapers called him Razor Jack, but in her thoughts—her darkened, breathless dreams—he was always and forever Mr. Todd.
Her fingers turned the letter, considering it. A faint chemical odor, memories of a wet midnight in Chelsea, and another, stormy one at Bethlem Asylum, the Chopper’s awful laboratory, rich with secrets and thunder. Todd had vanished into the rain that night, gone like a frosted breath. Her lips tingled, the echo of a murderer’s almost-kiss . . .
She dropped the letter as if it burned her. It landed alongside Lafayette’s invitation, an unsettling unspoken question.
Suddenly her situation suffocated her. She’d no money, not without accepting Mr. Hyde’s ill-gotten charity. No income, since she’d alienated Chief Inspector Reeve. Add this Moriarty Quick’s inscrutable demands . . .
Either she found more work, or she admitted failure—and that, she would not do.
She needed this new case. Even if it meant proceeding without Harley Griffin, whose career needed just as bitterly as hers to be salvaged. At least it was real police work, a case that mattered. And—she gritted her teeth on stung pride—lest she attract the Royal’s ire, she needed to keep on safe terms with Remy Lafayette.
So he’d proposed. The dreaded M-word. What of it? He’d no right to pressure her into an answer. A husband—whoever he might be—would take her property, her income, her right to make business decisions. Everything but trinkets and the clothes she wore. English common law at its finest. She wouldn’t surrender her independence lightly.
So why not take the case? Maintain a professional relationship. If Lafayette had it in mind to flirt—and when didn’t he?—she was more than fit for the challenge.
As for Mr. Todd . . .
Glowing coals guttered in the grate, beckoning. Burn it, hissed Lizzie, a red-lit demon in the shadows. Burn it unopened.
Compelled, Eliza slipped a hooked key from her pocket and unsnapped a hidden drawer in her writing desk.
A pile of newspaper clippings stared up at her. She fingered through the headlines, discomfited. Rumors, sightings, deaths of a specific and bloody kind. Nothing confirmed, nothing concrete . . . but she knew better.
Todd was alive. And Todd was killing. The two were inextricable.
THREADNEEDLE STREET SLASHING
BANKER FOUND DEAD
A money-lender, officious, bad-mannered. Had he annoyed Todd? Refused him credit? Worn the wrong color coat?
TALES OF CHELSEA HAUNTINGS SPURIOUS,
SAYS LANDLORD
That one was a laugh. Souvenir hunters had flocked to Todd’s Chelsea studio, hoping to scrounge a memento, but the place had been stripped on police orders. Nothing remained of that strange, fragrant attic boudoir. Still, hardly surprising no one would rent the place.
MISSING BEADLE IMPLICATED IN PARISH
EMBEZZLEMENT SCANDAL
Her bones shuddered, and she pushed the clipping aside. The man who’d fired her from the parish workhouse, “missing” and exposed as a thief. Coincidence?
