by Viola Carr
She’d told no one about her collection. Especially not Harley, who thought her obsession with Todd’s case unhealthy. Harley didn’t know the half of it.
Beneath the clippings lay a pile of letters. Identical crimson seals, imprinted with a rose. But these seals were broken.
Eliza shivered, sweating. She’d read his letters, alone at midnight, sleepless at her desk or huddled in her bed by candlelight. Lingered over their singular contents, word for darkly beautiful word. And wondered . . .
The night Todd had escaped—you LET him escape, oh yes—he’d visited her while she slept. Spied on her at her most vulnerable. She imagined him tracking the rise and fall of her breath, brushing her hair aside, fingering the pulsing vein in her throat . . .
If Mr. Todd wanted to kill her—and heaven knew he had cause—then why hadn’t he?
She cursed. Harley was right. She should inform the police. They’d watch her house, track her mail deliveries. Set a trap.
But her nerves wriggled, worms from salt. If he was caught, he’d be hanged. That wasn’t justice. She was a doctor, not an executioner, and Todd was ill. Not criminally responsible. The surgeon’s “therapy” regime at Bethlem had been anything but civilized. She’d researched other options. Aversion training. Drugs to aid memory of repressed trauma. Hypnotism, if you believed in that sort of thing. Her professional curiosity itched at the prospect of a challenge. Science could solve any problem. Surely, with proper treatment . . .
A scratching at the front door dragged her back to sense. Flustered, she hurried to open it, and Hippocrates bounded in. “Telegraph. Success!”
“Good boy.” She dropped the latch and walked back to her desk. Her gaze jumped from letter to invitation and back again . . .
This was ridiculous. She didn’t care what Todd wanted. Let him write her, if it fed his fantasies. She needn’t respond. He wasn’t her responsibility. Right?
Then burn his god-rotted letters! Lizzie, fighting to be heard? Or just Eliza’s own common sense? Toss ’em on the fire and be done. What’s stopping you?
Eliza put the new letter with the others, turned the key, and with a sigh, pulled from her bag the pile of papers Lafayette had taken from Sir Dalziel’s office. She flipped through them. Just dull correspondence from bankers, brokers, the Academy Hanging Committee.
Sketches, too, mostly of beautiful ladies in flowing dresses. Exquisite faces and forms with expressions that seemed alive, lips on the brink of speech or smile. One pair of dark eyes in particular arrested her, beautiful but bitter with self-knowledge. Landscapes, too: an inky moonlit sky, a hunting scene, the penciled skyline of London in a storm. Dalziel had an excellent eye for light and shadow.
Here was the dinner guest list, in the butler Brigham’s careful hand:
Dr. Silberman, Lord & Lady Havisham,
Lord Montrose, Sir Wm Thorne, Hon.
Mr. Cartwright MP, Revd and Mrs. Mortimer,
Hon. Miss Mary Wallace, Miss Watt,
Lt Lestrange, Mr. Zanotti, Mr. Hunt,
Mr. Lightwood . . .
She recognized none of them. She’d need Lafayette’s help. Wearily, she put the list aside and reached for a book. On the Origin of Species, a fascinating new publication by an intrepid naturalist. The Philosopher himself had recommended it as revolutionary. She tried to lose herself in tortoises, water birds, the faraway Galápagos Isles.
But like a magnet drawn to iron, her gaze kept sliding to her desk. The white card. That locked drawer.
What was stopping her, indeed?
Resolved, she retrieved Lafayette’s invitation and set it on the mantel. “Mrs. Poole?” she called into the hallway. “Tomorrow morning, have Molly fetch out my best dress, if you please. I’ll be going out in the evening.”
And then, with pounding heart, she locked her consulting room door. Slipped that rose-sealed letter from the secret drawer—was something slim folded within?—and settled by the dying fire to read.
Precious Eliza,
I’m no poet, I fear; my words are clumsy studies in charcoal for a glory I’ll one day paint in color—but I’m compelled to write again, even though you can’t (or won’t) reply. This morning, I colored my new Lot’s Wife—such rapture!—coaxing forth her moment of temptation and decision!—and eagerly my thoughts ran to you.
If I may abandon a gentleman’s modesty—I think I might?—the scene is delightful. I should like very much to show it to you. How ardently I crave your kind opinion—
But enough. You deserve abject truth. I’m tortured by purer desires than vanity, Eliza, creatures not so patient, nor so gentle. Night and day, I thirst: that awakening; the absolute truth of that sibilant slice; that elusive alpha and omega, bled out in endless crimson by those other, brighter tools of my art, which inspire in you such—well, I can only call it hesitation, Eliza, though I can’t imagine why. You wield such cruel power over me that, at your whim, I should meekly breathe my last. You laugh—how golden, your laughter!—you laugh, but it’s true.
Yet the memory of your pulse teasing my fingertip, your breath quivering on my lips—
Forgive these fragments. You torment me. Can this be your intention? Without you, I languish in darkness, shackled as brutally as ever you saw me, and the Shadow is hungry.
I cannot bear it. Help me, sweet lady, lest I fade into that nightfall forever.
Your innocent friend
M.
NOBODY’S DULLNESS BUT MY OWN
AT NINE O’CLOCK THE NEXT EVENING, ELIZA’S CAB rattled to a stop at the stone steps of the National Gallery. Trafalgar Square’s gaslights shed watery halos, stretching like jack-o’-lanterns into the fog. Carriages flitted in silhouette towards Whitehall and the square edifices of Horse Guards and Scotland Yard. Eerie pink sunset stained the foggy twilight, and the Gallery’s tall Greek pillars loomed, half obscured in the gloom.
Tucking her best silken skirts out of the dirt, Eliza jumped down and paid the driver. Strange eagerness quickened her pulse, the warm air tingling her skin alive. At the top of the steps, she showed her invitation to the obsequious doorman, who admitted her into the cavernous entry hall.
“Private viewing” apparently meant “no poor people,” rather than any limitation on numbers. On the red-carpeted stone staircase, ladies tittered in the latest finery: skirts in turquoise and bottle green, lace and gold trimmings, feather-edged fans, their hair pinned in elaborately artless curls. Fashionable gentlemen preened like peacocks, satiny lapels and sweep-cut coattails, intricately knotted ties, scarves in expensive shades of purple and gold. Glasses tinkled, snatches of laughter and conversation drifting above the hubbub. The bloody murder of society’s pre-eminent art critic certainly hadn’t dampened the crowd’s enthusiasm for showing off. All subtly jostling for position, the perfect space to be seen.
Eliza shouldered through into the brightly lit gallery, and gaped in amazement. Art covered every inch of the vast walls. Gilt and iron frames were crammed together like jigsaw pieces, from the floor to the coveted eye-level positions “on the rail” to the painted architrave. Space at the Exhibition was in high demand, with most submissions rejected by the Academy’s all-powerful Hanging Committee.
Glass-globed arc-lights hung suspended on overhead wires, their crackling electrostatic auras lifting the hair on her arms. The more intrepid art enthusiasts rode hovering alloy platforms, twenty feet above the floor. Tiny aetheric engines puffed them from painting to painting, amidst burps of white smoke and the smell of thunder.
A young woman in a loud silver crinoline peered through a huge magnifying glass at a painting of a dying auburn-haired beauty. “I say,” she drawled, “this is fabulous. Herbert, dear, what do you call one of these?”
Herbert squinted through a monocle, twirling epic mustaches. “I believe that’s an ‘oil painting,’ Lady Alice. Quite the fashion this year.”
“How quaint,” offered Lady Alice, apparently unable to think of anything else to say. Her gaze caught on Eliza—neatly p
inned hair, subdued gown, plain white gloves—and she sniffed, as if she’d detected a foul smell.
“Well screw you, too,” retorted spectral Lizzie, popping into view in a whiff of gin-scented breeze. Eliza stifled a groan. Ruby satin, frills up to here and cleavage down to there, and to hell with ’em all if they didn’t approve. The pink remedy must be wearing off.
“Don’t you dare embarrass me tonight,” she hissed. “We’re here to find out who wanted Sir Dalziel dead, and that’s all.”
“Right. ’Cause you ain’t prettied up to impress.” Lizzie twirled, ghostly red skirts bouncing.
Defensively, Eliza smoothed her own pale golden skirts. The Dress, with all its redolent memories, her long-dead mother’s diamond necklace heavy at her throat. Her best evening outfit—her only one, the kind Mr. Hyde liked her to wear, with a father’s gruff fondness. But the silk whispering about her ankles ignited fiery memories of an artist’s attic boudoir in Chelsea. Glittering green eyes, wild blood-red hair, the cold sharp kiss of steel . . .
Her fingers crept nervously to the necklace, and angrily, she yanked them away. No one deemed her worthy of notice, so why did she feel stared at from all sides? Weighed up, found wanting?
Impatiently, she teetered on tiptoes, searching for a flash of scarlet uniform. She spied Lady Lovelace, silver skirts gleaming, her jointed iron arm draped in lace. The countess’s cold eyes cataloged the crowd, storing every detail, and Eliza sidled warily out of her sight. Lafayette was late, curse him. If he’d changed his mind . . .
“All look the same, don’t they?”
“Eh?” Eliza turned, but Lizzie had vanished. “Beg pardon?”
A young lady smiled at her. Startlingly pretty, in a slim black mourning gown and jet choker. “Gentlemen, I mean. Frightfully dull fellows, nothing to choose between them. Until they open their mouths, whereupon you invariably wish they hadn’t.”
Eliza grinned. “I find one or two clever enough to be tolerable.”
“Really? You must introduce me.” Laughing, the girl offered a black-gloved hand. Her glossy auburn curls flowed loose like Lizzie’s. Her ribboned neckline revealed a broad creamy expanse, her waist tight-laced. Either courageous or foolish in this company, who, from the glares they fired in her direction—the ladies, not the gentlemen, whose regard burned far more honestly—clearly thought her a prostitute. But they all seemed to know her.
“Penny Watt, struggling artist and shameless gossip,” the girl said. “Are you buying or selling?”
“Hmm? Oh. Neither. Just attending with a friend. Dr. Eliza Jekyll.” She shook hands, curious. Miss Watt. From Brigham’s list of Sir Dalziel’s dinner guests. “An artist, no less. Are there many female academicians?”
“Are there many female doctors at the College of Physicians?” Penny lit a cigarette, an elegant opium-roughened puff, and tossed the match away. “Ladies don’t paint. What unspeakable scandal that would be. Next we’ll run around thinking, and before you know it, we’ll all wear blue stockings and refuse to have babies, all while we’re lining up to vote. Society will crumble!”
“Heaven forbid. Have you work on display?”
Penny squinted towards the ceiling. “You might just spy me with a telescope. Old Dalziel put in a good word with the Hanging Committee, otherwise I’d have no chance. I had to adopt a male pseudonym, of course.” She crossed her eyes ironically. “Whereas all the properly successful brown-nosers are right on the rail. Thrust before your eyes, so you can’t help but notice. Like Sheridan there. Story of his life, the loathsome little worm.” She pointed to a large gilded frame hanging at eye level.
Nelson at Trafalgar, meticulously executed. Painted whitecaps frothed, and wind puffed the ships’ sails. Beyond the theater of battle, a hellish storm threatened. The French ships held a sinister aspect, their hungry figureheads grinning, foreshadowing the evil sorcery that had plagued the Continent since the latest coup d’état. Admiral Lord Nelson lay bleeding on the quarterdeck of HMS Victory, his vitality drained, just one shuddering breath from death.
Eliza shivered. In this nightmarish vision, valiant Nelson had sacrificed in vain. Still, the painting wore a satirical smirk, as if the artist mocked his own message. Which was the greater danger: sorcery, or the indefatigable storm of British imperialism, obliterating the spirit of revolution?
She squinted at the hook-lettered signature. “Sheridan Lightwood?”
“The late Sir Dalziel’s favorite protégé. Is his name not familiar? Heavens, don’t tell him that. His sneer will kill you at twenty paces. I’ll introduce you, but be warned: he’s utterly intolerable.” Penny waved towards a young fellow a few yards away in the crowd.
He wore his glossy dark hair long, in the bohemian fashion. Languidly, he sipped plum-red wine, a cigarette burning between two fingers, and murmured to the wide-eyed debutante at his side. The girl blushed to match her rose-madder skirts, and Lightwood gave a bored smile. He looked vaguely familiar. Where had Eliza seen him?
Ghostly Lizzie sauntered up, peering into his face. “Cocky little toad, ain’t he?”
Eliza’s guts clenched . . . but of course, no one reacted. No one could see Lizzie but she.
“Good God. You’re truly merciless, aren’t you?”
She whirled, startled. “Eh?”
Remy Lafayette flashed a brilliant smile. Arc-light crackled his chestnut curls with azure fire. “Knew you couldn’t resist. Victory to me, I think.”
“Well, you know. Nothing better to do this evening.” But her heart flipped, unprepared. He wasn’t wearing his dashing scarlet-and-gold uniform. No, she’d grown almost immune to that spectacle. So, of course, he’d turned up in civilian dress—as elegant as any of them, midnight coat and immaculate white tie—and the sight was . . .
Behind him, Lizzie tumbled, a theatrical swoon. Inwardly, Eliza rolled her eyes. “I say, what do you mean, ‘merciless’?”
“You arrive looking like that, and pretend you harbor one meager ounce of pity?”
“Is that truly your best effort at a compliment? Because if it is . . .”
He kissed her gloved hand, drawing her close. “You look ravishing, madam,” he whispered, a sudden glory of sky-blue warmth. “I’m lost for words. Melting at your feet. Pledging my undying admiration. Is that better?”
She laughed. “It’ll do. If overly operatic.”
Lafayette grinned, releasing her. “What, no razor-sharp reproach? Immediately I suspect a trap. Won’t you introduce me to your friend?”
“Of course. Miss Penny Watt, Captain Remy Lafayette. Miss Watt is an artist.”
Penny wrinkled her nose in a smile. “A Frenchman, no less. I’m smitten.”
“Sans vouloir vous décevoir, mademoiselle, but I’m mind-numbingly English, I’m afraid. Are you a painter? Fascinating.”
“We were just discussing Sheridan Lightwood, Sir Dalziel’s protégé, and his Nelson.” Eliza indicated the corpse-strewn deck of HMS Victory. “What do you think?”
Lafayette studied it with a frown. “Brutally effective. Still, someone really ought to tell Mr. Lightwood we won at Trafalgar.”
Penny giggled. “You, sir, can stay. It’s tolerable, certainly, but no Eve and the Serpent. Without Dalziel, the vulgar little snake is back to being a lowly watch-maker’s apprentice. Not that anyone’s sorry.”
Lafayette eyed Eliza meaningfully. “Did you know Sir Dalziel well, Miss Watt? My condolences.”
“Everyone knew Dalziel, darling. Terrible business. We’re all in mourning, like Lady Fleet.” Penny struck a tragic pose, hand dramatically to forehead.
“Do tell,” exclaimed Eliza. “We love juicy gossip.”
“Well, you know. Indiscreet affairs are all the rage, and Lady Fleet’s nothing if not fashionable. They say Dalziel encouraged handsome young talents to ravish his wife, so he wouldn’t have to.” Penny grew solemn. “In truth, I shall miss the old sweetie. He got me commissions, even if I did have to lie about my sex. Our careers are just as murdered
, you know, especially Sheridan’s. Some say they must have been more than friends,” she added in a loud whisper, a wicked glint in her eyes, “or Dalziel wouldn’t have lauded him as he did. Utter bollocks, of course.”
Eliza laughed. “Indeed?”
“Trust me: old Dalziel was a miserable prude. Much as I detest Mr. Lightwood, I declare, it’s frightfully unfair the way people gossip. A pretty lad can’t pick up a paintbrush without some jealous Academy fool shouting ‘sodomy!’ and ‘blackmail!’”
Lafayette cocked an eyebrow. “Protesting too much, are they?”
“I should say. Look at him, stalking that star-struck heiress. Field mouse, meet hawk.” Penny mimed sticking a finger down her throat. “He’s about as effeminate as the Duke of Wellington’s stallion, and I have it on good authority that the drugs he’s taking both prolong and fortify the performance, if you get my drift. Sheridan, I mean, not the duke’s horse.”
Lizzie chortled, slapping her thighs. Too late, Eliza clapped a hand over her own mouth.
Penny widened her eyes. “What?”
“Ahem. Nothing. You remind me of a friend, that’s all.”
“So if half a dozen people within earshot could outpaint Sheridan in a heartbeat,” remarked Lafayette, “and no blackmail was involved, then why did Dalziel think the world of him?”
“Quite clever for a man, aren’t you?” Penny gave a condescending smile. “Some say Sheridan laid a hex on him. Traded his soul to the Devil, don’t you know, for Dalziel’s patronage. Or was it for a few added inches to his male member?”
Eliza laughed. “And how, pray, did he forge this diabolical pact?”
“Summoning rituals, bathing in the blood of virgins, the usual.” Penny chuckled. “Apparently London’s positively riddled with evil covens holding séances in the dead of night, where they smoke delightful substances and copulate frantically in groups while imagining their lovers to be Satan. Why am I never invited to these occult debaucheries? That’s what I’d like to know.”
“I confess, I heard something about how Sir Dalziel died. People are whispering about rituals.”
