by Viola Carr
Penny puffed smoke rings. “Stabbed in the neck with Jesus Christ himself, they say. Face torn right off. More original than anything he ever painted, for sure. I must have posed for a dozen shepherdesses and ‘fallen women.’ But if he enjoyed orgies and black sabbats, he certainly hid it well. We all attended his party at Grosvenor Square that night, and I’m sorry to say it was excruciatingly dull. Not a scandal in sight. I really must get in with the right people.”
Eliza cleared her throat. “If you don’t mind my asking . . . where were you at ten to four that morning?”
Mischief lit Penny’s eyes. “My word, you’re some kind of investigator! How wonderfully cunning. I assure you, I was desperately oblivious.”
Eliza exchanged glances with Lafayette. Mentioning the Royal seemed unwise, with Penny in such voluble mood. “I work for the police, yes.”
“Then I’m at your service—Wait. I remember you! The famous physician who caught that Razor Jack fellow! And the other one, with the severed legs?”
The Chopper. Eliza sighed. Madam Murder.
Penny finished her cigarette, licking her lips. “An artist, wasn’t he? Razor Jack, I mean. What was he like?”
“I didn’t have much to do with him.”
“That’s not what the papers said when he escaped.”
Eliza made a show of laughter. “Married him, didn’t I, and flitted off to Constantinople? Or was it Rangoon?”
“Bolivia,” put in Lafayette. “That’s what I read. But it didn’t say you were married.”
Penny winced. “I sympathize. My gentlemen colleagues make the press, and it’s all about art. Any publicity I get is about my figure and the cut of my gown.” She made a rude face as she lit a fresh cigarette. “Now, let’s see. We all endured Dalziel’s dinner. Everyone arguing politics, frightfully dull. I’m afraid we left rather early, about half past one.” Penny sighed. “I’d simply love to tell you that Sheridan lurked behind and bumped Dalziel off in a fit of smug insufferableness, but it isn’t true. He and I rode a cab to the coffee house.”
“I thought you didn’t like Mr. Lightwood.”
“Positively loathe the greasy-nosed runt. Doesn’t mean he can’t pay for my cab. Carmine was there, too, playing cards. Carmine Zanotti, I mean, of Eve and the Serpent. Have you seen it? It’s simply wonderful. What a surprising new talent. We didn’t shamble home until the sun crept up.”
“And home is?”
“Here, of course. The Academy has student rooms.”
“Which coffee house?”
Penny frowned, vague. “You know. The place we go. In Soho.” She waved across the way. “I say,” she called, “Sheridan, you disgusting little toad, we were just discussing your poor bartered soul.”
Lightwood sauntered over. A picturesque fellow, his long locks tied in a ribbon. He wore an antique long-fronted waistcoat in rainbow colors beneath his tapered black coat. “A bad bargain, as it turned out,” he said. “I’ve waved my magic wand a dozen times and you still won’t drop dead.”
“What do they all see in you?” muttered Penny. “It certainly isn’t talent.”
Sheridan smirked. “Charm, fame, and good looks? More than your talented friend Carmine has to offer.”
“I wouldn’t join that measuring contest, if I were you.” Penny grinned like a hyena. “Are you done with this evening’s petty conquest? I hear Lady Fleet’s newly available.”
He narrowed dark eyes at her. “Forgive me if my heart’s not quite in it this evening.”
“Oh, dear. Have you been blubbering over Dalziel again? Poor thing, your face is positively bloated.”
“What do you want, Watt? The sight of you’s already making me queasy.”
“This lady’s asking about the murder. I thought you might like to help, as you were such good friends.”
Lightwood studied Lafayette, and then Eliza, unfocused, as if he looked through her. Short-sighted? Bad news for a watch-maker’s apprentice who wanted to be an artist. The victim of a perennial sick headache? Hmm. What odds he was chasing the dragon? Pale, bad-tempered, that elusive, faraway cast to his gaze . . . but somehow, not so vague as he seemed. Observant, perhaps memorizing details for some future sketch. Once again, sly fingers tickled her memory . . . but she couldn’t place him.
“Forgive Miss Watt, madam,” he said. “She’s far too worthless a degenerate to properly introduce us.”
“For heaven’s sake.” Penny waved her cigarette. “Dr. Jekyll and Captain Lafayette, meet rude, drunken gutter-snipe who thinks he’s God’s gift to ladies and art lovers both. Sheridan, meet eminently sensible professional who’s so clearly out of your league that I’m tempted to watch you try, and the fellow who’ll thrash your lights out if you do.”
“That about covers it,” murmured Lafayette with a cold smile.
Sharply, Lightwood bowed. As he bent over her hand, Eliza’s senses prickled. His mingled scents drifted: claret, yes, he was halfway drunk, but also a sickly-sweet fruity smell that burned her palate.
She wished for her optical. Chinese opium, or some such? Magical, by that acid-sugar odor. Some artists used fey hallucinogens for the dreamlike, psychedelic state they induced, but they were horribly addictive, playing sly games with the body’s chemistry until without them you shivered and sweated, horrors creeping under your skin. Could it be the same intoxicant she and Finch had found in Dalziel’s tobacco?
“My condolences,” she offered, watching him closely. “Sir Dalziel was a great man.”
Lightwood’s jaw tightened. “Yes, he was. I shall miss his insight.”
“And his money,” drawled Penny. “I was just explaining about the coffee house. What’s the god-awful place called?”
Lightwood wiped his nose. “The Rising Sun, I believe. Fabulous tobacco, appalling coffee. I think someone relieved themselves in the brew jug.”
“Probably it was you,” Penny remarked. “You were intoxicated enough.”
“A categorical denial would be difficult,” admitted Lightwood coolly. “Not that you ceased fornicating with that pox-ridden sailor and his screeching bloody parrot for long enough to notice. Seriously, a parrot? Teach you a few maritime positions, did he?”
Penny arched dark brows. “Kiss my backside, Sheridan. You’re only jealous it wasn’t you.”
Lightwood grinned, no doubt relishing a caustic rejoinder . . . and abruptly walked off. Had he spotted someone he didn’t wish to see?
“Toadface,” muttered Penny. Then she brightened, waving. “Here comes Carmine. You simply must meet him. Carmine!”
Eliza studied him, curious. A young fellow, short brown hair and evasive long-lashed eyes. Stubble darkened his chin, even though he’d shaved. Pleasant-looking, but somehow incongruous. As if, like her, he didn’t belong.
Curiosity jabbed her ribs. Pale-skinned and useless were the gentry’s defining characteristics. This Carmine looked more like a man Lizzie might flirt with at the Cockatrice. As if he worked for a living—heaven forbid!—or had crawled into white tie and tails from the gambling tent at a traveling carnival.
“Has he gone?” Good English, a ripple of Neapolitan vowels. “Protect me, signorina. Sherry means to sting me with his thorny West End wit.”
“The coast is clear.” Penny kissed his cheek, glowing. “In any case, I shouldn’t worry. You got the better of him the other night.”
Zanotti rubbed bruised knuckles. “He has not the advantage of my upbringing. Penny, we must talk—”
“Meet Eliza Jekyll, she’s frightfully clever.” Penny pushed him towards Eliza. “A police physician, don’t you know? And her friend Captain Lafayette.”
“I look forward to viewing your painting, sir,” said Lafayette. “I’ve heard it well praised.”
Zanotti reddened. Humble, or merely shy? “I suppose Penny tells you wild tales about me? None of them are true.”
“Frightfully dull for a tortured genius,” Penny declared. “Not a broken heart nor vanished muse in sight. Dr. Jekyll is
investigating Dalziel’s murder, isn’t that fascinating?”
Eliza smiled encouragingly. “Did you know the baronet well?”
“Many times he examined my work.”
“May I ask what time you left his dinner party?”
“Twelve, something like that. I didn’t go down afterwards. The political discussion, it was not to my taste.” A defensive gloss coated his tone.
“Too many bloodsucking Tories?” suggested Lafayette.
“Too many . . . how do you say it? Republicans with the bleeding hearts.” He glanced at Nelson at Trafalgar. “I have experience with republics, Captain. Liberty and equality, they soon grow less compulsory.”
“So I’ve heard,” murmured Lafayette. “Did you leave the dinner alone?”
Zanotti’s expression froze over. “I must account for every moment? I met Penny and Sheridan later, at the coffee house. They will tell you.”
Penny rolled her eyes. “You’d make a terrible criminal. I vote for a steamy tryst with a mysterious high-born lady to account for your missing hours.”
Zanotti grinned tightly. “Why did I not think of this? Immediately I shall seduce a duchess to lie for me.”
“Or a baronet’s wife,” murmured Penny with a cruel smile. “I say, there’s Mr. Paxton from the North-Western Railway. Carmine, you must convince him to look at my Abélard and Héloïse. Excuse us, won’t you?” And she steered hapless Zanotti away.
“Well,” said Eliza expectantly. “That was interesting.”
Lafayette brushed a fleck of Penny’s cigarette ash from his sleeve. “Astonish me with your insight, then.”
Eliza considered. “Penny, voluble but genuine. Her confidence seemed honest. I rather envy her. Carmine, refreshingly shy but a bad liar. Sheridan, drunk and rude, but grieving. Desperately jealous of Carmine.”
“Of his talent, surely, but of his success? Where Dalziel leads, society follows. Sheridan was set up for life.”
“Then a better artist passed over might find motive for murder?”
“If Carmine’s guilty, I’d have expected a better alibi. Still, I gather those two came to blows. Our scorned genius has a problem with his temper.”
“Conveniently self-incriminating, but we don’t know who started it. Perhaps Lightwood provoked him.”
Lafayette laughed. “Do you think so? Handsome, rich, famous, no more talented than the next man? Allow me to illuminate the jealous male mind: no one’s more annoying than a mediocrity who gets more girls than you. I assure you, Lightwood provokes merely by existing.”
“How prehistoric,” she remarked. “Is that why gentlemen don’t like you?”
A wink. “And to think I still haven’t won the lady I want.”
“Still, it doesn’t prove either of them killed Dalziel. We yet have no clear motive. Despite that odd remark of Penny’s about Carmine and Lady Fleet. Perhaps he does have an alibi, but he can’t reveal it.”
“See, I knew you’d want this case. It’s better than an opera. We must interrogate this slighted swain at once, before the fun wears off.” Lafayette laughed more. Sweat glistened in his hair, and his eyes glittered, overly bright.
Eliza smiled, uneasy. He was behaving oddly. Recklessly, as if he’d abandoned caution. Could the approaching full moon be affecting him?
“Speaking of theater,” he added, still laughing to himself, “have you observed Lady Fleet’s little melodrama?”
“I could hardly miss it.” The widow wore black satin fishtail skirts and dabbed a handkerchief prettily at her face. An entourage of fashionable young things fawned around her. “How tragic. All those gentlemen, dying to offer their condolences. The woman’s a force of nature.”
“Wealthy fellows, all. Viscount what’s-his-name, Sir William something-or-other. That fat one’s an earl’s son, if I recall. Mean anything to you?”
Lord and Lady Havisham, Lord Montrose, Sir Wm Thorne . . . “I don’t suppose we’re looking at the guest list for Dalziel’s infamous party?”
“Applause all round.” Lafayette watched the scene dryly. “For a lady who killed her husband, she’s certainly thick with his friends. I’d introduce you, but I doubt their lordships would remember me.”
She smiled sweetly. “How deflating for you.”
“Au contraire,” said Lafayette cheerfully. “An advantage of the badge and the uniform: no one looks closely at my face. This white tie is a strangely impenetrable disguise. My brother knows these sort of people,” he added, careless. “You could ask him for an introduction. If you ever agree to meet him, that is. François is half convinced I’ve invented you to irritate our mother.”
Eliza snickered . . . and a flash of crimson stole her breath.
A man, half hidden in the crowd. Dark suit, red necktie . . . and a glimpse of bright hair the color of blood.
Her heart thudded. That hair belonged only to one man.
“Excuse me, I must speak with someone.” Before Lafayette could object, she darted into the crowd, shoving through a forest of elbows and skirts.
Where was he? Gone. Melted into the crush. Curse it. Her soft-slippered toe slammed into a table leg. “Ow! Damn it.” She hopped, unladylike, and limped faster. If Mr. Todd were here . . .
Finally, she reached the room’s perimeter. Overhead, a floating viewing platform puffed aether smoke, drenching her in thundery scent. Freshly varnished canvases covered every inch of the wall, surrounded by eager viewers. Dying Moses in the desert; Roundheads in orange sashes firing flintlocks at dissolute Cavaliers; a loch in some fog-bound Scottish highland . . . but the man she’d glimpsed was gone.
Breathless, she searched the crowd on tiptoes, but her heart somersaulted. “You imagined ’im,” accused Lizzie, who slouched beside her, puffing on a cigarette. “Going nuts, you is.”
“I am not . . .” Scintillating oil paints danced before Eliza’s eyes, and her vision telescoped.
The Garden of Eden. A naked beauty, wandering in a glade, silvery hair trailing on whispering breeze. The birds and small creatures seemed alive. She could practically hear birdsong, rustling foliage, the silvery bubble of a waterfall, a rabbit’s whicker as it munched grass . . . and the slither of scaly muscle, wrapping a forked tree.
Eve and the Serpent.
Eliza’s mouth watered. How she longed to touch this miniature universe, brush those cool leaves against her cheek. Taste the water, inhale that sweet garden air. Climb into the picture, sprawl on that lush green meadow, and bask in sinless sunlight . . .
But her forehead knotted. The colors looked wrong. The grass was too green, the sky’s daytime blue hurting her eyes, that bird’s yellow plumage a sensory assault. The shadows beneath the Tree of Life swallowed her alive, sucking her down into seething darkness.
Eliza’s blood burned. She’d know those startling colors anywhere. This hadn’t been painted by any Carmine Zanotti. She’d seen this before. At midnight, in a candlelit attic in Chelsea.
She rubbed aching eyes. The serpent’s lecherous gaze flickered, cunning. Its crimson-slashed tongue oozed like blood. Eve’s face shone, radiant with curiosity, a fair-haired angel with hope-filled storm-gray eyes . . .
Eve was unmistakably her.
Oh, my.
Her muscles watered, a treacherous swoon. That glistening, leathery serpent eyed her boldly, grinning mouth agape. Daring her to flinch . . . or edge closer.
Dizzy urges swamped her, a bloodstained tide. Fingers clawing for a throat, teeth clashing, the sweet thwock! of sharp steel into flesh, blood’s iron taint in her mouth, our mouth, my mouth . . . and we SCREAM . . .
My ears clang, bats in the belfry. What’s happening? I’m yelling, it’s my voice, me, Lizzie Hyde—but it’s not my voice. Her corset’s crushing my ribs, I can’t breathe, I scrabble for our laces but my hands are her hands and I’m clumsy, I can’t undo. Our skin crawls. Jesus, is this my face I’m wearing? Her face? Something monstrous in between?
Hot tears block my nose. We’re weeping, shoutin
g, cackling like twin witches mocking each other. I rake my hair, claw at the edge of my face. I want to peel off this hideous mask and be FREE . . .
Deep in Eliza’s skull, something snapped.
Bang! She reeled, flesh writhing inside. What had just happened? Had Lizzie burst free, in front of all these people? What if Lady Lovelace was watching? God help her, had she changed?
Frantic, she scrabbled in her dress pocket for Finch’s shimmering pink-purple ooze. Fumbled with the stopper, and tipped a big splash into her mouth.
Icy fire roared up the back of her nose. Blinding sensation, gin and laudanum and sparkling fey intoxicants, caresses, sighs. Her skin rippled . . . but no, it’s our skin, my skin, my ears filled with whispers of rage and hunger . . .
Strong hands shook her shoulders and a warm touch—a kiss?—sparkled on the corner of her mouth. She dragged in a sharp breath . . .
The storm-scent of aether flooded in, blessedly real. Artworks blossomed into focus, a rainbow of delicate colors. The crowd closed in, swirling skirts and starched collars and dizzy drunken laughter.
“Eliza?” Lafayette, warm and real, intense with concern. Not a dream. She exhaled, a wash of delirious relief.
Lizzie didn’t stir.
The pink potion frothed angrily in her guts. One drop only, Finch had insisted. Too late to worry about that now. But the remedy bottle seared her palm like frostbite, and hurriedly she slipped it away. “Uh. Yes. Did you just kiss me?”
Sheepishly, he released her. “I apologize. But I said your name four times. You weren’t there.”
“I’m fine,” she insisted mechanically. But the urge to hide clawed her flesh. She recalled Zanotti’s edgy gaze. Shy, she’d thought . . . but what if he’d recognized her from Eve? Surely, someone would notice. Point at her, exclaim aren’t you that girl? Carmine, you must introduce us to your model . . .
Her head pounded, a mess of conflicting compulsions that ate her vision like acid. A horrid itch under her skin threatened to erupt. Her courage faltered. Lizzie could burst out again at any moment.
She had to leave. Now.
“I suppose I’m a little off-color,” she lied. “Do you mind if I go?”
