Tenfold More Wicked

by Viola Carr

  Lizzie pirouetted, red satin flouncing. “I’ve ’ad a gutful of you telling me ‘do this, don’t do that.’ This is my body, too. It’s my life.”

  “It is not your life! Stop pretending you’re real, because you’re not. You’re just a . . . a shadow in the mirror. You’re a bad dream!”

  A snide chuckle. “I’m real enough for Remy. He told me what he’s about in Soho, y’know. He just don’t want to tell you.”

  “Rubbish. I don’t believe you.”

  “What if I told you he and I spent last night together?” Lizzie skipped backwards in Eliza’s path, mocking, just out of reach. “You remember, don’t you? We lay together naked, I took him from you, and ain’t nothing you can do. Ha ha!”

  “Don’t be horrid,” snapped Eliza. “He’s better than that. Why must you drag him with you into the gutter?”

  “Better, is he? I were good enough for him once. I know how to give a man what he needs. Think he’d want you when he can have me?”

  “That’s it. I’m not letting you out again until you promise to behave.” And Eliza whipped out her pink remedy, and took a defiant strawberry swig. It boiled in her stomach, ice hissing in fire. She burped, unladylike. “Now stay there.”

  “Try and make me . . .” Lizzie twirled away along the Embankment, fading, until nothing remained but the cruel ghost of her laughter.

  Eliza kicked the ground, scattering frustrated pebbles. Irrational emotions scratched inside her, a pink-stained fever of doubt and suspicion that tormented her beyond reason. Delusions of persy-cootion. Couldn’t be real . . .

  She shook her woozy head. No, she wasn’t going mad. Lizzie must be right. Lafayette’s “secret business” was all a plot to trap her, Eliza. The memory of his open, honest face when he lied to her—she knew a lie when she saw one, oh yes—knotted her guts into an inextricable snarl. And that duplicitous pink remedy only murmured sly encouragement.

  He and Lizzie were keeping secrets. Both of them. The thought of it chewed her knuckles raw, rats at a corpse. If Lafayette lied about that . . . what else was just a sham?

  She jammed the bottle back in her bag and strode off. Her mutinous mind rattled, plotting and scheming. She’d find them out, mark her words. And both would be sorry they’d crossed her. Yes, they surely would . . .

  Oof! She collided with a warm shoulder, hard enough to knock her sideways. Rich fabric, an unsettlingly familiar antique-paper scent.

  A man’s gloved hand gripped hers. At her feet, Hippocrates whirred and muttered “Oops.” And with a sick thud, Eliza’s heart dropped into her guts.

  “Egad,” remarked the Philosopher dryly, “Dr. Jekyll. I was only this moment thinking of you.”

  Her wits lurched and scrambled. She risked a swift glance along the Embankment . . . but Lafayette and Lizzie were gone. She was alone.

  She smoothed her skirts. “Sir Isaac. How nice to see you again.”

  The Philosopher surveyed her, his ageless, unfathomable eyes the non-color of rain. His long hair—same washed-out hue, his characteristic style a century and a half out of date—was tucked under a sharply modern brushed-felt hat. Charcoal coat, silver watch chain, kid gloves, and a shiny black cane.

  On his arm, her steel-gray gown gleaming, was Lady Lovelace.

  Eliza blanched. The countess constructed a smile, empty as death, and the hinges in her metal jaw made a grinding sound.

  Around them, the crowd parted, oblivious. Strolling ladies, harried servants on errands. A fellow pedaled madly by on an immensely tall bicycle, long ears flapping. As if this man she stood next to wasn’t an impossible aberration. As if he didn’t possess the power to burn her.

  “You didn’t answer my last letter,” Sir Isaac accused. “Are we no longer friends? Alas, whatever shall I do?”

  A few weeks ago—after solving the Chopper case—Eliza had agreed to inform on Mr. Hyde for the Royal. She’d had no choice. Since then, she’d stalled for time. She drummed up a weak smile. “Did you not receive my reply? I’ll check my records.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ve a fresh task for you.” That strange gaze, dead yet alive.

  “Excellent,” she said briskly. “Would you mind terribly to put it in another letter? I’m afraid I’m—”

  “In an awful rush, yes, so on, so forth. I shan’t take up much time.” He extended his cane: walk beside me, if you please. His empty stare: I dare you to refuse. Dismissively, Lady Lovelace sniffed, averting her face.

  Eliza obeyed, but her skin zapped in warning. Sir Isaac’s politeness—like Lafayette’s?—was sugar-coated poison. People whispered that he, not Her Majesty, ruled the Empire. That the Mad Queen lived in terror of his temper, submitting meekly to his every command, like a child obeying her schoolmaster to avoid a beating. That the Prince of Wales, her drooling simpleton of an heir, was no simpleton at all, but brain-poisoned, rendered witless and obliging by the Philosopher’s evil drugs.

  Hipp jittered nervously beneath her skirts. She toed him aside lest she trip. Alongside them, the river burbled, coated in a patina of filth, and an evil urge gripped her to shove the Philosopher and his horrid metal countess over the side. Whipping children and poisoning addled princes seemed just the kind of things these two would enjoy.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” Her voice strangled. Mr. Finch’s incriminating pink remedy bubbled up in her throat all over again. Couldn’t the Philosopher smell the alchemy clinging to her clothing? Her skin bulged like a stretched rubber ball, hidden serpents wriggling to be free . . .

  “I want to talk to your King of Rats.” He tapped his cane on the cobbles, a hint of old-fashioned swagger.

  “Mr. Hyde? I can’t do that.”

  “Your enthusiasm for public service shines on undimmed.” He grinned, and it made him look young again, imbued with wonder and curiosity. “Hyde and I have business. The terms of his surrender.”

  “Surrender?” she repeated stupidly. The second time her wits had floundered in his presence. Probably happened to everyone. No doubt he counted on it.

  “Don’t pretend ignorance.” Impatient, sick of explaining himself to idiotic inferiors. “Everybody knows what he’s up to. Civil disobedience, chaos, anarchy. I said I’d crush his wretched rebellion, and so I shall, but the Rats and the Royal might still come to terms. Once the Palace have exhausted their idiotic attempts at French diplomacy.” He ejected the word like a rotted plum pit.

  She shivered, recalling what he’d once told her of his ambition to set the world right. When blood runs in English gutters, it shall belong to bishops and sorcerers and anyone who dares defy the truth . . .

  “Areas of mutual interest,” he added. “Certain upheavals that might benefit us both. Hyde has a second option, of course. He can defy me and see what happens.”

  Her head ached. “You want me to broker a truce?”

  “Don’t bother dissembling. I know you’re thick with him. In one fashion or another.” A sly, utterly unendearing wink.

  He knew Hyde was her guardian. Did he know about her double life, her use of Mr. Finch’s potions? Heavens, was Finch in danger?

  Lady Lovelace studied Eliza’s face with dead eyes: one red, one black. She tilted her chin, sun flashing on silver. “Untrustworthy,” she concluded, a metallic contralto that scraped Eliza’s nerves like nails on slate. “Knows more than she’s offering. I recommend immediate search and seizure.”

  Involuntarily, Eliza backed off, clutching her bag. “You can’t do that. I’ve done nothing wrong—”

  “Come, that won’t be necessary.” The Philosopher patted Lady Lovelace’s hand, placating, but his gaze didn’t let Eliza go. “Or will it? I once hunted counterfeiters, did you know? Caught them, too, forced them to give up their overlords. Traitors, the lot of them. They all cooperated, Doctor, and so will you. Or I’m afraid I’ll have to allow my colleague . . . shall we say, her over-zealous way?”

  Lady Lovelace flexed steel fingers, and laughed. A broken, corroded noise, rrrk!
rrrk!

  Eliza’s skin shrank, cold. She longed to cover her ears, block out that rusted mirth. The subject’s fear is the primary weapon. Lafayette’s statement resounded in the primitive lizard part of her brain. Words threatened to spill from her mouth. Any words. Just to make Lady Lovelace stop staring, with that terrifying, burning eye . . .

  An animal urge clawed her—Lizzie’s?—to inform on Moriarty Quick. Here’s an alchemist for you! Strap him to the stake and stoke the fire! Memory made her head swirl. Whiskey-rich breath, tinted spectacles, a man’s finger toying with a mahogany curl on her shoulder. Shall we say, the shadowy side of chemistry?

  She gulped down crazed giggles. Good lord, she was going mad. Imagining the whole thing. The Philosopher and Lovelace knew nothing of Finch, or the elixir. Hyde interested them, not she. She was merely the means to their end. Right?

  Sir Isaac sighed. “Pros and cons, ifs and buts. Shall we get on?”

  She mustered her courage. “Very well, sir. If I’ve no choice—”

  “At last! We approach the point.” He inclined his head. “My compliments to your King. Tell him I wish to see him. In person. Soon.”

  She almost guffawed. Edward Hyde and the Philosopher. The murderer and the megalomaniac. “And if he refuses?”

  “You’re a scientist, Dr. Jekyll. Make sure he sees reason.”

  Now that she’d spoken her assent aloud, her treachery stabbed her heart cold. Hyde was her father, for heaven’s sake. He’d only ever wanted the best for her.

  Sir Isaac stared, pale like death. “Oh, and might I expect the pleasure of your company at my skyship launch later this week? The new Skyborne Fleet’s flagship, fabulous scientific work. I named her Invincible.” A brittle smile. “One’s permitted the occasional whimsy.”

  “It does sound fascinating.” Her first honest words for this entire conversation.

  “Doesn’t it? I assure you, the launch will be quite something. I venture London’s never seen the like.” The Philosopher tipped his hat, and he and Lady Lovelace vanished into the crowd.

  AN ABIDING UGLINESS

  ELIZA’S NERVES STILL SMARTED LATER THAT AFTERNOON as she approached the undertaker’s shop across from Regent’s Park. HARE’S FUNERALS, the sign murmured discreetly, above broad bay windows somberly draped in black.

  “Bloody murder in Blackfriars! Escaped lunatic strikes again! Razor Jack’s back!” A boy in a red cap jumped onto his stack of newspapers, brandishing his latest edition:

  “PENTACLE KILLER” CLAIMS SECOND VICTIM

  The police had found Carmine, then. The papers loved to blame anything gruesome on Todd. He wasn’t responsible, she was sure of it . . . but her sweating skin chilled when she recalled that missing beadle. If Todd wanted her attention, he’d gotten it. Help me, sweet lady, lest I fade into that nightfall forever . . .

  No bell tinkled as she entered the shop. Elaborate black drapes and a vase of white lilies enforced an overtly funereal atmosphere. Dried lavender sprigs lined the room, an effort to obscure the inevitable stink of chemicals and death.

  “May I help you?” A man in an ill-fitting suit studied her rudely above wire-rimmed spectacles. Snotty, with emphasis on the help. Shall I HELP you, madam, or shall I KICK you out onto the STREET? Blue-black hair greased his skull, smelling strongly of hair dye. Unlikely it was his wife he wanted to impress.

  She flashed her best smile. “Dr. Eliza Jekyll, police physician. I’ve been sent to examine one of your deceased. Sir Dalziel Fleet?”

  The clerk sniffed. “Even if you’re truly a doctor, madam—which I doubt very much—the grieving widow has declined permission. No police. The late baronet is not to be disturbed. Good day.”

  Inwardly, she screwed up her face. Good thing her pink remedy was still in effect, or Lizzie would have throttled this idiot on the spot.

  From the depths of her bag, Hipp whirred, mocking the clerk’s prissy voice. “Good day. No police. Good day.”

  Surreptitiously, Eliza whacked him with her elbow. “Oh, dear. Can’t you help me, sir? It’s my first day on the job, you see.” She dropped her gaze modestly, and worked up a maidenly flush. “My Chief Inspector sent me—such an impressive man, you know—and he’ll be so dreadfully cross with me if I don’t report back.”

  “No police,” the clerk repeated, pointedly flipping his ledger open.

  Eliza laid her hand on the counter, three glinting sovereigns half-hidden beneath. “What a pity we can’t come to some arrangement.”

  Temptation and fear warred across his brow. “I’m afraid I can’t possibly . . .”

  “I’ve gone to such lengths, you see, to get this job.” She smiled, suggestive. “I’d be so very grateful, sir.”

  The clerk’s damp hand covered hers. “I’ll see what I can do. Shall we?”

  “Work before play,” she simpered, ignoring Hipp’s electric snort, and withdrew her hand, leaving her hard-earned bribe. As much as this horrid clerk likely earned in a month. Sympathy stung, and ruthlessly she plucked it out. She still wanted to punch his condescending face.

  “Very well,” he grumbled, clearly put out. “We’ve half an hour before Mr. Hare returns. The embalming room’s through the parlor.” Greedily he watched her skirts sway as she walked. “Don’t be long.”

  “Can’t wait.” Out of sight, she dropped her fake smile with a shudder. His speculative gaze had greased her skin. She felt dirty, a deceiver, committing some vile sin.

  Bollocks, whispered Lizzie, just a faraway echo. Ain’t your fault he’s up for it, the lousy cheating sod.

  “That doesn’t make it right to sink to his level.”

  Hell, it don’t. Screw him for a dirty dog. Think he’d spare a drop of piss if you was on fire?

  This parlor also served as a chapel, firmly Anglican in its lack of gaudy trimmings. No popish fripperies here, thank you very much. Dark cloth masked the windows, and soft gaslights burned in the scent of fresh lilies and brassy chemical undertones.

  She closed the frosted glass door of the embalmer’s room. A row of high tables served for the cadavers. A wooden trolley held make-up pots, sturdy needles, and thick black thread. On another, a range of autopsy tools, clamps, a staple gun, an electric cauterizer. Barrels of preserving chemicals, wads of cotton packing for sunken cheeks and chests, coils of copper wire.

  The place was spotless. She’d seen much worse, in the dank police morgue, or filthy makeshift dead houses set up in pubs and drawing rooms. Here, death was all business, the sanitization of horror. Paint them, stitch them, put them in the ground, so we don’t have to remember that one day, it’ll be us. And pervading all was that cold meaty whiff that never completely left her nostrils or washed out of her clothes: the beckoning scent of death.

  Such was the career she’d chosen. What was it, this fascination with ending? Alpha and omega, that sibilant slice . . .

  She tugged on her white crime scene gloves. There was only one body, covered by a sheet. Hipp leapt from her bag and capered beneath the table, springs boinging. “Samples,” he yammered. “Sample-ample-ample . . .”

  “Take dictation, there’s a good boy. And do try to stay in one piece.” She pulled the sheet away.

  “Sir Dalziel Fleet,” she reported, and Hipp’s cogs chattered as he recorded her voice. “Mid-fifties, looks every minute of it. Why did I have the idea he was younger? Excess body fat, skin yellowed. I’d say he both ate and drank too much. Face has been peeled away. Numerous old scars on his torso.” She prodded one. “Not smallpox. Neat cuts, deep. Perhaps some quack applied leeches. Hooray for the nineteenth century.”

  She settled her optical on her forehead, and the body loomed, magnified. “Apparent cause of death is a gaping throat wound, made by a bronze crucifix now missing. A large star-shaped entry point, consistent with a blunt stabbing . . . Wait.”

  Her pulse quickened. “That’s not an entry point. I see a slice with a small neat puncture. Same on the right side . . .”

  She blinked. Frowned.
“These are knife wounds. Same as the carved pentacle. Our killer didn’t stab. He slashed, one way and then the other. From behind, presumably, while large quantities of blood squirted. Do you know what this means, Hipp?”

  “Squirt,” he burbled. “Squirt-squirt-squirt . . .”

  “It means, you gruesome little beast, that our crucifix was not the murder weapon.” She straightened, perplexed. No answers. Only more questions. “Why kill a man with a knife, then shove a crucifix into the wound?”

  She checked the forearms. “No defense wounds. The victim didn’t fight back. Consistent with attack from behind. Or maybe too drunk.”

  She recalled that ashtray, the strange hallucinogen. Chinese opium, or some such. Glancing swiftly over her shoulder, lest that lustful clerk be lurking, she slipped an iridescent alchemical filter into her optical. Zing! The world shimmered, luminous, and she probed the throat wound with her tweezers.

  “I say, Hipp! The flesh inside his esophagus is scintillating. He didn’t inhale this drug. He swallowed it. Was he poisoned?” She sniffed the wound. “No scent I can detect. What a pity Captain Lafayette isn’t here. Remind me to press Mr. Finch for an analysis.” She sliced off a chunk of glittering flesh and popped it into a phial. “Look, something’s balled up in his throat.”

  She tugged. Pop! Out it came in a spatter of blood. “Someone—the killer—has stuffed in a wad of canvas. What on earth is that about?”

  Carefully, she unfolded it, shaking away stained fluid, and pushed up her optical. “Well, well. It’s Dalziel himself. Sharp-looking gent, in his younger days. A fragment, sliced from a larger portrait.” She brightened. “What if this is from the ruined picture that hid Dalziel’s wall safe? I must check if this piece matches. Certainly such desecration would support our revenge motive.” She rolled the canvas carefully into a test tube. “So if the painted face is stuffed down his throat, where’s the real face?”

  “Real face,” snorted Hipp, on his back with legs kicking. “Realfacerealfacerealface . . .”