The Alloy Heart

by Quinn Loftis

  “He certainly doesn’t match Mrs. Browning’s description. But perhaps he’ll have some ideas on who might be capable of such work.”

  “Hopefully,” agreed Foster. “But I still don’t think it’s a medical man. They’re just too predictable. I’ve never met a doctor that wasn’t pretentious as hell, too good to get their hands dirty, they are.”

  “What about Dr. Elliot?” Hill laughed. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate your description of him.”

  “Okay, he’s the one exception. But he’s also the only doctor I know that wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his hand. All the rest of ’em come from Piccadilly.”

  “Even so, I’d hate to rule out any possibilities without some hard evidence to the contrary. Who knows our killer’s motivations?”

  “What if our killer doesn’t have any motivations?” said John.

  “How’s that?” asked Hill.

  “Maybe he’s just crazy. Simple as that. Turns him on somehow to cut open pretty girls and put clockwork hearts inside them. Like … playing with dolls, in a twisted sort of way. Or—wait, stay with me here. Maybe it’s a former mechanic, someone who quit the guild or was forced out. And this is his way ’a gettin’ back at ’em.”

  “That’s a possibility,” remarked Inspector Hill, “but it doesn’t feel right to me. You heard what Jackson said. The person responsible for these killings has some surgical skill. That doesn’t sound like an ex-mechanic out for revenge.”

  “I suppose not,” admitted Foster, “but, like you said, let’s not rule out any possibility without some hard evidence against it.”

  “Touché,” said Hill “and now it’s time for answers. I believe this is Dr. Vincent’s place now.”

  The cab pulled to a halt in front of an ornate wrought iron gate, which looked as if it could easily allow the entrance of five hansoms riding abreast. The inspectors departed their cab and stretched their legs, looking about the grounds. A manservant greeted them and escorted them through the gate and up to the front entrance, where they were in turn greeted by Dr. Vincent’ s butler a severe-looking fellow with a long, straight nose and thinning gray hair.

  “Dr. Vincent will be with you shortly,” he announced impassively while leading the pair into the drawing room. “May I offer you gentlemen some tea?”

  “That would be excellent,” replied Inspector Hill. “It’s been a rather long ride.”

  “Aye,” agreed Foster.

  “Very good, sirs,” said the butler, leaving to retrieve the tea service.

  “Nice place,” said Foster examining the enormous sitting room. The room had twenty-eight-foot-tall ceilings supported by large columns spaced twelve feet apart. Renaissance artwork, each piece of which was the approximate equivalent of three years of the inspectors’ combined wages, was hung in ordered rows along each of the four walls. Priceless imported vases rested on spindly tables placed sporadically around the room.

  “Indeed,” agreed Hill. “Let us endeavor to touch nothing. Something tells me Dr. Vincent will be less than helpful if we break any of his priceless treasures. In fact, let us just sit.” He took a seat on an overstuffed sofa covered in a floral pattern.

  “Good idea,” agreed Foster, lowering his bulk slowly beside the inspector.

  No sooner had they sat down when a squat individual came rumbling into the parlor like a boisterous hedgehog.

  “Gentlemen,” he boomed, his voice reverberating around the cavernous drawing room. “I’m Dr. Vincent. What can I do for the Yard’s finest today?” He extended his hand to the two gentlemen, who each rose and took it in turn.

  The man’s handshake was as furious as his voice. Thomas briefly wondered if the man was shaking his hand or trying to pump water out of a parched well.

  Withdrawing his quivering arm, Hill said, “I’m afraid we are here on unpleasant business, Dr. Vincent. Three women have been murdered in London—prostitutes.”

  “Good God, man! Keep your voice down. What would Mrs. Vincent say if she heard you coming in here speaking of murdered prostitutes? I’d be sleeping on that damn couch behind you.”

  Just then, Dr. Vincent’s butler returned with their tea service. After he’d poured each of their cups, he retreated the way he’d come, pausing outside the door to set aside the tray and pull the door closed.

  “Now,” said the doctor, sitting in an armchair beside the sofa and motioning for the inspectors to resume their seats. He glanced around him, as if Mrs. Vincent might pop out behind a chaise lounge at any moment. “What’s this about murdered prostitutes? I’m intrigued. We don’t get that kind of juicy gossip out here in this blasted country. I do hate it here, but Mrs. Vincent despises the city. Only goes there to shop. Says the smog doesn’t agree with her delicate pallor. What a load of tripe. I’m the doctor. I know what agrees with her and what doesn’t. That’s why I have to endure a forty-minute cab ride every morning to get to my clinic. Anyway, what’s going on?”

  “Well, Dr. Vincent,” began Thomas. “You must understand what we tell you needs to be kept in the strictest of confidences. Any publicity could jeopardize our investigation.”

  “Of course, of course,” said Vincent, waiving his hands in the air as if he were shooing a fly. “My lips are sealed.” He leaned forward in his chair, looking like a dog waiting on the receipt of a particularly juicy bone from its owner.

  “Foster, the heart, if you please,” said Inspector Hill.

  John reached inside his coat pocket and removed the mechanical organ, passing it to Thomas, who took it and placed it on the coffee table in front of them.

  “Have you ever seen anything like this before, Dr. Vincent?” Hill asked, indicating the heart.

  “Odd’s Bodkins! Is that what I think it is?” he said, snatching up the device and holding it close to his face. “Unbelievable. That old devil! He’s actually trying it?”

  “Who’s trying what, Dr. Vincent,” asked Foster.

  “Dr. Phillips, that barmy American. I assume that’s where you got the heart?”

  “Actually, no, Doctor,” replied Hill. “That heart was taken from the chest of one of the murdered prostitutes to which we were referring. Her body was found here in London. We telegraphed America. The heart couldn’t have come from Dr. Phillips. He is practicing in Philadelphia.”

  Dr. Vincent started at the device in awe. “How do you mean taken? Do you mean to say that someone implanted the device in the poor woman?”

  “Precisely,” responded Hill, “and removed her old one, it appears. Do you know anyone who could have done such a thing?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea who could have done it. Any lunatic with a scalpel, I assume. Dr. Phillips is the only one I know who has done any real research into organ transplants. I always thought the man was a total crackpot. Out of curiosity, why in the world would you gentleman come to me about this? I don’t have any particular knowledge of transplant procedures.”

  “Ah, yes. You’re seeing the device out of context,” said Thomas. “Apparently, whoever placed the device into the woman was a very skilled surgeon. We were given your name as one of two men who would have the skill to perform the procedure.”

  “I see,” said Vincent, almost beaming, despite being possibly implicated in a murder, “and so I might.” He turned the device in his hand, examining it from every angle. “Could I remove a person’s heart and replace it with this? Perhaps I could, assuming the device worked like a normal heart, of course, which I’m sure it doesn’t. Intriguing question. Intriguing indeed. But even if I could, where would the money be in it?”

  “I’m sorry?” questioned Inspector Hill, a quizzical look on his face.

  “I mean, who would pay for something like this?” asked the diminutive doctor.

  “I’m not sure I follow,” replied Thomas.

  “Look around you, Inspector. Do you think all of these trinkets come cheap? Mrs. Vincent doesn’t let me go around performing surgery for free. The woman has expensive tastes. I’m not
only the best surgeon in London, I’m also the most expensive. Why, I’ve operated on Lord Shaftesbury himself. I didn’t get all this by dilly dallying in all that transplant nonsense. That tripe is for idealists, save-the-world types. All that’s well and good, I suppose. But nothing beats a plate of succulent prime rib paired with a glass of 1700’s pinot noir. You don’t get that by researching miracle cures. You get that by putting scalpel to tissue and collecting the fee, and that is something I do best.”

  “Do you think an organ transplant is even possible?” asked Foster. “A successful one, I mean.”

  “Maybe one day, who knows? Like I said, I always thought Dr. Phillips was barmy. But even crackpots stumble onto a viable medical discovery every once in a while. You know what they say, even a blind hog finds an acorn every now and again. But I’m not going to be the one spending all my waking hours in a laboratory poring over experiments trying to figure it out. Once again, there’s no money in it. But I think I might be giving you boys the wrong impression of me. I’m not just a greedy old miser who likes to hoard up his treasures for his own sake. Let me show you something.” He rang a brass bell that was sitting next to him on an end table. In a few seconds, the butler appeared from the hall.

  “Yes, sir, Dr. Vincent?”

  “Jeeves, fetch Mrs. Vincent please. There’s some gentlemen here I’d like her to meet.”

  “Of course, Dr. Vincent,” he said, retreating again.

  A few minutes later, Jeeves appeared again in the doorway. “Presenting Mrs. Florence Vincent,” he said and backed away, making room for the woman behind him.

  Dr. Vincent hopped up and hurried to her side, ushering into the room the most stunning woman Foster and Hill had ever seen. “Darling,” he said, “please meet Inspectors Hill and Foster, of Scotland Yard.”

  The inspectors both rose from their places on the sofa, though their mouths stayed somewhere in the vicinity of the floor. They each looked at one another then turned back to Mrs. Vincent. The woman had long blonde locks that fell smoothly past her shoulders and was wearing a silk red dress, complete with leather corset, which pushed her ample bosom up near her chin.

  “Pleasure to meet you, inspectors,” she purred, extending a dainty hand, which neither Hill nor Foster seemed to know what to do with.

  Foster recovered first, shaking it quickly. “Pleasure,” he croaked.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Hill, also coming to his senses. “A pleasure.” Seeing this woman, who was well over five and a half feet of slender arms and legs standing next to the dumpy, round doctor was so incongruent that Hill’s mind almost refused to accept it.

  “The inspectors here were just explaining some bad business going on in London,” said Dr. Vincent. “They needed my surgical expertise on one of their cases. Can’t really explain more than that, though, of course, until the investigation is concluded.”

  “Naturally,” she said, her soft red lips held in a smirk. “I do hope my husband was of some help, gentlemen. Don’t let his bluster put you off. He really is quite brilliant.”

  “He’s most been most helpful, Mrs. Vincent,” said Foster. “Thank you for being willing to spare him for a few moments.”

  Florence chuckled lightly, as if, despite her words, the notion of her husband’s usefulness was amusing. The sound of her musical laughter brought to Hill’s mind a choir of angels softly ringing hand bells.

  “That will be all, darling,” said Dr. Vincent. “I just wanted you to meet a couple of the hardworking men of Scotland Yard, so you’ll know how tirelessly our civil servants work to keep you safe while you are making your little forays into the shopping district of the city. Why don’t you go wait for me in the parlor? Let me finish up with the inspectors, and I’ll be in to see you in a minute.”

  “Don’t keep me waiting too long,” she said to her husband. “You gentleman have a pleasant day.” And with that, she took her leave.

  “Now, boys,” said Vincent, turning back to the inspectors, who were visibly clearing the cobwebs from their heads, “do you see why I have to be so practical? You don’t keep a woman like that on an academic’s salary.”

  “Understood.” Foster chuckled. “You certainly seem to have your hands full.”

  “Exactly, giving me precious little time to go about researching ways to swap out the vital organs of prostitutes.”

  “Of course, Doctor,” said Mr. Hill. “Other than Dr. Phillips, do you know of anyone else who might be interested in this kind of medical research?”

  “Can’t think of anyone,” Vincent replied. “Just out of curiosity, who was the other likely capable surgeon suggested to you?”

  “A Dr. Evans. He was poorly when we called on him, so we decided to visit with you first. Hopefully, he’ll be feeling well enough to meet with us soon.”

  “Ah, yes, Dr. Evans. He’s talented, no doubt, but getting on in years, I’m afraid. He was one of my professors at University many moons ago. And come to think of it … hold on. Be right back, gents.” He hurried out of the room, leaving the inspectors staring at each other questioningly.

  “Look, here,” said Dr. Vincent, bouncing back in a few minutes later. He held in his hands a familiar green book, A Primer on Organ Removal and Replacement, by Dr. Eugene Phillips. “Here is a copy of Dr. Phillips’ book, detailing his ideas about all this transplant nonsense. I’d forgotten I even had a copy.”

  “We’ve seen it,” interrupted Hill. “A friend was nice enough to give me his copy.”

  Vincent raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Hmm, well, look at this then.” He flipped open the book to the second page. The word “Acknowledgments” was written at the top, with the following in typeface below it: The author of this book would like to thank his research associate, Dr. Clarence Evans, for his tireless hours spent in the laboratory dedicated to uncovering the secrets of the amazing wonder that is the human body. Your contribution was invaluable. This book never would have been written without you.†

  “So Dr. Phillips and Dr. Evans know each other?” said Foster.

  “And fairly well, by the looks of it,” said Hill. “I didn’t even notice this before.”

  “I guess we need to put that visit with Dr. Evans top ’a the list,” remarked John. “Maybe we’ll bring him a bit ’a chicken soup to help him feel better.”

  “Dr. Evans was a very skilled surgeon, like I said, in his day,” offered Vincent. “I don’t know that the man’s hands are steady enough nowadays. You’ll see when you meet him. I’d be shocked if he was involved.”

  “I trust we will,” said Hill. “Foster, if you’ve nothing else for the good doctor, I think we can be going. Thanks again for your time, Dr. Vincent. This was extremely helpful.”

  “Not a problem, gents, not a problem at all. Good luck. I hope you catch the bastard. I’m honestly intrigued by your case. Can’t wait to see what you come up with. Jeeves will show you gentlemen out.”

  Inspectors Foster and Hill spent the cab ride back to the city in much the same way as they had spent the ride to the country, theorizing about their case. And just as with the outbound trip, their brainstorming was most likely fruitless. There was one thing they both agreed on: Dr. Vincent had had nothing to do with the murders.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Tuesday, 10th May 1887

  Sometime around Noon

  Sophia waved at Vicar Truelove as he left her house and headed down the sidewalk. He raised his hat to her and then continued on his way. Sophia, Jackson, and the cleric had spent the morning going over the details of the wedding ceremony. The only thing they’d yet to decide was the location. They couldn’t have it at the church, as the ceremony was set to be performed on Sunday. And the vicar would have to find someone to fill in for him during the morning church service. She’d have to ask Olivia if she had any ideas about a location. Sophia was worn out just thinking about everything they had to do in such a small amount of time, but ironing out the ceremony plans made her heart swell with joy.

&n
bsp; “Why are you smiling?” Jackson’s voice came from behind her at the same time his arms wrapped around her. She closed the door and turned in his arms so she could wrap her arms around his neck.

  “I’m marrying the man I love. Isn’t that reason enough to smile?”

  “Well, considering that man is me, I suppose that is a very good reason to smile,” he said and then laughed when she pinched his arm as she stepped back. Jackson couldn’t help but tease her, he too was on top of the world with happiness. He knew that he was walking around all day with his own stupid grin plastered on his face.

  “I’m glad to know that you don’t have self-confidence issues. It wouldn’t do to have a timid surgeon,” Sophia said back. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, and she leaned into him. “You have to go?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  “I need to get to the clinic,” he confirmed. Jackson didn’t want to leave either, but regardless of his love life, his patients still had to be attended to. “I will be by this evening, if that is acceptable? I’m going to bring dinner for your family.”

  “You don’t have to do that,” she said quickly.

  “It’s not charity, my love,” he replied, knowing she was adamant about refusing help from anyone. “You’re my family, you always have been, even if we weren’t getting married. It’s not charity when your family is bringing you food.”

  Sophia sighed. There was no point in arguing with him. He was right. Jackson was a part of their family whether they were married or not. “Fine, you may bring us dinner,” she told him while holding back a smile.

  Jackson chuckled. “Thank you, my dear, for giving me permission to feed you.” He gave her one last kiss before taking his leave.

  Sophia was on her way back to the sitting room when she heard her sister’s voice.