The Dastardly Miss Lizzie

by Viola Carr

  Scowling, Lizzie kicked a horse turd from her boot, having somehow alighted from the omnibus when Eliza wasn’t watching. “Likely just your Inspector Griffin giving himself airs. Another speck of shit from the killer’s bumhole, or sommat.”

  “Or you could just be jealous of our success,” said Eliza sweetly. “How do you like those apples?”

  But cold dread wormed into her belly. Mrs. Fletcher’s, the favorite haunt of one Edward Hyde. Of a hundred other gentlemen, too. It didn’t mean anything. Did it?

  Her fingertips stung, a poison prickle that wouldn’t ease. Seven victims, now. Seven butchered wretches who’d never breathe again. Public reaction to the Slasher remaining at large had been little short of hysterical, reminiscent of the days of Razor Jack. People wanted the killer caught, and soon. Add to that Reeve’s constant threats to fire her and Griffin both . . .

  . . . and any progress, however flimsy, was better than nothing.

  Any guilty man was better than none.

  How thin a shred of evidence would suffice? How far would Harley go to make an arrest before the Slasher killed again?

  How far would she?

  Stamping down her unease, she dashed after an omnibus heading in the opposite direction, waving it down with a shout.

  BY REASON OF INSANITY

  THE STEPS TO MRS. FLETCHER’S WERE CRAWLING with blue-coated constables. At least there were no Enforcers in sight. She pushed through, feeling undressed without her bag or Hippocrates. The poor mite was probably driving Mr. Brigham frantic at Cavendish Square this very minute.

  “Inspector’s orders. No, sir, step away. Sorry, you can’t come in.” Constable Perkins guarded the doorway, chest puffed out, refusing to admit anyone not in uniform.

  Eliza eyed her coolly. “I’m afraid I’ve lost my credentials.”

  Perkins mumbled, eyes downcast, and stepped aside. Eliza swept in, not looking back. She still hadn’t forgiven Perkins. Maybe she never would.

  On the first-floor landing, girls hovered, nervously smoking cigarettes. A dark undercurrent of that familiar bitter scent made Eliza shudder. The smell of fear, whispered Mr. Todd in her ear. Do you like it, Eliza? I do. It smells like you.

  Dread gripped her throat. A police officer pointed her way—but she already knew. First door on the right. She didn’t want to take another step. Steeling herself—a futile effort—she entered.

  More police crowded the wrecked room. Inspector Griffin waved her over, his face stormy. “I’m sorry you had to see this.”

  She picked her way over broken furniture, torn drapes, shattered porcelain . . . and her boots sank into the rug with a wet squelch.

  So much blood.

  Dark crimson pooled on the floor. More splashed the walls. The curtained bed was saturated, sheets dripping thickly. On the table, a trio of red-spattered crystal glasses lay in a pool of spilled liquor. The place stank, rich and rank like rotting meat.

  The dead girl wore silk stockings and a torn black burlesque outfit. Blond pigtails flopped onto the wet pillow. One arm outstretched, rings clotted with blood. Beneath her hand, in a trickle of gore, lay a yellow candied apple.

  Not like the others. I love my Rose. She’s special.

  Sick, Eliza covered her mouth. “I, er, questioned this woman in the Pentacle case. Rose O’Hara.”

  Grimly, Griffin gestured to the death scene. “He did that in a building packed with prostitutes, and no one heard a thing. Not a girl, a client, a servant. It’s as if they’re protecting him.”

  I’ve an idea for a game, Rose had said. Want to play? Numbly, Eliza stared at the carnage. Rose had many clients. It could have been another man. A stranger. It must have been. “Your telegram said good news.”

  “Bad for Miss O’Hara, good for us. If you can call it that.” Griffin nodded to a pair of constables who leaned over a bedraggled shape in the corner. “Can he walk yet?” His voice was jagged with loathing. “Good. Get him the hell out of here.”

  The two constables—both rotund and mustached like Tweedledum and Tweedledee—hauled a man to his feet.

  A hunchbacked man with a twisted, handsome face. Stumbling, drunk, practically insensible. Naked below the waist, his long shirtfront drenched in drying blood. Gray hair plastered in it, nails crusted with it. A liquor bottle was overturned on the carpet at his feet. Beside it lay a gory butcher’s knife.

  Eliza retched. Poor Rose, in love with a monster. And look what love had gotten her. Butchered like a heifer, unable to scream or fight. Just . . . used. A joint of meat to be devoured and discarded.

  “Take him to Bow Street,” said Griffin shortly. “Five counts of murder, more to follow. And for God’s sake, find him some trousers.”

  Dum and Dee dragged Edward Hyde out, propelling him by the armpits. Hyde’s head lolled. Almost too intoxicated to move. Or was he just losing his mind?

  “You know he ain’t guilty!” Lizzie yowled like a wildcat, clawing for Eliza’s eyeballs, making her stagger back. “This is a fit-up! Do something, you useless mopsy, or I’ll do it for you!”

  “Wait.” It burst from Eliza’s lips, an involuntary rush. “Let me talk to him.”

  Dum and Dee halted. Reluctantly, she stepped closer.

  Hyde’s storm-gray gaze rolled. Recognition, a faint crackle of lightning. “ ’Liza? Whasappening . . . issit tea time? Fetch your father a gin . . . s’good girl . . .” His breath smelled incongruously of aniseed. Not gin or whisky. An odd, bitter sweetness. “Where’s Rose?” he added with a sloppy grin. “I love my Rose. She’s a duchess, y’know. An’ now she’s royalty. Royalty! Ha-har!”

  She brushed back his crusted hair, half blinded by tears. A thousand-pound weight seemed to crush her into the floor. A whisper was all she could force out. “Why did you do this?”

  “Show you a thing,” Hyde muttered, a glow lighting his eye. “Such a pretty thing.”

  So much blood. An itch under the floor of her mind refused to ease. Was it her own, rational voice? Or the sly specter of another, elegant murderer? Remember Turquoise Tim, all the others? The Slasher wants meat, not blood.

  This is something else entirely.

  “Thank you, gentlemen.” Eliza fought to steady her trembling voice. What a laugh. Her whole body was shaking like a Bethlem palsy sufferer’s. “We’ll question him further at the cells. Carry on.”

  Head pounding, she turned away.

  Rose’s limp hand flopped, the lurid ghost of another dead woman’s outstretched arm. Her mother on white sheets, lifeless fingers beseeching. Once a killer, always a killer. Eliza should have known.

  Guilt chewed her belly, a hungry rat fighting for escape. She had known. She just hadn’t wanted to face the truth: her father was a murderer born.

  Her cowardice shamed her, dragging her back through ugly crimson memories to a time when she’d let another homicidal monster escape. Mr. Todd was no lunatic, to be absolved of his crimes. He was an abomination. She’d just been too obsessed to admit it. She’d failed Todd’s victims, just as she’d failed the Slasher’s. If she’d had the courage, how many people might still be alive?

  She wouldn’t make that mistake now. Never again.

  Rose’s rings glinted, sticky with blood. The left ring finger, in particular, sported a large brilliant-cut stone, similar to her own engagement ring.

  Such a pretty thing . . . and now she’s royalty.

  Curious, she wiped the facets clean. Not blue. Clear. For a stone that size, most likely paste.

  Or a diamond.

  Oh, my. She stumbled towards the door. “I say, constables . . .”

  But Dum and Dee had already carried Hyde into the corridor.

  Lizzie sprinted after them, a furious red-skirted whirlwind. “Bring him back, you cretinous twin-fuckers! That’s my father!”

  But the constables ignored her, and dragged Hyde away. Lizzie screamed and clawed at them. No reaction.

  Only a specter after all. Fancy that.

  Below the window, in the
street, a crowd jeered, hurling rocks and vegetables and more unpleasant things. Eliza swallowed, worms crawling in her lungs. “Harley, are we certain he’s guilty?”

  Griffin raised tired eyebrows. “Found at the scene, covered in blood, the knife practically in his pocket? Who’ll believe he isn’t?”

  She paced, agitated. “But that’s just it. He was so drunk he could barely stand. He can’t have sliced up poor Rose in that condition.”

  “So he did it sober.”

  “And then didn’t run, but sat here and got plastered with blood all over him?”

  Griffin pointed to the window, where the yelling grew louder. “If I let him go, they’ll riot. Bow Street’s the safest place for him, guilty or no.”

  Her temples throbbed. She pinched the bridge of her nose, dreading Lizzie’s encroaching wrath. “You’re right, of course. But . . .”

  Griffin sighed. “Out with it, Eliza.”

  Her pulse stuttered. “With what?”

  “Whatever you’re not telling me. The Edward Hyde name. What was the clue? Another of your famous hunches?”

  A sharp needle of remorse. He meant Razor Jack. She’d told Harley that was a hunch, an ethereal mix of intuition, trace evidence, and luck. A paint smear, a blood spot, a single crimson hair, a warm breath on her cheek in dreams.

  But she hadn’t discovered anything. Those tiny fragments were traps. Mr. Todd had baited her almost from the beginning.

  Her guts churned, mortified. Harley trusted her. Believed in her quest for justice. Her friendship was all he had left. She couldn’t let him down by admitting she’d lied. “Just something I heard. One of the girls, she—”

  “I saw you take that letter at Ireton House.” His dark eyes shone dully, exhausted. Defeated. “If you’ve something to say, best say it now.”

  Her eyes ached. His rage, she could accept. His coldness, even. But his disappointment was too painful to bear. “I . . . well . . .”

  A huge fist throttled her, shoving down her gullet. Her eyes bulged. Surely, blood spurted from her mouth, her throat pulverized to strings of ruddy flesh . . .

  What are you doing? screamed Lizzie, not a specter but a monster inside, swelling to burst her skin apart. Will you let them lock him up? Rape him, beat him bloody? String him up at ruined Newgate for the mob to jeer at? He’s our FATHER, God rot you! All he wants is for you to love him. Why can’t you understand?

  I loved him, Lizzie! she screamed back, but no air forced out. Her skin burned, her chest on fire as she retched for breath. Remember? I was a little girl all alone. All I ever wanted was his attention, and in return he gave me you!

  Lizzie pummeled her with ferocious blows. Squeak on our father, you vicious twat? When will you stop blaming him for what we ARE?

  Eliza’s vision sheeted red. I’m not like him, hear me? I’m not that monster’s daughter! But the pressure was too much. Need air . . .

  Frantically, she gulped, and finally sucked in a desperate breath. An invisible knee slammed into her guts, doubling her over. “Ughk . . . Going to . . . be sick . . .” And she stumbled out, to Lizzie’s mocking laughter.

  Blood boiled behind her eyes, staining the world scarlet. She lurched onto the landing. Pain exploded in her head, knives chopping her skull to pieces, and halfway down the stairs, Lizzie screamed in triumph and splurted forth like a plague sore.

  Ha ha, I’m out! About time. Eagerly, I stretch our muscles . . . and her limbs move.

  What’s this? Still in her body, God rot her, still wearing her face. But it’s mine now and I’ll do with it as I please.

  I rake my nails down her cheek. Splurt! Blood oozes, and the sting makes me laugh. Take that, Eliza. You can’t heal if we don’t change. Hope it scars, you traitorous bitch.

  Outside, the crowd shouts and sticky-beaks and throws rotten fruit. A tomato splats inside the front door, a rotting red stain. In the hall, Mrs. Fletcher sniffs at us, barricaded in her armor of green silken beauty. “Satisfied? Bringing disrepute on my house by arresting an honest man? I shall lose good business. You shan’t get away with this!”

  But her shimmering lashes betray her. Oho! Lady Frostheart, weeping for her broken dreams. Never thought her capable of carrying a torch for anyone, let alone Eddie Hyde. And Rose died with Eddie’s ring on her finger.

  Despite my glee, our blood runs cold.

  How does an innocent man—and I know Eddie’s innocent, even without Todd’s help—end up drenched in blood and liquor beside a corpse?

  Someone fitted him up, that’s how. Someone he trusts slipped him a bittersweet mickey finn and sent him to dreamland.

  Someone like Letitia Fletcher. A jealous faded beauty, seeing him wedded to a girl twenty years her junior with firm titties and a pert backside. If I can’t have him, no one can . . .

  He’s charmed her. A faint echo, clogging our brain like cobwebs. The way he charmed everyone else. Including you.

  Who’s that? I shake my head, clearing the nameless babble away. Maybe ’twas Fletcher what done for him. Or the Dodger, conniving to steal Eddie’s throne. Maybe even the Philosopher himself, dusting his cruel hands of a rival.

  Thing is, the real Slasher—Fancy Britches, whoever he be—still roams the streets. Only a matter of time before they find another butchered corpse, and then what for Eliza and Griffin’s famous justice, eh?

  Well, I don’t give a shit. No one shops my father and gets away smiling. We’ll uncover the truth, or I ain’t Lizzie Hyde.

  Which I ain’t, not technically. Ha ha!

  Still in Eliza’s body, I push past Constable Puppy-Dog-Eyes and into the street. Eliza’s stupid gray skirts tangle, and I kick ’em until they tear. Mud splashes, coating our calves in grime and shit. I swipe up a handful, smear it on her sleeve, up her neck, into her hair.

  The rotten stench makes me chortle. Ha ha! Looks good there, Eliza. Because that’s where we are. Wallowing in the shit, with all the liars and traitors and dirty coppers’ snouts in London. At least when a thief turns king’s evidence, he gets a pardon or a reward. What’d you get, Eliza? Not a brass-arse penny. You betrayed our father for free.

  A riotous gin palace floods the street with light. I skip up and squash our nose to the window, wipe our tongue over the glass at the partying folks inside. Ooga booga, it’s the Eliza-freak!

  A cove in a greasy suit licks thick lips at me and grabs his crotch. Who’s the whore now, Eliza? What say I offer him your services? Slide your hand into his stinky trousers, pull up your skirts and let him have his fun? How’d you like them apples?

  Clonk! I slam her forehead into the window frame. Our nose numbs, teeth ringing. That prickly blue hellbrew froths in my veins and dissolves. She can’t stop me. Her muscles are mine and I’ll wreck this body as I choose.

  Bang! Blood gushes, and I force a laugh up her throat. Doinng! Her spectacles break. Vomit chokes her, pain makes her dizzy, she cries out stop, Lizzie, stop but I won’t, Eliza, I bloody well WON’T because you shopped Eddie Hyde and now he’ll hang.

  I’m screaming inside her body, howling with rage fit to split, but I’m weeping, too. D’you get what you wanted, Eliza? To be rid of our father, the way you want rid of me? Bleeding heaven, why d’you HATE us so much?

  My mind shudders, stretches, rips thin . . . and a whispering voice half forgotten slips between the gaps. Tells me what to do. An old friend.

  Crafty cleverness warms me, and I giggle. Aye, I can wait. Just you see the havoc I can wreak, Eliza. You’ll never know when I’ll appear—but you can be sure you won’t enjoy it. And when the opportune moment comes? We’ll see who hangs for murder. Aye, we most certainly will.

  Schllp! Eliza’s eyeballs bounced, correcting with a sickening snap. Her skin wriggled, shrinking like a rubber suit, and suddenly she was free.

  Her muscles obeyed. Her limbs worked. No voice in her head, no alien prickle on her skin.

  Nothing.

  “Lizzie?” she whispered, feeling small and cold and threatened.
>
  No answer.

  Gingerly, she felt her aching temple. Blood smeared, mingled with mud from her spoiled dress. Her hair stank of excrement, and her cheek stung from Lizzie’s nails. A stark warning of what lay ahead. Of the damage Lizzie could do.

  Unsteady, aching, frightened, she turned for home.

  Clunk! She tripped, and fell headlong into the mud. A carriage’s wheels whizzed by, missing her nose by inches, and the driver cracked his whip in disgust. “Off the road, you gin-soaked tart!”

  Dizzy, Eliza scrambled onto the pavement, wet skirts slopping like a beggar’s. The road was clear. No rock or branch to catch her foot.

  “Lizzie,” she whispered into the silence, “did you do that on purpose?”

  Just angry silence.

  Defiantly Eliza raised her chin. “If I get squashed by a cart, you’ll be just as dead, young lady. Remember that.”

  And she started for home, Lizzie’s ghostly laughter just a threatening memory.

  A TOUCH OF THE SECONDS

  TWO HOURS, THREE ’BUSES, AND A TRAIN LATER, IN thickening dusk, an exhausted Eliza finally arrived at Cavendish Square. Her limbs hung heavy, her neck hurt from looking over her shoulder, her feet ached from walking. But she hadn’t been followed. At least not by Enforcers or Veronica Burton.

  No, the only things following her were accidents. Twice she’d slipped in a puddle and fallen on her face, and she’d collided with so many pedestrians that her throat was hoarse with apologies. So sorry, sir. Oh, dear, has the mud ruined your hat? Forgive me, madam, how clumsy, let me pick up your parcels from that pile of horse dung. Another time, she’d mysteriously slipped and wrenched her ankle while climbing down the omnibus ladder. Finally, she’d tumbled as she alighted from the Electric Underground at Farringdon, bruising her hip against the hard brick platform and scrabbling to a stop, inches from skidding under the train.

  The damp square was quiet, the park almost deserted. Two gentlemen strolled the sodden circular paths, deep in discussion. A governess in plain black skirts huddled in her cape as she herded her rambunctious charge. “Thomas, don’t play with that. It’s dirty.”