by Anne Renwick
“A woman,” he demanded, ignoring the insistent pounding of his head. “In white. Has anyone seen her?”
A question met by denial and apprehensive looks. No one had seen anything unusual. If the woman was loose upon the streets, she was long beyond his reach.
He punched the wall, cursing. Those few pointed words exchanged with his brother might have cost him the time needed to catch Lord Saltwell’s assailant. Grinding his teeth, he turned back into the tunnel. There was nothing else to do but rattle door handles in the hope she’d hidden somewhere within the basement rooms.
Alas, an hour later, he admitted defeat. Grim, he ducked out onto the street and pointed his scuffed shoes back toward his childhood home. Questions he couldn’t answer would await him. Rumors and gossip would fill the void. He would do what he could to mitigate the disaster for, if Lord Saltwell had met his end at his brother’s engagement ball, there would be hell to pay.
With all due haste, the Duke of Avesbury must be informed of tonight’s incident. And of his agent’s failure to secure the murderess.
Chapter Two
The crank hack clattered to a stop.
Holywell Street.
Two long rows of crooked, timber-framed houses stood shoulder to shoulder, hunching over the narrow street. Secretive, furtive. Casting storefronts and pavement into half-shadow beneath the anemic light of a gray sky.
And enticing a small crowd despite the early hour and a persistent morning drizzle.
A knot of men gathered beneath black umbrellas upon the street. Didn’t most men pursue their vices under the cloak of full dark? What illicit amusement pried them from their warm beds? The promise of a new, risqué postcard? Did she dare sidle close enough to find out?
Cait mentally slapped at such ill-bred curiosity.
“No one must recognize you,” Janet had warned. Repeatedly and at length. A steam maid would fuss less. Neither, however, would a mechanical servant provide critical tips and hints as to the many shadowy secrets London hid in plain sight. “That’s no place for a lady of quality to be spotted. Indecent images propped up in the windows of those so-called bookstores. All those gaping men offering uncouth opinions about women’s unmentionables.” Janet’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And there’s worse, I hear tell, inside. Photographs of a pornographic nature.”
A detail that failed to deter Cait the slightest bit.
“I’m not a lady, and I won’t linger,” she’d promised Janet. Though if postcards were scattered across a nearby surface, she’d certainly satisfy her curiosity with a quick glance. Growing up with brothers who dabbled in the medical sciences and no supervision over her selection of reading materials, she doubted anything of an anatomical nature could shock her—much as she’d enjoy learning otherwise. “A few minutes to chill the snake, then back to the carriage, safe and sound.”
For Logan would kill her if he ever found out she’d ventured here, unaccompanied no less. Not because he believed her of naïve and virtuous character, but because such a street presented a physical threat, especially for a young woman with exotic features.
How she hated that term.
With such in mind, she’d chosen a dress of dull gray. There were ruffles and lace aplenty, but the cut was more severe than most of her gowns, displaying little more than her hands and face. Any remaining modest displays of flesh were addressed with gloves and a wide-brimmed hat complete with a veil. Like low-hanging fog, she planned to drift down the street, a sober, unremarkable matron.
Was there still risk? Certainly. But Cait’s actions were entirely justified. The study of bacterial exotoxins was all well and good. An excellent professional pursuit. But ever since Mother’s tipsy revelation a few months past, a corner of Cait’s mind would not stop turning over her unguarded words and the possibilities such a revelation suggested.
“You wish to know of your true father?”
“I do.” She’d pressed for years, only to be met with denial after denial.
Mustering resolve, her mother had splashed a generous amount of whiskey into her teacup, a vast deviation from the norm, for Mother frowned upon ladies who imbibed. But Cait’s announcement had ripped a ragged hole in her mother’s over-inflated plans to secure her daughter a respectable husband within Glaswegian society. Perhaps the indulgence could be understood.
“Very well, you are of age. I’ll tell you.”
And she had.
So much clarity from the briefest sentence. It explained much, especially her affinity for snakes.
But the final proof, the final test?
Cait had yet to manage that.
First she needed to procure a live cobra. Not the easiest of tasks. Not even in a city such as London.
The zoological gardens would possess one, certainly, but staring at a reptile through glass was not her aim, no matter how fascinating. And as her brother refused to accompany her to the Reptile House, let alone put in a word for her with the London Zoo’s research committee, she was on her own.
It hadn’t taken her long to locate a pub housing a suitable snake, but the owner was disinclined to part with his serpent. “Keeps me in business, it does. Nothing better than a live feeding on payday to keep the ale flowing. But if it’s a private viewing you’re after,” the man had leaned closer—his hot, fetid breath threatening to gag her, “I’ll arrange for an innocent white rabbit to be delivered.”
“No thank you.” She’d backed away. “I’ll find another.”
Her inquiries had finally borne fruit. A photographer thinking to boost sales with a racy depiction of Eve—an image involving a half-eaten apple and a snake twined about her neck—had found himself in possession of a venomous creature instead of the harmless grass snake he’d been promised. Understandably, his model had balked. For a price that smacked of extortion, he’d agreed to sell the serpent to Cait. She was to collect the cobra today.
Excitement skittered along her each and every nerve.
The crank hack’s door swung open and the driver held out a palm. She accepted the assistance, careful to keep a tight hold of her refrigerated carry case and its precious contents. This expedition would drain the last of her funds, but it would also accelerate her personal research program by leaps and bounds. That or land her in a coffin, six feet under.
Risks to which she was accustomed.
But first things first.
Cait hurried down the street under her own umbrella, hunting for the correct address. There. Number thirty-seven, a secondhand bookshop, lay just past an alley that reeked of urine and beneath the figure of a golden crescent moon with a long, sullen face.
Keeping her face turned away from the crowd that gathered next door, she ducked inside.
Dark and musty, the interior was mercifully devoid of occupants, save the lone shopkeeper who eyed her and her case with decided suspicion.
“I’m here about Mr. Dryer’s snake,” she stated. Direct and businesslike, yet the man sniggered.
“Whatever you say, miss. Stairs are in the back.”
Though she lacked the nerve to inquire about any titles secreted behind the counter, she slowed her steps as she passed a prominent bookshelf, scanning the titles. The Lustful Turk. Colonel Spanker’s Amatory Exploits. An Erotic Philosopher’s Lectures.
Goodness. Perhaps she could be shocked. If she dared lay as much as a finger upon a book’s spine. But not now, not here.
In and out.
She located the stairs and climbed upward. Beneath her feet the treads creaked and shifted in a manner that did not inspire confidence in the building’s timber-frame construction.
“Mr. Dryer?” Cait called, pulling back the annoyance of her veil as she stepped into a narrow hallway. Its walls were papered from floor to ceiling with photographs and drawings, including a number of charcoal sketches of a nude woman wearing a cobra about her neck. She traced a circle in the sand at her feet while a cauldron bubbled over a fire.
She squinted. Was that snake the one sh
e intended to purchase? Could be.
“Up front!”
In a small room, two people stood with their noses pressed to the rain-streaked glass panes that overlooked Holywell Street. “It can’t be Molly,” argued a woman wearing little besides stockings, boots and a thin satin wrapper. “I spoke to her this morning at the tea shop.”
“Lucy, perhaps?” the man answered. This, presumably, was Mr. Dryer.
Long drapes hung from overhead rods, cascading into a pool upon the floor. A low sofa was positioned among their folds. A camera stood upon its tripod, waiting for its subject, for its photographer. Leaning against the walls and stacked upon simple shelving were numerous props. Feather boas. Silk flowers. Leather riding crops.
And one spectacled cobra, Naja naja, in a small, barren and miserable cage upon a wobbly table. A risky setup. Cait reached out and tapped a finger upon the glass. The snake spread its hood and lunged. No surprise to find the poor thing stressed by its current environment, what with no source of warmth and not so much as a branch upon which it might coil.
“I’m so sorry,” Cait whispered, leaning close. “You’ll not enjoy the trip home, but I’ll take far, far better care of you. Fat mice can be found around every corner in the Lister Institute.” Feeding the snake would be the easy task, not so preventing Mother from evicting such a creature from their rented townhome.
She set down her case and unfastened its latches. Sliding metal tongs from an inside groove, she grabbed a lump of dry ice and dropped it inside the snake’s cage. Once a mild torpor was induced, she would transfer the cobra into the carry case. Cold, the venomous snake would be safe to transport through the streets of London.
“Goodness, did you see how the bobbies all stand straight and tall now that new man’s here?” the woman exclaimed.
Time to announce her presence.
“Excuse me.” Cait cleared her throat. She opened the purse hooked to her belt, withdrew a pouch heavy with coin and held it out. “I’m here for the cobra.”
The man turned. “Well, now.” His eyes raked over her from hat to hem. “A young, slim beauty. You’ve gloomy taste in clothing, but if we peel it all away…” He ignored the bag of coins she held. “Exactly how handy are you with such a snake?”
“Very,” Cait answered, confused as to why her answer sparked a speculative light to flare in his eyes. “Else I wouldn’t take the risk.”
“You promised.” The woman stuck out her lower lip. “Only me today.”
“Hush, Louisa.” Mr. Dryer flapped a hand at her without breaking his intense appraisal of Cait’s form. “Keep an eye on events below. See what you can make out. We wouldn’t want to end up like the others, would we?”
“No,” Louisa pouted. “But…”
“Opportunity like this rarely presents itself. With those dark eyes and lashes…” Slowly, the photographer paced about Cait. Ought she be offended? It was difficult, given his open admiration. As a rule, people who looked closely ended up commenting upon her complexion, one that whispered of the Indian subcontinent, in a rather negative and suggestive manner. “One photograph. Nothing but you and the snake twined about your neck.” He tipped his head toward the waiting sofa. “What do you say? Will you pay for the snake with your image?”
Heat rushed across her skin. Her? He wanted to photograph her naked? Holding the cobra? Pass her likeness into the hands of men who would gawk, objectify and…
No need to explore that thought further. One did not grow up with three brothers without being peripherally aware of what lustful men did behind closed doors.
“Absolutely not.” Private romantic liaisons were one thing, but indecent exposure? Not a scandal in which she wished to feature. Easier to accomplish her goals by remaining out of the public eye. She set the coin pouch upon the low sofa. “But thank you for your generous offer.”
“Pity,” Mr. Dryer said.
Ignoring his disappointed sigh, Cait again tapped the glass cage. This time, the cobra barely blinked. Sufficiently cooled, the snake would be easier to manipulate. Less of a threat.
“If you’ll both remain quiet and calm,” she requested, “I'll transfer the snake and be on my way.”
She positioned her case upon the ground, withdrew a collapsible snake hook and extended its telescoping handle, all oft-practiced wrist movements with her pet adder, Willy, had honed her skills. A bite would not be as much a threat as a disappointment. After all, one only encountered a new venom once. This time, she wished to document her every reaction in the laboratory where she could easily collect a multitude of samples.
She drew on thick, padded leather gloves and—slowly, calmly—set aside the top of the cage. With the hook, she gently lifted the cobra and guided its head to the gathered neck of the linen sack. Without protest, the snake slithered inside.
“Most impressive,” Mr. Dryer breathed.
She sealed the opening and slipped the bag into the cooled carry case.
Done.
“A steam wagon!” the woman exclaimed, turning away from the window. A hand flew to her mouth. “Oh. Sorry. Did I—?”
“I’m done,” Cait said simply, choosing to ignore the woman’s idiocy. She latched the case, collapsed her hook, and stood. Time to leave. In and out, just as she’d promised.
“Reggie?” Louisa beckoned the photographer toward the window. “They’re lifting out a stretcher. It is Lucy! The London Vampire’s killed one of our own! What if he comes back?”
A victim of the vampire? Here? The men Louisa watched upon the street were clustered about a dead woman? A frisson of fear mixed with excitement ran down her spine. Her brothers were forever getting mixed up in strange situations. Ones exactly like this.
She resisted the urge to join them at the window where the photographer and his model once again had their noses pressed to glass.
“Goodbye!” Cait called as she stepped into the hallway, picked her way down creaky stairs and strode past musty shelves. Even the shopkeeper now stared out his window, barely glancing in her direction as she exited.
She ought to lower her veil, open her umbrella and walk away. Hail a crank hack and direct the driver straight home.
Except.
Cait found her feet glued to the stoop, unable to turn away, adding her face to those others that gaped at the tragedy.
A litter had been slid beneath the dead woman, and they were lifting the body. Wet, muddy skirts clung to striped stockings and buttoned boots. Frayed cuffs wrapped about the wrists of pale, limp hands. A blood-stained cloth covered the victim’s head and shoulders.
Hiding what?
Stretching her neck, she leaned forward, trying to see more of the vampire’s latest victim.
“What are you doing here?” her brother Logan barked from beside her, nearly shocking her from her skin.
Cait turned, swearing. Heart in her throat, she glared into his eyes as she set her jaw. “I’m about Lister business, if you must know.” An equivocal answer tinged with the hint of a lie, but she’d learned the technique from the best.
Logan’s gaze dropped to her carry case. “Aether, Cait. You had to find one here?” Suspicion twisted his lips. “Did Dr. Whitby actually grant you permission?”
She shrugged one shoulder. What she did after hours in the laboratory was her own business.
“A woman at loose ends often finds herself forced to take certain steps…” She let that settle into his mind. A warning. After all, he had flat out refused to aid her when she announced an intention to hunt for poisonous snakes. And where had that led? To the simmering start of an argument on an infamous street before a dead body. Best to redirect his grousing. “Perhaps if you’d taken my request more seriously…”
“Cait.” His voice held a note of warning.
“I don’t know why you fight it. I’ve every intention of securing a meeting with the Duke of Avesbury.” She eyed the weapon holstered beneath his jacket. “Eventually, one of my letters will reach him. Or my work will draw his
attention.” Covert poison experts couldn’t be thick upon the ground.
Logan closed his eyes and tipped his head back, inhaling deeply. “I’ve explained the requirements for a female agent time and again.”
“I must be married,” she said. “Either to another agent or to a man of the duchess’ choice.” As she’d no intention of playing the perfect wife to snag a man under suspicion of disloyalty, she would avoid the Duchess of Avesbury and her machinations at all costs. Quite simply, she needed to find herself an unmarried Queen’s agent. A task which, given that her brother refused to provide her with a convenient list of unwed agents, was proving difficult.
As if that would stop her.
Cait did her best not to smirk as Logan attempted to calculate how he might tuck her back into a laboratory where she could play safely with her various poisons.
Dismay, then resignation crossed his face.
She’d won. He only needed a moment to come to terms, to accept the inevitable.
“You’re determined to join the family business?”
She nodded.
“Then there’s no reason not to start your training now.” He waved a hand, an invitation to view the corpse before them.
“Don’t tease.” An offer to contact the Duke of Avesbury on her behalf would have sufficed. Unless… “Vampires aren’t venomous.”
Logan let out a long, beleaguered sigh. “And yet there’s something you might be able to explain.” He raised his voice. “Hold!”
What? She hurried after him. What about the murders had yet to reach reporters’ ears? Curiosity spiked her pulse.
Men parted, clearing a path without so much as a word from Logan, though their frowns carved deep lines into their faces as he led a woman to stand beside the chuffing and hissing steam wagon that would carry the dead body away.
“Are you certain you’re up to this?” Logan asked.
