by Anne Renwick
“Interrupted?” Miss McCullough’s face lit with curiosity. “You saw him?”
“Her,” he corrected. “I lost the murderess when she slipped into a ventilation shaft.”
Miss McCullough’s eyes widened, then grew distant as she contemplated the implications. “A venomous female…”
Black cleared his throat. “Not information to be shared, Cait.” His words were stern and full of censure. “With anyone.”
“Please,” she huffed. “Spare me the lecture. I know the family business well enough.”
Black fixed Jack with a glare as he delivered yet another warning. “She’s a venom expert, Tagert, not an agent. I’ve read your report and we’ll discuss it later.” His expression promised Jack a world of pain should he dare utter another word about his encounter with the woman in white in the presence of his sister.
Not that there was much more to discuss. He brushed his thumb across the torn skin of his knuckles and redirected his attention to the dead woman. “The blood escaping Miss Cooper’s nose?”
“Extensive trauma to the nasal septum and deeper still,” Thornton said, bending over this newest victim. “See these small punctures at the edge of her hairline?”
Jack nodded. “How many?”
“Six,” Thornton answered. “We might speculate that something gripped her face while the damage was done. Hand me the crystal visilux scope, and we’ll have a closer look.”
Jack slid back into the role of medical student, aiding those he had shadowed. Together, they snaked the long, thin jointed device into a ragged, bloody hole that had been a nose.
“Interesting.” Thornton waved Jack forward to peer into the oculus.
“All soft tissue damage appears to terminate at the sphenoid, where a circular orifice has been drilled into the bone.” Jack straightened, his mind whirling as he contemplated the implications.
Thornton fixed him with a piercing stare. “And the significance of this bone, Tagert?”
Black glanced between them, forever suspicious of unspoken words.
“Well?” Miss McCullough prompted, eyebrows raised.
The sphenoid was a bone that formed part of the skull base, lodged between the two cerebral hemispheres. Rumor maintained that a hard, sharp blow of the elbow between a man’s eyes could thrust the bone into the brain, an instant kill.
Not, however, the significance Thornton referenced.
“The sphenoid bone houses the pituitary,” he answered. Of late he’d devoted an excessive amount of attention to studying its various hypothesized functions. “A complicated gland thought to regulate water and mineral metabolism, along with growth and reproductive functions.”
A gland which appeared to be missing.
Not that a definitive diagnosis could be made from this angle.
Thornton cleared his throat. “It appears our murderess may have collected a rather odd souvenir. To be certain, we’ll need to remove her brain.”
Most would have paled at such an announcement. Instead, Miss McCullough brightened. “An autopsy?”
“A partial one, yes.” Thornton, already garbed in a canvas apron, lifted a scalpel, and raised an eyebrow. “If anyone cares to make an exit, now is the time.”
Black reached for his sister’s elbow, but she side-stepped his grasp with practiced ease.
“Not a chance,” she snapped at her overbearing brother. “I’m not leaving until I know what happened.”
Black sighed and dropped his hand.
Jack blinked. Not only had Avesbury’s top agent been defied, he’d accepted it without resistance. So many questions ran through his mind. Were he to catch Miss McCullough alone, would he dare ask them?
Thornton made an incision, peeling back Miss Cooper’s scalp to reveal the skull beneath. Jack pulled on a thick, canvas apron, then passed around safety goggles before handing Thornton a vibration knife.
With the flip of a switch, a loud mechanical buzz filled the air and Thornton set to the task of cutting through bone, but not brain. A few minutes later, he set aside the knife and removed the skull cap. Lifting the brain free, he placed it in the ceramic bowl Jack held out.
Together, they stared at the inside of Miss Lucy Cooper’s skull, at the inferior surface of her brain.
“As suspected,” Thornton pronounced. “No pituitary gland.”
“But most expertly removed.” Jack studied the smooth tunnel drilled into the sphenoid bone, one that ended at the sella turcica, the depression in the sphenoid bone that housed the pituitary gland. The dura mater, a tough membrane surrounding the brain and spinal cord, had been sliced and the delicate stalk connecting the pituitary to the brain severed. “One can only hope the venomous bite rendered her unconscious before an as-yet-unknown device penetrated her nasal cavity to remove a portion of her brain.”
“How awful.” Miss McCullough shuddered, lifting a hand to her mouth as she contemplated the horror of this woman’s death. “But how, exactly? And why would anyone wish to harvest such an organ?”
Thornton caught Jack’s gaze. Held it a fraction too long.
Black’s eyes narrowed.
“Excellent questions, Miss McCullough,” Thornton replied, crossing to the sink. “Prior to this moment, I would have told you no such surgical device existed. Not even within the halls of the Lister Institute. However, answering such questions is a task now set before Agent Tagert.”
She looked to Jack. “Have any of the other attacks involved organ theft?”
Such was the very next thing he intended to discover. Until this morning, the London Vampire attacks had been under the purview of the Metropolitan Police. But given the deadly glare Black directed at him, he dared make no comment.
“I know that look,” Miss McCullough declared, hands on hips, the faintest curve of a smile at the corners of her mouth. “You don’t know. Any of you.”
Black glowered. “The Queen’s agents don’t, as a matter of form, investigate London homicides—”
“Unless they directly threaten national security or involve preternatural elements,” she finished. “I see. Rumors of a roaming vampire wasn’t of particular concern given they don’t exist.” She rolled her eyes. “But now that there’s a dead lord and a venomous woman involved, we’re taking over the investigation.”
Jack suppressed a snort.
Thornton didn’t. “Direct and to the point.”
“There is no we.” Black planted both hands on the metal table, leaning across the corpse, his gaze humorless. “Listen carefully. You are not a Queen’s agent, simply an expert consultant for this case. Analyze your samples and report back. Agent Tagert will handle the investigation.”
She crossed her arms and lifted her chin, looking as if she’d like to add her brother to the body count. “I wish to speak with the Duke of Avesbury.”
“No. I’m serious, Cait,” Black warned. “Stay out of this.”
He could swear Thornton’s lips were twitching. Jack struggled to suppress his own amusement.
With a huff that did not at all concede defeat, Miss McCullough swept up her samples. “I’ll be in the laboratory. I did, after all, put other projects on ice in order to assist you.” She stormed from the autopsy suite.
Black muttered under his breath. A long string of unfamiliar words, but their essence was plain. His sister possessed talents he wished to tap. But at the same time, he hoped to keep her safe.
A situation quite familiar to Jack, and the top agent knew it.
Black pointed a finger at him. “Under no circumstances are you to permit her further involvement.”
Chapter Four
“How dare he?” Cait fumed, glancing out the window yet again. The entire day had consisted of low-level torment, all orchestrated by her brother.
“Mr. Black does enjoy his games,” Janet agreed.
What was taking the messenger boy so long? He’d left to follow Mr. Tagert hours ago, long before she’d left for the zoo. Time was running out. A decision must
be reached and soon. There were only so many nights she could cry “ill” before Mother would insist upon sitting by her bedside, and she did not wish to squander them.
“My brother invites me into an active investigation. Avails himself of my knowledge.” She swatted at the air. “Then shoos me back to the laboratory as if my presence was nothing more than an inconvenient nuisance.”
Her maid had heard such tales of woe before. Logan wasn’t the first sibling to bleed Cait for useful information before cutting her out of the ensuing excitement.
“To keep me off balance and out of the way, he proceeds to arrange a private tour of the Reptile House at the London Zoo, dangling promises of groundbreaking research in his note.” She threw up her hands. “But saddles me with a tour guide so ossified that the man can’t countenance the idea of a woman stepping into the behind-the-scenes space of the Reptile House.” Cait turned. “What kind of twisted apology is that?”
“A poor one, miss.” Her maid spread a bright, aniline purple ballgown across the bed. “Nonetheless, a tour is a step in the right direction. Were you able to learn anything?”
Cait huffed. “Very little.” To gain even that had required batting her eyelashes and smiling at a distinguished gentleman—one she’d caught eyeing her décolletage—before attempting to follow him through a door marked “private”.
The tour guide had stopped her with a raised hand and a frown. “I’m sorry, my dear. Research staff only. They’re not to be bothered.”
Bothered!
Because a woman couldn’t possibly engage in deep, reasoned scientific conversation with zoo curators. She rolled her eyes. Next time she visited the Reptile House, it would be without an escort. Easier that way to gain access to the inner sanctum.
“And your mother, did the visit to the zoo inspire her to share any more information about your father?”
“Not a peep.” Cait sighed. “Though my inquiry about the past performances of snake charmers did have a rather satisfying effect.” Unkind of her to relish another’s irritation, but the tour had left her in a sour mood.
Mother’s face had turned puce as she’d hissed under her breath, “This is neither the time nor the place.”
But their guide, standing before the plate glass window displaying a despondent puff adder from Sub-Saharan Africa, had a ready answer. “A popular attraction when the Reptile House first opened, but I believe Jabar and Mahommed returned to Egypt shortly thereafter.”
“The timing is wrong.” Cait twisted the poison ring upon her finger. “Neither of the men could possibly be my father.”
The Reptile House had opened in 1849. Over thirty-five years ago. More than a full decade before Cait’s birth and, if Mother was to be trusted, both men were of the wrong nationality. It had been wrong of her to step outside her marriage, even if Father had broken his vows. Yet what was done could not be undone. And Cait did not regret her existence.
Janet squeezed her shoulder. “Perhaps it is for the best.”
Save that past formed the core of her research. But the precise origins of her strange biological gifts remained an enigma. At least for now.
She dragged in a deep breath, slowly exhaled. Nodded for her maid’s sake. Putting a name to the itinerant carnival man who had once charmed her mother might gain her no more than that, a name.
Time to refocus upon her future.
“You’re right,” Cait said. “I did not come to London to reprise my role in Glasgow by hiding away in a windowless laboratory.”
To escape, she would have to marry. The sooner the better. A fact she’d shared with her mother some two weeks past.
Mother, momentarily struck dumb by her daughter’s stated intention to marry, had wasted no time shredding the cobwebs that cocooned her former ton connections. Alas, such was a task in frustration as she’d managed only to secure a small handful of invitations, most of which were deemed socially unacceptable.
Almost as if her mother was being punished for a past misdeed. Likely, but what daughter wished to learn any more than she must about the indiscretions of her parents?
While Cait regretted her mother’s social misery, teasing out potential husbands from the general pool of eligible ton men would prove difficult given the precise qualification parameters she required.
If not outright impossible.
A better strategy was to wheedle her way into the company of Queen’s agents by insisting she be included in the current investigation. A plan she would have to set aside—at least for the evening—if her messenger did not return with news, and soon.
She’d stated her intentions upon arriving in London. But, as of today, it was clear Logan would not aid her quest to advance her career beyond laboratory assistant.
So be it.
But if Logan thought he could keep her out of the field by relegating her to the position of consultant, he was badly mistaken.
The so-called vampire was venomous. She was certain of it, even though she’d been unable to confirm the presence of venom due to protein degradation. Too much time had elapsed from their deaths. She required fresher samples.
By now, Mr. Tagert must have interviewed the coroner. Why had the messenger boy not sent word of the man’s name and address? At this very moment, the agent might be interviewing those who witnessed the victims’ deaths.
She paced back to the window.
The torment of being excluded was too much to bear. What if he missed some key detail that only she could unravel?
“London will be safer in the morning,” Janet warned. A Greek chorus predicting doom. “When pickpockets and thieves and all manner of reprobates have crawled back into their holes.”
True.
But patience was not Cait’s strong suit.
“In and out,” she said. “A crank hack to the man’s office door. A few minutes of conversation. Then I’ll have information upon which I might formulate my next move.” Cait waved a hand at the glass terrarium housing her new snake where, wary of its new environment, the serpent had yet to uncoil. “Easily accomplished. Less trouble than collecting an unwanted cobra.”
Janet’s lips twisted. “Until you stumbled upon a dead body lying in the street.”
“Most fortunate, indeed.” Cait threw her a saucy grin. “Not only do I possess unique insight into the exact nature of the so-called London Vampire, but I have the name of an unmarried Queen’s agent.”
“Handsome, from the spark in your eye.”
“I won’t deny it.” Dark and brooding with a roughness to his jaw that suggested he’d not managed a smooth surface since leaving boyhood behind, the man had refused to smile. But she’d seen his lips twitch, seen his eyes flare with interest.
Jack of all trades.
Memories of the details her brothers had shared of the man’s exploits—however scant—whetted her interest.
Her status as sister to the great and powerful and much feared Mr. Black was not a point in her favor. Finding an agent willing to cross her brother to tie the knot might present a significant problem. But if she could manage a few moments alone with the agent, the hostility that bubbled and simmered between her brother and Mr. Tagert might work to her advantage.
The urge to tease the man into a smile was overwhelming, and Cait looked forward to cracking through the thin coating of ice that surrounded his demeanor. She’d work the case, worm her way into Mr. Tagert’s presence, take a closer look. Assess matrimonial possibilities.
“He has the most curious background,” Cait mused aloud. “Medical training, but no acknowledged degree. At one point, he assisted cryptozoologists. Some undisclosed problem regarding foreign pteryform species.” Then her brothers had left home, cutting her off from a regular source of agency gossip.
“A mystery and a challenge,” Janet deadpanned. “Aether help him, he has a target painted on his back.” Her maid lifted a pair of thin satin slippers that matched the purple ballgown. “The hour grows late. Time to decide, miss.”
&
nbsp; Already, Cait’s hair was twisted and piled upon her head. Pearls dangled from her ears and encircled her neck. She wore all the compulsory undergarments of a lady about to attend a ball. Combinations. Corset. Corset cover. Wire bustle. Petticoat upon petticoat. Silk stockings.
Pacing, she plucked at the bandage wrapped about her wrist. Earlier, when the Ichor Machine indicated the presence of no foreign proteins in her samples, she had proceeded to nick her skin, to touch the swabs to small cuts. A—completely unauthorized—technique she’d used before to reveal faint traces of biological toxins. Alas, the attempted inoculation had failed. No redness or tenderness developed.
Cait needed a non-compromised, non-degraded sample of venom to establish herself as essential to the case. Something she could not accomplish at a ball.
She pressed a hand to the cool glass of the window, staring down at the busy street beneath, relieved—even as her heart jumped at the danger—to see a boy darting between steam cart and crank hack, zigging and zagging to avoid steel hooves and rubber-rimmed tires.
“He’s back,” Cait announced.
Excitement electrified every nerve as the boy vaulted over an iron gate and dropped into the sunken service well to knock upon the kitchen door and deliver his message.
“A walking dress, not the ballgown.” She plucked the pearl drops from her ears. “The copper one with blue accents and skirt hikes.” Nasty liquids pooled on London streets and, despite her outstanding immunity, she did not wish to return with hems soaked in gutter fluids teaming with microscopic life that might herald the next great plague. “And boots. Sturdy ones that lace to the knees.”
Janet turned back to the wardrobe. “Will you at least allow a footman to accompany you?”
“Absolutely not. For a shilling, James will rat me out and Mother will have a fit.” She stripped off extraneous petticoats, leaving a single ruffled affair draped atop the wire cage of her bustle. Too many flounces would catch at her ankles and hinder her ability to move. “Convince my mother I’m ill. Possibly contagious. Bar the door and refuse to open it until my return.”
Boots on, Cait lifted her arms. Janet dropped a copper skirt over her head, topped it with a simple blue, bustled overskirt. A fitted copper bodice with velvet-covered buttons followed. She’d chosen this ensemble because of the matching jacket. Certainly its lapels and turned-back cuffs were fashionable, but its true appeal lay in the hidden pockets. Sewn into the lining, they allowed her to secrete coins, keys, and an assortment of various vials along with the means to collect samples of blood and—dare she hope—venom.
