Venomous Secrets

by Anne Renwick

  Aubrey’s face turned puce.

  “Time to throw your drunken friend under the omnibus. Name him as the instigator. Tell me everything you know about his wife, nanny and mistress. Begin by telling me the name of the theater in which he met them.” Any clue that might hint at where Helena and Carruthers might have arranged to meet.

  “Escaped, have they?” Aubrey scoffed. “Let me know when you have them in custody. We’ll talk then.”

  Jack had pushed, but his brother had flattened his lips and refused to utter another word.

  “Perhaps if you threatened to remove the last of his family jewels?” he suggested, pinching the bridge of his nose. The headache pounding within his skull threatened to crack it open along its many sutures at any moment.

  “Tempting.” The corner of Black’s mouth kicked up.

  Cait snorted. “Or suggest that the slip of a tongue in the presence of a newspaperman might make his life yet more difficult?” Cait tipped her head. “Tit for tat?”

  Black lifted an eyebrow. “An act prohibited according to the terms of your employment.”

  She sighed. “Terribly trying, professional behavior.”

  Lady Mildred had taken one glance at her fiancé lying beside her, clutching a bloody cloth to his groin with his pants at his knees, and broke into a hysterical keening that only lessened when she was delivered into her mother’s arms. An end to their engagement would raise questions, the answers to which, if discovered, might well cause the gossip rags to spontaneously combust.

  Aubrey himself was not so fortunate as to secure transport home. Instead, he was en route to a hospital ward beneath Lister Laboratories where he would be shackled to a bed frame and the consequences of his unfortunate amputation addressed.

  Thanks to Cait’s efforts, Dr. Thrakos—brought down by his own creations who were even now en route to her laboratory—would follow Aubrey on a gurney of his own where measures could be taken to make him speak. Jack had very specific plans to extract all the data he could about the pituitary extractor’s design, construction and function.

  With no remaining on scene responsibilities, he and Cait were under orders to return home and recover while agents hunted down three deadly lamiae and one misguided lord.

  Not that he had any intention of resting. Not while a venomous and deadly lamia, mistress to the complicit Carruthers, and her sisters roamed free.

  “For you.” Black slapped an envelope against his chest, its seal broken. The top agent made no effort to conceal that fact, nor did he offer a false apology. “A missive from your sister.”

  With that, Black left them to attend to other pressing matters.

  Jack pulled out the paper, read aloud the short message. “All’s well that ends well.” The note was unsigned.

  “Angela?” Cait inquired.

  He nodded. “It’s her handwriting. As to its meaning…”

  He shared a knowing look with his wife. Best to leave the words unspoken.

  His sister had either executed her husband as ordered. Or had done the unthinkable and fallen in love. Impossible to know.

  But the message delivery?

  An olive branch, and likely the only one Black would offer.

  As a steady stream of zoo officials in evening attire poured out of crank hacks and carriages, all expressing varying degrees of shock and horror at the egregious events beneath the Reptile House, they slipped away.

  He’d given the driver directions to their home. Not that he or Cait would stay longer than it took to effect a change of clothes, to replenish their supply of TTX darts. Then it was back out onto the streets, hunting the London lamiae.

  “With Dr. Thrakos in custody,” Cait began, “we could abandon the lamia chase and focus upon extracting information from him.”

  “We could, but he might well resist.”

  “There are ways…”

  “I’d prefer to deliver an actual device, broken or otherwise, into Lady Thornton’s hands,” Jack said. “Then we question Dr. Thrakos. Better to let the mad scientist ponder his bleak future. That alone will loosen his lips.”

  “Patience is not a quality I possess in large amounts.” Inside the dim interior of their for-hire steam carriage, Cait pressed a hand to his face. “Especially now, when you look as if someone used a hammer to drive a nail between your eyes.”

  He swept her into his arms and onto his lap, attempting to kiss away her concerns. “Ignore it as I do.” Activities other than conversation were at the forefront of his mind. “Or, better, distract me. We’ve a bit of time to ourselves in this conveyance.” He drew a finger over the edge of her rumpled bodice. “Alone.”

  “True.” She unknotted the sad, limp cravat at his collar, slid it from his neck and tossed it aside before pressing a kiss to the hollow of his throat. “It’s not as if we could possibly become more rumpled or disheveled.”

  “Nor are we a stodgy, old married couple tied to convention.” He shifted, tipping her backward onto the lumpy seat. Tufts of horsehair stuck out from worn patches. “After all, we’ve yet to make it to our marriage bed.”

  “I expect it’s overrated.” His wife bent a knee and a cascade of ruffles fell to her hip, exposing thin silk stockings that disappeared beneath the lace edges of pink-tinted knickers. “And you did promise we’d pass time in the most interesting and pleasurable ways possible.” She crooked a finger.

  Lovestruck and fully aroused, he stared. Fighting to focus that he might fix this image of her in his mind—illuminated in flashes of gaslight through glass windows as the carriage rumbled through the streets—should the worst come to pass.

  His wife, the very picture of a victorious Queen’s agent, a far cry from a prim and proper lady. Everything he’d ever wanted—needed—and hadn’t known.

  From her gauze-wrapped snake-bitten hand to the tangled tumble of snarled hair cascading over her shoulders. Even the blood stains upon her bodice, scuffed boots and torn stockings was irresistible seduction, for every detail marked a moment she’d prevailed.

  “Jack?” A hint of concern edged her voice.

  She was right to worry. His vision struggled and his head pounded. Was it possible that the tumor within his brain could rupture without warning? Yes. Today or tomorrow. Next month or next year. And his life would implode.

  Or it might sit there, dull and boring, yet stealing tiny fractions of his vision away day by day.

  But right now, they were safe and secure, and he intended to make the most of every moment.

  “Aether, Cait. A man needs a moment to admire the beauty of his wife.”

  “That’s long enough.” Stern words, belied by the smile upon her face. Leaning forward, her fingers fell upon his waistband. “Come make a closer examination.”

  In a moment, his trousers were loose about his hips and he fell upon her, like a ravenous wolf.

  “Forced marriages may be underrated,” he said some time later, sated and sweaty and still wrapped in his wife’s arms. “I never would have sought out an eavesdropping, snake-collecting woman with powerful blood on my own.”

  “Never fear,” she laughed against his neck. “Tall, handsome, single and a Queen’s agent. You were already within my crosshairs.”

  “I’m sorry I ever doubted the power of your blood,” he whispered. “Most impressive, how it just saved a man’s life.”

  “Only in hopes of saving your vision.” She pressed two fingers to his lips when he dipped his head again, smiling. “Stop. We’re almost home, and we have monsters to hunt, one in particular. Helena with the pituitary extractor in her possession.” With a fingertip she traced the furrow between his eyes. “Your first dart missed.”

  He winced, then dropped his forehead to her shoulder. The brief respite from confronting the inevitable was at an end. There was no escaping this conversation. Partner and wife, she needed to know.

  “Up.” She poked him in the chest. “No dissembling. How bad is it, really, your headache?”

  With a sig
h, he lifted his head. “Bad enough to trigger recurring double vision.”

  “You took aim at the wrong image?”

  “Not exactly.” Regretfully, he extricated himself from the tangle of limbs.

  As they went about setting themselves to rights, he recounted those close, fast moments in the subterranean laboratory. “My vision was good enough. My mistake was targeting Lady Saltwell first. In the space between the moment when the second dart fell into its chamber and when my finger pulled the trigger, Helena shifted—and my dart missed her by a hair’s breadth. Before I could blink, she was in front of me. A second later, she struck my head, pain exploded, and the world went dark.”

  “She moves with extraordinary speed,” Cait agreed. “And fights with an unnatural strength. I can feel bruises forming across my shoulder and back.”

  He frowned.

  “I’ll recover.” She caught his chin between her thumb and forefinger, glanced from one eye to the other. “I’m more concerned about your head.”

  “And my pupils?” A concern, as any difference would indicate optic nerve damage.

  “Still the same size.” Her lips twisted. “For now.”

  “What will you do with the remaining morphophídia?” A blatant change in topics.

  “That will depend,” she commented. “Those serpents were created purely for venom production, not for direct use upon a patient. They lack control, as demonstrated when delivered by lamia or masseuse into a vein. They may be deemed too dangerous for study.”

  “It was an excellent scheme. A venom syndicate.” Jack waggled his eyebrows. “Gentlemen willing to pay a steep price for the pleasure of a venomous bite and the promise of rampant virility.”

  She rolled her eyes. “All while their wives and mistresses swallowed monthly doses milked from the morphophídia to prevent conception. Round and round it went, with no end in sight.”

  “An ouroboros.”

  Her eyebrows drew together. “Is that the snake eating its own tail?”

  “It is. Often said to represent the cycle of life, death and rebirth, it’s an early alchemy symbol with roots in ancient Egypt and Greece,” he breathed out the last word. “What is it, Cait?” Her gaze had become distant.

  “How on Earth was I to draw the connection at the time?” She snapped into action, rapping at the roof and calling to the driver. “Thirty-Six Holywell Street!”

  The carriage lurched, abruptly changing direction.

  “Cait?”

  “Alchemy. Magic. Circle.” She shifted onto the edge of her seat, eyes glittering. “I knew Helena looked familiar, but I’ve only now figured out why.”

  “Not only from the confines of a dark carriage in Covent Garden, I gather?”

  She shook her head. “It’s no wonder I’ve forgotten. How on Earth was I to draw the connection at the time? It all leads back to my cobra.”

  “Your cobra?” Only his wife would use such a possessive, a unique woman among the ton. He rather looked forward to introducing her—inflicting her?—upon high society.

  “Mine.” She swatted his shoulder. “Much as he desired to arrange for a photograph depicting ‘Eve and the Serpent in the Garden of Eden’, the artist from whom I purchased my snake could not find a woman willing to pose nude with the creature.”

  “Wise, given its poisonous nature.”

  “But how did he come into possession of the cobra in the first place?” She lifted a finger. “The photographer shared his studio with other artists. Among many charcoal sketches tacked to the wall was one of a dark-haired woman with a distinctive nose, naked but for a twist of fabric wrapped about her waist. She stood, hand extended, tracing a circle upon the ground.” Cait leaned close. “There was a serpent wrapped about her neck, tail tucked inside its mouth.”

  “Helena,” he said. “Your snake was once her snake?”

  “Cobra venom and her venom cross-reacted with my serum on the biogels indicating immunity,” Cait reminded him. “What other woman would handle such a serpent without fear?”

  “Besides you, daughter of Kālūnāth Sapera?”

  She grinned. “Besides me.”

  “So you’ve redirected our carriage based on—?” He lifted his eyebrows.

  “There was background in the sketch, but I paid it no attention.”

  “Focused as you were upon obtaining a cobra.”

  “Exactly.” Her face beamed. “We need to examine the drawing, locate the artist. She was an actress, and Holywell Street is adjacent to Covent Garden. Perhaps he could help us trace her past.”

  “Where she might even now be taking refuge?”

  “We’ve no other leads.” Cait threw up her hands. “Most of the killings took place in and around Covent Garden, save for Lord Saltwell and our unfortunate apothecary’s assistant. What if she still rents her old rooms?”

  “And this artist might point us to a specific theater—”

  “Where her old associates might be able to direct us to her lodgings, the perfect place for her and Carruthers to hide from Queen’s agents while they plan their next move.”

  They turned from The Strand onto Holywell Street, passing the church of St. Mary le Strand. Rumor had it that street took its name from a holy well, one that still bubbled and gurgled in the basement of a tavern, largely ignored, though its water was as clean and as fresh as in Roman times.

  Not that clean or fresh were words he’d use to describe any other aspect of this section of London. Tired and tilting half-timbered buildings loomed overhead as hired crank hacks, clockwork horses, and pedestrians clogged the narrow passage. At this late hour, all were here for entertainment of the risqué sort.

  “We’re here.” Cait squeezed his hand.

  They alighted before a narrow alleyway that led back to The Strand. Half-Moon Passage, or Pissing Alley, an accurate honorific given the odor that emanated forth. The ancient carved wooden sign, a rather disgruntled looking half-moon who looked down upon them with distaste that gave the passage its name also hung over Thirty-Six Holywell Street, a bookseller’s store. One which was, to all appearances, closed.

  Cait looked up at him expectantly.

  So much for impressing her with the lock picks he slid from his coat pocket. Jack threaded the narrow metal tools into the keyhole of a bolt barely worth the cost of the iron used to forge the padlock.

  Click.

  The lock fell into his hands, and they slipped inside. Decilamp held aloft, they picked their way past tables and between bookcases and such texts as An Erotic Philosopher’s Lectures.

  “That one caught my eye as well.” Cait laughed behind him. “We could take it with us, leave appropriate remuneration behind on the counter.”

  “Yet another reason to be pleased with my wife. But another time.”

  Narrow stairways led upward. A dark hallway to a street-facing studio, its door unlocked. Inside, streetlight filtered through windows casting the shadows of props and stools and camera equipment upon the floors and across walls papered with photographs and sketches.

  Cait pointed. “There.”

  The blue-white light of his decilamp illuminated the charcoal drawing.

  An expertly drawn sketch, exactly as Cait had described it. Naked woman. Snake. Some kind of magic ceremony in progress. The backdrop, surrounded by hanging curtains was clearly stage scenery, but one he couldn’t place. Not even with one eye closed, that he might focus more clearly. The drawing was, unfortunately, unsigned.

  “Who’s there?” Frying pan raised overhead, a man approached.

  “Mr. Dryer?” Cait spun, hands lifted. “We had no idea the building was occupied. Many apologies, but we’re in dire need of time-sensitive information.”

  “You!” the man lowered the cookware. “Snake-woman.”

  “But not,” she pointed, “the only one. Who is she? Where is she?”

  He shook his head. “He warned me about your kind.”

  “Her kind?” Jack asked.

  “Slithery and G
reek.” The man backed away. “Kiss you, kill you. Best avoided.”

  “I’m neither Greek nor venomous,” Cait said. “But this woman is.” She tugged at her jacket, giving the man a glimpse of her TTX pistol. “We wish to take her into custody.”

  “Do you know who sketched this?” Jack asked.

  The man nodded. “Waterhouse. He’s making a bit of a name for himself these days. Warned me that woman in the picture was up to no good, but that he couldn’t prove it. He gave me the sketch as payment for taking that cobra off his hands.”

  “And where might we find Mr. Waterhouse?” she asked.

  The man shrugged. “About.”

  Jack sighed, pointed the decilamp back at the drawing. “This scenery, can you pinpoint the play?”

  Squinting, Mr. Dryer drew closer, nodded. “It’s a backdrop from Fay O’Fire. Playing over at the Opera Comique right now as we speak.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  As it happened, the Opera Comique was but steps away.

  Built upon the grounds that once housed Lyon’s Inn, one of the Inns of Chancery, a former law court once situated between Holywell and Wych Streets, were two back-to-back theaters, The Royal Globe Theater and the Opera Comique.

  Not that you could exactly see it, tucked away as it was behind existing buildings that lined the streets. There was no grand façade, merely a sign hanging over an unremarkable street entrance. A steep flight of descending stairs delivered them to passageways that led them beneath buildings and into a largely underground theater.

  Subterranean.

  Suitable for evil, burrowing creatures with small, beady eyes and sharp pointy teeth.

  A category into which she now placed lamiae. But Cait’s thoughts on the matter were decidedly unkind.

  City officials wished to demolish the entire area, for both moral and aesthetic reasons. As of the moment, the city had not yet moved on its plans to widen and improve The Strand, but with such a possibility in mind, those constructing the two theaters hadn’t over-invested in building materials. Rickety and drafty, descriptive terms most often applied.