by Tim Pratt
“That’s fine, Halliday. Our arrangement will be a secret. No need for your family’s venerable feathers to be ruffled.”
“You mocked me before, sir, for using too many words to say ‘no.’ I acknowledge my tendency to excessive circumspection, and will endeavor to overcome it, thus: No.”
Value sighed. “Ah, well. It’s a shame, Lord Pembroke, but I won’t try to tell your mind. Still, it’s an ill wind that blows no good. At least your decision will make my friend at the Lantern happy. He’s been losing circulation to the Argus, but an exclusive scandal like this should sell a few more papers, I wager.”
“I’m afraid I’ve lost the thread, Mr. Value.”
“Hmm? Oh, I just think the editor there will be quite interested to hear about your marriage to Lady Pembroke, who was once Miss Sandoval. She had another name before that, though, didn’t she? Frederick… something, wasn’t it?”
Pimm rose to his full height, which was easily four inches taller than Value, and amounted to rather more as the criminal remained seated. “You dare insult my darling Winifred? I cannot imagine how you think such a slight would aid your case—”
“Use some of that vaunted mental skill, would you, Halliday?” Value said. “I own the whores. I know which of my women were unaffected carriers of the Constantine Affliction. I know which men slept with them. Some of those men died, some of them went into disgrace following their transformations, and some of them are passing for the men they once were, even now. But only a few of the men simply disappeared—it was mostly women who chose that direction. One of the men who vanished was your old chum Freddy Banks. And shortly after he disappeared, you took up with a woman named Winifred. You should have named her something else, Halliday. Rebecca. Caroline. Anything, really.”
“Freddy took a trip to America,” Pimm said stiffly. He was half-tensed, waiting for the short crack of an air pistol. If Freddy felt threatened, Value would certainly fall, even though Freddy was ostensibly armed only in case he needed to save Pimm’s life. Pimm had certain resources and connections, and the police wouldn’t expend much effort apprehending the killer of scum like Value, but it was a bloody ugly business, and Pimm had never been a party to murder before. He didn’t much want to start, especially since Freddy would have to kill Big Ben, too. That man was no angel, but he certainly didn’t deserve to die. “Freddy is in New York, last I heard. I’ve even had a few letters from him, you can compare the handwriting if you like—”
“I’d rather compare your wife’s handwriting to Freddy’s,” Value said. “That would, I think, be more illuminating. Sit down, man. I have no desire to disgrace you.”
Pimm did sit, as he’d felt like a bit of an ass standing up like that, but he kept his spine stiff. “Who would believe such allegations from you anyway?”
“You know the latest forensic advancements, Halliday. The new applications for the alchemical law of similarity can achieve remarkable things.”
Pimm frowned. The police alchemists had indeed recently made great strides. They could place a bit of skin or blood or hair from a crime scene in an alchemical bath, along with similar samples from criminal suspects, and if the samples came from the same man, they would attract one another like iron filings to a magnet, drawn inexorably together by the law of similarity that joined like to like. The technique was excellent for proving the presence of criminals at crime scenes or linking the skin fragments under a victim’s fingernails to the killer, but—
“Nonsense,” Pimm said. “Why, there’s no reason to believe that test would even work with victims of the Affliction. Their bodies change so utterly that even if you had samples of Freddy’s flesh—”
“We do,” Value murmured.
“—and a sample of my wife’s, what makes you think they would be drawn together, even if your outrageous claims are true?”
“It’s been tested, Pimm.”
Pimm noted, with distress, Value’s use of his nickname, rather than his surname or courtesy title. He felt it showed far too much confidence.
“Not by the police,” Value went on, “but by my own specialists. They are rather more advanced—it’s important for those in my business to exceed the capabilities of the civil authorities whenever possible. It’s true, the tissue taken from men before and after the change do not draw together so strongly… but they are attracted. They pull at one another well enough to detect. You know what that means, hmm?”
Pimm did. Samples from siblings, or from father and son, or other close relations, also displayed that sort of reaction, the familial connection revealed by the movement of flesh or hair in a dish.
“So if I put a bit of Winifred’s hair in a dish with a bit of Freddy’s, will it show that they’re brother and sister, I wonder? Of course, Freddy doesn’t have a sister. At the very least, questions would be asked. You know as well as I that you don’t need proof to create a scandal. There’s never been a bit of proof that I’ve engaged in any illegal activity, after all, but everyone knows I’m a whoremaster and a thief. The difference is, I don’t have a reputation to ruin—unlike you. And when I put one of those eager young journalists on the scent, especially from a muckraking rag like the Lantern, and point them in your direction… Well. When they find out Mrs. Halliday—forgive me, Lady Pembroke—has no history beyond, oh, two years ago? That will make for quite a story. You’ll be accused of perpetrating a fraud, at the very least, though there will be inevitable whispers of perversion.”
“I am not as concerned with my own respectability as you might believe,” Pimm said coldly. “While I hate to disappoint my family, I daresay they have grown used to disappointment by now. You are a fool if you think threatening me—”
“Then think of Freddy,” Value said softly. “Think of how she will be hounded, ridiculed, caricatured in the press, perhaps brought up on criminal charges—I’m sure she’s breaking some law, probably more than one. Let alone what the Church will say when they realize your marriage is a sham. The peaceful quiet life you’ve made for her will be overturned.”
Shoot him, Pimm thought, with uncharacteristic bloodthirstiness, but Freddy didn’t pull either trigger.
Which meant, Pimm supposed, he would have to go about this the other way. He took a deep breath. “There’s no need for unpleasantness between us, Mr. Value. As a man of conscience, I am, of course, eager to see a killer brought to justice.”
“Good,” Value said, smirking.
“But if I am to investigate, I’ll need… access.”
“Access to what?”
“Wherever the investigation leads me.”
“You’ll be accommodated. Don’t get any clever ideas about building a criminal case against me while pretending to serve me, Pimm. I float above all this sordid business like a cloud above a dung heap. I have no direct ties to anything unsavory. You could disrupt my business, true, but I would still be at home, living my life as always. Except I would be exceedingly wroth with you.”
“I’ll need to see the bodies,” Pimm said.
“Yes, of course,” Value said, rising. “We don’t have all of them, but they’ve all been examined, and I think my consultant still has the most recent on hand. Ben, give him our man’s address, would you? I’ll let him know to expect you—when?”
Pimm considered. “I’ll try to call on him this evening, or failing that, tomorrow morning.”
Value inclined his head in agreement. “I look forward to your report.”
Ben passed over a slip of paper, which Pimm didn’t bother to examine before stuffing it into the pocket of his jacket. Value sauntered out, with Ben following, and Pimm locked the door behind them. He pressed his forehead against the wood.
“Bugger,” he said at length.
Freddy appeared, wearing an entirely respectable dress, and fastening on a hat at the very height of the current style—or so Pimm assumed. Freddy paid more attention to such things than Pimm did, and always had. “That went well,” Freddy said.
“I t
hought you’d shoot him.”
Freddy shrugged. “A dead master criminal in the sitting room would have caused more problems than it would have solved. This way, you can find his killer, and then he’ll leave us alone.”
“And if he continues to exert pressure on us? To threaten to ruin us?”
“If you’re worried about him exposing my little secret, simply begin putting aside enough money that we can live a life of leisure even if your family disowns you. But don’t fret now. If Value oversteps, we can deal with him then.”
“He has already overstepped!”
“Oh, please. I know you, Pimm. ‘No doubt with diverting psychological elements.’ You want to investigate this killer. If Inspector Whistler of Scotland Yard had come asking for your help to investigate these murders, instead of Abel Value, you’d already be looking over the scene of the crime.”
“Just because I’m being led somewhere interesting doesn’t mean I don’t resent the leash, Freddy.”
Freddy patted his cheek. “You get to look at corpses later. Take heart.” Freddy paused. “I don’t mean that literally. Leave the hearts where they are. I’m off to my salon. That little tete-a-tete didn’t take nearly as long as I’d feared.” Freddy gave a little wave and departed.
Pimm poured himself a drink, emptying a bottle. He’d need to send Ransome out for more brandy—damn. He needed a new valet. A twinge of guilt passed through him. His little problems hardly seemed worth mentioning when desperate women were being murdered.
Pimm looked at the address written on the slip of paper Ben had given him.
That part of the city.
He started looking for another bottle.
Modern Advances in Scientific Pleasure
“I’m a friend of Mr. Addison’s.” Ellie pitched her voice lower than usual, though not comically so; she made a man of rather slight stature, she knew, and it would be incongruous for a bullfrog rumble to emerge from such a form.
The butler who’d answered the door of this stately old townhouse transformed from severely frowning guardian to smiling affable doorman at the mention of Mr. Addison’s name. Ellie knew there was no actual Mr. Addison, but she’d been told by one of her sources that his was the name to give this week. “Come in, come in,” the keeper of the door said. Ellie stepped inside, and the butler shut the door after her. “I’ll let the lady of the house know you’re here. Do you have an account with us?”
“Ah—no, I… It’s my first visit.”
“Of course, sir. Just a moment.” He slipped away, and Ellie allowed herself a long exhalation. She had passed the first barrier, at least. Ellie had spent all afternoon playing at being a man, having a drink in a pub and stopping at a tobacconists and strolling about in a park, and no one had pointed and whispered or shouted “Imposter!” She glanced around the foyer, trying out adjectives in her mind: elegant, restrained, spare… but it was just a rather dull foyer, really, with too much chintz for her taste.
The butler returned and led her down a hallway. She glanced into one room as she passed, and saw three men playing cards around a small table. Though she didn’t dare pause for a better look, Ellie thought one of the men was an ex-prizefighter named Crippen—“Crippler” Crippen, who’d been involved in a scandal regarding bouts deliberately lost to enrich corrupt bettors. The man had withdrawn from the sport, though it was rumored he still worked for the man suspected of orchestrating the illegal wagers—the gentleman criminal Abel Value. So she might surmise this was one of Value’s houses, then. Crippen caught her eye, gave her a gap-toothed grin, and winked. Unsure how to return such a gesture appropriately, Ellie just kept walking.
The butler directed her to a parlor that was actually furnished elegantly. She took a seat on a velvet-upholstered chair, endeavoring to sit like a man, spine straight, hat resting on her knees. A moment later a woman appeared in the doorway, and Ellie went tense again. Men she could fool, she knew that, but would another woman sense her essential femininity?
Not that this woman was terribly feminine. Ellie had expected the hostess at a brothel to be flamboyant as a peacock, all ruffled silks and feathers, but this woman had the severe features of a teetotaller and the fashion sense of a schoolmistress, wearing a black dress of conservative cut. She was perhaps fifteen or twenty years Ellie’s senior, and something about her precise movements and perfunctory smile made Ellie think she surely excelled at running a house and keeping accounts. “I’m Mrs. Hadley,” she said, frowning, and Ellie abruptly stood up—good lord, she was a man, that meant she should rise when a woman entered the room!
“I’m, ah, that is…”
“We’ll call you Mr. Smythe, hmm?” she said. “For convenience.” She sat down in a chair, perched well forward, alert as a hunter on the scent of a fox, and Ellie sat, too.
“Of course, yes, Mr. Smythe. Forgive me. I must be a bit nervous.” Don’t talk so much, Ellie thought. Every syllable risks giving you away.
“It is your first visit? I’m afraid, then, that we must broach the matter of payment. Are you familiar with our schedule of fees?”
“Not specifically…”
She named a sum. Ellie had enough on hand to cover it, though only just. Cooper would reimburse her, eventually, though she’d have to economize until he got around to putting in her chit.
“Payable in advance,” Mrs. Hadley said.
Interesting. “And if I’m not, ah, satisfied?”
“You are paying for time, a room, and the opportunity to examine one of our fascinating scientific devices in private, Mr. Smythe. What you do with that time is entirely up to you. The payment does not vary according to your satisfaction, or lack thereof. Ordinary wear and tear is accounted for in the fee, though you may be charged extra for any… unusual damage.”
Ellie blinked. “I can’t imagine there will be any damage at all!”
“That is reassuring,” Mrs. Hadley said. “For those who expect to cause damage, we offer specialized devices at an increased rate. Now, I have here some etchings, and a few other details. Please peruse these documents, let me know which model interests you, and I will direct you to the appropriate room. All right?” Mrs. Hadley passed over a thin roll of papers, tied with a red ribbon.
Ellie opened the roll. The first sheet featured a rather good drawing of a buxom bare-chested woman with great expanses of curly hair and big doe eyes, and some neatly handwritten cursive lines of description: “Matilda’s skin is pale as milk, her hair as yellow as sunshine, and her lips soft as ripe berries—” From there, it described other assets in a mix of high and low language that Ellie found profoundly embarrassing, and more than a little unprofessional. Why hadn’t they hired a writer as skilled as their artist? Though she supposed men were more interested in the pictures. “These are all… clockwork, then?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Hadley said. “It would be inappropriate for a gentleman such as yourself to spend time alone with an unchaperoned young woman, would it not? And any display of affection with such a young lady could be cause for concern, given the prevalence of… certain maladies.” She shifted on the chair, her crinoline rustling. “But rest assured, Mr. Smythe. Our devices are as realistic as any living woman. They breathe, they have heartbeats, they are warm, and they are… welcoming… to a man’s touch. Each is crafted from the finest materials known to science, in a perfect imitation of life, and every one is carefully cleaned and prepared before entertaining a new gentleman caller. Admittedly, they are not accomplished conversationalists, but they have certain vocal capabilities some men find pleasing.” She softened her tone, voice becoming soothing. “Men have urges. We understand. We help to fulfill those needs, with no danger to anyone involved—men or women.”
“How marvelous,” Ellie said, and looked back down at the sheets of paper. More drawings of women, some of them slim, some voluptuous, some with straight hair or curls, a few done in “exotic” styles—Nubian, Oriental, Odalisque.
For Ellie’s purposes, the precise mode
l didn’t much matter, so she chose one at random. “Here. I find her… most fetching.”
“Delilah. Very good.” Mrs. Hadley rose, and Ellie followed her to a staircase and up to the second floor, to a hall lined by doors labeled with brass number plates. Mrs. Hadley directed her to room number four, opened the door, and said, “Our standard period is one hour, but you may have an extra half hour, free of charge, to acquaint yourself with the device, as this is your first time. When you are done, and decently attired, pull the bell cord inside, and someone will show you out.”
“Does she need to be… wound up, or anything?”
“She is entirely ready for your company, sir,” Mrs. Hadley said.
“In I go, then,” Ellie said, and stepped through the door.
The bedroom was the lavish land of velvet Ellie had expected, with a great canopied four-poster bed the clear centerpiece of the room. Mirrors hung all over the walls, making the room into a miniature Versailles, and a large sea chest stood at the foot of the bed, lid just cracked open. The windows were heavily obscured by curtains, and one of the new alchemical lights stood on a dresser and provided illumination, its blown-glass bulb filled with a shining luminous gas. Some said the alchemical devices were safer than gas jets, less likely to start fires, though Ellie was unconvinced. Certainly the light was steadier than that provided by gas, and warmer (and far cheaper) than the new electric lights that had lately been exhibited, but there was something eerie about the glow, making her think of tales she’d read about will-o-the-wisps and St. Elmo’s Fire. Ellie glanced at the figure atop the covers. She (or rather it) seemed to be nothing more or less than a sleeping woman, chest rising and falling slowly. Ellie was not quite ready to examine her, so she went to the chest at the foot of the bed, wondering what it might contain.
