by Anne Renwick
“Emily gave me the formula,” she said.
Thank God.
“Unfortunately, it requires a specific flower not currently in bloom. It can’t be replicated. Not until spring.”
He swore.
“Emily has promised to send me every variation they’ve tried.”
“I’ll have the chemists review the formula.” They were the best in the country. If anyone could replicate the nerve agent’s effects…
She nodded, her expression grim. “There’s more.” She told him how the eye doctor had known to contact Emily for additional nerve agent. How, not knowing with whom they dealt, Emily and another gypsy woman sent a vial of the new formula to the murderer himself for testing. How the eye doctor had kept the delivery boy, Tova, to do just that. “The eye doctor has demanded more.”
“Is it too much to hope he provided a location?”
“It is. Emily promised to inform me the minute he contacts her.”
“She’s in danger. So is this woman, Nadya.”
“I know. Yet they’ve refused help.”
The traditional gypsy way of dealing with danger, with confrontation, was to fade away. To shift their tents and caravans to new locations, hoping to find safety in relative anonymity. Only when backed into a corner would they fight, but when they fought, they fought brutally.
Thornton liked having Black on his side; he knew where the man’s loyalties lay. But he wasn’t certain the gypsy tribe, for lack of a better word, would cooperate. He was wrapped up in thoughts of how to work with gypsies when her question caught him entirely off guard.
“So how does a prominent neuroscientist find himself working for the Queen as a field agent?”
Tonight’s activities had given her a peek into his life outside Lister University. “Are you asking me if I’m a spy?”
“I’m not really asking.” She gave him a knowing look. “Your average professor would not be charged with the task of catching a murderer.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “Spy might be somewhat inaccurate, but one thing leads to another. A useful invention catches the attention of the Crown, much like yours has, and before long, one finds himself in the field.”
She glanced over her shoulder, eyebrows raised. “Does your field work often involve mad scientists?”
He barked a laugh. “Quite.”
“What other device are you currently testing in the field besides the acousticocept?”
Easily answered. “None.”
“No? Perhaps you and Lady Huntley are close to starting field trials?”
“I am not at liberty to discuss my other project with you, Lady Amanda.” He said it as kindly as he could, but her back stiffened at the rebuff.
Still she pressed. “I think you’ve a vested interest in this case, that your expertise is required in the same manner that mine is required. In which case, it would help to know exactly what the eye doctor stole from your laboratory.”
He stayed silent. He couldn’t tell her, but if she guessed…
“Your refusal to inform me of the particulars of your research into an artificial eye may hinder the investigation.”
She knew. Not that it surprised him. She had a sharp mind and an instinct for ferreting out the truth. Only Black and Lady Huntley knew the particulars, but she had been let closer to the truth than anyone else who was not directly involved. “Can you explain how you have arrived at such a conclusion?” He asked out of curiosity, wishing to follow the path her sharp mind had taken whilst piecing the facts together into a whole.
“Three things, Lord Thornton.” She held up a finger, a long, slender, ungloved finger. “First, you have already created an artificial hearing device which connects directly to the vestibulocochlear nerve, the eighth cranial nerve. This you have already implanted into more than one agent of the Crown.” A second finger. “You are investigating the gypsy murders, all of which involve missing eyes.” Another finger rose. “And the first body I examined involved a severed third cranial nerve, a nerve entirely devoted to the movement of the eyeball.”
He waited, impressed.
“Therefore, it stands to reason that you and Lady Huntley are in the process of developing an artificial eye which, as our murderous villain has demonstrated, is not ready for field trials.”
It certainly wasn’t.
“Tell me, am I warm?”
The sweet smell of her perfume—overlaid with coal smoke—rose to twine about him. He wanted to drop the reins and once more pull her lips to his. She was more than warm. Brilliant and beautiful, he’d not yet met a woman her equal.
He caved, not to his physical impulses, but to his intellectual ones. “The device was not stolen from my laboratory,” he said. “No one could pass the multiple levels of security.”
“The pirate attack,” she asked, surprising him with her leap. “Not so random?”
“No,” he admitted, his hands tightening on the reins. That attack had cost him far more than his best friend and his leg. “The men masquerading as pirates were trained German agents. They knew exactly where to locate the prototype.”
Lady Amanda fell silent, digesting this new revelation during which the mechanical horse clopped another fifteen steps. He braced for the lurch, then grimaced at the burst of electrical pain.
The horse straightened. The pain in his leg would fade once they reached Lister Laboratories. The pain of Lord Huntley’s betrayal would not.
The two men had competed for highest honors in medical school, but rather than becoming enemies, they’d become fast friends. Their combined brilliance had quickly come to the attention of the Queen, and they’d found all manner of honors and privileges and responsibilities draped about their shoulders.
“Lord Huntley?” Amanda asked, her voice barely a whisper.
“Who else?” he answered, his voice bitter. “It seems his debts were extensive; more than Lady Huntley’s dowry was able to repair.”
“Greater than his loyalty to his country.”
He nodded. Or his friendship. Every single memory poisoned by one act of betrayal.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Lady Huntley must have been devastated.”
“Her entire world destroyed,” he agreed. “It was how she came to work in my laboratory.”
“An attempt to make amends?”
“A kind of indentured servitude in service of the British Empire. The only condition under which the Queen agreed not to revoke the title. His entire family is required to make similar amends.”
“Even though they share no guilt?”
“Even though.”
She tipped her face upward and caught his gaze. “How can I help?” she asked.
“By continuing your work,” he answered, making a snap decision. The relief he felt in allowing her to help shoulder the burden was palpable. Black and Lady Huntley wouldn’t like admitting another to the inner laboratory, but what she said was true. The more she knew about the artificial eye, the better prepared she would be to analyze the bodies and therefore the eye doctor’s knowledge. “As you well know, there are two kinds of cranial nerves. The sensory nerves—those which convey information to the brain alone, and the motor nerves—those which convey impulses away from the brain to control muscle movement.”
“Yes.”
“The acousticotransmitter connects to an existing, undamaged sensory cranial nerve. We do not replace the ear so much as we enhance it. Information travels from the device into the brain for processing. There is no need to re-wire the nerve.”
“I see.”
“In the case of an artificial eye, installation requires severing the connecting cranial nerves, both the sensory nerve—the second cranial nerve, the optic nerve—and those motor nerves that control the movement of the eyeball, cranial nerves three, four and six.”
“The oculomotor, the trochlear, and the abducens. Plus, the optic nerve. Four nerves in total. I can’t imagine agreeing to such a
procedure.” She shuddered. “Much more complicated and invasive than installing the acousticotransmitter.”
And gruesome. He did not look forward to removing a man’s eye, but at least he would have their informed consent and the hope of improving their lives. “We will recruit volunteers, veterans who have lost their vision or their eye in its entirety,” he reassured her. “At this point, we are only able to successfully connect to the optic nerve. We have restored vision, of sorts, but not the ability to move the eye itself.”
“In the first victim, there was no attempt to reconnect the sensory nerve—the optic; what you say has already been done. The eye doctor attempted to rewire only the third cranial nerve, a motor nerve.” Then she gasped with sudden insight. “He must be trying to use my spider to reconnect the three motor nerves to the eyeball itself. To control the movement of the artificial eye internally.” She shifted in her saddle, twisting in his arms. “If he manages that, all eye movement will appear normal. Provided the prosthesis itself does not readily stand out, an artificial eye might well be undetectable without close examination.”
“Precisely,” he said, reveling in her quick mind. “No external indication is the clear goal, but we’ve had no success rewiring nerves to muscles. You have.”
“Temporary success only,” she pointed out. “And cranial nerves are vastly different from the peripheral nerves emerging from the spinal cord. Cranial nerves originate from multiple locations within the brain and from within the skull. Peripheral nerves have but one origin and lie outside the central nervous system where my spider can easily access them.” She shook her head. “Both cranial nerve origin and accessibility make the prospect difficult if not impossible.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Once your neurachnid is rebuilt and functioning, the addition of rare earth metals to the golden fibers will stabilize the artificial nerve’s connection with the muscle.”
“Leaving the problem of the diffuse origin and accessibility to be solved.” She looked up, and her gaze locked with his, flashing insight. “Which must be the very problem the eye doctor is attempting to remedy.”
“So I suspect. The Germans have had their hands on the prototype now for nearly a year. They have competent neuroscientists. Once the problem of connection is solved, they might very well employ our own technology against us.”
She hesitated, fought the temptation to ask—and lost. “What does the eye enhance? How does it form images using the visual cortex? Will you show it to me?”
For the first time in what seemed like forever, Thornton wanted to laugh. Wanted to trust the woman in his arms and tell her everything, but something held him back. Could he trust his own judge of character? After all, he’d trusted Lord Huntley and that had ended… badly.
As his assistant, Lady Huntley would need to agree to sharing such information, but was she any better judge of character? No. Better to seek the opinion of the one man whose judgment never failed.
“I’ll speak with Black about your security clearance,” he said.
Her eyes sparkled with excitement. Just as his once had at the promise of ground-breaking advances. If only treachery and betrayal and death hadn’t followed… leaving him dependent upon the help of others, upon Somnic. Somehow he needed to find a way to recapture the exhilaration of discovery.
They fell silent. The clockwork horse’s hooves pounded out their lurching cadence on the streets as they picked their way through street traffic. Before them the crank wagon rumbled along. At last they rounded the final corner. The building housing the morgue drew into view as the first faint rays of dawn crept around the edges of London’s buildings.
They’d arrived. Holding Amanda in his arms was torture, but letting her go was worse.
Chapter Sixteen
THE PAIN OF dismounting from the horse nearly brought Thornton to his knees. Black caught him at the last second, saving him from collapsing on the flagstone walkway outside the laboratory complex. There was no way he could help Black carry the body into the morgue. Not without more Somnic.
Black assisted Amanda with her dismount, then turned to Luca. “If you’ll assist me with the body.”
Luca narrowed his eyes and pointedly crossed his arms, not moving a single step.
Thornton let loose his fury, words tearing from his throat. “Do you think you are safe? Perhaps. But what of your wife and unborn child?”
Luca’s hands curled into fists.
“That’s right. The eye doctor believes Lady Emily can brew him something he needs, something he wants badly. A drug to assist him with his macabre surgeries. He’s not going to leave her alone.”
Luca’s eyes grew wide with alarm. His gaze shifted to Amanda who confirmed his testimony with a grim nod.
“Do you understand now?” He pointed at his chest. “I’m your best hope of ending this.” He pointed at Black and Amanda and once more back at himself. “We’re your best hope at stopping these murders and keeping your family safe. So stop acting like we’re desecrating your dead and start helping.”
Amanda laid a calming hand on his arm. “Enough,” she said, then turned to Luca. “Please, Luca. What Lord Thornton and I glean from a scientific examination of Tova may very well be key to preventing another gypsy death.”
Silently, the gypsy turned and helped Black carry the litter toward the morgue.
“Was that really necessary?” she asked curtly.
“Yes,” he bit out, wiping a hand over his face, over the rough stubble of a long night and wondering if he had the strength to reach his office. He’d lost his cane in the crash, but what were his options? Stand about like a stork until Black thought to come back with a litter for him?
“Your leg,” she said. “Lean on me.” She draped his arm about her shoulders. “I’m stronger than I look.”
He gritted his teeth and swallowed his pride. With slow, painful lurching steps, he made his way into the building and down the hall to his office. At least at this hour there was no one to witness his humiliation.
Inside, he dropped heavily onto the nearest chair and began tugging at his pant leg, exposing the metal brace to her view. Not once—not since the brace was fitted—had another individual viewed his infirmity. But she’d felt the brace, threaded her fingers beneath its bars to bring him relief. The pain had grown so debilitating he could no longer hide his agony.
“I could—”
“Not necessary,” he cut her off, declining her touch. “I keep a supply available there.” He indicated a carved wooden box sitting on a shelf.
She retrieved it, but her hand hesitated. Thornton snatched it from her and flipped the lid open. He snapped the tip off a glass vial and poured the entire dosage into a glass syringe, tapping away the bubbles. He plunged the needle into his leg, the sting barely registering over the nerve that screamed in agony.
Slowly, blessed numbness spread across the side of his lower leg, from his knee down to his toes. Six hours of relief. All that was left was the mental exhaustion that gnawed on his brain. He rose, limping across the room to grab an old cane.
“Shall we?” He indicated the open door, gesturing for her to precede him. There was a gypsy to examine and, hopefully, a spy to thwart.
“Just like that?” She didn’t take a single step toward the door, instead she planted two fists upon her hips. “As if you didn’t just inject yourself with five milliliters of the most powerful nerve agent available when, at the price of five minutes, pressure point therapy would have provided you with nearly four hours’ relief.”
“One.”
“One what?” she snapped, her body vibrating with frustration.
He needed to push her away. “One hour, Lady Amanda. It only worked for one hour. If that. Now. Your impatient and irate brother-in-law waits below.” He waved toward the door again.
“Later, then.” With clipped steps, she brushed past.
“No.”
“No?” She froze, her back stiff, h
er chin high. Without looking back.
Though it would pain them both, it needed to be stated aloud. For him as well as her. “Let us be clear,” he said. “The last few hours may have created an artificial sense of… intimacy, but it’s not your place to direct my actions with regard to my personal health. We must remember that we work together in a professional capacity alone.”
“Is that so, Lord Thornton?” She strode from the room without a backward glance. Leaving the room feeling decidedly empty.
Thornton followed, knowing she would make him regret those words.
In the morgue, all was in readiness. The bright limelight burned over the examination table, casting Tova’s maimed face and neck into stark relief. Luca, pale and drawn, stood with his back pressed to the wall as far as he could remove himself from the body.
Lady Amanda wasted no time beginning her examination and the incongruity struck him as surreal. She pulled a stained canvas apron over lace and silk, then twisted her hair tightly behind her head, pinning it in place with a number of tongue depressors. His lips twitched, trying to form an unwelcome smile. She snapped magnifying goggles into place and bent over the body to probe the empty eye socket.
She asked for no assistance, and he offered none. He set about collecting a variety of blood and skin samples, studying the hands and nails closely for any clues they might reveal. Wrists and ankles were rubbed raw where they appeared to have been restrained by a coarse grade of rope. The forehead also showed indications of restraint. All marks not found on earlier victims. The eye doctor was operating in less than ideal conditions.
Fifteen minutes later, his samples were labeled and stored for later examination. Lady Amanda also declared herself done and began her report, speaking in the general direction of his left shoulder.
“Only one eye was removed. Likely the eye doctor realized that nerve agent was ineffective and aborted the procedure. However, there are, now that I know what I’m looking for, indications that he successfully interfaced with the optic nerve.”
Black shot him a dark, pointed glare.
“She figured it out on her own. I did not tell her about the phaoscope.”
