by Viola Carr
He chuckled. “Bet your pretty ankles I do. Would you like that, Eliza? The clever little vixen and her fierce guardian angel of ruin. People would gossip that we’re lovers.”
She opened her mouth and shut it again. Impossible man.
But not for the first time, she wondered exactly what Henry Jekyll had intended their relationship should be.
“We can’t ever do that, my sweet. Society, I mean.” A bitter, wistful tone. “I’m sorry for you. If Henry were here, you’d be the toast of this god-rotted town.”
Was that a flicker of shadow, in the corner of her eye? She laughed, shaky. “I really don’t think so . . .”
“God’s blood, girl, don’t flay me with that smile of yours.” A jagged edge, bottled-up rage. How could he see her face? A reflection from some shiny surface, a window . . . ? “You look so much like your mother. May her ghost wander alone in the dark.”
The sentiment shocked her. But the ever-present itch of questions was irresistible. “Did you know my mother well, sir? I’m afraid I barely remember her.”
“Know her.” His laugh was ugly. “Now there’s a double-bladed question. The woman’s dead and forgotten. Do you really want to dig up her murdered bones?”
She blushed. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to pry.” Ask the question, urged Lizzie impatiently. What are you, a coward?
“Never you mind. I hear you’re having trouble with some strutting cock from the Royal.”
As usual, she scrambled to catch up with his abrupt change of subject. Had Finch said something? “Oh. Yes, but . . . how did you know?”
“I know everything about you. For one, I know you met an old friend today. How did that make you feel?”
She shivered on the seat’s edge, hardly daring to move. Finch knew nothing about that. “I’m not sure to what you’re referring—”
“Entertaining, isn’t he? An expert in his field. If you can stop him spouting rabid nonsense.” A snort. “Always did have too many dreams in that tragic head of his. Did he ever show you his paintings? Now there’s a zoo.”
Unexpected connections dazzled her, and she struggled for clarity. Her father’s associates, the photograph outside Mr. Fairfax’s office. She didn’t know them all by name. It was years ago; some were doubtless long dead. Was A.R. in the photograph? And as for Mr. Todd . . .
She suppressed the urge to rush to Bethlem to study the photograph. “I’m confused.”
“No, you’re just pretending to be stupid. It doesn’t suit you.”
“How do you know Mr. Todd, sir?” His challenge made her short.
She felt him smile, a warm current on the air. “I know everything interesting that happens in my town. And Todd’s interesting, you have to give him that. Answer my question: How did he make you feel?”
She closed her eyes, counting heartbeats. Was it a trick question? A warning? “Uneasy,” she whispered, as if in a trance. Was it only Todd of whom she spoke? “Lost. Frightened. He knows . . . too much.”
“Mmm. Well, it’s nice to have friends. Tell me about the Royal.”
She blinked again at the bait-and-switch. “It’s just routine. Merely a murder I’m investigating. They sent their man to pry.”
“And you can handle this Royal’s man, can you?” A derisive challenge, yet a strange note of pride.
“Of course. He knows nothing.” But her heart stung that she might disappoint A.R. She wanted him to think well of her. How desperately she longed for that. Like any young woman, eager to please a father figure . . .
Flames danced in the grate, hypnotic like fairy lights. Her candle guttered, a spectral breath. “And Lizzie? How does she handle him?”
With both hands, whispered Lizzie slyly, and Eliza nearly splurted it out. “Uh. I’m not sure what you mean . . .”
But she knew. Lafayette was dangerous, and danger excited Lizzie. Made her reckless. But if a threat got too close? Lizzie acted swiftly to get rid of it. Or, so Eliza had thought, until that chilly night in Chelsea.
“Be careful, my sweet.” A glitter of steel-edged threat. “No one wants a scene. But if I have to protect you, I will.”
Her thoughts stumbled. What would A.R.’s “protection” involve? Would he petition important people on her behalf? Buy their silence? Hurt them?
“Now I’ve frightened you.” A velvety rustle, the bitter scent of alchemy. “Let me give you something. Missed your birthday, didn’t I?”
A cool caress feathered around her throat.
Her nerves crackled, electrified . . . but warm, rough hands pressed down on her bare shoulders, keeping her in her seat. His twisted shadow hulked along the bookshelves. The room suddenly seemed impossibly small and threatening, swallowing her in warm anticipation . . .
“This was your mother’s. She’d have wanted you to have it, now you’re old enough.” His breath ghosted over the back of her neck. “I care for you, Eliza. Don’t ever doubt it.” His voice faded. “Even if sometimes I forget.”
“Who are you?” she whispered, entranced.
A heartbeat of silence. “You know who I am.”
She whirled. Gone. Just a sway of dark velvet curtains and the smell of leather.
She stumbled to the window. Open, a puff of cold midnight breeze. No one in the street. She stuck her head out, craned her neck. Nothing.
How did he do that? Did he . . . disappear? Just as the Chopper seemed to vanish without trace?
Ridiculous. No one vanished. Did they?
Eliza sucked in deep breaths, trying to calm herself, and speckled light danced across the wall. A reflection, starry fragments of golden flame. She fumbled at her throat. Smooth, ornate, the intricate edges of filigree.
A diamond necklace. The wedding gift in her mother’s portrait. May her ghost wander alone in the dark . . .
What did he mean?
She fingered the jewels uneasily. They spilled over her collarbones, a flaming rosette in the warm firelight. Priceless . . . Abruptly, she tore the thing from her neck and dumped it on the table, as if it might bite.
It sparkled, accusing. You’ll wear silk and diamonds, and we’ll dance the waltz by candlelight . . .
Oh, no. No. It was all too perfect. Too convenient.
Suddenly resolute, she lifted her skirts and sprinted for the stairs. Down, two by two, careless of the noise. She grabbed her cloak and ran outside.
The door slammed behind her. Cold dark street, buzzing electric lamps, mist fingering the wrought-iron fences. She shivered and tossed the cloak around her shoulders. It covered her completely, hiding her delicate skirts under a velvety black swirl. No one around . . .
Her ears prickled. Tiny echoes, footsteps on stone.
At the junction with Bedford Place, a flapping coattail vanished around the cornerstone.
Yes.
She hurried after him, pulling the hood up over her hair. Moonlight spilled molten metal over the road and frosted the trees with silver. She was wearing her formal slippers, not boots, but her footsteps echoed, frighteningly loud on the stones. He didn’t turn. Didn’t notice her.
Chill seeped into her toes, crawling icy roots beneath her petticoats. Her breath didn’t frost the clammy air. But her mother’s absent diamond necklace still stung cold on her skin like a ghost. What did such a gift mean? Why had he chosen tonight to give it to her? And why had he avoided talking about her mother?
What d’you think it means? Lizzie humphed contentedly. He’s a dirty old pervert who thinks he can buy you with baubles, that’s what. Told you so.
She rounded the corner, the street still empty . . . but there he was. Almost a block ahead. He strode swiftly but unevenly, his shoulders hunched in a dark frock coat—black? dark blue? purple?—and a top hat yanked down on his head. She couldn’t see his face, but he didn’t look especially large or threatening. Just a man.
He was escaping. Disappearing into the mist. She broke into a trot. Around a corner, across a square, the wet grass soaking her feet. It was after midn
ight. The town houses were silent, no lights burning.
A hansom cab pistoned by on creaking brass legs. The cries and traffic noise of ever-busy city streets loomed closer. Arc-lights buzzed, the clank! and boom! of the Electric Underground beneath her feet, the stink of hot aether and horse dung.
She emerged onto New Oxford Street. For a moment she lost sight of him, and her heart bounced into her throat . . . but there he was, crossing the street, his strange shambling gait, his tightly jammed top hat. She hurried after him, dodging urchins and drunken revelers, costermongers already pulling their carts towards market.
Her quarry disappeared down Drury Lane and onto a side street. The shadows thickened, along with the stench. The street narrowed, walls closing in. Shouts and drunken song drifted. Ragged children slept in piles against walls and in gutters, their little faces pinched blue with cold. In a doorway, a man had his way with a prostitute, bunching her skirts around her waist. On the wall, someone had scrawled Burn the Royal in chalk.
Clawed feet scuttled behind her, and something growled, larger than any rat. Eerie laughter tracked her, echoing left and right, and sniggering breath ghosted across her cheek. A hooting thing leapt out at her, a bare-skinned man with long monkey arms and a sloppy grin.
She dodged and kept running. Breathing hard, the cold air aching her throat. She was losing him in the twists and turns. She ran faster. Her feet slipped in noisome effluent, and fruitlessly she tried to gather her skirts. Her best clothes were filthy. Molly would notice. Then again, she rarely wore this fancy gown. She’d have it cleaned by a laundress, replace it in her closet before Molly knew anything about it.
At last, A.R. limped up to a door across the street beneath a flickering blue torch and thumped it with his fist. Bang-bang-bang! The doorjamb rattled under his blows.
The door cracked open. Glinting eyes peered out, a red-lipped smile. A.R. disappeared inside, and the door slammed shut.
Eliza’s spine tingled cold. Not a polite part of town. Fiery lights burned in the windows, and rough voices were muffled inside. The heady smell of liquor leaked out, as well as those of other, more dangerous substances, like seductive enchantments inviting her in. A woman screamed, and ill-made laughter followed, and abruptly the scream died. In the street, a fistfight had broken out between half a dozen men, and a tall thin fellow in a long coat was smashing another man’s head into the ground, over and over. Another fellow already lay senseless in a puddle, face-down and bleeding. In the side alley, a prostitute did business on her knees, eliciting grunts and groans from her customer.
Clearly a house of ill repute. Stupidly, she flushed. What A.R. chose to do with his spare time was no business of hers. But what kind of “gentleman” was he? How had respectable Dr. Henry Jekyll even encountered such an ill-favored reprobate, let alone come to trust him as a “friend and benefactor”?
But she knew the answer.
She had Lizzie. Henry had his own shadow. A man who did dreadful things. Surrendered to dark and forbidden temptations. Made unsavory acquaintances . . .
You’re just pretending to be stupid, A.R. had said. You know who I am. As if all the evidence she required lay right in front of her.
Go on, crooned Lizzie, seductive like a whore. Stroll right up to that door and charm your way in. Dazzle ’em with a smile, flip ’em a coin or two, flash ’em some ankle. You’ll find out what old mate’s up to right enough . . .
Frustration nipped at Eliza’s cold fingers. She wasn’t Lizzie. Look what happened at the Cockatrice. She’d never get past the front door of this place . . .
Maybe he wants you to follow him, argued Lizzie. Ever think o’ that? He’s as tired of this secret game as we are. All that talk of waltzing and drinking tea. How many diamond necklaces he gotta give you before you figure it out? He wants you to see him, Eliza. Hell, he was right begging you to turn around . . .
“That’s ridiculous,” she retorted.
Oh, aye. A husky chuckle. He goes straight from your prissy parlor to a brothel. Who d’you reckon got him thinking along those lines?
“Don’t be disgusting!” Too loud in the gloom. Her fingers flew to her mouth, and she shuddered. God help her, she was talking to herself. Lunatics rotted in Bethlem for less. Were the voices her patients heard real, too?
But Lizzie’s taunts stung like vinegar poured on a rash. Steeling herself, Eliza strode up to the door and knocked.
Rap-rap! The tiny sound didn’t echo.
The door opened a crack. Firelight spilled out, the rich smell of wood smoke and old wine. Bloodshot eyes surveyed her with narrow disdain. “What’s the word?”
“I’m sorry?”
“The watchword, idiot!” Crotchety, like a mad old man.
“Oh. Er . . .” Eliza tried to think, to imagine what such a word might be, but nothing came to mind. How about, fuck off? whispered Lizzie. There’s a fine watchword for you, you crazy old fool . . .
“No word, no entry. Bugger off.” A pernickety cackle, and the door slammed shut.
“I say, how rude.” She rapped again, but the door didn’t open.
She sighed and turned away. This place made her uneasy. What kind of place wanted a watchword?
Oi! Where d’you think you’re going?
Determined, Eliza started walking.
Don’t be a weakling, scoffed Lizzie. Someone else might come along, and we can mooch in with them. Or at least wait ’til he comes out. He’s gotta go home sometime. We could follow him, find out where he lives . . . or don’t you want to know?
Eliza huddled deeper in her cloak.
What are you afraid of, Eliza? Making Mr. Skulk-Behind-the-Curtain angry? Or finding out the truth about our precious Henry?
“Don’t talk about Henry like that,” she snapped. “He’s my father, not yours.”
Is he just? Where’d I come from, then? Not from that little black bottle, Eliza. I were always in here. The drink just lets me out . . .
“Shut up. Just shut up. You don’t know anything!”
Coward, whispered Lizzie slyly.
“Am I, now?” snapped Eliza. “I’ll remember that, next time I visit Mr. Todd. You remember Mr. Todd, don’t you? Oh, that’s right. You don’t. Who’s the coward now?”
Lizzie sniffed haughtily and didn’t reply.
“Ha!” Eliza sniffed back. “That silenced you, missy. Not so clever now, are you?”
But the hot black aura of Lizzie’s anger bubbled beneath the surface like a witch’s brew, and Eliza rubbed her chilly arms and broke into a run.
IGNIS FATUUS
THE NEXT MORNING, IN UNSEASONABLY WARM SUNSHINE, Eliza hurried down the lane to the stage door of the Egyptian Hall, Hippocrates at her heels. A wisp of hair fell from her bun, and impatiently she tucked it back up.
Inspector Griffin was waiting for her, immaculate as usual in his dark morning coat and freshly brushed hat. His face looked pale, and sleeplessness drew dark rings under his eyes.
But he mustered a grin. “I say, Doctor, you look a little untidy. Late night?”
“You and me both.” She covered a yawn, her eyes gritty. She’d slept barely at all, squirming in a mess of sweaty sheets and fevered dreams, in which the stinking maze of Seven Dials burned like the Great Fire, and she ran through flame-licked streets wearing a golden silk gown, chasing a shady personage she never seemed able to catch. Horrid demon laughter had echoed around her, evoking some elusive memory that she couldn’t quite recall. A cold corridor in her father’s big old house on Cavendish Square, creaking floorboards, whispers from a darkened bedroom, the slow drip-drop-drip of blood . . .
She’d swallowed another dose of her remedy an hour ago. It hadn’t helped. Shadows squirmed inside her like trapped snakes, hunting for a way out . . .
“By the way,” said Griffin casually, “I’ve received a complaint about you.”
Lizzie snorted. Little Mr. Left-on-the-Shelf, I’m thinking.
She sighed. “Don’t tell me: Inspector Reeve.”<
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“Uncanny! The very same. He has this peculiar idea that you serve at my beck and call at all times. Interfering with strange bodies, indeed.”
“‘Missy,’” trumpeted Hipp, imitating Reeve’s condescending tone. “‘Fancy yourself a police officer. Stick to your embroidery.’”
Eliza stifled a giggle. “It wasn’t a ‘strange body,’ Harley. I was simply doing my job.”
Griffin’s gaze darkened, serious. “Then do it carefully, Eliza. Reeve is a vicious little man who still has friends at the Home Office. If you step over the line, I won’t be able to help you.”
I’ll bloody well help meself, then, snarled Lizzie, and Eliza’s blood warmed with the seductive prospect of revenge. If that little cigar-chewing bastard crosses me, he’ll be sorry . . .
“Very well.” Eliza yawned, properly this time, but the rage bottled up inside her, prickly and dangerous like a cactus in a bag. “So, what am I doing here? Did we finally get a court order to search Disappearing Ophelia’s quarters?”
Griffin fielded imaginary applause. “Thank you, it was nothing. Creaky old Magistrate Turpin dickered and muttered and scratched himself as usual. Until I tossed out the words ‘Royal Society.’ That cleared away the cobwebs.”
“You used Captain Lafayette as a threat?” She glanced around the alley, half expecting Lafayette to leap out. “Now he’ll be truly insufferable.”
“Not in so many words. I merely pointed out that now the matter has engaged the Royal’s interest, I’d be sure to mention His Honor’s name as the man who stalled my investigations.”
“What was the problem, in any case? I expected the search to be done by now.”
“The charming Mr. Maskelyne and his entourage of strange and beefy friends wouldn’t let us in. He said his sister was killed in the yard, not in the theater, so it wasn’t a crime scene, and seeing as his lady wife had conveniently told us everything anyway, a search wasn’t required, and would we kindly clear off. Or phrases to that effect.”
Eliza winced. She didn’t envy Mrs. Maskelyne her husband’s temper. “So where is our ever-helpful captain, anyway? Not hovering over your shoulder today?”