The Diabolical Miss Hyde

by Viola Carr

  Subject closed, then. “According to Underwood, Geordie’s illiterate,” she offered. “So whence the letters?”

  “Perhaps he pays a scribe to write his awful poetry for him.”

  She glanced around the dirt-smudged loft, weary. Her head was beginning to ache, what with no spectacles, no food, the strange-tasting remedy . . . “With what, dust bunnies? How much do you think Underwood pays a live-in rafter-monkey?”

  “Likely nothing at all. How shrewd of you.”

  “And I see no weapons or tools. No knives or bayonets. Nothing that could have made those curious electrical burns at the scenes, either.”

  “Another fascinating observation. Congratulations.”

  Her head swam, and her throat felt coated in hot spice. “You don’t believe Geordie has anything to do with this, do you?”

  “No, madam, I do not. Assumptions make idiots of us all.”

  “Despite the robe of devil’s advocate that you seem to have slipped on in the last two minutes.”

  He curled a severed lock of yellow hair around one fingertip. “I don’t have a scientific explanation for you, Doctor. It just doesn’t smell right. I don’t scent murder here.”

  Another wave of faintness. Her stomach burned distantly, a sure sign her need was gathering pace, and like a shedding snake’s, her skin rippled. She wanted to writhe, scratch at it, peel it off, make the horrid sensation stop. Sprint for home, break open her secret cabinet and gush that warm bitter elixir down her throat . . .

  She fought to steady her breath, quell her rising panic. She needed to see Marcellus. Now.

  But she couldn’t leave. Not until the evidence was examined. Until she ensured Lafayette couldn’t follow her. “You can scent murder?” she said lightly. “How quaint. If only investigations were always so simple.”

  “They are, after a fashion. I’ve known compulsive killers in my time. Men with monsters inside them.”

  “Creatures that deserve to be hunted?” Things like Mr. Todd, or Billy the Bastard.

  Things like me . . .

  A dark smile. “Precisely. They come in two types. Either they cover their tracks immaculately, like our Chopper friend, and you get not a whiff of them until they strike again . . .”

  That’s what you’ve come for, isn’t it? whispered Todd in her memory. To dance with my shadow?

  “Or,” added Lafayette, “you find them at the end of a short but lurid trail of gore. Sometimes, they’re even standing over the corpse, drenched in terror and blood and wondering what in the world just happened. Which group do you think Master Glocky-Stick here would fall into?”

  Eliza picked up the brown plush rabbit and tweaked its nose. Its single ear flopped. “A simple lad who sleeps with toys,” she mused. Her palms left damp marks on the worn velveteen. “It does seem unlikely. Still, I’ll match the samples. One never knows.” She popped the rabbit back on the cushion and tugged a paper bag from her satchel to collect the hair.

  “Aren’t you supposed to wear gloves when you do that?”

  She dropped the locks into the bag. “It’s the size and shape of the hairs that concern me here, not any other substances that might be present. One day, perhaps, it will be possible to lift finger marks from surfaces and identify the person who left them. They’re unique to the individual, you know. But not yet.”

  “Compelling idea. But wouldn’t you need a copy of everybody’s finger marks first, with which to make comparison? Seems authoritarian to me.”

  “Only if you have something to hide.” Like Lizzie, the lady in red, who’d lured Billy Beane into the dark and . . .

  (hot flesh, sour sweat, dirty hair smearing her fingers, a yell and a bright flash of steel . . .)

  . . . and stabbed him in the throat? Fended off his feeble struggles with a laugh and watched him bleed to death? Did Eliza really want the truth? What then of her precious justice?

  Lafayette eyed her, incredulous. “Do you actually believe that? What happened to ‘innocent until proven guilty’?”

  “You work for the Royal. You tell me.”

  “I enforce the rules, madam. I don’t make them.”

  “And do you actually believe that?” She thrust a glass tube in his direction. “Make yourself useful for once, won’t you? Put those fingernail clippings in here.”

  “Lovely. I get all the fun jobs.” He popped the tube’s cork and carefully tipped the clippings inside. “I was serious about this afternoon, by the way. We have things to talk about.”

  “Do we?” she said, with false composure. “I can’t imagine what.”

  “Oh, I think you can. The matter of your orthodoxy has taken an unexpected turn, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I can arrest you, you know. I’d prefer not to, in my current mood. But my moods change. It would serve you well to . . . satisfy me.”

  His tone was careless, unthreatening. Flirtatious, even. But she didn’t believe it for a moment.

  He’d seen her change, back there on that dangling beam. He’d seen Lizzie flashing in her eyes. And like a dog with a ragged-meat bone, he wouldn’t let it go.

  Eliza squared her shoulders. Two could play at that game. She was stubborn, too. God’s blood, we’re as stubborn as they come, she and I, and we’ll not sleep until we’ve wrested that god-rotted bone back and swallowed it whole. And if Captain Smart-Pants won’t let go, why, we’ll just have to deal with him, won’t we, a wink and a flash of sweet steel . . .

  Eliza’s stomach knotted, and she shuddered. Good God, she had to get out of here. “What a shame,” she said smoothly. “I have another appointment. Perhaps next week.” And she snatched the tube from Lafayette’s hand and scrambled down the ladder.

  By the time she reached Finch’s Pharmacy, Marcellus wasn’t there.

  New Bond Street rattled and clanked with traffic, the late afternoon sunshine glinting on polished shop fronts and lanterns. The paper blinds in the twin bay windows of Finch’s Pharmacy were pulled down, the blue-painted door barred. He’d closed early for the day.

  Marcellus never closed early. Not even on a Sunday.

  Eliza shivered, chilled. And Lizzie giggled in sly anticipation. Not long now . . .

  Hippocrates whistled and popped, his lights flashing, and he hopped like a jumping bean on his two back feet. “Finch,” he muttered. “Eight until six. Does not compute.”

  “No, it doesn’t, Hipp.” Eliza peered through the window, shading her eyes with one cupped hand. Perhaps Marcellus was working on one of his more exotic concoctions and closed the shop to avoid interruptions. Maybe he’d gone out for supplies. Maybe he’d simply forgotten to get out of bed this morning. But all she could see was her own reflection, her eyes dark and eerie and too large, and for an instant, Lizzie winked back at her.

  She whirled and started for home. But her stomach lurched as she threaded the crowded streets. Her remedy was failing. Lizzie couldn’t be trusted. And Mr. Finch might not return until . . .

  Cries rang out. “Make way! ’Ere, watch it!” Iron brakes screeched, and metal carriage feet scraped the flagstones. Horses skittered, nervous. The crowd jostled, knocking her sideways. And an evil-looking black carriage thundered by. Drawn by four black horses in sable plumes, its driver hunched in a black coat and tall hat. The wheels were edged in brass, the windows draped in black, and the brass-etched emblem of the Royal Society gleamed on the lacquered doors.

  Eliza tugged her skirts back into place, but the latent fever in her bones melted into sick heat. The President of the Royal Society’s carriage, hurtling on its way to the Tower.

  The man never appeared in public. Some said he was terribly old and frail. Others whispered stranger, more dangerous suggestions, that he emerged only at night, that he couldn’t stand the sun, that his own bizarre scientific experiments had made him into a monster. Eliza didn’t believe the wild tales for a moment. But whatever the case, the Royal’s shadowy agents had the Mad Qu
een’s ear—and just like that carriage, the power to sweep from their path anyone who disagreed with their precious Philosopher or otherwise displeased them.

  Rage boiled Eliza’s blood, and she spat on the pavement in the hideous black carriage’s wake. People stared. She didn’t care. Always hiding, always skulking in secret, nothing proven but always suspected. Forever living in fear. Why couldn’t the stinking Royal just leave people alone? None of their god-rotted business what folk got up to in private.

  Viciously, Eliza tugged her sleeves, hard enough to pop stitches in the seams. For once, she and Lizzie were in agreement.

  At the theater, she’d spent an hour tending to Griffin’s wounds—Harley was stubborn, but no match for her when there was treatment to be done—and another messing about impatiently, waiting for Captain Lafayette to be gone. She didn’t want him following her to Finch’s. But Lafayette had hung around like a disease, questioning the theater staff and dancers with that annoyingly insouciant air, throwing her the occasional grin, as if he knew precisely what she was waiting for.

  Why didn’t he just arrest her and be done? Drag her away to the Tower, hurl her in with the rats and begin with the pain, the thirst, the erosion of will, the excruciating mind games that would make her beg to tell him everything, invent things if she didn’t know, and weep when she could tell him no more?

  But somehow, the image of Lafayette the torturer grated on her sensibilities, the way a bad oil painting offended the eyes. The captain was . . . straightforward. Spoke his mind and damn the consequences. She couldn’t picture him duplicitous and cruel, playing sick torment games in the chilly dark . . .

  Cowshit. Lizzie slipped effortlessly forwards, itching on the tip of her tongue with no more trouble than a cramp of her stomach and a hot flush. He ain’t got nothing on us, that’s all. Either that, or it ain’t arresting us that he wants.

  “Nonsense,” muttered Eliza aloud. “What else could he possibly want?”

  If you don’t know, I ain’t explainin’. Lizzie mooched along beside her, a phantom in the corner of her eye, in translucent red skirts and jaunty hat.

  Swiftly, Eliza glanced aside . . . and the apparition vanished. Or did it? Was it even there?

  Seeing things, now. Excellent. How sane.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said shakily. “I’m not an idiot, Lizzie. The captain flirts for a purpose. He’s barely half the things he pretends, and ‘aimless’ and ‘stupid’ he certainly isn’t.”

  To be sure, Lizzie agreed. The man has a plan. Ain’t you itching to know what it is?

  “Not particularly,” Eliza lied. A passing servant girl eyed her oddly, and she gave a weak smile.

  Oh, right. Sure. You keep telling ourselves that.

  “Aimless,” echoed Hippocrates, scuttling to block her path. “Wrong turning. Home, three-quarter mile. Retrace steps.”

  “What?” Eliza halted, confused. She’d wandered two blocks past her turning, lost in conversation with a figment of her imagination. Brilliant.

  “Sorry, Hipp,” she offered belatedly and turned about, hurrying around the correct corner towards home.

  But was she really lost in thought? Or had she walked by on purpose, reluctant to face what had to be done? She’d business in the Holy Land tonight. Dark, thrilling business that only Lizzie could attempt.

  And if she let Lizzie out again—twice in three days—what price her remedy then? How shaky her recovery?

  How desperately weak her control?

  A dark chuckle. Come now, sister, it weren’t so bad. We had some fun, didn’t we? Me and handsome Johnny and Billy the Bastard . . .

  “Stop it!” She clutched her satchel tighter to her chest. Her vision blurred, worse than no spectacles, an evil red miasma of doubt and fear where monsters lurked. Flesh’s iron-sweat scent, a whiff of sweet flowers, the clench of fingers, the hot-shock flavor of a kiss . . .

  Pain bloomed a fresh sunflower in her forehead. She tripped, skinned her palms on the flagstones, staggered on.

  “Don’t remember,” she mumbled, unsteady, wiping her nose with the back of one hand. Something foul on her fingers, sticky. Her mouth burned with guilty memory, but it lurked just out of her reach. “Did we do bad things, Lizzie? Did we . . . ?”

  A sultry laugh, warm like candle flame. Very bad, Eliza. Deliciously bad. But don’t fret. You could use a little badness now and then . . .

  And Eliza stumbled home, lost in darkling dreams. The steps of her town house loomed abruptly from the mind-fog, a familiar thing made threatening by the shadows gibbering in her head.

  She fumbled with the door, let herself in. Lurched up the stairs, tripped over her skirts, banged her kneecaps on the landing. Mrs. Poole didn’t emerge.

  She should pour the elixir down the drain, take her remedy, go to bed . . . But she needed desperately to know what Lizzie had done. Even if it meant losing control.

  Mr. Finch—wherever he was—couldn’t help her. And she wasn’t a murderess. Not she, Eliza Jekyll.

  You and your shadow, whispered Mr. Todd, a curl of alchemical smoke in her memory. Admit it. We’re the same. Let me show you how . . .

  Her bedroom was dark, the fire not yet set. She tossed her bag on the bed, heedless. Shadows oozed through the window, crawled over the carpet. Clawed at the coverlet, skeletal black fingers reaching for her soul.

  Trembling, sweating, she pulled the candlestick. Clunk! The door swung open, maddeningly slowly, and as usual her heart shrieked, the terror-stricken doubt of addiction. What if she’d miscalculated? What if there was none left? What if . . . ?

  Two bottles hulking on the shelf, right where she’d left them. Winking at her, gloating black glass eyes. She grabbed one, thumbed off the cork. The evilly warm liquid bubbled, as if it laughed at her, and dark thirst shivered her skin like contagion.

  She gripped the bottle’s neck tightly, the glass smooth and inviting. Tonight, she’d see. Tonight, she’d know.

  And when Lizzie was done? It was high time Eliza got rid of the meddling Captain Lafayette. Flirting might be amusing, but no point in courting danger. Find this Chopper, and Lafayette would have no reason to hang around.

  All the more reason to close the case quickly.

  Oh, we’ll get rid of him, Eliza. One way or the other. And I’ve a feeling tonight will be a long, dark night. My little steel sister is stirring. Who knows? Maybe we’ll meet, the blue-eyed captain and me . . .

  Horror salted Eliza’s tongue. “No,” she tried to say, “Lizzie, leave it alone . . .” But the thirst savaged her throat, shredding her will, ripping her voice to husky nothing. And as the weak winter sun slipped below the rooflines, relinquishing her bedroom to the darkness, she tilted her head and gulped the bitter elixir down.

  LEAPING IMPULSES AND SECRET PLEASURES

  AT LAST.

  Quickly, I strip off Eliza’s stupid clothes. Her dress falls in a damp heap, and I kick it aside. My pulse thunders, pounding black helldrums I can’t ignore, and freedom is sweet but it don’t satisfy me tonight. My fingers tremble, my palms are clammy, a flea-bitten itch creeps under my skin that I can’t scratch away. Sweet lord, Miss Lizzie needs a drink.

  I grab a dress, any dress, a swish of wide skirts. Crimson velveteen gleams darkly in the mirror as I fumble the buttons tight over my corset. My eyes glint back at me, a greedy reflection of hunger, and I glitter, my skin glistens, it’s as if my hair’s aflame, a bright-stung fey halo that prickles with anticipation or warning.

  I twist the curls up under a little top hat, stuff some pins in, and jam my muttering stiletto into my garter. Peace, sweet sister. All in good time.

  A few seconds more, and I’m gone.

  By the time I reach Seven Dials—it really is a seven-way crossroads, an evil omen if ever I seen one—the city’s a corpse, shrouded in chilly darkness. Clouds blot out the bloated moon, and eldritch light glimmers from broken windows, under doors, dragged out like bright river water by that invisible moon’s tide. Stray w
isps of false fairy fire dance, blue and green on the mud at my feet. Tomorrow, that greedy moon will be full, and latent energy tingles through my flesh, an invisible electrical charge. I can feel it, taste it, crackling on the tip of my tongue: there’s magic on the air tonight.

  I hum a ditty off-key—cockles and mussels, alive, alive-ooh!—as I splash through puddles of shit and diseased water, and it’s like I’m surrounded by a bristling bubble of don’t-fuck-with-me, because dirty children dodge me in the alleys without trying to pick my pocket, and a mugger in a greasy black overcoat eyes me off and then slinks away, clawing his beaver hat down over one gleaming eye. Even the starving curs cringe in the corners with their ears pinned back as I stride by.

  I smile, hungry. If the crushers want ’emselves a murderess in a red dress? Here I am, lads, come get me if you dare. Miss Lizzie’s on a mission. The world knows this. And when Miss Lizzie’s on a mission, you don’t interfere. Not if you want to stay pretty.

  The Cockatrice is open, golden warmth leaking from the shuttered window. The carving above the lintel leers at me, cock’s head on a dragon, and I salute it, with a wink and a fingertip to my hat brim. “Cock-a-trice,” I say, and laugh. “The beast with three cocks. Congratulations, sir.”

  Mr. Cockatrice has nothing to say.

  Inside, firelight licks the broken walls, gloats along the bar like a lover’s lies. It’s packed tonight, a herd of rum-swilling idiots singing a rude sea shanty, something about the good ship Venus, by Christ you shoulda seen us, and any glocky fool can finish that fuck-me-clever rhyme. A skinny cove wearing naught but a stained white undergarment crouches muttering by the bar, grabbing at his ankles and scratching his shock of white hair. A bunch of swells sprawl limp on the cushions in a stupefying hashish cloud, and that ugly little bloke with no legs trundles around them on his trolley, filching trinkets from their pockets as they sigh and drool.

  Like a lazy laudanum dream, the beautiful stink of gin crawls up the walls of my mind.

  I shoulder the crowd apart, cursing and kicking and prying rough hands off my backside, and push through to the bar. Scarfaced Charlie the barkeep gives a hateful grin and splashes me a tot from a dirty bottle. Eliza had Charlie’s measure right enough. He ain’t got no redeeming features, except maybe greed, which makes him easy game when you want something. I toss him two pennies—drunk for a penny, dead drunk for tuppence—and sink the drink in one gulp.