by Viola Carr
The keeper flung the woman away. It was Miss Lucy, she of the sharpened teeth. She raked back her hair and grinned, blood oozing down her chin. A nice cup of blood. Was it her own?
Eliza was glad when she’d left the ward behind her. Ahead, shadows whispered and beckoned. The keeper locked the gate, grunted, and lumbered back to his post.
Alone, she hurried down the corridor. Invisible fingers floated over her skin, danced in her hair. Ahead, an electric lamp gleamed sick yellow in its wire cage. Screeches pierced the dark, grunts, the retching sobs of a man weeping his heart out. The air stank of blood and urine, but it wasn’t the smell that made her fight for breath. The air stretched tight with questions unasked, chances untaken, anticipation she daren’t feel.
She peered through the barred gate. “William?”
Abruptly, the sobbing ceased.
“Will?” she called again, louder. Wind moaned in the window slits. Somewhere, an owl hooted.
The darkness stirred, and William emerged, holding his lantern aloft in a pool of golden light. “How unexpected,” he said with a grin.
“I happened to be passing. What a happy coincidence.” Her clammy sleeves clung to her arms, and she shivered. “A foul night.”
“Not for madmen.” Will fished a chained key ring from his pocket. He wore the same dirty apron over stained shirtsleeves, and his unruly blond hair was crusted with workaday grime. “Bad weather brings out the funny in these fellows. Some of them are true comedians. They ought to be on the stage.”
The heavy lock clunked, and the gate creaked open. “Fascinating, isn’t it?” said Eliza, as he relocked the gate behind her. “I’ve often wondered what excites them so about a storm.”
“You want my unlearned opinion? A frustrated physician, condemned to the lowly hell of surgery?” A joke, but touched with bitter truth.
She knew what it was like to be looked down upon. “You’re as learned as anyone when it comes to lunatic behavior, Will.”
“It’s the aether in the air. They absorb the energy somehow. But it’s also the idea of indiscriminate destruction. A power greater than us all that doesn’t care if we live or die.” Will shrugged. “That’s the difference between a sane man and a lunatic. We strive for order, they yearn for chaos.”
She thought of Lizzie, laughing in her gay red skirts, dancing, flirting. Doing exactly what she wanted . . . “Is order so desirable?” she found herself asking. “Couldn’t we all do with a little chaos in our lives?”
“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” The electric lantern-light glinted in Will’s eyes. His cheeks looked hollow. “How much chaos can we bear before we scream for order?”
How close he was standing. Close enough that she could feel his warmth . . .
Instinctively, she tugged off one glove and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. Slick, clammy. “You’re running a small fever, Will. Perhaps you should go home.”
Perhaps they should both go home.
But Will backed off in a hurry. “Gosh, I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.” A pale smile. “The madness rubs off on me a little when I’m tired. Forgive me.”
And he led the way into a long wide hall lined with cells. No bars here, only brick walls punctuated with stout iron doors, each bolted and padlocked, pierced with a tiny viewing slot covered in a lockable metal slide. A single electric light buzzed. No windows, save for ventilation slits a few inches wide, out of reach just below the ceiling. The wind moaned and whistled, aaah! oooh! aaah!
Deep in the cells, a man sang along with the wind, his voice ragged. He was making up words, strange syllables that held no sense. Another man yelled in a Cockney accent and cursed at him to shut the fuck up.
In the anteroom’s corner sat Will’s desk, piled with papers and study notes. An illustrated medical text lay open, a drawing of a sliced brain. No pens or pencils, nothing sharp. A chained metal rack bolted to the wall held electric whips and hoop sticks. Somewhere—that wooden door at the end?—a storeroom held leather restraints, buckles, manacles, hoods, the tools of the madhouse.
Will laid his lantern on the desk, shoving aside a pile of papers. She caught a glimpse of one of Mr. Temple’s pamphlets—SLAUGHTER AT THE EGYPTIAN!—and Will hastily tucked it under some lecture notes. “I’m so pleased you could come. I don’t get much reliable conversation around here. Do you hear old Mr. Matthews wailing?” he added irrelevantly. “He’s been in here a very long time. That’ll teach him to embarrass the Foreign Office with all that peace-with-France nonsense. Mad now, of course. Forty years in here would drive anyone out of their mind.”
She pulled her glove back on and hugged herself, shivering. “Why do you work here, Will? No windows, no fresh air, all this noise in the dark. Don’t you find it . . . disturbing?”
He smiled shyly. “I like taking care of them. The smallest kindnesses can make them so happy. I guess it’s a nice antidote for being a surgeon, where all you do is hurt people all day.”
“What’s that you’re studying, brain anatomy?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Yes. A matter of conjecture, if you ask me. No one knows the truth of it, not even Mr. Fairfax.”
“Don’t tell him that.”
Will laughed. “I wouldn’t presume. Did you know that’s supposed to be his wife’s brain in that jar on his desk?”
“You don’t say.”
“That’s what the staff told me. Poor Lady Fairfax went mad before she died, and he’s been trying to discover what caused her madness ever since.”
With a pang of sympathy, Eliza recalled the black-edged portrait in Fairfax’s office. “Do you believe it?”
“Well, he’s certainly dedicated to curing brain sickness. You wouldn’t believe some of the things he’s tried.”
“Perhaps I wouldn’t. Does he really keep his library here, in your cells?”
Will nodded towards a door near the end. “Ingenious, isn’t it? Only the books he doesn’t want anyone to see, of course. He’s spent years making sure everyone knows he’s as orthodox as the Russian pope.”
“Isn’t it a little damp for keeping books?”
“Certainly. All the more reason no one will come looking.” Will seemed about to say more, but cleared his throat instead. “Anyway. Your Chopper case, eh? Must be quite exciting. Being a police doctor, I mean. What did you say this was about?”
“Electrical machines.”
“Ah, yes. I’ve one particular book that might interest you. A scientist’s experiment journal, with diagrams, technical specifications, and the like. It’s old, unfortunately, and the damp isn’t good for the books, as you say. But . . .”
She frowned. He was fidgeting, evasive. “Is something wrong?”
“No. I mean . . . Are you sure you want to . . . ?”
“William.” She fired him her warning glare.
“It’s just that . . .” Reluctantly, he met her eye. “You know I allow Mr. Todd to read.”
Her nerves wriggled, but found no escape. “It’s very kind of you. I’m sure he appreciates it.”
A lunatic let out a fearful cackle. The other fellow was still singing, louder now, and the groaning wind raised its voice.
“Oh, he does.” Will gave a fleeting smile. “Mostly, I give him newspapers and the like. He especially enjoys Matthew’s pamphlets. But sometimes . . . well, he’s so dreadfully clever, you see. And he gets so bored . . .”
The ghost of warm breath tingled in her hair. “Will, tell me what’s going on, or I shall shake it out of you.”
“This morning, he was in a good mood, so I put him in with the books.” Will’s cheeks reddened. “I might have let it slip that you were coming. And now he won’t come out.”
Eliza wiped sticky palms on her skirts. “Open the door. I’ll talk to him.”
The singing lunatic wailed, the pitch rising. Will took out his keys, selected one, and unlocked a door. Clunk! Clonk! He yanked the bolt, screech! The door squeaked open an inch, and light welled f
rom the crack.
“Mr. Todd?” called Will. “You’ve a visitor. Are you decent?”
No answer.
Will shrugged and backed off towards his desk. “All yours. I’ll be right here if you want me,” he added. “Just yell.”
Eliza swallowed and pushed the door open.
The room smelled of mildew and old paper. An electric hurricane lamp threw shadows up the walls. The ceiling was lost in darkness, and the outlines of piles of books edged from the gloom. Somewhere, a rat scuttled.
“Mr. Todd?” Her knees shook, and she steadied herself on the rough wall. Shadows snaked across the bricks. Instinctively, she stepped towards the light.
At her back, the door squeaked shut.
She whirled, stumbling backwards, away. And behind her, gentle hands caught her waist and set her on her feet.
Her heart jittered. His breath was delicate on her hair like a spider. His body’s strange warm aura, that tiny sound as he licked his lips . . .
Sweating, she jerked away and turned.
From the corner, Mr. Todd gave her his secret green-eyed smile. As always, the light seemed to seek him out, curling over his thin frame, his stained white shirt, licking his crimson hair with fire. He held a book, one finger along the spine to mark his place.
No shackles. No chains. Nothing.
“How the raindrops glitter in your hair,” he remarked. “Jeweled like a medieval queen. Shall I compose a sonnet to your loveliness?”
She realized she was crushing her bag and forced her fingers to relax. “A poet as well as an artist? I’m impressed.”
“And I’m flattered, but it’s a matter of cruel necessity.” He rubbed his red head against the wall, scritch-scratch, and tapped an agitated fingertip on the bricks beside his thigh. “I have no paints. No tools. My inspiration overflows and runs to ruin. Alas, one must make do. And now here you are,” he added with a cunning grin. “My muse, delicate as a rose and clever as thorns. And all I have are words. What a shocking waste.”
“Will doesn’t allow you to paint?”
“William? He’d positively adore a painting, especially one of you. No, no, it’s Fairfax. Afraid I’ll stab him in the throat with a paintbrush.” Todd looked faintly disgusted. “Honestly. Of all the revolting ideas. I say ‘one makes do,’ but . . .”
She swallowed, avoiding his direct gaze. “What are you reading?”
“Ah. The lunatic educates himself. What could it be? Machiavelli, you’re thinking? Rousseau? De Quincey, perhaps, on the art of murder?” He showed her the book’s frontispiece. “Merely Alhazen, De Aspectibus. A frightful translation, but it gets the gist. He pointed a telescope at the stars five hundred years before Galileo.”
“And what did he see?”
“Stars, of course. What did you expect he’d see?”
How long since Mr. Todd had gazed up at the stars? Since he’d seen the sky?
He put the book aside. “Did you know that Mr. Newton would have tossed his new color-corrected reflecting telescope in the closet and forgotten about it, if his friends hadn’t presented it to the Royal Society on his behalf? If only the fellow had stuck to optics,” he added slyly, “instead of all that futile messing about with aqua vitae. What a world we’d be living in.”
He caught her gaze at last. Bloodshot green eyes, ringed dark with fatigue. A burn shone angry and wet on his forehead. He wiped his nose, smearing blood.
Her breath caught. “You’re injured. What happened?”
Todd smiled at his bloodied hand. “Ah. Fairfax’s idea of hospitality. He has this peculiar notion that electric shocks will make me like him better. Perhaps he should try boiled sweets.”
Eliza’s skin wriggled, a living coat of worms. “Does it . . . is it painful?”
“Pain is life, Eliza. It sharpens the appreciation. He tries to hypnotize me, you know,” he added carelessly. “What a charlatan. Forces frightful purple concoctions down my throat and peppers me with erotically charged questions about blood and razors and such. Fairfax, I told him, you execrable excuse for a human being, you’ve no need to ply me with narcotics to get your way. If you require instruction, all you have to do is ask.”
She recalled Fairfax’s description of his horrid new regime. How she longed to grab Todd, examine him, quantify the damage. He could have a concussion. Blood clots. Nerve damage. Worse.
She twisted her hands. “What exactly has he done to you?”
“This morning, you mean? Didn’t he tell you? I call it ‘Fairfax’s Fun with Wire.’ Anything you can jab an electrode into is fair game.” Todd sneezed, and more blood splashed his hand. He wiped it on his already filthy sleeve, clicking his tongue in annoyance. “I say. Anyone would think me a common convict.”
She laughed shakily. “Mr. Todd, I assure you, you’re far from common.”
“You’re too kind.” He tugged a singed red lock over his forehead, frowning at it cross-eyed. “William insisted on cutting my burned hair. Dear boy, he finds any excuse to touch me. Do you like it? Tell me. I won’t be affronted.”
His hair had always fascinated her. Rude, almost. Too outrageous to be real. Today it was shorter, the ends snipped raggedly, but still it sprang wild, refusing to be domesticated, a rakish lock falling over one bruised cheekbone. Vividly, she recalled the fresh, clean scent of it, the softness as it brushed her cheek . . .
“Uh . . . certainly,” she stammered. “Most fetching. I say, Will mentioned a certain book—”
“I do apologize for my appearance, you know. Ordinarily I’d never court a lady in such a shabby state.”
She tried to keep it light. “How scandalous. Is that what we’re doing, then? Courting?”
“A tryst in a secret library, no less? Alone by electric light, amid the perfume of blood and excrement, the howls of lunatics our serenade? What else would you call it?”
Sweat trickled into her collar, and she wished for Lizzie’s courage, to obey her instincts, do as she pleased. She wanted to run. Yell for Will. Sink her fingers into that scorched crimson hair, soothe that bruised skin . . .
She shivered. Lizzie, help me.
But Lizzie didn’t answer.
“After all,” added Todd softly, “you chose the venue. ‘Not guilty by reason of insanity.’ What an odd thing for you to say about me. Anyone would think us enemies.”
His accusation stabbed her, a guilt-poisoned blade. But guilt for what? Condemning Todd to this sordid den of despair? Or because her testimony had saved the life of a multiple murderer? “We all do what we must, Mr. Todd.”
“Don’t we.” He walked towards the light. “William tells me you’re searching for certain books.”
A knot in her stomach loosened, just a little. “Yes. I’m investigating a case, and . . .”
“So I’ve heard.” He grinned, glittery like false gold. “I did enjoy Mr. Temple’s garish little tract. Slaughter at the Egyptian! A Tale of Magical Murder! Flamboyant fellow, isn’t he? Temple, I mean, not our friend ‘the Chopper.’ I should say his talents run more to the aesthetic.”
She thought of Todd’s painting of drowning Ophelia, that beautiful corpse drifting in black water. “How did you know about that?”
“William brought me a copy. He and Mr. Temple are great friends, you know. Or perhaps you didn’t.” Todd sniffed. “I don’t like the fellow, frankly. He wrote about me, you’ll recall, in most uncomplimentary terms. ‘Lurid’ was the word he used. One could speak of stones and glass houses.”
She made a mental note to ask Will: Had Temple recently visited Bethlem? And why? “I didn’t mean the pamphlet. I meant the second victim. You knew this miscreant would repeat his crime in similar fashion. How?”
“I say, it’s getting rather late. You look tired.” Todd leaned idly beside a stack of books. “After such a sleepless night, too. Your shadow’s been busy.”
She laughed, shaky. “Such things you say, Mr. Todd. One wonders if you invent them on the spot.”
“Come, you k
now me better.” He flicked a speck of grime from his sleeve, but his handsome mouth twisted at the corner. “I confess I’m envious. It must be so exciting for you, watching from a distance. Tell me: Do you think she’s tempting you? Or trying to frighten you away? I found that a difficult dilemma. For a while.”
She had to look away, trembling. The impossibility of his insight terrified her. Surely, he was only teasing . . . “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re lying.” Suddenly his tone sliced exquisitely. “Don’t insult me.”
Silence stretched, just the lamp’s fairy-fire gleam and the beating of her heart.
“Your trace evidence will lead nowhere,” added Todd blandly, as if he hadn’t digressed, and the tense silence snapped like spun glass. He picked at the brick wall and examined his fingernail with a frown. “If you’re going to catch your man, you must first understand him.”
“But how?” Her courage shrank. Understanding a killer. She’d edged far too close to that already.
“Come, it’s elementary. Just watch what he’s doing. He’s a shy fellow, can’t you see, but he thinks things through.”
“I don’t follow you.”
Todd sighed. “How would you characterize the murder scenes?”
“Well, the victims are—”
“No, no,” said Todd impatiently, “I said ‘characterize,’ not ‘describe.’ Who is this fellow’s god? What guides him? To what does he aspire?”
A dull ache flared behind her eyes. Was this a test? “No blood splashes, no mess,” she said at last. “It’s all very tidy. He aims not to shock, but . . .”
“But what?”
She squirmed under his scrutiny. “His method is elaborate. He’s spent time selecting these victims, developing his method, looking for escape routes. It’s . . . precise. Mathematical.”
“Just so!” A taint of sarcasm. “The effort he puts into planning his scenarios is special. He likes order. He likes things to be just as they should be. What does that say to you?”
She stammered. “Well . . .”