The Diabolical Miss Hyde

by Viola Carr

  Lizzie snorted. You think Mr. H can’t deal with a few nosy servants? He’ll have their eyes clawed out before they whisper a word. And Johnny might be a lying dog, but he ain’t stupid.

  Mr. Hyde was a murderer. He must be brought to justice. She could call the police. She could set the Philosopher on him. She could march on down to the Rats’ Castle and wring his scrawny neck . . .

  Hipp bounced impatiently at her feet. “Telegraph.”

  She wiped her face on a towel. “What is it, Hipp? Show me.”

  He flashed his happy light and spurted out a length of ticker tape.

  She tore it off and fumbled for her spectacles. Blinked at the printed letters . . . and the bottom fell out of her guts all over again.

  An hour later, she shoved along a crowded Strand, south of Covent Garden. Malicious sunshine glared, seeking out her eyes and making them sting. The very air seemed oppressive this morning, closing in around her, creeping cool hands up her skirts. Even Hippocrates slunk along hunched over, his little brass legs poised to scuttle beneath her petticoats.

  An evil glint graced every eye. No doubt, pickpockets threaded through the crowd, taking what they pleased from unsuspecting pedestrians. That group of gentlemen by the fence were probably robbers, planning their next heist. Urchins gathered in the alleyways, envy brooding in their gazes, peering out at the world they could never belong to, only infiltrate, undermine, poison. Probably they were monsters in disguise.

  A newsboy yelled and waved his paper. “Human heads in the Thames! Gruesome discovery! Moorfields Monster claims more victims!” Beside a butcher’s shop, a dog growled at her, guarding a discarded pile of offal. Hipp buzzed angrily, and the urge possessed her to growl back, to kick that dog until it howled. She hurried on, turning left up Southampton Street. The church there was abandoned, the door boarded up, and the sun flashed on dusty broken glass, sharpening the edges into fiery weapons.

  Above the crowd bobbed the stovepipe hats of policemen. The too-familiar sight of a barrier of bedsheets hove into view, covering the entrance to the churchyard alleyway.

  She peered between a tiny gap in the sheets. A dirty bodice, the edge of a green sleeve, a neatly severed wrist . . .

  Inspector Reeve grunted. “Go away,” he said, puffing cigar smoke. “You’re not needed here.”

  “Am I not?” she asked brightly. “Your case still open and shut, is it?”

  Reeve bristled. “Madam, kindly escort yourself from the scene, or I’ll—”

  “Or you’ll what?” Captain Lafayette strode up, and speared Reeve on his sharpest glare. “Dr. Jekyll’s expertise seems to me just what you require. How fortuitous that she should be passing by.”

  Reeve looked him up and down—scarlet coat, polished arc-pistol, silvery Royal Society badge—and chewed angrily on his cigar. “The girl’s a pest,” he said finally. “I can’t have her interfering with my investigation—”

  “I’m the Royal Society, Inspector,” cut in Lafayette breezily. “I’ll interfere wherever I please. Come along, Doctor, no time to waste.” And he lifted the sheet aside and ushered her through.

  Inside the barrier, Eliza managed a cautious smile. “I received your telegraph. I confess, you surprise me.”

  Lafayette shrugged. “Thought you’d be interested. You’re the expert, after all. Besides, I knew you’d be dying to see me.”

  “Naturally. I breathe again.” She hesitated. “Thank you for returning my optical. It’s precious to me. I shan’t forget your trouble.”

  “Don’t mention it.” He tugged at a stray chestnut curl and grimaced, looking oddly boyish. “Actually, do mention it. Was that an invitation to truce?”

  Unwillingly, she recalled how cold she’d been to him, that night in the rain. At least now, she knew he wasn’t the murderer. “Would you like it to be?”

  “I’d like it to be unconditional forgiveness.” A steady stare, darkened to ocean blue. “For whatever you believe I’ve done.”

  Lizzie smiled, melting. Oh, we know what you did, Remy. We know how you play, warm and wicked and splashed with moonlight . . .

  Eliza flushed. “Is that your idea of an apology?”

  “It’s my idea of a ‘not guilty’ plea.”

  “Perhaps you should retain a lawyer.” She adjusted her bag over her shoulder. “But it’ll do for the moment. Shall we?”

  The bedsheets protected several yards of the alleyway, stretching from the church wall to the opposite building. At least Reeve had managed that much. A pair of constables squatted, picking through piles of refuse for evidence. The dead woman lay on her back, a pool of clotted blood seeping from each severed wrist.

  “And we revert to type,” murmured Lafayette. “Female, drugged, hands sliced off. What are the odds it’s the same weapon?”

  Eliza examined one thin wrist, then the other. “Same edge on the bone, same angle of slice.”

  Lafayette poked the dead woman’s apple-green skirt hem aside—a fine lady’s dress, but well-worn, second-hand—to reveal booted feet, still attached. “Was he interrupted?”

  “Or perhaps . . . already fully stocked with feet? He already has Miss Maskelyne’s and Miss Pavlova’s.”

  “Are you imagining a larder?” He wrinkled his nose. “Charming.”

  “With three victims and counting, plus Beane? I’m not sure what to imagine.” The woman’s faded brown hair spilled across her face. With one finger, Eliza pushed it back.

  Empty eye sockets, caked with gore.

  Oh, my. Eliza rocked back on her heels. The ruined face was horror enough. But she knew this green dress, that pinched chin, the pox scars covered up with greasepaint . . .

  “Good God.” Lafayette leaned over. “He’s taken her eyeballs. What on earth is that about?”

  “Eyeballs.” Hipp jittered on unhappy feet. “Harvest conspicuous. Incompatible with speedy escape. Does not compute.”

  “Sally Fingers.” Eliza’s voice cracked. She rose, automatically smoothing her skirts, but her hands trembled.

  “What’s that?”

  “I know this woman. Sally Fingers, she’s a pickpocket from Seven Dials. A witness in the murder of Billy Beane.” Eliza licked salty lips, her stomach roiling all over again.

  Ophelia Maskelyne’s hands, broken and therefore discarded . . . and now another pair, taken in their place. A substitute victim.

  Someone had led the Chopper from Irina Pavlova to Billy Beane. And now, it seemed, from Ophelia to Sally Fingers.

  Lafayette’s eyebrow arched. He didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.

  He was right. She was the connection. The killer was following her.

  Both of her.

  Briskly, she dusted her hands. “Well, Captain, thank you for indulging my interest. I really must be going.”

  Lafayette touched her arm, and her body bristled with threat. “Look. About what I said before. Have I offended you? I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s of no consequence. I shan’t mention it again. Good day.” And she scooped Hipp into her bag and hurried away.

  Lafayette called after her. She didn’t turn. Just kept walking, her breath squeezing tight. Her head swam, and her sickness returned full force.

  The murderer had followed her. How else could he have picked Sally Fingers as a victim? It was too much a coincidence.

  But Lizzie, not Eliza, had questioned Sally.

  Which meant that the killer knew that she and Lizzie were the same person. Had watched her change, even.

  Mr. Hyde knew, obviously. Marcellus Finch. Neither seemed likely. What profit in this slaughter for them? If Hyde wanted her out of the way, he’d have done it before now.

  Of course, there was one other.

  A shadow passed in front of the sun. Could it be Mr. Todd? Using this strange teleportation machine to leave the asylum and track down fresh victims?

  No. It made no sense. If Todd could escape Bethlem, he’d never return. And hacking off a victim’s hands—drugging her—killing
in such a dogged, determined pattern? Not Mr. Todd’s style.

  There was no elegance in it. No art.

  She turned the corner, onto a darker street, not really caring where she was going but away. In her bag, Hippocrates wriggled and clicked, and absently she petted him through the canvas.

  Inside, something crackled.

  She stuffed her fingers in and found a crisp roll of paper.

  She’d left no notes in here. Curious, she halted and flattened the paper.

  A garish penny pamphlet, printed in black ink. WALKING DEATH!! trumpeted the title, above a lithograph of what looked like an Egyptian mummy stalking a London street, stony-eyed and arms outstretched. Terrified townsfolk fled in its path. HORROR AT WATERLOO! it said underneath. NONE CAN ESCAPE THE MONSTER!

  Flicking through, she skimmed what appeared to be the story of a lunatic escaped from a private hospital, at last found dead in a park, badly injured and blue with cold. She turned to the back cover. In the margin of the printed advertising—HYDE’S WART PILLS! YOU WON’T KNOW YOUR OWN FACE!—was handwriting, inked in blue.

  Eliza,

  You’re in danger

  Come to me at the Churchyard,

  before the moon shines

  Your friend,

  M

  Her mind zeroed in, swiftly discarding Molly and Marcellus and even Malachi. Surely, inked on such a palimpsest, “M” was for the Doyen of Dreadful himself: Matthew Temple.

  She recalled Lizzie’s shining rage when Reeve threw her out of Bow Street. Storming down the station steps, crashing into Temple. His bottle-green waistcoat an eyesore, that ridiculous autumn-leaf hair stuffed under his cap. They’d collided—urgent, must speak with you about your murder case—and Temple had grabbed at her bag. And now, this note was in it.

  The same Temple who’d threatened her at the Crystal Palace. Insinuated he knew something about her and Lafayette. Watched Dr. Percival’s electrical demonstration with sharp-eyed interest. Threatened in jest to send her a copy of his latest sensational crime pamphlet.

  The same Matthew Temple who’d trailed after her like a choleric miasma all week. Who’d turned up outside the police station, at her omnibus, at the Crystal Palace. Even left his footprint in the shadowy cells at Bethlem, where keeper and lunatic both pored over his publications.

  Who’d faithfully attended—at the very least, reported on with garish delight—every crime scene.

  His cover drawings flitted through her mind, a lurid slide show. THE DYING DANCER. SLAUGHTER AT THE EGYPTIAN. THE BLOODY DEATH OF BILLY BEANE. All gory. All sensational. All described in loving, meticulous detail.

  Like a wash of dark watercolor, the world changed hue, and Mr. Todd’s sly suggestion—was it only five days ago?—took on a new and sinister aspect. Your budding artist isn’t angry or vengeful, heavens no . . .

  “. . . he’s hopelessly in love,” she finished aloud, in the middle of the street. “Oh, my.”

  Around her, the crowd hustled on, oblivious. Her sweaty fingers clenched around the pamphlet, and she glanced again at the handwritten note, where it said

  You’re in danger

  and

  Your friend,

  M

  . . . and like a candle flame in a storm, the light of her courage wavered.

  If she wanted the truth, she’d have to meet Temple. Tonight, at his office in St. Paul’s churchyard. Alone.

  THE BUSINESS OF BURNING DOWN CHURCHES

  BEFORE THE MIGHTY DOOR OF ST. PAUL’S CATHEDRAL, a yelling crowd had gathered.

  And so had the Enforcers. It was execution day.

  A cordon of clockwork men circled the cathedral. Hulking brass brutes, seven feet high, white face masks impassive, massive mechanical frames blocking out the sun. And in their skeletal brass hands, they clutched pistols, purple coils buzzing bright. Belligerent. Daring anyone to question them.

  But at least, in this crowd, Eliza felt relatively safe. Not alone. She’d hurried home and left Hippocrates with strict instructions to telegraph Mr. Finch in three hours if she didn’t return. Poor precautions, perhaps. But without Griffin, going to the police was problematic, to say the least. Excuse me, Inspector Reeve, would you mind terribly accompanying me while I track down a murder suspect? The man followed me while I was someone else, you see, and there’s a lunatic razor murderer locked in Bedlam who insists this fellow is the culprit. Thank you, just let me fetch my hat.

  Giggles erupted in her belly. This was ridiculous. A trap. Walking into a murderer’s lair yet again? Would she never learn this lesson? Apprehending criminals was not her job. She should report Temple to the Met, go home, and forget about it.

  But inside her, shadows roiled, not ghostly but flesh and angry blood, and in her skirt pocket, Lizzie’s stiletto hummed a madwoman’s dirge of vengeance. Don’t be a fool, Lizzie snarled. Temple knows you’re onto him. And guess what? You’re next. We’re next. What are you going to do about it?

  “Perhaps not get myself killed? What’s our plan, Lizzie? Talk him out of it?”

  Who else can you turn to, Eliza? All your friends have deserted you. You’ve no one but me. So deal with it, or I will.

  Her thigh muscles jerked tight, and of their own accord, her legs started to move.

  Eliza stumbled to keep up. “All right! Stop it. I’m going.”

  She pierced the crowd, dodging waving arms and people jumping up and down to see. Angry men cursed. Children jeered. She saw one fellow bend to pick up a stone. The air tingled with tension and the scent of approaching rain clouds. Over the horizon, a storm was building.

  In the square, a pyre had been built, and Enforcers were strapping a woman to a stake. The lady had been stripped of her gown and wore only the remnants of a dirty chemise. The rising wind whipped dark hair from her face. She could barely stand on her own, and her bare shoulders were marked with red welts. “Go on, burn me, you metal bastards!” she jeered. “I’m not done yet. Toast me and turn me over!”

  Clara Morton.

  Oh, my. Eliza’s heart chilled. What had Clara done? Finally spoken out once too often, her strange experiments too visible? Her unorthodox papers discovered? Worse: had Eliza inadvertently exposed her? Sickly, she wracked her brain for something she’d said, something she’d done . . .

  I’ll burn you alive. The Philosopher’s cruel words bounced back, bitter with fresh meaning. Alongside every misbegotten wretch who’s ever had the ill fortune to be your friend . . .

  This was a threat. A warning. And Clara would die for it.

  “Clara!” she yelled, but her voice was smothered by the howling crowd. Desperately, she tried to push through. The Enforcers surrounding the pyre didn’t speak. They just went about their business, indefatigable, and one leveled his electric pistol at the kindling and fired.

  A bright blue flash. Crack! Flames leapt. Smoke billowed, the groaning wind fanning the fire. The crowd jeered and whistled. A man ran for one of the Enforcers, brandishing a lump of wood, which he swung with all his might.

  Clang! It bounced off the Enforcer’s metal carcass. The thing didn’t even stagger. It just grabbed the man by his collar and hurled him back into the crowd.

  Silence fell like a fog, broken only by the wind’s rising moan. The crowd held its collective breath.

  Inside her Lizzie snarled wordless rage, and fresh as the pyre, Eliza’s blood ignited. She sucked in a lungful of stormy air, and screamed. “God save the Queen!”

  And the mob erupted into madness.

  They surged forwards, a furious tide. Pistol shots sizzled with the smoke and tart stink of burned aether. Rocks and punches flew. Knives slashed. Waving arms, flapping coats, fists, kicks. In the fire, Miss Morton screamed, and men climbed the pyre to hack her free.

  “Ha-ha! Take that, you brainless lackeys!” Was that her voice, or Lizzie’s?

  “Eliza!” A man’s yell. “Eliza, wait!”

  She didn’t pause. Just ducked her head and kept fighting, until after what seemed like hour
s, she burst from the ragged edges of the crowd.

  At the far end of the churchyard, along the transept, the day’s usual business had halted. Storekeepers ran into the street and fixed shutters tightly over their windows, and stall owners covered their wares with tarpaulins or dragged them hastily out of sight. Costermongers still yelled gaily, offering roasted chestnuts and strawberries and salted fish. Dirty children ducked and weaved, stealing handkerchiefs and pocketbooks. In a coffee house, patrons sat back with their drinks and watched the fight.

  Matthew Temple’s fine publishing emporium—such as it was—was tucked by the entrance to a side street on Paternoster Row, a narrow wooden building that lurched alarmingly to one side, propped up only by its neighbor and the statistical unlikelihood of it toppling at the very moment she stood beneath. His shop front was pasted with copies of his cover drawings, murders and beheadings and gruesome crimes of all ilks.

  Nice, whispered Lizzie. The cove’s got an unnatural interest, for sure, and Eliza couldn’t help but agree.

  Light leaked from cracks in the shutters. She pushed on the door. Locked.

  “Mr. Temple?” she called.

  No answer.

  Then, someone inside yelled. A rough, ragged, blood-chilling yell.

  “Oh, Jesus.” Frantically, Eliza rattled the handle. It wouldn’t budge. Again, with all her strength.

  Stand aside, snarled Lizzie, and I

  (she)

  I thrash, and force my way to the surface. Splash! My head breaks water, and I suck in a hungry breath full of color and light, and I take three good steps backwards and hurl meself at the door.

  Crack! The wood gives way, and I hurtle in.

  I hit the floor, a sick thud! that rattles my skull. Loose pages fly, a shower of printed words. I stagger up.

  The place is a riot. Shelves overturned, books and newsprint scattered around the overturned printing press like dead leaves. THE DYING DANCER. HORROR AT WATERLOO. A cabinet’s doors are torn off, the files inside tossed every which way. Copies of books in French and Russian spill out, along with reams and reams of leaflets entitled A Meeting to Debate Parliamentary Concerns.