Tenfold More Wicked

by Viola Carr

  His gaze shifted, sullen. “No one.”

  “Marcellus,” she warned.

  “Hereditary afflictions,” he muttered. “Same blood, same medicine. Worth a try.”

  She gaped. “You made this for Edward Hyde?”

  “It was supposed to help,” protested Finch. “He was raving. Eddie’s no longer two people, remember. He’s only him. I thought a dualistic stimulus might calm him down.”

  “You tried to cure my father? What kind of hare-brained idea was that?” Her palms itched to strangle Finch. Already, the strange pink drug sprinted laps in her skull, whooping and turning cartwheels like an over-eager village idiot.

  “Experimental, dear girl. Cutting edge, final frontier, all that. Worked about as well as you’re thinking, too,” he added glumly. “Still, science is never wasted.”

  “But . . .” She clenched shaking fists. Finch’s loyalty had always been to Hyde first, to everything else second. “We’ll discuss this later. Quick said I should tell you he ‘hasn’t forgotten.’ What did he mean?”

  Feverishly, Finch hammered his caterpillars. “Who knows? He’s a maniac! Off his rocker. Marbles reported missing. A spanner short of the toolbox, say what?”

  “Marcellus, tell me what’s going on, or I shall tickle you into a shivering heap.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  Eliza arched her brows, waiting.

  He sighed, and from a drawer he pulled a faded sepia photograph.

  Her heart sank. A dusty laboratory, men in old-fashioned stiff-necked suits. “Another of my father’s shady colleagues? I swear, Mr. Finch, one day I shall tie you to a chair with a pen in your hand, and you shall write me an essay entitled ‘Mad Scientists Who Worked with Henry Jekyll,’ just to ensure there will be no more surprises.”

  She recognized most of the men by name. Henry, of course, beside a bright-eyed and boyish Finch. Arrogant Mr. Fairfax, the late surgeon of Bethlem. Victor Frankenstein, the eccentric from Geneva with his macabre electrical machines. And poor Mr. Faraday, so admired by Lady Lovelace and burned for defying the Philosopher’s rules.

  She frowned. “But I know nearly all these people. Quick isn’t here.”

  “Isn’t supposed to be in it, that’s why. Perilous experiments, widely ill thought of. Volatile chemicals, incantations, hocus-pocus. Henry ejected him from the cabal, you know, which considering what Henry got up to . . . well, even Victor denounced Quick for a madman.” He pointed to a fuzzy shape in the background. A man bending over, fiddling with a retort, half hidden amongst lab equipment. “There’s Quick, sneaking about like a spider. Lab assistant, pah! Meddler, more like.”

  “So what happened?”

  Ruefully, Finch scratched his head. “I told you I was once investigated by the Royal? Quick’s fault, naturally. Wise Marcellus talked his way out of it.” He tapped a sly finger beside his nose. “For Moriarty, fourteen years in Van Diemen’s Land. Chain gangs, cannibals, floggings before tea, and desperately unfashionable arrows on your clothes, eh?”

  “Transported? Don’t the Royal execute alchemists?”

  “Ah, but the magistrate interfered, didn’t he, and a deal was done. A matter of missing persons. Strange cuts of meat roasting in Quick’s kitchen. Horrid stench, neighbors complaining. Only escaped a hanging because no one could prove he actually killed anyone.”

  “So you two are enemies? What does he hope to gain from tormenting me? Revenge on you? Hardly seems reasonable.”

  “Reason, sadly, is not Moriarty’s defining characteristic.”

  I’m a rational man, whispered Mr. Todd in her ear. She shivered. What did “rational” mean to a murderer?

  She eyed Finch sternly. “Fabulous. I’m so pleased you didn’t mention all this earlier.”

  “Eh? Don’t mumble, dear girl. Can’t understand a word you’re saying.” Finch blinked vaguely at the bailiff’s summons. “Fifty-six pounds? Gadzooks. Paying the odious fellow off would be easiest. Don’t suppose your young man’s got the pocket change?”

  “More,” she admitted. “But I can’t accept such an enormous gift, and I certainly shan’t marry him for it.”

  “Wise, dear girl, very wise. Besides, if you pay up this time, what’s to stop Quick coming back?”

  Me, muttered Lizzie, roiling in brackish depths. Just let me at ’im with a carving knife and we’ll see who comes out second best . . .

  “Can’t we just have him re-arrested?” Eliza cut in hastily. “You said he’s a convicted felon.”

  “Double jeopardy, eh? Can’t transport a man twice. No, I fear it’s Chancery for us.” Finch sniffed gloomily. “I suppose we ought to discuss lawyers. Miserly space-wasters, the lot of them. Bottom of the Thames, say what?”

  Interminable hours later—was it only three o’clock?—Eliza closed her front door, exhausted after an afternoon at Finch’s, discussing counsel, applications, hearings. Her mind boggled in protest, and Lizzie thrashed beneath her skin, demanding to be free. Who cares about god-rotted lawyers? Put this arsehole Quick in a box and be done.

  Eliza’s head throbbed. She wasn’t a murderer. She didn’t take justice into her own hands. She’d see to Quick the legal, civilized way. But her vision doubled repeatedly, edged with glaring rainbows, as if she viewed the world through two sets of eyes: one in ordinary colors and the other . . .

  Mrs. Poole emerged, dusting floury hands. “Back at last? What was all that fuss this morning?”

  Invisible centipedes crawled all over Eliza’s body, pincers nipping at her skin. She wanted to slap them, force her thrashing flesh still. “What? Oh. Just a silly misunderstanding. I really must go—”

  “Lucky that handsome captain of yours showed up. Flashy fellow, isn’t he? Fancies himself, for certain.”

  “Couldn’t agree more.” Her chest bulged, a creature inside writhing to escape. Lizzie would burst out, and Mrs. Poole wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore. The lie they’d enjoyed all these years—the pleasant fiction that she wasn’t thrusting the dear woman into terrible danger, every day of her life—would be over.

  “Quite the show-off,” added Mrs. Poole blandly. “Anyone would think him desperate to impress you—”

  “Forgive me, I’ve much work to do.” Eliza scooted into her consulting room, slammed the door, and doubled over, clutching her guts. Oh, God, it hurts. Our lungs burn, a hot autopsy knife levering our ribs apart. Our chest bursts like ripe fruit, and pop!, out I splurt, screaming bloody vengeance.

  My reflection looms in the mantel mirror, pale-faced and glitter-eyed like a consumptive. My itching hair hangs in a madwoman’s hanks. I fumble for our corset, the damned buttons won’t open, I scrabble until the dress tears and I let out a raw-throated yell.

  Fuck me, I’m so furious it’s shredding my insides. Why can’t she ever do what’s best for us? Civilized way, my arse. I’ll put that weasel Quick right, and it won’t be Miss Lizzie coming off second best.

  I hurl Eliza’s spectacles away. She’s got mail, a folded note. A visiting card drops out.

  MISS PENELOPE WATT

  I grab a pen and scribble THE LIAR! after her name.

  Dr. Jekyll,

  We met only briefly, but I feel I can trust

  you implicitly. I must speak with you in

  strictest confidence. Might I call this

  evening for an appointment?

  Your friend,

  PW

  I snort. Whatever you say, you tight-laced hussy. Here’s a telegraph ticker tape, too.

  PROF QUICK: DANGEROUS FELON.

  AVOID AT ALL COSTS. HG.

  Well, thank you, Inspector Obvious. I toss it aside, and find what I’m seeking.

  PROFESSOR MORIARTY QUICK!

  POTIONS! LOTIONS!

  EFFICACIOUS PHARMACEUTICALS!

  THE BEST IN TOWN!

  My damp fingers crush the pasteboard. Best in town, indeed. Time for palaver, Professor Dangerous Felon.

  But I can’t go undefended. The memory of Mr. Todd�
�s breath still creeps over my skin, a hungry rose-scented spider. I ain’t safe. We ain’t.

  I raid the drawers for a weapon, any weapon. And unseen, I slip out.

  THE ONLY THING WORTH HAVING

  I BLINK IN WARM SUNLIGHT AT THE GRAND THREE-STORY shops along Piccadilly. Shoppers stroll, trailing parcel-toting metal servants. A lady’s carriage halts, and her clockwork footman dashes into a dress shop to fetch the proprietor so she needn’t alight and dirty her fine shoes.

  The smell of fresh-cut grass wafts across the road from Green Park. In a gap in the trees, a canvas banner flutters.

  HAIL THE ENLIGHTENED BRITISH EMPIRE!

  HMS INVINCIBLE

  FLAGSHIP OF THE ROYAL NAVY’S SKYBORNE FLEET

  BY ORDER OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE ROYAL SOCIETY

  HIS GRACE THE LORD HIGH ADMIRAL

  AND

  HER GRACIOUS MAJESTY QUEEN VICTORIA

  In that order of precedence, I’m betting. Acres of linen screen puff in the breeze, hiding the skyship’s silvery bulk from prying eyes. They say the Mad Queen herself will appear at the launch. Ha! The Philosopher cutting her leash, after all these years? I’ll believe it when I see her podgy face in the sun.

  I stroll, peering into each window, looking for Quick’s pharmacy. Dress shop. Hat shop. Dress shop. Jeweler’s . . .

  I pause at an etched bay window. Advertising boards are bedded in white lace.

  MAGNETIC ROCK WATER DEW FROM THE SAHARA DESERT!

  ARMENIAN LIQUID FOR REMOVING WRINKLES!

  A particularly fancy one reads

  THE ROYAL ARABIAN TOILET OF BEAUTY

  ENAMELING—20 GUINEAS PER ANNUM

  BEAUTIFUL FOR EVER

  accompanied by a drawing of a mad-eyed lady with a stiff china-doll face. Twenty guineas to clog your skin like a circus clown’s? Do they really think gents like that? Or are they just taught to loathe their own faces?

  The shop’s insides are hidden by bell-fringed saffron drapes. No apothecary’s serpent symbol, no brass shingle reading M. QUICK, LSA, or PROFESSOR QUICK M.D., or even MORIARTY QUICK, DEMENTED FENIAN ABOUT TOWN, BUY YOUR SNAKE OIL HERE! The placard above the door just says

  MADAME RACHEL

  PURVEYOR OF BEAUTY

  Oho. Quick’s shop isn’t an apothecary. It’s a beauty parlor. Beneath, in smaller letters:

  BY APPOINTMENT HM THE EMPRESS OF AUSTRIA

  Not anymore, sunshine. I believe that lucky lady’s bleeding head dropped into a basket when the revolution hit. But who’s arguing?

  Squeak! No bell rings as I enter. Inside, it’s decorated as an Oriental boudoir, with saffron and white drapes, a sofa or two, cascades of fresh flowers. Sultry sandalwood perfume makes me sneeze, but a bad fairy drifts beneath, a sinister echo of misfortune and mishap. As if last night, in the dark, evil happened here.

  Wrapped parcels pile on the counter, awaiting the courier. I pick one up. LADY GRAY’S FAMOUS PARISIAN ENAMEL. That twenty-guinea gear? The parcel smells chalky, sour. I pocket it. Let’s see what quackery Quick’s peddling. He ain’t the only one what might indulge in a spot of blackmail.

  Fragrant steam puffs from behind a lacy screen. Bathwater splashes, some fancy lady having a Royal Arabian Toilet of Bullshit. Like as not, he takes coin from sweaty old gents to spy on the bathing beauties through a peephole. A line of ’em back there, fiddling with ’emselves while they wait their turn.

  I shiver, despite the heat. The shop’s not empty, but it feels deserted. Forsaken. Damned.

  “Professor?” I puts on a prissy voice. “I say, is anyone in attendance, I’d rather like an Arabian Toilet . . . Oik!”

  I whirl, the back of my neck prickling.

  Moriarty Quick sniggers like a mad mudlark. Same snotgreen coat, that louche blond hair curling. “Good morning to ye. Get your attention at last, did I?”

  Shit. I heave a breath. “Let’s get this over with, before the sight of you makes me puke. What d’you want from us?”

  “You’re the one who snuck into my shop like a criminal.” His crazy eyes twinkle. “Perhaps I just want me money.”

  “Bollocks. She don’t owe you one fart-arsed penny.”

  “Aren’t you the smart one? I only want to help, Lizzie Hyde.” His accent makes my name sound like Hoyd. “I can see that sharing a body’s not workin’ for ye. I can make that problem disappear. Pewf!” He flutters his fingers.

  My mouth waters. Make Eliza disappear. Not just lurking about beneath my skin, sneering at me. Gone. So she can’t wriggle and evade, like she done last night with the red-haired loon at our mercy.

  Can’t drag me back from what needs doing.

  “Temporarily, o’ course,” adds Quick. “Only for long enough.”

  I fake a bored yawn. “Long enough for what?”

  A snaky Quick grin. “I imagine you’ll think o’ somethin’.”

  God rot him. He knows I crave what he’s offering. But I trust this grubby snotgroper as far as I can spit him, which considering his size ain’t very far. “And why would a poxy blackmailing rat-squeezer like you want to help me?”

  He winks, and I wish he hadn’t. “Call it professional curiosity. The potion’s experimental, y’see. Lend a hand, and we can talk about settling that debt. A shame, if both o’ ye should rot in the compter over a trifle.”

  All my instincts scream, and a clearer message I’ve rarely heard. He’s up to no good. Fallen out of his tree. Madder than a shithouse rat. Walk away, Lizzie, and don’t look back . . .

  “You call fifty-six quid a trifle? Screw your eyes, ratbrain. For quaffing your stinking brew on spec, I want more than you ceasing your lies.”

  “Such as?”

  Screw me suspicious, but I don’t entirely trust Finch’s story, with his god-rotted loyalty to Eddie Hyde above all. “Tell me about you and Marcellus.”

  Quick licks his teeth. “It’s complicated.”

  Already I’m cursing myself for a fool. “Poor you. It’s that or nothing.”

  “Very well. I tell you about Marcellus, you test my potion, we forget the fifty-six quid and walk away smiling.” He offers his hand. “Agreed?”

  Guilt stings, a thousand angry wasps. I can’t betray her like this. Even if Quick’s telling me true, which he likely ain’t.

  But a lifetime of black resentment bubbles up to choke me. She’d do it to me. She hates me. Wants me gone. Wants Remy all to herself, and as for the red-haired loon . . .

  It’s either Todd or us. And I can’t get rid of Todd while Eliza’s still here. Miss Lizzie needs to take control. Or poor innocent Eliza will get us both killed.

  I suck in a breath, and for the first time in my sordid half-dead existence, I step across the line.

  I shake his scaly-smooth hand. Jesus in a jam jar, I’m a bloody idiot.

  Quick lights a cigarette, puffing brown smoke. “’Twere a long time ago. We worked together, Marcellus and I and Henry Jekyll. You know the sort of lines they crossed?”

  “Murdering my mother? Bringing corpses back from the dead?”

  “Right. So Henry had the nerve to call my experiments ‘uncanny.’” Quick waves his cigarette, deepening his voice in mockery of the good doctor. “‘Moriarty, some things we’re just not meant to know. Things only the lord God can control.’ Nice talk, for a bloody Protestant.”

  “Witchcraft, you mean? That black magic hocus-pocus?” My feet itch. Sommat about his tale smells rotten.

  Quick blows smoke rings. “Witchcraft is bollocks. My work’s solid alchemy and I won’t hear a word to the contrary. But back to Marcellus. He and I fell out over a young lady.” A melodramatic eye roll. “The love of his life. Wasting away, poor thing, and try as he might, Marcellus couldn’t treat her. In despair, he came to me.”

  And that crafty old Finch-bean told Eliza he’d never been in love. “And?”

  “It didn’t work out. At least, not for him.”

  “Is that what this is about? You stole Finch’s lady friend?”

  That sly
namesake grin. “You can’t fight true love, Miss Hyde. Marcellus couldn’t see that. He tried to come between us. It got ugly.”

  “I should say. Fourteen years on the wave?”

  “Well, there was that. But the past is past. I’m not the man holdin’ a grudge.” Quick stubs the cigarette out. A glass-stoppered bottle appears in his hand, and with a bad stage magician’s flourish, he offers it to me. “I believe it’s your turn.”

  I hold the bottle to the light. Slimy pewter-colored goo slides inside, like the oozings from a cooked snail. Sparkles drift in the liquid, dreamlike, as if it’s sleeping . . . or dying. “How much do I take?”

  “Up to you. No charge,” he adds airily. “Just tell me what happens. I’ll know if you lie.”

  I slam him against the bar, and jam my blade under his pointy chin. “And what’s to stop me from killing you right now? Put an end to your sneaky lawsuit for good, that’s what.”

  He giggles. “Easy, darlin’. We’ve barely met. And I’ve made arrangements. A package to be mailed to the Philosopher himself in the event of my untimely demise. About you, Dr. Jekyll, Marcellus. Everything.”

  “Don’t believe you.”

  Quick’s breathing hard, eyes glazed. He likes this. “That essence is experimental, y’know. Might not work . . . or it might work too well. Who’s to know? Can you trust Marcellus to clean up the mess?”

  “Shut up.” I shove his chin higher, and his necktie loosens, shirt pulling from his shoulder. He’s got a design inked there, a tiny tattoo.

  Half-circle, circle, cross. Mercury.

  “Well, lookie here,” accuses I. “Witchcraft’s bollocks, is it? What’s this mark mean?”

  “I’ve got more.” He wheezes laughter. “Want to see ’em?”

  “What d’you know about two dead artists and a chewed-up heart?”

  He laughs still harder. “Sweetie, you’re making no sense. Now, will you do me, or must I satisfy meself?”

  My blade slices, a slim crimson kiss that warms my cockles. I want to lick it. Press harder, slit the blackmailing bastard a fresh-bleeding grin . . .

  Excuse me, madam, whispers ghostly Todd, was this fellow bothering you?