by Viola Carr
“French spies, indeed,” muttered Eliza. As if the Royal hadn’t been responsible. She didn’t dare ask Lafayette how his evening had ended. “Thank you for backing me up, Captain,” she added, an afterthought. “You needn’t have gone out of your way.”
“I take it you’re planning to attend Le Caveau des Oubliettes in spite of Reeve?”
Triumphantly, she waved the purloined invitation.
“I wish you wouldn’t. Quick already has it in for you, and a man who calls his place of business ‘the dungeon vault’ doesn’t strike me as easily reasoned with. If he truly has slaughtered two men for threatening him, do you imagine him thinking twice about hurting you?”
“Captain, I’m surprised at you. They told me you were some kind of outrageously daring war hero.”
“Flattered, I’m sure, but one thing I’ve learned from a dozen bungled campaigns is that there’s nothing wrong with a tactical retreat.” Lafayette fiddled with his cuff, uncharacteristically hesitant. Good lord, was that a fidget? “And you know I can’t come. Not tonight.”
She flushed, mortified. The full moon. His cage. In her obsession with the case, and Quick, and Todd, she’d half forgotten. “But how can I not investigate, when I know he’s guilty? What if someone else was party to the blackmail, and he kills them, too, while I prevaricate? It’s a matter of justice. I’ll just have to go by myself.”
Aye, said Lizzie sarcastically. Same reason you refuse to turn in that crack-brained redhead. All about justice, you.
Lafayette sidled past a tiny boy pulling a cartload of unskinned rabbits. “Is that wise? Reeve isn’t making empty threats, you know. He’ll have you struck off if he finds out. Is this really worth your career?”
“Pish. I’m not afraid of Reeve.”
“And as ever, my admiration for your energy undoes me. But might not a moment of pause be a survival strategy?”
Hot flushes swamped her, making her sweat and shiver, a sweetberry quagmire of conflicting suspicions. “Indeed it might,” she snapped. “Like burning Seven Dials in lieu of defying your precious overseer?”
Immediately, she regretted it. His chagrined expression punched her in the guts. “Fair enough,” he said mildly. “But know this: if Lady Lovelace decides to put me to the question, I won’t be the only one in danger.”
Flashes of rusty cells beneath the Tower, sparking electrodes, blood oozing into rubber tubes. “I appreciate that, but I can’t stop doing my job merely because it inconveniences me. Justice is inconvenient. That’s the point.”
“I’m merely trying to—”
“Protect me? I suppose planting a spy in my house was for my protection, too.” Heavens, she’d intended to ask more politely. But his attitude hacked at her nerves, all the more maddening because her upset was perverse. He only wanted to help . . . didn’t he?
Not a flicker. “Absolutely.”
Her jaw dropped. “You’re not even denying it. Were you planning to tell me, or just let me bumble on oblivious?”
“You would have said no. I needed to do something. I’m on the trail of some bad people who aren’t above hurting you to threaten me.” He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. “Miss Burton’s more experienced than she looks. Her father is an explorer. She’s braved darkest Arabia since she was twelve. I need her, to watch over you when I can’t.”
Eliza’s throat parched. Was her indignation unreasonable? Were his intentions honest? Almost certainly. But it didn’t cure the glitter-ugly ache in her heart. “I respect that you’re trying to help, but do you know how patronizing that sounds? I can take care of myself, you know. I needn’t be minded like a . . . a child.”
Like some weak female, she’d almost said. Her head whirled, overheating, that familiar sickly sweetness muddling her wits into a pink mist. She’d thought him different. Special. But if this was how he truly regarded her . . .
“I don’t intend any disrespect.” Softly, as if he knew any answer to be futile.
Her blood boiled, a cocktail of remorse and unnatural rage. “Don’t you? That’s all right, then. My mistake. Stop putting me on a pedestal, Remy. We’re not married, in case you’d forgotten. And I’m not your dead wife.”
Silence.
Finally, Lafayette sighed, and his abrupt distance shocked her. Cold, like a stranger. “Forgive me, Doctor. You must do what you feel is right. It’s none of my concern.”
Her chest constricted, a warm, salty sickness. Her words seemed unforgivably selfish and cruel. But she couldn’t unsay them. And before she could apologize—or say something even more horrible—he bowed, and vanished into the crowd.
Such a little thing, that lost moment. Gone. Maybe forever.
She was being stupid. Unreasonable. Unscientific. All the things that drove her crazy . . . but she couldn’t shed this maddening resentment, as if the world and everyone in it were against her, and she had to fight back. She barely knew Lafayette. This episode only proved that. Why should she even care . . . no matter that he was . . . just because they’d . . .
Oh, to hell with it.
She stalked away, swallowing a Lizzie-rich curse. The sun peeked between fluffy clouds, and a bird chirped joyfully overhead. She wanted to wring its neck. The bright-natured gleam of passing traffic, the happy hiss of pistons: everything infuriated her. Her tongue tingled, a sinister strawberry spritz that murmured sweet chaos . . . and black certainty blotted out the light.
This pink remedy, her elixir, Moriarty Quick’s tricks. They were rotting her wits. Tormenting her with the same burning rage that plagued Lizzie . . . and Eddie Hyde. All these ugly chemicals—this unshakable, impossible duality—would be the death of her.
But the alternative—to cease her medication altogether—was just as unthinkable.
Eagerly, Hippocrates flung himself at her skirts. “Doctor! Doctor! Doc-doc-doc . . .”
“Will you shut up?” She shoved him, hard.
Clunk! Hipp bounced onto his head on the cobbles, brassy feet waving like an upturned beetle’s. “Sorry,” he yammered. “Does not compute. Sorry . . .”
“Oh, Hipp.” Remorseful, she dusted him off, setting him on his feet. “I didn’t mean it. Forgive me.”
But he just cowered, making himself small and blinking his red unhappy light.
Her mood blackened. Had she made a terrible mistake? Truth was, she’d very few friends she could trust. A pang of dread stung her bones. Lafayette had trusted her. Let her into his solitary refuge. Asked for her help, though she’d been too stubborn to admit it. Tonight, he’d be at his most vulnerable. And she’d rejected him, precisely when he needed her most . . .
But her rebellious suspicions rattled, a clockwork with a broken cog. Lafayette had spied on her. In her own house, for heaven’s sake. How could she meekly accept that? All he’d needed to do was ask first. Was she some frail creature, the weaker sex, to have such decisions made for her by a man?
“For sure.” Lizzie stalked beside her again, relentless. “Ain’t scared you might like it, or nothing.”
“Shut up,” snapped Eliza. “I’m perfectly capable of investigating this ominous Caveau des Oubliettes on my own. I don’t need anyone’s help, least of all Captain Lafayette’s. And certainly not yours.”
Determined, she marched towards the snarl of carts and carriages clogging Charing Cross, Hipp trotting resentfully at her heels. The fact that she wanted Lafayette’s help—that she liked him, as if that were relevant to anything—was all the more reason to refuse.
LE CAVEAU DES OUBLIETTES
AT FRAGRANT SUMMER’S DUSK, ELIZA EMERGED from the coal-stained Electric Underground into Covent Garden. The cobbled flower market bustled with basket-clutching servants, ladies perusing freesias and roses, gardeners unloading wooden carts heaped with blooms. Soon the moon would rise, but for now, sunset reigned, and above rooftops and smoke-stacks, the sky was painted a glorious shade of purplish red. A cherry, or a double-white vermilion? Mr. Todd would know the color.
Clut
ching her invitation, Eliza pushed her way through theater-goers and shoppers, match-sellers and pickpockets. Arc-lights crackled purplish glitter over coiffured ladies twirling lacy parasols, gentlemen in tailored coats dipping freshly brushed opera hats. Acrobats flipped, their ribboned hair tumbling, and a stilt-walker dressed as a Green Man teetered above, soft foliage dangling from his costume. Cigar smoke and perfume enriched the air, and somewhere, a fiddler pedaling a unicycle belted out a merry three-step tune.
The humidity made her sweat, but she didn’t dare shrug off her mantle. Lizzie nestled in Eliza’s chest, fighting her for breath, an oyster stuffed into an under-sized shell. Furtively, Eliza fiddled with the laces behind her back. Lizzie’s dress felt strange, conspicuous, a cherry velvet creation with ruffled skirts. She’d figured the class of people who attended these gatherings wouldn’t wear drab colors, and besides, she didn’t want Quick recognizing her easily from afar.
She’d examined her reflection in her bedroom mirror with trepidation and excitement. Her pale hair had glistened golden, her skin imbued with a strange glow. Her black hat was tilted to dip a veil over her bespectacled eyes. She looked . . . bold. Provocative. Would Remy like it? she wondered. Would Mr. Todd?
You still walk like a prissy schoolmarm, muttered Lizzie as Eliza searched for the correct address amongst shops and theaters. A trussed-up ham, that’s what you look like.
“Helpful as ever . . . ah, here we are.” Eliza approached a little annex attached to a stately brick dwelling. Its windows glinted in the sultry sunset, drapes drawn. The big black door with its silver knocker loomed, forbidding. A plaque on the lintel proclaimed it to be PRIVATE.
Nervously, she gripped her reticule. Inside nestled her stinger, fully charged, next to a phial of pink remedy and other medicinal odds and sods. She’d even brought elixir, lest she need in a hurry to change. She’d come prepared, even if she’d been forced to come alone.
Hipp had protested, but she’d left him behind, and without him, she felt oddly naked and unprotected. She spared a thought for Captain Lafayette, surely by now readying himself for a torrid night of confusion and chaos. Flesh shuddering, twisting . . . changing. She shivered. That awful cage . . .
But she’d her own problems now. Steeling herself, she knocked.
The door edged ajar. No greeting. Just a narrow black challenge.
She offered the signed invitation. An unseen hand snatched it, and after a moment, the door creaked open.
Inside, darkness smothered her. The door clunked shut, stranding her in utter blackness, with a dizzying scent like overripe wine . . . and then a candle flared, revealing dark green drapes and polished floors. That unseen someone thrust a white lorgnette mask in her hand.
She peered through the carven eyeholes. The person was gone. The place seemed deserted, just twin rows of candles beckoning her down a velvet-draped corridor.
Already, her head swam in heat-shimmered perfume. Her vision’s edges smeared, telescoping, and from beyond, snag-toothed devils whispered to her, promising delights both exquisite and frightful. Breath seducing her skin, multiple mouths in her hair, unseen drums throbbing, louder, faster . . .
She staggered, unbalanced. Candles flickered, laughing at her. She felt drunk, irresponsible. Wild, to go with Lizzie’s spectacular dress. A slow smile parted her lips. Do your worst, Moriarty Quick. If any black magic lurked here, she’d definitely give it a try . . .
Her heartbeat throbbed, a sluggish warning. The air’s drugged, you idiot! hissed Lizzie. Poisoned! This place is a fakement. Get the hell out of here!
“Eh?” Sleepily, Eliza pawed inside her reticule, fighting the temptation to inhale further. Elixir, warm. Pink remedy, frigid . . . At last, her fingers closed around a tiny glass phial.
Mr. Finch’s invisible prophylactic against poison gas.
She thumbed the cork away—a tiny hfff! like a spectral laugh—and tipped the phial onto the inside of her mask . . . and just in time remembered that Finch had drained the substance upwards. Lighter than air. Fumbling, she swapped positions of mask and bottle, hoping she hadn’t already wasted it.
She replaced the mask over her face, and inhaled, a faint scent of oranges. Another breath, and her fuzzy vision began to clear. Doubles as a hangover cure and kills ants! She stifled crazy laughter. She’d have to tell Finch his pet project worked . . . But for now—thanks to Lizzie’s presence of mind, not her own—she was forearmed.
She crept further into warm dark. Shadows shifted, voices murmured. Red-gold firelight flared, and she headed towards it.
A vast room yawned, dizzily endless . . . but now that she’d sobered, she could make out dusty carpets, rotted red drapes, a once-ornate plaster ceiling with crumbling painted lunettes. A dingy theater, with a cracked wooden stage and tiered galleries . . . and a crowded audience of richly dressed gentlemen and ladies, all wearing the same white masks.
They luxuriated on moth-eaten couches, all in various states of undress. Discarded gloves and stockings littered the filthy carpet. Shirts loosened, corsets unlaced to expose glistening skin.
One plump fellow’s face nudged her memory, and with a start she recognized the fat lord from Lady Fleet’s entourage at the Exhibition. Lord Montrose, Sir Wm Thorne . . . Was this Sir Dalziel’s infamous coven, then? All guzzled thick, meaty red wine from cracked goblets smeared with dust. Their mouths and chins were stained purple, the color of rotten berries, and as they drank, they laughed.
In the pit below the stage, a fire roared, and . . . well, darker pastimes than drinking were being indulged. Noises slithered from the depths, moans and grunts, wet slobbers, the rending sound of tearing meat. Eliza couldn’t resist a glance down . . . and shuddered, averting her gaze from writhing flesh, bitten skin, naked limbs contorted in agony.
Upstage, on a stool, in shirtsleeves and waistcoat, crouched Moriarty Quick.
He tended a glowing crucible that bubbled and spat over a hissing flame burner. That foul-smelling poison gas billowed, a noxious black smoke cloud that shimmered and dissolved to air.
Her mind raced. An unorthodox hallucinogen. Could it be the one she’d found in Dalziel’s ashtray? Had Quick somehow made himself immune?
He tipped in a scoop of powder, releasing another cloud of gas. His yellow hair slicked his cheeks. His dissolute lips pursed, a singular expression. He didn’t look manic or intoxicated.
He looked bored. As if this whole scam were far too easy.
But what was the scam, exactly? Clearly, these people hallucinated, the “hypnotism” of which Penny Watt had spoken. Illusory splendors, false pleasures. Fabricated horrors, also, those ethereal devils in hissing battle for their souls . . . but in the greasy shadows lurked creatures equally horrid, but real.
A dirty menagerie of monstrous folk, fey and fell, demented and deformed, with matted hair and sallow, warty skin. They shambled along aisles and sneaked under seats, filching trinkets from dropped coats and purses, wriggling beneath skirts, invading loosened clothing with misshapen fingers and thirsty tongues.
On one chaise swooned a lady in green, and a hooting hare-lipped fellow unhooked her diamond necklace and licked it greedily, eyes empty but for hunger. A dwarf with some awful rotting skin disease wriggled into a man’s discarded clothes, laughing as he disappeared inside. At that foul pit’s edge, a lizard-skinned thing with grinning jaws peeled a young lady’s drawers off. It writhed its spiked tongue over her soft thighs as it dragged her down . . .
Nauseated, Eliza gripped her mask tightly with sweating fingers. What a disgusting spectacle these pitiable creatures made. Likely their victims would be too embarrassed tomorrow to demand restitution, if they remembered anything at all. Quick and his freak-show carnival would escape scot-free.
No summoning, no deals with Satan. His “black magic” was just a cruel alchemist’s trick.
Ignoble and humiliating, to be sure—but it hardly seemed worth killing for. Carmine’s letter blurred in Eliza’s memory, a candlelit scrawl w
ithout meaning. He is a Traitor and Wicked beyond sense. Wicked, certainly. But a traitor? If we do not unmask Him everything is lost. Over a few stolen jewels? It made no sense.
Ha! Some detective you turned out. Lizzie’s gleeful whisper taunted her. Everything you thought you figured out so canny? Rubbish, the bleedin’ lot of it. Not so clever now, is you?
But if Quick didn’t kill Carmine and Dalziel, who did? And why?
Still, this dirty scam ought to be stopped, and Quick brought to justice. That much was clear. And those poor malformed creatures should be in a hospital, not treated like circus animals for Quick’s twisted entertainment.
She discarded her mask, gripped her stinger, and edged closer to the stage. Quick kept stirring his crucible, his back to her, singing in his smoke-roughened tenor.
“I wept, and kissed her cold clay corpse . . . then rushed o’er vale and valley . . .” He splashed rotting black goo into the mixture and stirred, rolling the crucible with long iron tongs whose tips glowed red hot.
Stealthily, she climbed onto the stage. Inside, Lizzie stirred, flexing spectral fingers, and Eliza’s fingers flexed, too. Yesss. This is going to feel goood . . .
“My vengeance on my foe to wreak . . . while soft wind shakes the barley,” hummed Quick, flicking sweat from his hair.
Eliza stole up behind him. One step, another. Any moment, a floorboard would creak and give her away . . .
She dived. Slam! They collided, and hit the stage, jarring.
“Ha! Dr. Jekyll. I’ve been waiting for you.” He twisted on top of her like a snake, stinking of whiskey and those foul, decaying ingredients.
She struggled. He fought with a cornered rat’s ferocity, grabbing her arms, kneeing for her guts, forcing her to the floor . . . and all the while, he laughed.
But Lizzie snarled bitter fury and swelled, filling Eliza’s muscles with renewed strength.