The Alloy Heart

by Quinn Loftis

  “Young man,” she said, “I could use a drink. And you’re buying.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, grinning in spite of his pain. The four of them walked down the street, ducking into the first public house they came to—Paddington’s—an Irish tavern. It was quiet inside, a fact for which Thomas was grateful. A single fiddler played a mournful love song in the corner. Altogether too fitting for the occasion, Olivia thought.

  They all took a seat at a round table except Foster, who went to the bar and ordered four pints. He soon returned with the drinks on a tray. When they’d been distributed, Lady Templeton shocked Olivia by taking a long draught and then delicately wiping her mouth with a napkin.

  “Irish stout,” she said holding up her mug. “I can think of no better drink for the occasion. If no one objects, I would like to toast the happy couple. None of us knows what the future holds, but we do know this. Love is a precious and fleeting thing. I had it for forty-three years, and believe me, even all those years wasn’t enough. I’d do anything for just one more minute with my Henry. Jackson and Sophia may have only had it for a few moments, but none are more deserving of the gift than they. I’ve known them both for most of their lives. No two finer people ever walked this earth.”

  “Here, here,” said Foster, raising his glass. Thomas and Olivia followed suit, the four pints clinking in the middle of the table. Eight eyes were pouring tears after the speech, but Lady Templeton’s words had brought a measure of peace to Thomas’ heart.

  The foursome spent the better part of two hours swapping stories about Jackson and Sophia, the tale of young Elliot’s ascent up Big Ben relayed to Foster at least three times. They laughed hysterically and they cried uncontrollably, but there was no question that the time was a balm for the souls of the Hill siblings.

  Thomas was distraught over his sister, but something else began to trouble him as they sat and talked about old times—the killer of three young women was still out there. At first, the happy occasion of his sister’s wedding preparations had briefly distracted him from his case. Now, her impending death stole his thoughts. But in the deep recesses of his mind, the case wouldn’t rest. He’d been assigned to stop the killer, and so far he’d failed miserably. He was so sure that it’d been Watt when they’d cornered him in that alley. And while the man might be a ratbag, he wasn’t the murderer, Thomas knew. None of the women appeared to have been attacked. Whatever had lured them to their dooms, had done so without force. The worst part was that he knew he’d missed something. As the others talked, he began going over the clues in his mind, replaying the conversations in his head. Somewhere along the way, a detail had slipped through the cracks. Thomas knew if he could just find that one simple clue, everything else would be made clear.

  Thomas raised his hand to order another round for the group. He wasn’t sure how long they would sit there, but he knew that none of them wanted to leave. If they left that pub, each of them would have to face the harsh reality that their loved one might be gone forever. Thomas grew quiet. He felt a storm brewing inside of him, a raging tempest boiling in the clouds, waiting to drop out of the sky and take him unawares. Thinking back to the ceremony, Thom realized that he’d been so preoccupied that he had barely heard the words spoken by the vicar or the bride and groom. A large wooden cross that stood on its own had been placed near the front of the ceremony area, close to the wedding party, and he found himself staring mindlessly at it, his thoughts simultaneously shifting between both happiness and grief for Jackson and Sophia, and to his determination to solve the murder case. At several points during the ceremony, he’d almost felt he’d had a breakthrough. There was something about the cross resting so close to the happy bride and groom that was calling out to him. There was something about that symbol of ultimate sacrifice that was related to his case. But how it was related, he couldn’t seem to figure out.

  Just then, the fiddler struck up a lively tune, and a couple of people began dancing a jig on the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the pub. Lady Templeton placed a hand on Foster’s arm and then one on Olivia.

  “I think you two need to dance,” she said, her moist eyes glinting.

  “Oh, no,” said Olivia blushing. “I don’t feel much like dancing.”

  “Do you think your sister would want you sitting here mourning her, moping around like a bump on a log, when there was a chance to live your life? The time is now. If your sister’s condition has taught you nothing else, let it teach you this. Time is precious.”

  “She’s right,” said Thomas. “Sophia would want us to celebrate her life right now, not mourn her death. Go ahead, Foster. You’ve been pestering me for days now. You have my blessing.”

  “Eureka!” He grabbed Sophia by the waist and practically flung her onto the dance floor, moving in step with the beat as began twirling her around. The man had many talents, almost all of them, it seemed, had been perfected in the confines of a public house.

  “Now, for you,” said Lady Templeton to Thomas once the pair was alone. “The hurt for you will be much deeper than for Olivia and will pass much slower. You’ve known Sophia longer. Yes, they had a special relationship because they were sisters, but you were her brother and her friend even before Olivia was born. And as a brother, you’ve been her protector. Until something came along that you couldn’t protect her from. I know how helpless that has made you feel. Take your time in mourning, Thomas, but promise yourself that you will move on. She was even more a protector of you than you were of her, simply because it was her nature. She was a carbon copy of Edward Hill. If not in looks, certainly in character, in intelligence, and in capability. You feel lost without her, like your anchor has been cut loose. It has. But you must be the anchor for Olivia now. You must be strong for her.”

  Thomas felt fresh tears building up in response to her words.

  “Now I must be going, Thomas,” she said rising and kissing him on the forehead. “A woman of my age doesn’t need to be out after dark. Don’t be a stranger.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he managed to choke out.

  He sat there, unmoving, long after she’d gone. Thomas cried, and when the tears stopped, he brooded, absentmindedly scraping his thumb along the wood of the table, scratching a small cross in the smooth wood. His little sister, breaking away from her dance partner, twirled her away over to his table, taking him by the hand.

  “Get up, you stick-in-the-mud,” she begged Thomas. “Today was supposed to be a happy day. Sophia wouldn’t want you sulking.”

  Thomas didn’t move. “Please, Olivia—” Something glinted around her neck. Her small golden cross necklace, the one given to her by their mother before she died, dangled before him as she leaned down to pull him out of his seat. Then, in an instant, a switch was flicked on inside his head. He jumped to his feet, even as his heart dropped to his knees. “No, no, it can’t be. Foster, we have to go.” He grabbed the larger man, who was now sweating from his vigorous dancing with Olivia, by the arm and pulled him to the door. “Olivia, go straight home, do you hear me? Do not go back to Jackson’s.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, frowning at him.

  “Just do it,” he commanded, pulling Foster outside. “Come,” he yelled to his assistant as he began sprinting back to Coventry Station.

  “What’s going on, boss?” John asked, huffing and puffing as he ran alongside Thomas.

  Thomas stopped abruptly and grabbed Foster around the shoulders, pulling the man in front of him, looking him in the eyes.

  “Which of my eyes is closed?” he asked, winking his right eye.

  “What?” Foster asked looking perplexed.

  “Which one?” Hill shouted at him.

  “Uh, your left, no, no, it’s your right. It seems backwards, like in a mirror.”

  “Precisely.” He took Foster and faced him out toward the street. “Now imagine a man is walking toward us, coming up on our left, his head low, his eyes downcast. You notice a scar on his face. Whic
h side of his face is toward us? Which side has the scar?”

  “The right. But I might just have easily answered left, since the man is on my left-hand side.”

  “Correct again, Foster, just like in a mirror. And which side did Ruth tell us the man’s scar was on?”

  “The left.” He breathed.

  “She was mistaken. The scar is on the right.” Thomas hissed and began running again. When they reached the station, he sprinted inside.

  “So I assume you know who did it?” panted Foster, doubling over.

  “Shh,” Hill rebuked, “one second.”

  Thomas reached into his desk and snatched out the copy of A Primer on Organ Removal and Replacement Jackson had given him. He opened it to the second page and reread the “Acknowledgements” section.

  The author of this book would like to thank his research associate, Dr. Clarence Evans, for his tireless hours spent in the laboratory dedicated to uncovering the secrets of the amazing wonder that is the human body. Your contribution was invaluable. This book never would have been written without you. †

  There it was, screaming at him from the end of the sentence. The two small marks forming a cross, denoting a postscript at the end of the book. Thomas furiously flipped the pages, stopping at the last one. In small letters at the bottom of the page were the following words:

  ᶧThe author would also like to thank Jackson Elliot, a medical student at the Royal University, for his assistance during my brief stay on the island of Britain and with his continued correspondences. His help with research, ideas, and a passion for helping others provided the spark I needed to complete this book when no one else believed in me. He will make a fine doctor someday.

  Thomas gripped the book tightly in disbelief. A thousand-stone weight landed in the pit of his stomach. The room swam, and it felt like the floor had disappeared from underneath him. He fell back into his chair, shaking his head. He snapped out of his stupor and yanked out his notepad, going over the timeline. The first victim, Lorraine Tanner, had been found on Tuesday, April 26th. Thomas had no idea as to the whereabouts of his friend on that day. The second victim, Elizabeth Stroud, had been found on May 3rd in the wee hours of Tuesday morning. He and Jackson had played darts together that evening. Could his friend really have killed the poor girl and dumped her body in the park, only to have reveled with him later that evening? It didn’t seem possible.

  And what about the hole in the woman’s chest? How had that gotten there? Jackson wouldn’t inflict an injury like that upon anyone. Then the words of Dr. Evans came hauntingly back to him. What actually killed the women—the doctor, or the device?”

  The most recent victim, Mary Knight, was found Monday, May 9th, in Regent’s park, only a few blocks from Hyde Park and Berkeley Square, where the other two victims were found. Why hadn’t she been found with a hole in her chest? Why was her mechanical heart still intact? And where was Jackson the night before? He’d gone out with his sister. That was the day he’d proposed. Surely, he didn’t leave her that evening, only to go out in the dead of night and murder a prostitute. That was inconceivable.

  Despite the unlikeliness of the scenario, Thomas couldn’t dismiss it completely. Jackson had sent him on two wild goose chases, one to the countryside to see Dr. Vincent, the other to place Dr. Evans under scrutiny. But neither was designed to delay his investigation long. One meeting with each of the doctors in question was enough to show Hill that they couldn’t be involved. Jackson knew from the start they were not involved and that Thomas would see it the moment he met with the men. Why then would he bother offering up those names? And then the answer was crystal clear to Thomas.

  “Sophia.” He breathed.

  Thomas trusted Jackson completely. His friend could have provided a trail of false leads in an effort to derail Hill’s efforts indefinitely. But he didn’t. He wanted Thomas to find out, as soon as he’d finished perfecting the hearts—as soon as he’d created one that would save Sophia.

  “What about Sophia?” asked Foster, pulling the book from Thomas’ desk and reading the postscript himself.

  “It was Jackson all along. Don’t you see, Foster? He lied about the book,” said Inspector Hill, pointing at the page Foster was reading. “Jackson knew Dr. Phillips, apparently very well, judging by that postscript. But he told us he only heard him speak at University.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Because he was behind it all—all three killings. He was experimenting, trying to get the heart to work. He was trying to find a cure for my sister.”

  “No way,” replied John. “He wouldn’t do that. He’s the best man I know, all the stuff he does for the poor folk. Besides, if that were the case, why did he give you this book to begin with? He had to have known you would see his name in there. You had no clue about Dr. Phillips before he mentioned the American to you. He didn’t have to show you this book. Why would he even turn you on to Dr. Phillips to begin with?”

  “It’s obvious, Foster. He wanted me to catch him. After all, like you said, he’s the best man you know. And that goes double for me. A good man like Jackson would want to pay for his crimes.”

  “Poppycock. If he wanted to get caught, why didn’t he just confess to begin with?”

  “He left me clues. He wanted me to puzzle it out. He needed time to figure out the heart.”

  “Well did he … figure it out, I mean?” asked Foster.

  “Sophia! He’s with her right now. We have to go.” He jumped up and sped past Foster and out the door.

  Inspector Hill banged hard on the door to Dr. Jackson Elliot’s, house but no one answered. No sounds came from inside the dwelling.

  “Jackson! Open the door,” he yelled at the top of his lungs. The need to see his sister, to prove himself wrong by some miracle, drove him on in a frenzy as he continued his abuse on the door. “It’s the pol—it’s Thomas.”

  Assistant Inspector Foster braced himself, preparing for the signal from his superior indicating that he was allowed to kick the door in. Instead, Hill tried the knob and the door swung open freely. The pair walked into the house, a look of disappointment on Foster’s face at not being able to destroy the wood.

  The house looked almost exactly as it had when Thomas had been there only a few hours ago, with one key exception. The bed where he’d left his sister was empty, as was the rest of the house, as far as Thomas could tell.

  “Jackson,” Hill yelled. The fear in his voice rang out, bouncing off the walls as he moved about the house. The drawing room, the kitchen, dining room, bedroom, even Jackson’s disordered laboratory, all empty.

  “They’ve gone,” remarked Foster.

  “Where could they have gone? My sister was clinging to life, if she hasn’t already passed on. Where could he have taken her?” said Hill, overturning an umbrella basket, as if he would find them cowering behind it. “Search every nook and cranny,” said Inspector Hill.

  “For what?” said Foster. “They aren’t here.”

  “For evidence … drawings, schematics, metal parts, the heart, anything. We’ll start with his laboratory.” Thomas froze mid-step as he was turning toward the room when something caught his eye—a red hardbound book protruding several inches beyond its compatriots as it sat on the bookshelf. Elise’s Exploits in the Land of Wonder, by Carol Lewiston was emblazoned in gold lettering on the spine. Shakily, Hill removed the book and opened it to the first page. Words written in the neat, looping handwriting of his friend, Dr. Elliot, ran in black ink across the page. Dear Thomas, I know you must not still believe what your own eyes are telling you. Believe them. Your suspicions are true. I write this to you now because I don’t know what your reaction will be when you see me momentarily, and I want you to heed my words with a clear mind. This book was never meant for Sophia. It is my gift to you. If my experiment has failed, please keep it as a token of remembrance of her. If it has succeeded it, keep it as a token of remembrance of me. I cherish our friendship above anything except the
life of your sister. Now you need merely replace this book on the shelf, and your prey awaits you below. Know that I give myself up willingly. I could escape to America, Australia, or anywhere in between if I wished. I do not, because Sophia would never follow me there, or anywhere, for that matter.

  Thomas read the words again, his hands trembling such that the book shook in his grip. He had still been hoping he was wrong. His heart was begging his mind to reject the idea that his best friend could be capable of such horrible crimes. But now he could hold onto that hope no longer. Here it was in black and white. The murderer, his best friend, his sister’s husband, all the same man, confessing his crimes, giving himself up without a fight. He felt as though the floor had just fallen out from beneath his feet. Everything he’d thought he’d known about Jackson suddenly became clouded with doubt. And still, he didn’t want to believe it, but he had no other choice.

  “What does it say, man?” asked Foster, one eyebrow cocked.

  “I … can’t believe it.” He held the book out to Foster, who took it and read it hastily.

  “What does it mean?” asked John. “It’s a confession, that’s certain.”

  “Honestly, I cannot be sure,” he replied, still holding out foolish hope that it wasn’t true. “Put it back. Put it back on the shelf,” implored Hill.

  Foster placed the book back in the empty spot on the bookshelf between two thick, inconspicuous volumes. He pushed it into the slot until he felt it bump against something hard, leaving the book extended out a few inches from the others. Slowly, he pushed the book further until he heard a solid click. The entire book shelf silently swung forward on well-oiled hinges, revealing an illuminated staircase, descending to the basement below.

  “Okay, then. I didn’t know this building had a basement,” said Foster.

  “Neither did I. Apparently, there’s a lot about my friend that I didn’t know. Let’s go.”

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t get some of the constables for backup?” asked John. “Or at least a revolver from back at the station?”