by Viola Carr
Eliza shook her head, bemused. Starling might be absent-minded, but he knew perfectly well she’d never been seriously ill. “Not I, sir. You must be thinking of someone else.”
Starling’s spectacles flashed. “Indeed,” he corrected with a laugh. “My mistake. A mere student myself in those days. Still wanted to be a physicist, God knows why. Like the Philosopher himself, I suppose. You used to say he’d made vector calculus difficult on purpose.”
“One rather suspects he did.” Eliza eyed the obligatory Royal Society portraits on the wall—Halley with his long white wig, proud and prickly Robert Hooke, a supremely arrogant Newton at the height of his powers—and her stomach jittered. Since her days with Starling, she’d learned a lot that wasn’t pleasant about the scientific method. Nullius in verba, insisted the Royal Society motto. See for yourself—but in these days of fear and witch-burnings, it was far from that simple.
“And a good job, too,” announced Finch, “otherwise we’d all be experts, and who’d want that, eh? Nothing worse than smarty-noses who bang on about quaternions while you’re trying to read. Henry had an assistant like that. Insufferable show-off. Quentin, Henry would say, fetch me that crucible, and off the lad would go, spouting about covalent bonds and molecular decay until one’s eyes glazed over.” He rubbed his hands. “Well, Byron, you crusty old tortoise, what can I do you for? Ague? Piles? A touch of the old gout? I’ve invented a wonderful prophylactic. Arsenic and the flesh-eating curare! Have the offending appendage off in no time, say what?”
Starling shared an amused glance. His blind eye glinted, iridescent amidst white scars. He’d had two good eyes when she’d known him. “I visited last week, remember? You were to hunt out some books from your collection.”
“Eh?” Finch looked befuddled. “Not making sense, old chap.”
Shyly, Starling tapped his cane on the floor. “Well, I’m sure you’re right. I’ll return when it’s more convenient.”
Eliza laughed. “I assure you, I’ve not aligned with the forces of darkness. I’m quite familiar with Mr. Finch’s ‘collection.’ ”
A sheepish smile. “Oh. Well, one can never be too careful.” He dropped into a whisper. “You know, Marcellus: Michael’s books?”
“Why didn’t you say so?” Finch rummaged under the counter, herbs and pill packets flying left and right, and thumped a moth-eaten book onto the wood in a cloud of dust. “The Royal burned most of Faraday’s things when he was arrested. But was crafty Marcellus foiled by dullard metal-heads? I think not.”
Reverently, Starling stroked the cracked leather binding. “Excellent. This will do nicely.”
Eliza’s curiosity itched, and inwardly she groaned. The Royal had burned poor Faraday for his unorthodox ideas, his insistence that aether was a fantasy, that light required no medium and invisible lines of force held the world together. What was Starling’s interest in such a book?
What was hers? Aether science wasn’t even her field—but she couldn’t quench this burning desire to know. To see what others could not. It was Henry Jekyll’s curse, too, this dangerous fascination for the bleeding edge, and it had brought him only trouble.
Still, her anticipation sparkled. Fresh knowledge awaited. What could be more exciting?
Finch brushed dust from the book’s cover, and sneezed. “This is his more theoretical work. Can’t make head nor tail of it myself,” he added gloomily. “Michael, I’d say, Michael, you boneheaded old moose, you must put this drivel into language they understand. You need to flatter people. Make them feel like idiots, and it’ll be questions and insinuations and hot needles under your fingernails, and next thing you know it’s build up the fire and burn him to a crisp.” He scratched his fluffy head. “But did he listen to wise Marcellus? Of course he didn’t! Smoke everywhere, people choking and covering their noses. The smell was dreadful.”
“You needn’t fear on that score.” Briskly, Starling wrapped the book in a calico bag he extracted from his pocket. “The Royal Institution is all in favor of flattery these days. Aether engine efficiency is a touchy subject down at the Tower. I’m hoping Mr. Faraday’s musings will shed alternative light on some issues I’m having controlling the electromagnetic potential. A very particular conundrum.”
Eliza’s ears pricked. “Is that Professor Crane’s project, perchance?”
“Our fame spreads.” Starling gave an ironic wink, and she recalled Lady Redstoat at the murder scene: Locke and his one-eyed accomplice. Starling’s eyes had been lovely, back in the day, of melting dark brown. “Where did you hear of us?”
“Under less than pleasant circumstances, I’m afraid. I’m sorry to report that Miss de Percy has been murdered.”
Starling’s face drained. “Whatever do you . . . oh, no. What awful news.” Removing his glasses, he mopped his face with a handkerchief. “This is terrible. Who’d do such a thing? When?”
“Last evening. Was she a close friend?”
“Not as such,” he admitted, still crestfallen. “An extremely clever young woman. We collaborated on this project, but I confess she thought me rather a bore. What a tragic loss.”
“Can you tell me what she was working on?”
“Apart from this engine? A doctoral thesis. Something to do with electrodynamic deconstruction of matter. I never enquired. As I say, we weren’t friendly.”
She dug into her satchel for the scrap of paper from the crime scene. “Any idea what this means?”
He studied it, frowning. “These are magnetic wave equations. Regarding the propagation of light via different media. Not my field, I’m afraid. You might ask Professor Crane. She’s the true expert.” He flashed an unsettlingly wide smile. “Attend our demonstration at the RI, if you like. See our miniature engine for yourself. I’d love to see you there.”
“Perhaps,” she murmured. Another invitation to this famous demonstration. How curious. “I don’t suppose you were helping set up, late last night?”
“Matter of fact, I was.”
“Was a fellow named Locke there?”
A snort. “So you’ve met his highness, have you? Yes, he was picking my brains about advanced waveforms until at least one o’clock.”
Ha. Take that, Chief Inspector! A lucky meeting. She’d telegraph Bow Street immediately. “Did no one wonder where Antoinette was?”
He grimaced. “I hate to say it, but Miss de Percy disliked getting her hands dirty. We’d have wondered more if she did arrive to help.” He tucked Faraday’s book under his arm. “Sadly, I must be on my way. Marcellus, my friend, I shall take good care of this. Delightful to see you again, Miss Jekyll. Enchanté.”
“Doctor,” she reminded with a smile. “I’m a physician now.”
“Of course. Old habits. Do attend our demonstration, if you’ve an eye for the marvels of aether physics. It’ll be quite something.” And with a tinkle of doorbell, he was gone.
Eliza watched him go, absorbed. “That was unexpected.”
Finch scowled. “Byron’s never unexpected. Always does exactly what you think he will, which is mostly get in the way and ask irritating questions. Can’t imagine why Eddie hired him.”
“He was a good teacher,” reminded Eliza absently, still thinking about Miss de Percy. Magnetic wave equations . . .
“So was Socrates, and what good did it do him? Blasphemy trials and hemlock tea with his biscuits, that’s what. Starling just wants to piggyback on my experiments without doing the work himself. Gave me some fascinating particles to test. Said he can alter their refractive indices with the right advanced energization. Poppycock, naturally, but hooray for science, eh? Nullius in verba, all that.”
“I see.” She didn’t see at all. “What exactly was in that book?”
“Haven’t the foggiest.” Finch beamed. “Faraday was a bookbinder’s apprentice, you know. Wasn’t much for maths. Never learned his Principia like a good boy should, and thank heavens for that, come to think of it, but he’d insist on putting in pages of diagrams that w
ere just as incomprehensible. ‘Oh,’ he’d say, ‘these are magnetic flux surfaces, and here are lines of force, and those are the imaginary inverse twin-dimensional co-efficient differential ratio thing-umy-bobs of the whosy-whatsit,’ and so forth. But who could fathom what he was babbling about? No one, that’s who. Except the Philosopher,” he finished glumly, “and we all know how that ended.”
“Maybe Starling and his Professor Crane will make some sense of it, for their engine project.”
“Doubt it, dear girl. There was a second volume, as I recall. Michael was always lurching about with it tucked under his arm, muttering about getting his lady friend to look his new theory over before he submitted it to the Royal. She knew a thing or two about transforming an equation, they say. But I’m damned if I could locate the moldy old tome.” Finch scratched his head. “Perhaps the Royal burned it after all.”
Eliza shouldered her bag. “Well, I’ve Slasher work to do. If you think of any other tests we could run on those samples, let me know. And it’s Lizzie’s turn tonight, so I’ll report on the new elixir.”
Finch was already shredding a pile of piquant-smelling herbs, mixing in what looked like fingernail clippings. “Oh, this is fabulously fetid! Fearsomely ferocious! Wart removal, say what? Doubles as a tonic for dropsy.”
She retrieved her umbrella, and casually turned back. “I meant to ask. Who was the doctor I saw?”
“Eh?”
“When I was ill as a child.”
“Oh, that.” Finch chopped his herbs with vim. “Henry, of course. Physician, wasn’t he? ’Twas nothing. Just a fever.”
Swift disappointment jabbed her throat. “Marcellus, I was fifteen when Mr. Starling was my tutor. Henry disappeared when I was seven.”
Finch reddened. But before he could speak, she quietly walked out into the rain.
Chill raindrops stung her cheeks, the bruised clouds reflecting her mood as she turned left towards Oxford Street. Hipp dashed after her, splashing in muddy puddles, and she kicked at the splatter, frustrated. Why had Marcellus lied? Couldn’t she be trusted with the truth?
She sighed, adjusting her satchel. “Hipp, run along and telegraph Inspector Griffin. Tell him Seymour Locke’s alibi is confirmed. At least that’s good news.”
Eagerly, Hipp whirred his cogs and galloped away.
“Good boy— Oh! I say.” She nearly collided with Byron Starling, who’d waited for her on the corner, calico-wrapped book clutched under one arm.
“Dr. Jekyll. Forgive me. I was wondering . . . that is, I thought . . .” He fidgeted, tapping his cane. “Listen to me, stammering like an idiot. Never could string two words together, could I?”
She cleared her throat, self-conscious. “Mr. Starling, I’m afraid I must be going—”
“Byron, please. Enough with formality.” He edged closer, raindrops glinting on his mismatched lenses. He smelled of jasmine and dry paper, a faint bouquet of distant memory. “I hope I’ll see you at our demonstration. Perhaps, one day soon, I might call on you? We might take a walk together. Catch up on old times. Renew our acquaintance.”
Oh, dear. Inwardly she cringed. Across the street, Lizzie was clutching her ribs, miming fits of laughter. Eliza laid her hand on Starling’s sleeve, making sure her sapphire ring was clearly visible. “I’d enjoy that very much. But I shouldn’t like to misrepresent the situation. As you see.”
“Oh.” He had the grace to blush. “My apologies. I meant no insult.”
“Perhaps we might take that walk in any case,” she offered politely. “I should like us to be friends.”
“Indeed.” His smile shone, a little too bright. “Congratulations, my dear. Whoever he is, he’s a lucky man.” He bowed, and strode away, cane tapping on the stones.
Eliza watched him go, curious. Antoinette de Percy’s colleague on this arcane science project. Lady Redstoat’s “one-eyed accomplice.” Who just happened to show up at Finch’s the day after Antoinette was murdered, asking for Faraday’s forbidden books.
Just a chance meeting. Coincidence. Nothing to do with anything.
Across New Bond Street, by Asprey jewelers, Lizzie danced a mocking jig. “Eliza and Byron, up in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”
Anticipation twinkled like starlight. “I always enjoy a good hard science demonstration, don’t you? Lizzie, I believe we have a date.”
MY SCIENTIFIC HERESIES
IN EARLY EVENING, ELIZA SLOSHED HOME TO RUSSELL Square, skirts flopping through puddles and rotting leaves. The rain had ceased for now, but the park’s sodden grass still oozed, and no birds sang. Along Southampton Row, Enforcers marched in pairs, electric pistols glinting, their heavy brass tread sinking deep into the mire.
She’d spent an exhausting afternoon with Harley Griffin, examining the Slasher case files until her brain ached for respite. She’d also presented Starling’s alibi evidence to Reeve. The Chief Inspector had snorted in disgust, muttering about hysterical doctors giving themselves airs, but grudgingly he’d released an apparently bulletproof Seymour Locke, who’d flung Reeve a sarcastic smile and asked for cab fare home.
Eliza grinned, recalling Griffin’s glee. Small victories. But she couldn’t shed the unsettling suspicion that Reeve didn’t care. He’d scored his point with the Commissioner. Locke’s usefulness to him had ended. He’d just chewed smugly on his cigar, and given them three days to come up with a lead in the Slasher case or be replaced.
Three days. After all these weeks with nothing but dead ends.
An old-fashioned coach clattered by, drawn by two iron-shod horses, the driver huddling in his waterlogged coat. Brass-legged omnibuses and electric hansoms vied for space with jogging clockwork servants and those like her who were unlucky enough to slog along on foot, soaked from hatbands to boot heels.
Eliza picked her way across the street, accompanied by a dancing ghost-Lizzie, who splashed gaily along without a care, sending sheets of water flying. No one seemed to notice—but they all noticed crazy Eliza, dodging to escape an invisible deluge. Mrs. Bistlethwaite from number twenty-five strutted by with a disparaging yet gleeful sniff. According to that good lady’s endless store of gossip fodder, Eliza was already a radical and secret suffragette who’d entrapped an unsuspecting gentleman into marriage with unorthodox scientific tricks. Now, she’d be insane to boot. Excellent.
“Will you stop that?” she whispered fiercely, jumping to avoid another torrent. “You’re embarrassing me!”
“You’re just sore because you and Inspector Goody Two-Shoes didn’t save the world today.” Lizzie slapped a passing horse’s rump, sending beast and rider careering into the crowd. “When will that Slasher grab another ’un, d’you think?”
“Shame on you.” Eliza stomped up the filthy steps to her dripping porch. Her brass shingle—ELIZA JEKYLL M.D., the engraving announced politely—was water-stained, and the electric light buzzed and spat. “Those unfortunate women deserve as much respect as you.”
“What they deserve is not to be slaughtered in their beds.” Lizzie pretended to ravish the wrought-iron fence, translucent red skirts bouncing around her knees. “Or out of ’em. A girl can’t turn a decent trick without getting dismembered. Worse than your Razor Jack, this Slasher cove. At least Todd kept it tidy.”
Eliza let herself into the warm hall, gritting her teeth on a mean retort. She didn’t like to be reminded of Malachi Todd. He was dead to her. Dead in real life, with any luck.
Gratefully, she divested herself of umbrella and wet gloves. Her consulting room door was ajar, and the fire inside threw welcoming shadows. The scent of roasting meat watered her mouth. Hipp sprinted eagerly inside, spraying rainwater over the rich red carpet. “Calm down, idiot,” she scolded. “Mrs. Poole, that smells delightful—oh!”
She’d bumped into her housemaid. Pretty Molly had her simple brown coat buttoned to the throat, a bonnet jammed tightly over her golden hair. “Sorry, Doctor. Didn’t know you’d be home.”
Eliza raised teasing eyebrows. “Walking ou
t on such a rough night?”
“Aye, well, we can’t all be courted by carriage folk,” said Molly stoutly, a vision of her future as a double of the redoubtable Mrs. Poole. “No doubt the chill will improve my color.”
From the first-floor landing, Lizzie wolf-whistled, making lewd faces. Eliza had suspected for a couple of weeks that Molly had formed a new acquaintance. She wished the girl well, but it did seem odd. Molly had never been one for flirting and fellows. “Here, take my umbrella, or you’ll be drowned in minutes.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Molly grinned, and the door clicked shut behind her.
Eliza started after her, and halted, bereft. As if she ought to be saying something about “mind how you go” and not stooping to pick up nothing. Some medical advice on contraception, perhaps? She snorted. Molly was a sensible girl, and in any case, a servant’s life was different, with fewer appearances to keep up. Molly likely had more first-hand knowledge of such matters than Eliza.
“Ho-ho-ho!” Now Lizzie stuck her head out from under the stairs, chortling. “Not for want of his honor trying.”
“That isn’t true,” she protested, though the memory of certain unguarded occasions made her blush and smile. “Captain Lafayette is a perfect gentleman.”
“Right. Buggered off to Paris this last month, ain’t he? Wouldn’t be because waiting for the wedding is sending him bonkers. Foreign Office business, my arse. Handsome soldier lad like him, pawed at by all them sex-crazed mademoiselles and keepin’ it in his trousers? Not bloody likely.”
Eliza rolled her eyes. “More likely he crossed the Channel just to get away from you.”
“Aye, well,” said Lizzie loftily, “you can always take up with your old friend Byron. He’s keen for another round.”
“That’s quite enough out of you.” Eliza had to laugh. But her stomach squirmed. They hadn’t yet set a wedding date, and with Remy’s work keeping him abroad most of the time, she’d been content to wait.
What if Remy thought she was dissembling?