The Dastardly Miss Lizzie

by Viola Carr

  Eliza swallowed. Her resolve not to reveal the book was safe was crumbling. The poor fellow was in tears. “So why would you not imagine the missing book to be in this secret room? Wouldn’t that be safest?”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be detectives?” He waved at the ransacked shelf. “Do you think this person searched just one shelf and gave up? They knew exactly what they were looking for. They took what they wanted and left the rest. It’s gone.”

  Her thoughts raced. Of course, she knew the killer hadn’t taken the book. He’d searched, but found it already missing. “The professor’s letter to me said ‘something terrible’ happened this evening, after your meeting. Any idea what?”

  Locke’s jaw tightened. “No. But I’d put money on Starling and his blasted modification. I told her he wouldn’t leave her alone. I offered to stay and protect her, but she . . .” His voice cracked, and he wiped his eyes with a muffled curse.

  “But she said no,” guessed Eliza softly. “Is that why you left your folio, Seymour? An excuse to return and check on her, when she’d already sent you away?”

  Locke tried to look scandalized, but after a moment he sighed, letting his forehead fall against the mirror. “Must I admit I adored her? That I tried to make love to her and she laughed at me? Ephronia was a true genius. Of course I worshipped her.”

  “But Antoinette . . . ?”

  He straightened with a snort. “Believed me, did you, when I said we were engaged? We only pretended, to protect her reputation. Antoinette loathed the very idea of marriage. Said it was a stone-age institution designed to subjugate the female sex. No, it’s Starling who’s jealous. It’s why I thought he’d tricked me into fluffing the demonstration, to make Ephronia think me a fool. Always wants to be the golden child.”

  “So why did you lie to us about the engagement? Antoinette was dead. No need to pretend any longer.”

  “Is that really what you think? That the poor girl deserves to be slandered after she’s dead? Besides, a secret engagement is never a secret, for God’s sake. Everyone knew. If I told you I’d lied about that, why would you believe me when I said I didn’t kill her?” He wiped his nose. “And then your lame-witted Chief Inspector arrested me anyway. Best laid plans.”

  “So do you think Starling would want to steal the professor’s book? Or could he re-create the material himself?”

  “No.” Carelessly, Locke shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. Look, as much as I would love to tell you Starling’s the murderer, I saw him at the library just before I left. For what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s possible that he did this.”

  She exchanged a glance with Griffin. Two men swapping alibis. Both innocent—or both guilty? “Not even with a teleporter?”

  An exasperated eye-roll. “Weren’t you listening? The thing was destroyed. You think he built a new one in three hours? Not a chance.”

  “Who else could have known about Starling’s modification idea? Anyone snooping about? Your friend Wyverne?”

  “I suppose it’s possible. Could be anyone at the RI, or the Royal. Or Paxton and his railway thugs, for that matter. Spies are everywhere.” Locke barked a laugh. “Perhaps the murderer is killing everyone who’s cleverer than he. Everyone in this room ought to be safe.”

  Eliza picked up the bloodstained blue scarf. “Do you know whose this is? One of Antoinette’s friends, perhaps?”

  “Never seen it before.” Locke gave a haunted smile. “But I would say that, wouldn’t I?”

  “What about all these letters?” Griffin dumped an armful on the desk to leaf through them. He held one to the light. “To the Right Honorable Member for Buckinghamshire,” he read. “A petition for funds. Squeezing up to politicians for a living. The more things change, eh?”

  She picked up a second envelope. Empty, the sender’s information printed on the outside. “Miss Veronica Burton, IRS,” she read with interest. “Why was the professor corresponding with a Royal Society investigator?”

  “Trading insults?” Locke’s rudeness had apparently recomposed. “Why don’t you ask that appalling bodyguard of yours? His snotty patrician nose is stuffed in everyone’s business.”

  “I’ll do that.” She tried another letter. No envelope, just unsealed and refolded, smeared with dirty fingermarks and a postscript . . .

  Her heart thudded at that crude black handwriting. Not a postscript after all, but a brusque reply, scribbled on the outside of the original.

  Here’s your money, Ephronia. God knows I owe you—and now you owe me, ha ha!

  Don’t let the bastards bring you down.

  With pleasure

  From an OLD friend

  In place of a signature, the correspondent had drawn a three-pointed shape. Like a twisted crown—or a jester’s belled hat.

  Dizziness struck, a swirl of Lizzie’s dark laughter. Eliza clutched the table for balance. For years she’d received letters in that rough writing, with the same cryptic signature.

  The King of Rats. Her father, Edward Hyde.

  Why on earth was respectable Professor Crane getting letters—and money—from the dirtiest crook in London?

  Swiftly, she scanned the pile of papers. No coin purse, no fold of bills. Hyde didn’t seem likely to write a check. Did he even have a bank account?

  Her fingers itched to open the original letter. Excited, she started to call Griffin over—and abruptly stopped.

  She daren’t reveal Hyde’s involvement. Not before she knew exactly what his nefarious doings were.

  Griffin’s back was turned. Locke was staring into the mirror, morose. Casually, she slipped the letter into her dress pocket.

  What are you doing? Lizzie hissed in her ear. Or was it her own voice, accusing her? Concealing evidence? Stealing from a murder scene? So much for your hoity-toity guff about criminals, missy. Do as I say and not as I do?

  She flushed, sick. She could lose her job for this, and rightly so. She’d demand nothing less if she caught someone tampering with evidence. Harley would be disgusted with her. Her career with the police would be over.

  But the idea of Hyde’s involvement in this case—in an unknown capacity—terrified her. Try as she might, she couldn’t shake the certainty that her father had done something terrible. Just a faint scent on the air, some distant tune she strained to hear—but she knew.

  She must get to the bottom of this. On her own, without police interference. Not even Harley could know.

  Griffin waved her over. “Eliza, look at this.”

  Her cheeks burned. Surely her guilt was all too evident. He’d round on her, demand she confess what she’d done, hand over that evidence this minute or he’d toss her in the lock-up for interfering with a murder investigation. Murder, Eliza. Life and death. And you’re stealing letters that could reveal the culprit? Shame on you.

  But Griffin just pointed to a pale patch on the carpet, like a wine stain long scrubbed out, except it looked fresh. “What could have made that?”

  She rubbed her gloved finger over it. A faint burned aether smell tingled. Hmm. She reapplied her optical, slotting in the same aether-reactive lenses she’d used at Antoinette’s.

  “Ouch!” She dragged the optical away, momentarily blinded. Glittering networks of white, too bright to behold, like cosmic fishnets in an ocean of gold.

  “Extreme aether reactivity,” she reported, with a glint of excitement. “The same as in Antoinette’s study! I see no experimental apparatus here. What can have done this?” An idea struck. She slotted another, darker lens over the first, and slipped the optical back on.

  This time, the blinding aura dimmed enough to be observed. Like a trail of diamonds, it swirled around the corpse and along the carpet. It curled over the bookshelves, and stole like guilty mist out into the hall.

  “Aha!” Eagerly, she followed it. It bounced along the passage, a jeweled will-o’-the-wisp, and disappeared into the back lane.

  She ran down the steps. Glitter showered the mud, a silver ribbon fading
towards the cesspit . . . and then it vanished. Dissipated like an unhappy ghost into oblivion.

  A trail. Left by something moving. The same person who’d left a similar trail in Antoinette’s study. The mysterious visitor with the blue scarf.

  The killer.

  But what was it? An electrical anomaly caused by some piece of equipment? A bioelectrical disturbance? She focused the optical on her own skirts, her arm, her foot. Nothing. A rat skittered by, just a shadow. No glitter.

  “Inspector,” she called, “Mr. Locke, can you come out, please?”

  Griffin appeared at the door. “What is it?”

  “Stand here.” She pointed to a clear area of mud, and examined him through her lens. “That’s it. Now move your arm. Hmm. Nothing.” She frowned. “Today, Mr. Locke, if you don’t mind.”

  No answer.

  She stared at Griffin. Griffin swore. And they dashed back inside.

  But the front door stood open, frigid draught blowing in. The library was empty. Seymour Locke was gone.

  Griffin exhaled wearily. “Not as if we could have arrested him again. Being a rude little ratbag isn’t against the law—”

  “Harley, I know where the missing book is,” she burst out. “I have it at home. Crane mailed it to me a few hours ago.” She handed him Crane’s letter.

  He read it, and gave her a fond but exasperated glance. “Withholding evidence, Doctor? I’m surprised at you.”

  Hyde’s letter wriggled and moaned in her pocket, and over Griffin’s shoulder, spectral Lizzie made a gleeful face. “Liar!” she crowed. “Thief!”

  “It confirms everything Locke told us,” interrupted Eliza hurriedly. She’d no remedy left. Nothing to keep Lizzie in her place. “Crane called her project ‘Interlunium.’ It’s the key!”

  “An unorthodox machine, based on the principles of matter transference.” Griffin stroked his mustaches. “Antoinette and Crane are murdered, Ormonde is injured. Are Starling and Locke to be our next victims? Is the killer determined to put an end to this project, whatever it is?”

  “Or he’s looking for the back-up prototype,” suggested Eliza. “One of those jealous spies Locke talked about, who wants to steal the project and make a fortune.”

  Griffin grimaced. “But the simplest explanation is still that Locke did it. Kills his lady friend in a fit of jealousy—or professional envy, or sheer stubborn irascibility, for that matter, the fellow is brimming with causes. Crane finds out and threatens to turn him in, so he kills her, too. Simple.”

  “He says he was at the library all evening.”

  “No doubt without witnesses. It’s an easy claim to make.”

  “But he has an alibi for Antoinette. Starling said so.”

  Griffin shrugged. “Then Starling’s lying. We ought to question Mr. Ormonde when he wakes. His is the only side of the story we don’t have. He could know more about these so-called spies, if they even exist.”

  “All right. Then who’s Blue Scarf in this theory? You must admit, it’s strange the servants didn’t see him.”

  “Likely one of Antoinette’s infamous lovers. And maybe the footman was in the privy when he called.” Griffin smiled at her deflated expression. “The dullest explanation is usually the truth. Being mysterious doesn’t make a man guilty of murder.”

  “But that doesn’t explain why Crane mailed me her book,” she insisted. “Why would she do that, if not truly in fear for her life?”

  “Why would she do it anyway? She’d only just met you, and alongside Captain Lafayette. For all she knows, you’re a Royal Society spy and she’ll be burned. She must have been very short of friends.”

  “Or else . . .” Her voice trailed off. Or else Crane had special reason to trust Eliza. A personal reason.

  Here’s your money, Ephronia. God knows I owe you.

  The stolen letter whiplashed in Eliza’s pocket, threatening to wriggle out and expose her. Yes, she was withholding evidence for a reason. The basest, most cowardly of all reasons.

  I’ve a thing to show you, Rose. Such a pretty thing . . .

  Boots clacked on stone, and a flurry of dark blue skirts dashed around the corner at full tilt. Constable Perkins stumbled to a halt, puffing like a steam train. “News, sir,” she gasped. “Mr. Ormonde. He’s dead.”

  Griffin groaned. “Wonderful.”

  “How?” demanded Eliza. “Did his wound fester?”

  “We found him around eight.” Perkins swiped back fallen hair. “Only left him alone for twenty minutes. His face was purple, and his eyes bulged. As if he’d choked. But I saw bruises around his neck.”

  “Strangled,” guessed Eliza darkly, “or poisoned. The killer returned to finish him off. So much for questioning the poor fellow.”

  “That’s not all.” Perkins swallowed. “There was writing. In blood, on the wall beside the bed. It said ‘traitor.’ “

  Griffin swore softly. “I posted guards. Why didn’t our men see anyone enter?”

  Perkins looked shamefaced. “Suspect they were playing cards, sir. Chief Inspector Reeve said they weren’t to worry overmuch for some wrinkly old science cove, as he put it.”

  “Perfect,” muttered Griffin. “The master of modern police work strikes again.”

  “Whore, then thief,” mused Eliza, “and now traitor. How indiscriminate our killer’s vengeance. Ormonde after half past seven, Crane before eight. The murderer must have fairly flown to get from Ireton House to Piccadilly in that time.”

  “Unless he can be in two places at once,” put in Perkins brightly.

  Griffin coughed. “Indeed. What odds a team of murderous book thieves?”

  “We’ve worked stranger cases,” reminded Eliza. “Someone did shoot at the demonstration while all the players were onstage . . .” Realization hit her with a jolt.

  “In any case,” said Griffin suddenly, “imagine I’m our man—or men—and I really did come here hunting for a book that wasn’t there . . .”

  Eliza was only half listening. All had been onstage—except one. An unwelcome colleague whom they’d spurned when he’d wanted to help. A professional pest, excluded from the project of a lifetime.

  “. . . what do you suppose I’d do now?”

  “Hmm?” She glanced up. “Well, I imagine you’d figure out where the book could be, and run to fetch it before—oh.” Her stomach knotted. “Inspector, I think I should go home now.”

  “I rather think you’d better.”

  She grabbed her satchel and ran.

  INFERNAL DEVICES

  PANTING, ELIZA SKIDDED INTO RUSSELL SQUARE, and stumbled, aghast.

  Her house was on fire.

  A crowd had gathered in black late evening chill. Servants, old men in nightcaps, and electric butlers milled about, their excited chatter almost drowned out by the roaring flames. Hippocrates sprinted up behind and crashed into her skirts. “Fire!” he trumpeted. “Fire! Assistance required!”

  Frantic, she fought through the crowd. Flames leapt from the upstairs windows, roaring up the drainpipes towards the roof. Sparks jumped, reddish glare searing the street like hellfire. Black smoke clogged the air. She coughed, eyes watering. Hands grabbed her, pulled her back, but she shook them off. “Molly!” she screamed. “Mrs. Poole!”

  No answer. She couldn’t see anything through the smoke. She struggled closer, slapping away well-meaning hands.

  “Doctor!” A solid hand gripped her forearm. “Doctor, here!”

  She crushed Mrs. Poole in a hug, almost falling over in gratitude. “Where’s Molly? What’s happening?”

  “She’s safe. I sent her for the parish brigade.” Mrs. Poole was wrapped in a blanket, gray hair in curling papers. “Where have you been? Out all night again?”

  “How did this start?” Eliza gazed helplessly up at her burning house, radiant heat scorching her face. She didn’t believe in coincidence. Ephronia Crane’s killer had come for the book—and now this. A threat, or a warning? She felt so small and useless. Surely, everything
was lost.

  “Don’t look at me,” said Mrs. Poole gruffly. “The kitchen fire was out. I was sleeping. Only lucky I heard a window break upstairs. That’s where it began.”

  Eliza’s throat stung raw. Lizzie’s cabinet. Crane’s book, the elixir. Everything she treasured.

  She pushed through the gawping crowd towards the porch. The front door hung open. Beyond, flames crackled and licked, a bright warning, but the fire hadn’t engulfed the whole house. Not yet.

  Wooden carts rattled from Southampton Row, bearing hoses and pumps and yelling men. The parish brigade. Good luck to them. She couldn’t afford to wait.

  “Stay here,” ordered Eliza, thrusting her satchel into Mrs. Poole’s hands. She only hoped the staircase remained intact. “You too, Hipp.”

  Mrs. Poole gaped. “Finally lost your mind, have you?”

  “Perhaps.” She flung her damp mantle over her head and ran up the steps. Fierce heat almost drove her back. Sparks fell from the upper windows onto her dress, smoking little black holes. A man screamed for her to stop. She shielded her face, and ran in.

  Inside, choking smoke hung in a pall. She crouched, head down, breathing as best she could through the wet mantle, and made for the stairs.

  The wood creaked alarmingly. The smoke made her dizzy. Her heart quailed, and she hugged the railing, mortified. I can’t. It’s too much.

  “Come on, slugabed!” shouted Lizzie gaily, leaping so her frilly skirts bounced. “Last one to the top’s a mopsy!” She laughed at Eliza’s dumbfounded expression. “Think I’d leave you here to burn? Not on your life, sister. Anyone kills you, it’s gonna be me.”

  “Kind of you,” rasped Eliza. She grabbed Lizzie’s hand, and together they scampered up to the landing, the next floor, the next. Her study was burning, all her books lost. With a pang she remembered the mice in their cages. Had they escaped? No way to reach the poor creatures now. Fire crackled all around, hungry to spread. If she’d arrived only a few minutes later, there’d be no way in at all.