The Dastardly Miss Lizzie

by Viola Carr

  Suspicion pricked under Eliza’s nails. The girl looked innocent. But she’d thought Veronica innocent, too. What about those men? Were they spies? What of this tramp in a moldy green coat, shovel hat pulled low, crouched beneath a lamppost? Her guts curdled. Anyone could be her enemy.

  They’re all in on it. Wyverne’s scratchy voice, proclaiming conspiracy. Soon she’d be as mad as he, seeing threats under every rock. She daren’t approach the front door. The Royal could be watching, and she didn’t trust Lizzie to keep quiet. Not now. Maybe not ever again.

  A quarter past seven, Seymour Locke had said. And it was growing dark.

  Quietly she headed for the back, and found the door unlocked. A gloomy, quiet corridor, haunted by years of neglect. The floor had been swept, but the chandelier dripped cobwebs and the stairway down to the basement laboratory was coated in gray dust.

  Henry’s house was really two houses, back to back. The Cavendish Square end had been for Madeleine’s use, with formal dining and drawing rooms for receiving calls. This older, less fashionable house he’d used for classes and dissections, his famed collection of medical specimens—and the mysterious doings in his locked laboratory.

  Someone was crashing about at the front—no doubt Brigham and the Pooles, doing endless cleaning—and heating chimneys crackled faintly. A delicious, savory smell drifted from the kitchen.

  Her stomach ached in response. She longed for nothing more than a hot bath, a meal, and a warm bed with no lurking nightmares. Unless Brigham could conjure Remy Lafayette, to sponge her aching back and cradle her to sleep. That would suit.

  Dong! Her skin shrank in fright. Dong! Dong! Just an ancient, frowning grandfather clock. You’re late, Dr. Jekyll. Where have you been?

  Dong! it announced portentously four more times, and fell silent.

  Seven o’clock.

  Surely, nothing would happen at a quarter past. Locke was mad, or lying. Possibly both.

  But doubt spidered down her spine as she turned away.

  “Doctor?” Mr. Brigham trotted up, dust drifting from his curls. “Thought you was a burglar—” His eyes widened at her disheveled state. “Mary Mother of God. Not again?”

  Gently she fended him off. “Just an accident. Nothing a bath and a rest won’t cure.” She petted Hipp, who’d dashed up the hallway at top speed and crashed headfirst into her filthy skirts.

  “Doctor!” he yelled, bouncing. “Medical attention required! Make greater speed!” She smiled wearily. Imagine how she must look, smeared in excrement, spectacles hastily mended with thread, her face sporting alarming shades of black and blue.

  Brigham fussed, relieving her of mantle and gloves. “Shall I call a doctor? Another, I mean. Not that you’re not a good one. Would you like tea? Can I fetch you fresh clothes?”

  Afraid of her, she realized with a twinge of surprise. Desperate to please the captain’s wife, lest she fire him in a fit of pique. For all he knew, she was like his previous employer, a hateful shrew who took offense at the slightest lapse and changed the rules from day to day. “Don’t fret, Charles. I’ll survive a few moments longer.”

  “I hear congratulations are in order?”

  “Hmm?”

  “The broadsheets,” he explained. “That Slasher case. May I say well done, madam?”

  “Oh.” She flushed, discomfited. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “I’ll have Mrs. Poole bring tea and brandy. Oh,” he added, proffering a pair of envelopes, “these came for you. Maybe they’ll cheer you up.”

  She took them, and headed upstairs, Hipp bounding after. Her room was cheerful in warm firelight, the bottles and jars she’d saved from Russell Square glinting on the shelf. She sat by the window with a sigh, heedless of wet skirts. The first letter was in Marcellus Finch’s careful copperplate.

  EXPERIMENTS IN PROGRESS.

  FASCINATING RESULTS TO SHOW YOU.

  PLEASE COME.

  MF

  She tossed it aside. The handwriting on the second letter made her smile, and she tore it open with unseemly haste.

  Dr. Jekyll,

  I trust this finds you well. I should have liked to say goodbye in person

  Her stomach twisted. Goodbye?

  but my friends in Paris have decided I ought to stay a while, and I’ve really no reason to deny them, have I? They know all my secrets, and I needn’t explain to you what a relief that is. Liberté ou mort, as the saying goes. Turns out I’ve misunderstood completely, and François was right about la Bête. About everything.

  So I’m afraid I shan’t be returning to you. Don’t be sorry. You know it would never have lasted, not the way you live, and you’re better off without me to complicate things. It’s so liberating to be oneself at last. They know me in ways you never could. Besides, you’d never begrudge me a higher calling. I still admire you for that.

  Anyway, you’ll read of our purpose soon enough. A bloody business, but desperate peril requires desperate action. I trust you’ll be pleased for me, and I can only hope you find your own happiness in some passion as noble as mine.

  Best wishes,

  R. Lafayette.

  P.S. Please, keep the house. Everything’s yours, in fact. I’ll arrange it. You deserve that much.

  Eliza reeled, weak with dizziness. This couldn’t be real.

  But the handwriting was unmistakable. That curled “R” and flourished “y” in his signature. R. Lafayette. Not Remy. And that chilly, formal salutation—Dr. Jekyll—made her shiver.

  Something odd about the address on the envelope, too. E. Jekyll, it said, Russell Square. Not Dr. Eliza. Just E.

  What did it mean? Probably nothing.

  Maybe everything.

  Murky light pierced her gloom. Perhaps it was a hoax. Some ill-meaning miscreant had forged the letter to upset her.

  Lizzie, did you do this?

  Just cold silence.

  But in the dark depths of her heart, Eliza knew the letter was real.

  Angrily, she wiped her eyes. Why so shocked, Eliza? You always knew this would happen. Lizzie was right. Only a matter of time. Why would Remy stay, when the world offered so much more?

  She forced herself to re-read the letter. A higher calling. Desperate action. Liberté ou mort.

  EMPIRE ENVOYS KILLED IN BLOODBATH.

  Her stomach lurched, sick. Oh, God. Had the sorcerers gotten to him, as they had poor François?

  Her throat swelled. Who the hell cared? Remy was gone. He didn’t love her. Didn’t even want her. Probably never had.

  It would never have lasted, not the way you live. He meant Lizzie. Her double-dealing, her split allegiance, the contrary impulses that crippled her. All this time, she’d deluded herself.

  As if she could ever deserve a normal life.

  She realized she’d crushed the letter in her fist, and forced her quivering fingers to relax. The paper dropped soundlessly to the carpet, a crumpled wreck.

  Just like that.

  Told you so! Lizzie sang, bursting back in with cruel vengeance. Told you he was too good for you. Ha ha! Ain’t even another woman, Eliza. He just can’t be bothered. How does it feel to be second best?

  On the shelf, Mr. Todd’s rolled oil painting mocked her. Innocent, stupid Eliza, sleeping while the world laughed. Such a fool, to imagine love could solve anything. People were dead because she’d believed that. All love did was hurt.

  Her nerves stung raw, and in a fury, she grabbed the painting and flung it into the fire.

  Flames licked greedily, consuming the chemical-soaked canvas like a monster. Paint bubbled and popped, red skirts and blond locks charring. Pain lanced her heart, chilly like ice—but she forced herself to watch, until her own painted face had sizzled to ash.

  “Is everything well, madam?” Brigham hovered anxiously in the doorway.

  She wiped her cheeks, forcing a smile. “Thank you. I’ll take care of myself tonight. I’d like to be alone.”

  He eyed her uncertainly. “Very well. Come on, Hipp,
let’s get back to those rats.” And he disappeared down the corridor, Hipp trotting dolefully at his heels.

  Dully she watched them go. Brigham was a good lad. Would he even have a job after this? Everything, the letter said. The house, the money. None of it worth the spit in her mouth. Without Remy, what was the point of any of it?

  She gritted her teeth on fresh tears. No time for self-pity. She’d survived alone before. She was Dr. Eliza Jekyll, and she’d a murder case to solve. No one—not Edward Hyde, not Remy Lafayette, not even Lizzie—could take that away.

  As if drawn by magnets, her thoughts veered to that dim basement.

  A quarter past seven.

  What if Locke wasn’t insane? What would she find down there?

  Resolute, she hurried downstairs until she stood before the dusty steps once more. Memories, certainly, of her father’s secret midnight meetings, voices raised in argument, chalked formulae like magic spells on the blackboard. Flasks bubbling over gas flames, the smells of acid and potassium and sulfide gases.

  She’d hoped to create new memories. Such a foolish dream.

  Shivering, she laid her hand on the railing, and started down.

  Dusty cobwebs dangled amidst the smell of old wood. The stairs creaked, nails screeching. Her boots left imprints in the dust. No one had ventured down here in years.

  At the bottom, the way was blocked. The big iron door resembled a bank vault, with its heavy hinges and rust-stained locking wheel. She pushed aside the crusted brass panel over the combination lock, revealing the four sharp-notched levers, their corresponding numbers showing on cylinders of pale yellow shellac.

  But what was the combination?

  A magic number for my little lady. Vague images stirred, Henry laughing as he swung her high. He’d made a game of it, lifting her up so she could reach the numbers with her pudgy little fingers. Who’s the birthday girl?

  She manipulated each lever with her forefinger until the numbers read 2-5-0-4.

  With both hands, she wrenched the locking wheel clockwise. It didn’t budge. She pulled harder. Errrk! At last, the wheel lurched into motion. Clunk! Clank! With a dusty sigh, Henry’s laboratory door swung open.

  Inside, all was dark. She dusted spider strands from the old-fashioned lever that controlled the lights, and forced it downwards with both hands. Screech! With a sizzle of blue voltage, the lights popped on.

  The place looked abandoned in a hurry. Dried inkwells still on the desks, smudged chalk on the blackboard. Schematics pinned to the walls, the paper curled at the edges and chewed by bugs. Retorts still standing on trestles, flasks coated in dust, their contents long since desiccated.

  In a shadowy corner hulked a strange contraption of brass and steel, crusted with crystals and mirrors. About the size of a velocipede, a dense machine core surrounded by a set of concentric metal rings, their serrated edges stained with rust. An array of levers and buttons was bolted on, and a collection of odd electrical circuitry crowned the top. Old-style components, bulky capacitors, insulation thick and cumbersome. Spikes like lightning rods bristled in a monster’s grin.

  One of Victor’s monstrosities? Who knew to what frightful purpose it tended? She shuddered, recalling the Chopper’s awful resurrection machine, his meticulously sewed homunculi.

  The bookshelves had lain undisturbed for years, the volumes oozing greenish mold. Their sorry state scandalized and saddened her. Why hadn’t Marcellus rescued them? For that matter, why hadn’t she?

  But she knew. Everything about this place, as Lizzie might say, gave her the creeping heebie-jeebies. Too many ghosts brought grotesquely to life. She wanted to slam the vault door, run up those stairs into the light. Leave this house and her bruised heart behind forever.

  The door to her father’s private office lay ajar. She felt inside the doorframe—how easily it came back, all these years later—and flicked the light switch.

  Nothing. Perhaps the wiring had been masticated by rats. She spied a candlestick on a shelf, blew away dust and lit it. Light flared, drawn inside like iron to a magnet, illuminating the green baize desk, its wooden pen stand and inkwell, the leather-upholstered desk chair. Portraits glimmered on the picture rail: not the sharp-eyed Philosopher, but Galileo Galilei, solemn William Harvey, and the countrified Edward Jenner, her childhood hero.

  A crucible crouched atop the glass-fronted poisons locker. The desk drawer lay open, and papers ruffled from the filing cabinet, as if someone had grabbed important documents in haste. On the desk sat a crusted beaker, dusty red crystals gleaming. Another lay shattered on the floor.

  Elixir. Alchemy. Dark magic. Shapes leapt at her from the tall cheval mirror. Twisted, transcendental reflections, warping into the monstrous face of Edward Hyde.

  Behind her, paper crackled. She whirled, her candle guttering. “Who’s there?”

  Out in the laboratory, electric lights flickered, a ghastly blue strobe. Were shapes moving, by that infernal machine?

  “I’m armed!” she called sharply, moving closer. “Show yourself.”

  The air shimmered, writhing like a trapped ghost. A blue filament crackled, glowed brighter, flashed with a crrack! like thunder.

  And then a man’s voice, bewildered and desperately familiar. “What’s happened? Quentin, my dear fellow, whatever did you . . . oh!”

  Breathing heavily, the man stumbled into the light.

  Tall, his dark hair awry, wearing an old-fashioned high collar and white shirtsleeves. He stared about him in astonishment—and his gaze settled on her. Storm-gray eyes, alive with curiosity.

  Her eyes.

  She stared back, open-mouthed.

  “Oh, my,” whispered Henry Jekyll hoarsely. “It worked.”

  THE TRUTH OTHER MEN CANNOT SEE

  A LUMP SQUEEZED ELIZA’S THROAT. “F-FATHER? Are you a ghost?”

  “Eliza.” A wild-eyed stare, and finally a smile. “My God. You’re all grown up.”

  “But this is impossible.” Her thoughts sprinted in circles. Time travel was irrational. A myth. It broke all the rules the universe relied upon. Lines of force, luminiferous aether, call it what you wished. Everything would disintegrate. This couldn’t happen.

  Yet here he stood. Henry Jekyll, mid-thirties at most. A handsome man, with dark lashes and a strong face. Could she see Edward Hyde, lurking behind the façade? That hawkish grin, that mad glint of eye?

  Memories swamped her, of Henry pacing the room, declaiming some irrefutable truth to his colleagues, waving a cigar he’d forgotten to smoke. Henry writing feverishly at his desk by candlelight. Henry tinkering with his retorts, tending his colored phials, tapping on the glass as strange substances melted and boiled. Look, Eliza, phlogiston. Smell it? That’s the stuff of life.

  Tears scorched behind her eyes. This man, not Edward Hyde, was her true father, no matter what biology had to say on the matter. A scientist, clever and curious. Not a rapacious madman.

  Henry gripped her hands urgently. He smelled of smoke and chemicals, heartbreakingly familiar. “We haven’t much time. Whatever you did, you must undo it immediately. Everything depends upon it!”

  “I-I didn’t do anything,” she stammered. “I only ventured down here five minutes ago. This place, it’s been deserted for years. We moved away when . . .” She trailed off, visions of paradoxes and unknowable foreknowledge colliding in her mind.

  “But you’ve altered the machine somehow.” Henry’s face was pale. “Why else would it work now?”

  Her brain stretched painfully around torturous concepts, and she wanted to weep. She didn’t want to have this conversation. Didn’t want to discuss secret projects and time travel—time travel!—and machines that couldn’t exist. Rather, to laugh, reminisce, share stories. Catch up on twenty years they should have had, but for Hyde.

  Twenty years, for heaven’s sake.

  “I didn’t touch anything,” she insisted. “I was told to be here at a quarter past seven. I came. That’s all.”

  Henry’s gaze
burned, too intense. “By whom? Who told you the time?”

  She stared, taken afright. “A scientist from a project called Interlunium. He said I’d know what to do when I got here. His name is Seymour Locke.”

  Henry’s face drained. “Oh, my. Eliza, you must stop them. It’s imperative.”

  Her head pounded with frustration. “Stop who doing what? Papa, please . . .”

  A blast of hot breeze teetered her backwards. The air wavered, unstable, and the smell of burning aether thickened. Henry swore. “Field integrity is failing. Still too unstable! Oh, this is insufferable!” Menacingly, the machine hummed, vibrating the floor. “Listen, my darling. This machine is dangerous. There’s a book I’ll make sure you get. Take it to Ireton House in Red Lion Square. The lady there will help you fix what we’ve done. Ireton House. Do you have it?”

  “Y-yes, but . . .”

  “No more time.” Henry kissed her forehead, and backed away towards the machine, where the blue filament burned and the metal rings whirred, their crystals hurling rainbows. “I’m proud of you, Eliza. Never forget that. Tell your mother I love her.”

  “But—” An invisible hammer smashed between Eliza’s eyeballs. She cried out in agony . . . and slllrrrp! Out I wriggle like a shedding snake.

  “Henry Jekyll, as I live and breathe.” I hold my arms wide, laughing at the dumb-fuck look on his face. “Give us a kiss, Papa.”

  Henry’s mouth makes an O, a perfect expression of horror, like his spirit’s woken up in hell. He reaches out, but he’s fading into thin air like a ghost, growing more transparent every second. Dragged back to his own time. “Quentin, for God’s sake, I’m not ready . . .”

  And he vanishes, in a puff of self-righteous shock.

  Ha. So now he knows. In ten years or so—ten years from now in Henry’s time, though it’s ten years ago and more in ours—Eddie gives Eliza the elixir, and makes me. And not a god-rotted thing Henry can do about it.