“You’re not a doctor,” she said, still holding the bottle of chloroform in one webbed hand and the gauze in the other.
“I still feel like we should be doing something for her.”
Oriana regarded him steadily, anger having replaced her earlier tears. “We’re going to find them and avenge this horror.”
CHAPTER 30
The girl continued to breathe fast and shallow, air rasping through her stolen throat. Duilio knew chloroform was dangerous, but neither he nor Oriana could recall exactly what danger it presented. It might be a mercy if it killed the girl.
Duilio paced, wearing a path between the door and Oriana’s side. He itched to be in motion—his brain worked better that way. Oriana kept her eyes on the poor girl’s face, watching for signs she was regaining consciousness. She’d removed everything from the top shelf of the cart and pushed the cart to the head of the bed. It looked uncomfortable, but she could sit on it and rest the bottle and gauze in her lap.
“Duilio?” Joaquim called. “I have the doctor with me.” He appeared in the doorway, with Dr. Esteves and his receptionist behind him.
The older man pushed past Joaquim into the room. He came to the bedside, looked down at the drugged girl, and crossed himself. “My God.”
The receptionist—Duilio couldn’t recall her name—followed Esteves, her air of efficiency like a wall of iron about her. “Both of you gentlemen leave now,” she said briskly. “The doctor doesn’t need you hovering over him.” She took the bottle from Oriana’s webbed hands without sparing them a glance. “Now, miss, what have you given her, and how much?”
“I poured some on the gauze and held it to her mouth until she stilled,” Oriana answered. “I don’t know how much, exactly.”
“And when was the last time you did so?”
“A few minutes ago, perhaps.”
The woman harrumphed. “Well, not much you could do to hurt this child now. Go on, girl, let us see to her.”
“Is there a washroom?” the doctor asked Duilio.
“I’ll show you,” Duilio said. Joaquim accompanied him and the doctor out of the room, pointed out the washroom, and then they made their way down the stairs to the building’s front entry, where the clear afternoon air didn’t hold the taint of decaying flesh.
“I’m going search the second-floor apartment,” Joaquim said. “I’ve got legal grounds for going in there. You don’t.”
There were times that not actually being a police officer had its drawbacks. Joaquim had to do all the real work alone. Duilio watched Joaquim go up the stairs to the second floor and disappear inside. He closed his eyes and asked if Joaquim would be safe up there. His gift reassured him, despite the questionable circumstance of an unlocked door.
Oriana came down the stairwell. “I left them alone in there,” she said, wrapping her arms about herself.
Duilio put his arms about her. “Don’t worry.”
The sun was lowering, sending golden color across the walls of the buildings, lending a false sense of peace to the street scene. The traffic had returned to normal, carriages now moving along the narrow street. People walked down each side of the street again, no few casting a shocked glance at the openly embracing couple. After a moment, Oriana pulled out of Duilio’s arms. “So what do we do?”
“I was going to suggest checking the area behind the houses.”
Most blocks of houses had a large open area in their centers, often overgrown with vegetation and filled with refuse and old stone. They descended the steps and walked around the buildings until they found a narrow gravel drive between two houses that allowed access to the center of the block. Behind number 339 they found a decrepit old stone outbuilding, empty at the moment, but ruts in the alleyway suggested a coach had been kept there. Recent manure told of horses. A large metal bin inside had been used to burn fabric. Sheets, Oriana declared, after finding an unburned piece of cotton no bigger than her finger. Duilio didn’t know how much bedding and bandaging the doctor had bloodied in his surgeries, but he’d been thorough in disposing of it.
By the time they got back to the front of the house, Joaquim had come downstairs. “They intended for this all to be found. I’m assuming that applies to the girl in there as well—Marta Duarte. The doctor wanted people to know what he’s done . . . and why. They left his notes, a journal, and several supposed letters from the Ministry of Intelligence of your people’s islands.”
Oriana shook her head. “I can’t believe that.”
It was too easy for Duilio’s taste. Spies didn’t leave out official letters to be discovered. That reinforced Oriana’s suspicion that they were trying to start a war. “Let’s go talk to Esteves.”
They headed back inside and up the stairs. The door to the third-floor flat hung open, part of its frame torn away when Duilio kicked it in. “We’re coming in,” he called to warn the doctor.
“Come along,” the doctor said. “I’ll need you to look at this.”
The room wasn’t any brighter, but the doctor had replaced the contents of the cart, setting up a makeshift hospital. They had moved the bed away from the wall and closer to the light, and the receptionist sat near the girl’s head, a watch in one hand and a dropper in the other. A cup of some sort had been affixed to the girl’s forehead by a strap. They’d gotten organized quickly. Duilio’s respect for Esteves rose.
“Well, now we know you were right about that book,” the doctor said, his mouth turned down into a frown. “The doctor transplanted the Reyna girl’s throat into this girl’s body.”
“Transplanted?” Duilio repeated.
Esteves cast regretful eyes over the young woman’s unmoving form. “Doctors have long held that someday we will be able to replace damaged organs. Some have experimented—with animals, mind you—and there’s reportedly been some success with corneas, but something on this scale is the stuff of fiction, Mr. Ferreira.”
“But they gave her a sereia’s ability to call,” Duilio told him. “We felt it.”
“Temporarily,” Esteves said firmly. “You didn’t pull this sheet back, did you?”
Duilio glanced guiltily at Oriana. “No.”
“This poor girl has been operated on three times,” Esteves said. “Someone has tried to attach an otter’s tail, and there’s a square patch of selkie pelt grafted onto her abdomen.”
“Is the patch about the size of a hand?” Duilio asked.
The doctor peered at him narrowly. “Yes.”
“The selkie’s missing pelt was eventually found,” Duilio admitted, “and had a healthy patch that size. It was still alive, I suppose, because that part was.”
“Well, that graft was done more than a week ago, judging by the growth of the fur and healing,” Esteves said. “The tail was the first surgery, but the throat was in the last few days.”
That matched up with their timeline. And surgery would have been done during the day, when that skylight would give them enough light to see what they were doing. Felipa had died early in the evening, but the doctor might have used lamps to see his work that time.
Dr. Esteves again pointed to the girl’s stolen throat. “None of these incisions allow for drainage. That assures death would be the end result.”
Duilio stepped closer. “I don’t understand.”
“They hold any corruption inside,” the doctor said, gesturing with his hands. “This doctor had to know she would die from sepsis eventually. He made the incisions look good, and I have to wonder if he involved a healer to aid in that.”
“A healer only deals with superficial wounds,” Duilio said. “They won’t work on a puncture or anything deep.”
“Yes, because their ability is limited. But a healer could have made the swelling around these . . . implanted parts go away temporarily. They could make it appear to be healing. I suspect that was what this was all about. This is for s
how. The tail isn’t even attached to her spine in any way, only sewn on.”
“She could call, though,” Oriana protested. “She was calling, even if it was a warped version.”
“Oh, yes,” the doctor said to her. “That change was more than cosmetic. And it also suggests a healer. The healer could control the flow of blood while the doctor was replacing the voice box. That’s the only way such a massive operation could be carried out without the patient dying from blood loss. Even so, I’m shocked this girl is still alive. The healer involved had to have been working herself to death to keep this girl breathing.”
Oriana turned to Duilio. “Could that be why Salazar has been killing so often? Because he’s using that strength to keep this girl alive?”
“Killing?” Esteves asked cautiously.
“We think he’s been killing one or two women a night,” Duilio told him. “Pedro Salazar is the healer Dr. Teixeira observed at the Medical-Surgical School years ago—a Jesuit priest. We believe Teixeira confronted the man, who later killed him to keep him from talking.”
Esteves shook his head. “A healer who’s a killer? And a priest?”
“I’m afraid so,” Duilio said. “A cassock isn’t a guarantee of goodness.”
“Unfortunately true,” Esteves said. “Neither is being a healer, I suppose, given how this girl has been tortured.”
“Is there any chance Miss Duarte will live?” Joaquim asked.
“No,” the doctor said. “The infection has spread to most parts of her body. I suspect she’s been delirious for some time.”
Joaquim’s shoulders slumped when he heard that verdict. Duilio suspected he’d wanted to save at least one—but if the girl did survive, she would never be the same anyway. He set a hand on Joaquim’s shoulder. Duilio turned back to Esteves. “Mr. Bastos claimed she was crying in the night, but screaming this morning.”
“Apparently she was abandoned here. These sheets haven’t been changed in more than a day.” Esteves wiped his hands together. “I have been giving some consideration to your query about doctors who show an unhealthy interest in such things. There is one I recall from my school days. He talked about that book as if he’d seen it, read it. Eventually the doctors who ran the school sent him away.”
“Dr. Serpa,” Duilio said.
Esteves blinked at him, dumbfounded. “How did you know?”
Duilio set one fist against his mouth, trying to sort out what he knew about Dr. Serpa. He strode into the front room and paced its length a couple of times.
Oriana had followed him. “What is it?”
“I think I understand now what the prince decided.” Duilio headed back to the room where the doctor waited. “Dr. Esteves, could she have looked normal yesterday afternoon?”
Esteves frowned. “A strong healer could have suppressed the visible symptoms of the sepsis. The girl would already have been dying inside, though.”
“Prince Fabricio left the palace yesterday afternoon,” Duilio said, trying to line events up in his mind. “I think he came here to see this girl, and only after that did they leave her to die.”
The doctor looked as mystified as Oriana and Joaquim did.
“What are you talking about?” Joaquim asked.
“The prince left the palace yesterday afternoon,” Duilio said. “The infante tried to follow him, but lost him.”
“And what does that mean?” Oriana asked.
Duilio tried to work it out. “The prince wants to be like the sea god—the one on the palace archway—you’ve seen photographs of it, haven’t you? I’ll wager that between Serpa and Salazar, they convinced him he could be equal to a sereia, by taking a sereia’s power.”
“But his doctor has to know it would kill him,” Joaquim said.
“That’s the point,” Oriana said before Duilio got it out of his mouth, understanding lightening her features. “The doctor is going to assassinate the prince, with his permission.”
CHAPTER 31
The cab took them down to the Street of Flowers faster than Oriana could walk. When they reached the house, Duilio jogged up the front steps to bang on the door. Cardenas peered out a side window, and then hurried to let them in. Duilio pushed open the door and yelled past the butler down the main hallway. “Mother?”
“Lady Ferreira is in the sitting room,” Cardenas said, “entertaining.”
“I’ll go talk to her.” Joaquim said and headed that way.
Duilio set a hand on the butler’s arm. “Have we heard anything from Monteiro this afternoon?”
“Not half an hour ago, Mr. Duilio,” Cardenas said. “He’s still at Mr. Joaquim’s flat.”
Duilio saw Oriana let out a tightly held breath. He’d felt sure that Monteiro was safe, but Serpa needed a throat to transplant into the prince’s body, and Monteiro would be the first choice for someone as vindictive as Mrs. Melo. Even with Monteiro safe, they still had access to one male sereia: Ambassador Alvaro.
Duilio turned back to Cardenas. “Please have Marcellin bring up my revolvers and my oldest sporting jacket. And ask Mrs. Cardoza if there are any pastries we can carry off with us.”
Cardenas repeated that to himself, lips moving, and went in search of the valet.
“How can you eat?” Oriana asked.
“In this line of work, we see a lot of unsettling things. Plus Joaquim threw up in the hallway back at that house, so he’s got to be hungry. I know I am.” She groaned, but walked with him toward the sitting room when he tugged on her arm. “Once we get . . .”
Duilio stopped on the threshold of the sitting room, startled. His mother did have a guest—none other than the infante himself, sitting on the couch like an old family friend. Which in a way, he was.
The infante rose politely when he saw Oriana standing at Duilio’s side, but asked, “Where have you been, Duilio?”
Duilio stopped himself before he actually answered that question. He didn’t want to blurt out the things they’d seen in front of his mother. “Miss Paredes, Inspector Tavares, and I have learned of a plot to assassinate the prince, Your Highness, and we were even now preparing to go to the palace to pursue those involved.”
The infante’s eyes narrowed. “Who are we looking for?”
“Dr. Serpa, Your Highness.”
The infante’s brows drew together. “Serpa? I don’t like the man, but he’s had plenty of opportunity to kill my brother before now.”
Duilio thought he’d figured out the man’s reasoning, as strange as it seemed. “Yes, but not in the sensational way they’d planned, Your Highness. He needed Father Salazar to do so.”
“Please don’t ask him to explain that,” Joaquim said hurriedly.
The infante glanced at Joaquim, and said, “Perhaps we could discuss this elsewhere?”
“Yes, Your Highness. Why don’t we retire to the library? Mother, if you can tell Cardenas we’ve gone there.”
“I’d be happy to.” She rose. “It’s been so nice to chat with you, Your Highness.”
The infante kissed her hand, and then followed Duilio and Joaquim from the room.
“The newspaper article wasn’t amusing,” Duilio whispered to the infante as they walked toward the library.
“Actually,” the infante said, “I thought it was. And if you’re to work for me, it will be better if the public doesn’t believe you an imbecile.”
Well, he couldn’t argue with that logic, although he hadn’t promised the infante that he would take a government position. Duilio shook his head regretfully, wishing necessity hadn’t forced him to refuse. Once they’d settled in the library, the infante taking one of the chairs at the table, Duilio filled him in on their afternoon’s discoveries.
When he’d finished, the infante pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s insane.”
Duilio nodded. “The line between madness and genius
is thin at times. The prince will die slowly and in great pain, and he will have consented to his own murder because he wanted more power than he was born with.”
The infante laid his hands on the polished surface of the table. “Will die?”
“We’re too late to stop it, Your Highness.”
The infante sat back, presenting Duilio with his aquiline profile.
The library door opened, and Oriana stepped inside, now dressed in one of her old black skirts and a black shirtwaist. Over that she wore Duilio’s brown sporting coat, a less-than-fashionable ensemble. She carried a low-brimmed hat under one arm, and her hair was tightly bound at the nape of her neck. She spotted the cherry box on the table and went to retrieve the small gun from within. She stuffed it into her leather cummerbund, picked out a handful of bullets, and slipped them into a coat pocket.
“I should be more upset by this,” the infante said. “He’s my brother, but . . .”
“He’s had you under arrest for years,” Duilio said. “And even though we’re not supposed to say it, half the city thinks he’s insane.”
“And yet that doesn’t make me feel better about it,” the infante said. He rose when Joaquim stepped back into the library.
“The carriage is ready,” Joaquim said. “Are we?”
Duilio looked around at the others. Stalling wouldn’t make them any readier.
* * *
Anjos waited behind his desk at the house on Boavista Avenue, a grim expression on his face. Gaspar stood at one side of the room, the Lady seated near him, and in the far corner Miss Vladimirova sat, a black presence in her web of veils and stillness. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, and Oriana didn’t see the woman breathing. She shuddered, causing Duilio to touch his hand to her back.
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