“I’ve always suspected it,” she whispered, though there was no trace of hurt in her voice. “You were gone a year. When you came back, showing up in that hospital looking thin as a twig and half crazed and utterly penniless, saying nothing more than you’d found your father and he’d died, I knew you weren’t telling me something.” She glanced at the door one final time. “Now tell me.”
I wouldn’t have thought it easy to reduce a year’s worth of life to a short, whispered conversation in the quiet of Lucy’s bedroom. But as soon as I told her about arriving on the island and discovering Father’s secrets, the story started to roll out of me. I told her about Montgomery, and how we’d loved each other but he’d stayed behind instead of returning with me. I told her about the beast-men, who had been so gentle and childlike at the beginning, and witnessing Father create them in his blood-red laboratory, and then how they’d regressed into monsters. She didn’t speak the entire time—her face was white, her voice stolen.
I was about to tell her the hardest part—Edward—but paused. She claimed to admire him. It wasn’t so easy to reveal that he was one of Father’s more gifted creations—as well as London’s most notorious mass murderer.
“There’s more, but…” I hesitated at her white face, fearing the news about Edward would shatter her. I swallowed and instead said, “Father was corresponding with someone here, one of the King’s Men. There are letters… .”
But my words died at the look on her face. She’d been deathly silent throughout my explanation, but now a deep red color came to her cheeks.
“Letters?” she whispered. “Letters? Oh god, Juliet.”
Before I could respond, she pulled me into a tight, desperate embrace, her heart thumping nearly as fast as my own.
“I know it’s all hard to believe,” I said, squeezing her even harder.
“You don’t understand,” she said. “If you’d only told me sooner. If I’d only known…” Her fingers dug into my shoulders. “Juliet, there are things I haven’t told you, either.” She swallowed. “I know about the letters.”
EIGHTEEN
MY HEART FELT STRANGLED. “Lucy, what do you mean?”
Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and I clamped my mouth shut until they passed—a maid, most likely, but it left me shaken. Downstairs, sounds of hammering and workmen arguing felt a million miles away. Inside Lucy’s room there was only the small crackle of the fire, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.
“I wish you’d told me all this sooner, Juliet. So much makes sense now, and it’s much worse than I’d imagined. I didn’t realize all of this was related… .”
A creeping feeling spread through my body. “Lucy, I haven’t a clue what you are talking about.”
She took a deep breath, and when they came, her words were quiet and careful. “Remember at the seamstress’s, when I told you about finding some disturbing documents about Papa’s business? It was letters, Juliet, in a locked drawer of Papa’s desk. There were no names used, only codes, but I recognized Papa’s handwriting. I learned to forge his writing years ago to sign bank checks. I’m positive it was his.”
Suddenly I knew exactly what she was referring to. Edward had come to London with a handful of letters written to Father from a colleague whose identity was secret. He’d suspected a dozen men—including Lucy’s father.
“He was right,” I muttered to myself, and then stood up so quickly, the flowers on the table quaked. “It’s your father,” I said, louder. “In the letters, your father calls himself a King’s Man, doesn’t he?”
“Yes,” she said, looking confused. “How did you know that?”
My mind spun frantically to grasp what this all meant. I was relieved the secret colleague wasn’t the professor, but Lucy’s own father… If I knew anything, it was how terrible it was to fear and distrust your own father. “Because you’re not the first person to tell me about the letters. What do they say?”
Her frown deepened. “Business transactions, mostly. Receipts and bank account numbers. A few things that made no sense, like a list of the books in the Bible. The letters mentioned experimentation in passing, and other details I didn’t understand at the time. An assistant named Montgomery, and servants with strange names. Balthazar, I think, like from Shakespeare. The letters came from an alias called Paracelsus.”
“Paracelsus,” I repeated. “An old alchemist. Father had his book on the shelves in his study.”
Memories came back to me of father’s beast-men, the strangely named servants Lucy was describing. Balthazar, Ajax, little Cymbeline. What a fool I’d been, thinking Father would limit his sights to a single island. He had been too arrogant for that. Of course he’d want the world to know of the science he’d uncovered.
“Were there any scientific papers with the letters? Diagrams, notations, that sort of thing?”
She shook her head. “No. The letters reference research he sent, but Papa must have kept those in a different place.” She leaned against the dresser, stunned. “I… I thought our fathers only knew each other because our mothers had been friends,” she stammered.
I thought of the photograph hanging in the hallway of King’s College of Medical Research. “Your father and mine were old associates. They belonged to a professional association called the King’s Club.”
“I’ve heard Papa speak of it, but only vaguely. He isn’t an academic. Most of his business is in rail and shipping and investing… .”
I could see her mind spinning as she tried to draw the connections, but I already had. All the supplies, and ships, and fine china—I’d assumed Father had a secret bank account somewhere to pay for it all, even though at the time he disappeared, our debtors told us Father was nearly bankrupt.
“He was investing,” I said. “He was investing in my father’s research. Have you told anyone about those letters? The police?”
She laughed bitterly. “With Inspector Newcastle as my suitor? He’d never arrest the man he hoped would be his future father-in-law. Besides, the letters alone don’t prove anything. I only thought them suspicious because of the large amounts of money sent overseas. Until you told me your story and I matched up the names and details, I didn’t realize your father was the one receiving the letters.”
Her hand fell on the green silk dress on the bed beside her. “If Papa was involved in the terrible things your father was doing, how do we know he isn’t doing them too? Taking animals and cutting them open, teaching them to speak, combining them with human blood…” She looked as though she’d aged a year in the last ten minutes.
“Does he have a laboratory?” I asked.
“No—he’s never shown an ounce of interest in science. But he’s often gone for business for days at a time. I don’t know where he goes or what he’s doing.”
Lucy stood, pacing, all of this information too much to handle. A knock came at the door, and then Molly’s soft voice.
“Miss Lucy? Did you need help with your hair?”
I unlocked and opened the door a crack and told her we’d attend to our own hair. Guests would start arriving soon. We couldn’t stop the masquerade from happening. The partygoers would come, and Edward might arrive among them, masked and dangerous, and pleading again for my forgiveness.
I ran my fingers down the red silk dress hanging on the screen. Could I really put it on and attend the ball as though nothing was the matter? Everything was the matter. The very roof we were under sheltered my father’s colleague—and there was no telling what he intended to do with the information my father had sent him.
“I haven’t told you the worst part yet,” I whispered.
She stopped pacing. Her eyes were wide and scared, and I hated that I had to be the one to tell her.
“Henry Jakyll isn’t who you think he is,” I said.
Her forehead wrinkled. “Henry? What does he have to do with this?”
“He has everything to do with this.” My fingers twisted in the dress’s fabric. “His name isn’t Henry. I
t’s Edward Prince, and I’m well acquainted with him. We met on Father’s island, and he followed me back here.” My hand slipped on the smooth fabric and fell to my side. “He’s one of Father’s creations, Lucy.”
I’d expected her to cry out, or swoon. But she sank onto the edge of the bed, careless of the silk dress she was wrinkling by sitting on it, and looked as deathly white as though she’d seen a ghost. “I don’t understand.”
“I told you how Father made the beast-men. He used surgery for most of them, resetting the joints of their bones and grafting new skin so that they looked very nearly human and could speak, though their mental faculties never progressed much further than a child’s. But he had another technique that didn’t involve surgery at all. He combined animal and human components through a chemical procedure that changed the animal flesh on a cellular level. The creature he created surpassed all the others, might as well have been an entirely new breed. It could think just as rationally as any man, could read, could feel the entire range of emotions. It looked perfectly human, unlike the others.” I paused, twisting my hands together nervously. “I didn’t even know myself at first that Edward was this creation—”
“Stop!” she cried. “Stop—what you’re saying is impossible!”
I heard the jingle of sleigh bells outside as the first guests arrived. Time was growing short, and I bit my lip and twisted my hands harder.
“It isn’t. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. He looks human, and he does have a human side that’s kind and generous, but he has a much darker side, too. There were murders on the island, hearts torn from bodies…”
My hands clenched together. I couldn’t find the words to continue, but I could tell from Lucy’s face that I didn’t need to.
“It’s Henry, isn’t it?” she whispered. “Or rather Edward. He’s the Wolf of Whitechapel.” Her eyes locked to mine, wanting me to say it wasn’t true.
But I couldn’t tell her any more lies.
“I told him to stay away from you—that’s why he sent you that letter. I didn’t want him anywhere near you, in case he couldn’t control his transformation and put you in danger. I’m sorry, Lucy. I was only looking out for your safety.” Guilt pulsed like a broken rib in my side. I wasn’t being entirely honest with her—I’d also shared a bed with him.
Her chin tipped in a small nod, an indication that she’d heard me. She chewed on a fingernail. “What are we going to do?”
A peal of laughter floated up the stairs as the front door slammed to let in more guests. I took a deep breath and then pushed off the bed and grabbed her green dress. “We’re going to get dressed and go downstairs before we’re missed. I want you to stay close to Inspector Newcastle all night. He’s always armed, so you’ll be safe with him. There’s a chance Edward might show up… if you see him, promise me you won’t talk to him.”
She bit her lip. “But if Henry—I mean Edward—is wrapped up in all this too, couldn’t he help us?”
The hopeful look in her eye told me her feelings for him hadn’t dimmed despite the terrible truths I’d told her. I leaned forward, grabbing her arm. “Lucy, I said he’s dangerous. You haven’t seen him transform like I have. His muscles grow, his tendons pop. His eyes go dark and slitted like an animal’s, and he has claws ready to spring from between his fingers.”
“Stop!”
She covered her face with her hands. I realized that I was holding my hand like a gnarled claw in front of her face, ready to claw her like Edward had so recently done to me. Tears were coming down her face. She really did care about him. Was it my place to trample her affection? I had a responsibility to protect her from Edward; and yet if I found a cure and the Beast was gone, I supposed Edward wouldn’t be a threat to her safety anymore. I’d have no reason to object to them going together.
So why did my heart falter and my anger stir just thinking about the two of them together?
As she cried softly into her hands, I sat back on the dresser chair, trying to understand my own feelings. Was it because of what had happened between us the previous night?
That was a mistake, I told myself. A mistake you’ll never make again.
“He’s too dangerous, Lucy,” I said at last. “I know you care about him, but his dark half is gaining more power, and I don’t even trust being around him myself. That’s the reason I’ve told you all of this. To warn you.”
“Even knowing the terrible things he’s done, I can’t bear to think of him alone out there. Being hunted down like an animal. No one to turn to… .” She leaned into her hands, sobbing gently.
From the hallway outside, the grandfather clock chimed again. Lucy looked toward the door. “Dash it, the party’s starting.” She dried her eyes. “They’ll expect us. Help me into my dress. Quickly.”
We picked up the green silk dress and pulled it over her head, and I hurried to do up the buttons on the back; then I dressed in my own. I had to turn my back on her while I adjusted the dropped neckline over my shoulder so it hid the Beast’s scratches from sight.
“I don’t see how it’s helping him to leave him alone,” she continued. “Surely he’d be able to control himself better if he had a proper shelter, and food, and medicine… .” She went to the mirror and started pinning up her hair with quick, well-practiced moves.
“He can take care of himself, I promise. The best thing you can do to help Edward is to show me those letters. What floor is your father’s study on?”
“Oh Juliet, surely not now, with everyone arriving!”
“Your father will be distracted. We might not have another chance soon.”
She bit her lip, then went to the table and grabbed our masks. She shoved a handful of pins at me and said, “All right, but fix your hair, for the love of god; you look like some sort of savage with your hair down.”
She twisted the key in the lock and peeked out. The hallway was quiet, with the only sounds coming from the party starting downstairs. I fumbled to pin my hair up as we darted across the hall. My dress shoes pinched my feet, but there was nothing I could do about that now. We climbed down the narrow servants’ stairs quiet as mice in our elegant ball gowns, until they opened to a long hallway lined with doors. Lucy tiptoed to one and pressed her ear to it, then turned the doorknob.
Mr. Radcliffe’s study was everything my father’s wasn’t. Father had been meticulous in his organization, so his desk was always cleared at the end of each day, save a single container for fountain pens and a ream of fresh paper for note taking. In contrast, Mr. Radcliffe’s study was covered in a mess of crumpled papers in all manner of disorder, as well as boxes and deliveries stacked on the floor and in the single chair. Gilded framed portraits hung on the walls: the illustrious Radcliffe ancestors, no doubt.
“I found the letters in one of these piles,” Lucy said, rushing toward the desk. “I remember what they look like. If they’re still here, I’ll find them.” She started combing through the piles with about as much disorder as her father. My heart thumped as the papers rustled. I dug through a few, but there was no order to them—useless pages of ledgers and accounts from his railroad business. Quite large orders for automobile engines by the French government and some research company in Holland and a private citizen in Germany who must have been richer than Midas. My hand fell upon a stiff leather folder stamped with the King’s Club crest, and I drew in a quick breath.
Inside the folder, however, I found nothing of use. Only correspondence about the orphanage the King’s Club sponsored, along with a roster of the association’s current members and their charitable contributions for the year. The list contained twenty-four names. Radcliffe, Dr. Hastings, and Isambard Lessing, the German historian I’d caught the professor arguing with. Far more recognizable names too: Arthur Kenney, the London Times owner; Ambassador Claude Rochefort of France; a few lords and titled men; and several members of Parliament. A queasiness began in the pit of my stomach. I’d had no idea the King’s Club’s membership was so prominent, so far-r
eaching, with connections into France and Germany and beyond.
I finished sorting through several stacks but didn’t find Father’s letters, so I turned to the boxes instead, deliveries from an expensive tailor. I lifted the lids. A box full of crisp white shirts still smelling of tailor’s chalk. A smaller box of handkerchiefs monogrammed with the Radcliffe crest. I moved those aside and opened a tall blue hatbox.
Just a single peek inside made me jump, silencing a scream. Lucy’s head jerked up from the papers she was going through. I pointed a trembling finger to the hatbox, the urge to scream still rising in my throat.
“Inside that box,” I said at last, breath strained. “It isn’t a hat.”
She stepped around the desk cautiously, starting to bend down to open the lid before I grabbed her hands away and started to pull her toward the door.
“But the letters… ,” she started.
“Blast the letters, we’ll come back for them later.” When she still protested, I leaned forward. “It’s a brain.” I whispered.
Her eyes went wide as she backed away from the box. “Are you certain?”
“I know what a human brain preserved in a jar of formaldehyde looks like,” I said. “We’ve got to get out of here. Go to the party, act as though nothing’s happened. He can’t suspect that we know.”
“How can I act like Papa doesn’t have a brain in a hatbox?”
“You must, Lucy. Come on.”
I threw open the door, grabbing our masks on the way out, and we raced toward the spiral staircase. The music was louder here, as I put my own mask on and told Lucy to do the same. We hurried to the landing above the ballroom, where a tall man stood at the top of the stairs, presiding over his party.
The man turned his gaunt face to us.
Mr. Radcliffe.
Seeing his face turned my stomach. A man I’d known since childhood, yet a total stranger now. The entire time Mother and I were practically starving in the streets, he’d known Father was alive. He had corresponded with him. Sent him money. Even now he kept preserved organs in his study for who knew what purpose.
Her Dark Curiosity Page 13