Corpse & Crown

by Alisa Kwitney

  “Twist?”

  “That insane bugger who took you out.” Acting on impulse, Dodger knelt down and took Aggie’s hands in his, and the contact with her ungloved palm felt as intimate as a kiss. She couldn’t seem to hold his gaze properly, which felt like another kick in the gut. “If it makes any difference, he was beside himself when he learned what he’d done. Says he’s turning over a new leaf.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Easier said than done.”

  “That’s for sure.” He turned her hands over in his, stunned that she was letting him touch her at all. “You—you’re not still in a lot of pain, are you?”

  “No.” She was looking down at their hands. “I’m not in any pain at all.”

  “Ah, thank God for that. I couldn’t live with myself if he’d really hurt you.”

  She made a small sound that was almost, but not quite, a laugh.

  “Tell him, Aggie.” Justine’s soft voice seemed loud in the room.

  “Tell me what?” Dodger looked from Justine to Aggie. “What’s wrong?”

  Aggie pulled her fingers out of his grip. “Nothing’s wrong, Dodger. I’m fine.”

  “Then why are you in a hospital room, instead of working or studying?”

  Aggie shrugged. “My eyes still get fatigued easily, so I need a bit more time before I go back to my studies.”

  “Ah.” Releasing her hands, he straightened up. “But other than that, you’re doing all right?”

  “Yes. Thank you for stopping by.”

  Except she wasn’t all right. He’d be a piss poor thief if he wasn’t able to read such an obvious falsehood. He retrieved his hat from the dresser. “You were on my mind,” he admitted, turning as if to place the hat on his head. Without warning, he gave a flick of his wrist and sent the hat flying in Aggie’s direction, where it glanced her when she didn’t flinch.

  “Ouch!” She rubbed her forehead and looked around. “What was that?”

  “A test.” Walking back over to her, Dodger put his hand under her chin. “Can you see me?”

  She pulled away from his touch. “Of course I can see you.”

  He held up two fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up, then?”

  “I’m not in the mood for games.”

  “How many?”

  She swatted at his hand. “Don’t be such a pratt.”

  “You can’t tell me, can you?” Now that he was looking at her more closely, he could see a slight line cutting across the green of her left iris.

  “I just need a little more time to heal, is all.”

  Dodger nodded. “So they expect you to get your sight back?”

  “Absolutely. It’s just a matter of time.”

  She was a terrible liar. Luckily, he was not, especially when the one he was lying to couldn’t see the concern in his eyes. “That’s fantastic,” he said, reclaiming his hat from the floor at her feet. “I’m so relieved. I’ll come back to see you again as soon as I can.”

  “You might have to wait a while,” she said rapidly, barely looking at him. “I’m going to be awfully busy, catching up on my studies, you know. Just as soon as my eyes are back to normal.”

  “Understood.” He gave a little half bow and then turned on his heel and left without looking back, as if the thought of abandoning her to an uncertain future didn’t bother him at all.

  16

  Dodger was used to making reckless choices, but this time he wondered if he had gone a little too far. Sneaking into Aggie’s room in the hospital was one thing. Asking directions to the head of medicine’s private office and breaking into it, now, that was a different order of stupid.

  If the Head came in while he was here, Dodger knew that his borrowed white coat and stethoscope would probably not snooker the man for long. For anyone who knew how to read the clues, there was ample proof that the occupant of this office was nobody’s fool. The framed sheepskin diploma from Oxford University attested to Ambrose Moulsdale’s academic credentials, and the handsome ivory and ebony chessboard, paused mid-game, showed that he was a man who knew how to make sacrifices to achieve his ends. (He would now be sacrificing a few of his ebony and ivory pawns along with his knights, which fit nicely into the oversized pockets of Dodger’s borrowed white coat.)

  The dog-eared copy of Machiavelli’s The Prince in his bookshelf strongly suggested that its owner considered ruthlessness a virtue. The book contained a hidden compartment cut out of its pages, which was a bit of a disappointment. Didn’t the head of medicine know that fake books in the house and fake stones in the garden were the oldest tricks in the book? Not that Dodger was complaining. Moulsdale had thoughtfully spared him the added step of finding which of his lock-picking tools would unlock the desk drawer.

  The faster he got out, the better. Or maybe I should just leave now, he thought. Something in his gut was telling him to scarper.

  No. Five more minutes.

  Leaving Aggie, he had felt a restless, gnawing sense that he had to do something for her. It was his fault that she was now as helpless as a mole caught out in daylight, with no hope of becoming a full-fledged nurse.

  Money might not solve her problems, but at least it would lessen the impact of being left without a position or a career. Five minutes in the fancy doctor’s office, he figured, would be enough to fill his pockets with all sorts of valuable commodities—fountain pens, medals, pocket money, maybe even a gold signet ring that had become too tight to fit on the man’s finger. All he had to do was work fast, pawn the goods and then gift Aggie with the money.

  On the other hand, if he got caught, Dodger might just find himself with a new address—Newgate Prison.

  He focused on rifling through the contents of Moulsdale’s broad, lovingly polished oak desk. Unfortunately, so far all he could see were bills, bills and more bills, and a small bottle of chloroform. Suddenly, there was a shrill ring, making Dodger flinch like a startled cat—it was the telephone, a handsome brass contraption that looked like something out of a moving picture. That’s it, he thought. I’m leaving.

  Then a German phrase at the top of a letter caught his eye.

  In his long-ago life as Yakov Dworkin, his mother had spoken to him in Yiddish, which was a close, vagabond relation to German. He had never attempted to read German before but found it was surprisingly easy.

  My dearest Grandmother, the letter read, I so look forward to seeing you this Easter, and to showing off my newest scientific breakthrough, the death’s-head model of Bio-Mechanical.

  Stone the crows, thought Dodger. The royal crest on the letterhead gave away the correspondent’s identity. Could that be a letter from Kaiser Willy himself to the queen? Scanning the rest of the page, he caught the phrase reminisce about our private, heart-to-heart chats when I was just a boy.

  It certainly sounded like it could be the kaiser. If so, maybe the letter could be worth something. Rolling up the page, Dodger was just inserting it into his boot when he heard the sound of a key turning the lock.

  Damn it. What to do? Curtains, side table—no time, the door was opening. Bluff it out or hide?

  “I don’t see the point of this, Miss Shiercliffe.” The man’s voice was pitched low.

  “Just let me make my case, Professor Moulsdale.”

  Crouching under the oak table with its heavy green felt cloth hiding him, Dodger listened to the door shut with a sinking feeling that he had made the wrong choice.

  Sighing, Moulsdale sank into a leather chair. “You have made it already. And while it is, indeed, a shame about Miss DeLacey, nothing you say can change my mind on this matter. The Bio-Mechanical eyes must go to a Bio-Mechanical.”

  “I am just asking you to consider an alternative.”

  “We have tried every viable option. No matter how fresh the body, the results always disappoint. And we are out of time. Do you really think o
ur distinguished visitor will be impressed when I show him we’ve given our most advanced technology to a bit of skirt?”

  “But Miss DeLacey is not just any girl, Ambrose.” A caressing note had entered Shiercliffe’s voice. “She means a great deal to me...and I believe she would be an incredible wartime nurse.”

  Moulsdale cleared his throat. “A pity then, that she could not govern her own reckless impulses.”

  “Let us look at this from a different perspective, then.” Shiercliffe’s tone was brusque once more. “Victor Frankenstein has powerful connections—his family, Miss Lavenza, even Dr. Grimbald. If he suddenly reappears as a Bio-Mechanical warrior, it will raise some uncomfortable questions.”

  “Indeed. Which is why I have no intention of using Victor. I simply intend to use the lessons learned from his case to produce another, equally promising specimen.”

  “Professor Moulsdale, I am not certain I take your meaning.”

  “Don’t be coy, Miss Shiercliffe. You know full well what we need to do. The current candidate is proving a disappointment.” Moulsdale’s heavy footsteps made their way around the oak table, and Dodger held his breath as the man reached over and picked something up from it. “Perhaps the mistake was choosing brawn over brains. This time, let’s try someone clever. Find a patient who used to be a lawyer in the old country, as long as he’s not too old.”

  “Professor Moulsdale, I’ve taken an oath to preserve the health of my patients. We both have.”

  Cripes. Under the table, Dodger’s mouth went dry as he realized what they were discussing: Selecting some poor patient with a minor complaint—a broken arm or a gash that needed stitching, say—and turning him into a freak-eyed corpse walker.

  “There are some circumstances under which the Hippocratic oath can be suspended, Ursula. War, for example. Besides, I think I can think of something that might outweigh your scruples.”

  “And what is that?”

  There was a loud scraping sound as the wooden table was shoved back across the floor, revealing Dodger. Moulsdale, moving more quickly than Dodger would have expected from such a large man, yanked him up by the back of his coat and gave him a hard shake.

  “Hello, young man,” said Moulsdale. “Has no one ever told you that spies would do well to bathe from time to time? It’s hard to conceal oneself when one stinks of unwashed clothes and stale beer.”

  Thinking quickly, Dodger gave the older man a blank-faced look. “Beer?” he asked, with a note of hope in his voice.

  Moulsdale pursed his mouth. “Are you a complete idiot, boy?”

  Dodger did his best to look like one. “No, sir. Me ma always said I was special.”

  The head of nursing looked him over. “Wait a moment. I know you. You’re the boy who walked off with Miss DeLacey the night she was blinded.” Looking at Moulsdale, she said, “He’s no fool. He’s shamming.”

  Moulsdale’s eyes narrowed. “I see.” Suddenly, his soft hands were patting Dodger down. He pulled a chess piece out of Dodger’s coat pocket, then moved down to his boots.

  Crap. The letter.

  “Look, I can explain everything,” he said, mind racing as Moulsdale pulled the incriminating paper out of Dodger’s boot. He could hardly claim to know nothing, so he might as well claim to know everything. Shifting his accent, he said, “I’m actually Jack Dawkins, agent of the Crown. Lord Salisbury sent me here to investigate.”

  Moulsdale stroked his neat salt-and-pepper beard. “Did he, now? And why was that, pray?”

  “I’m afraid that the prime minister is very concerned that the kaiser’s visit go according to plan.”

  “I see,” said Moulsdale. “And what are you intending to report?”

  “That depends,” said Dodger, tapping the side of his nose. “I think we can come to an understanding.”

  “Excellent, excellent.” Moulsdale beamed at him and threw an arm around his shoulders. “What a clever little slum rat you are.”

  Dodger squirmed under the older man’s heavy arm. “I am no more a slum rat than you are a humble country doctor. Call up the PM, if you don’t believe me.”

  “What a good idea,” said Shiercliffe, reaching into the drawer and pulling out a brown glass bottle and a gauze pad. “By the way, Professor Moulsdale? I have decided to comply with your plan, but I have one small request.”

  Moulsdale smiled at her as his arm moved, becoming a vise around Dodger’s throat. “And what’s that?”

  “You’re making a mistake,” said Dodger as he tried to jab his elbow into Moulsdale’s ribs. Who would have guessed the man’s grip would be so strong?

  “Give the boy’s eyes to Miss DeLacey,” said Shiercliffe, tipping the bottle onto the gauze pad and soaking it.

  “An eye for an eye, is it? Done.”

  Wait, Dodger tried to say. Stop. But the chloroform-soaked pad was covering his nose and mouth and filling his throat with an awful, burning sweetness. The lights in the room spangled like fireworks for a moment, before the darkness swallowed them up.

  17

  There was an upside to being unable to see anything clearly: Aggie couldn’t make out the curious faces of her fellow students as the Bio-Mechanical orderly wheeled her into the center of the operating theater. She had never considered what it would feel like, entering this room from a patient’s point of view. As a nursing student, she had been grateful for the chance to see operations and irritated by the way the medical students—all male, aside from Lizzie—were given the best seats.

  Now, as the cool air rushed past her face and the gurney wheels squeaked over the polished wood floors, she was glad that all she could see was an impressionist’s blur of colors, instead of the expressions of her fellow students peering down from the tiered seats to get a better view of her operation.

  Suddenly, her gurney stopped moving and then someone said, “Lifting her on three—one, two, three.” She had a moment to brace herself before strong hands gathered the sheet underneath her and hoisted her into the air and onto another, harder surface—the operating table.

  No one said anything to her, but she could dimly make out the ghostly shapes of doctors and nurses as they moved around, organizing instruments and conferring with one another in soft voices. The hanging overhead light fixture was turned off, then lowered and turned on, and she closed her eyes against the glare.

  They should make all the surgeons lie here and feel what it’s like, thought Aggie. Nurses, too.

  Aggie thought of all the patients she had watched—the man with the tumor on the side of his jaw, the woman who required a caesarian section and, saddest of all, a little boy who had managed to impale himself on a fireplace poker.

  “Don’t allow your emotions to overwhelm you,” Shiercliffe had advised. “You must try to remember at all times that you have a job to perform—and part of that job is to present a serene face to the patient.”

  The job of a patient, it seemed, was to allow others to treat you like an inanimate object. Being a good patient meant being passive and quiet and serene and grateful—and not asking too many questions.

  Yet she had so many questions. So much had changed in the past twenty-four hours since she had discovered Dodger in her room. If only she had been given a little advance warning to prepare herself...but then, maybe that would have only made it worse.

  Even now, lying in the operating theater, stomach coiled tight with nerves, she found herself thinking about Dodger. She kept flashing back to the moment he had touched her hands and asked whether she was still in a lot of pain.

  Stupid boy, stupid question and what a stupid girl she was for wanting to cry when he asked it.

  After he had left, she’d felt a wave of anger at Justine. “Why did you do that? Tell him there was something wrong with me?”

  “I didn’t tell him anything—I urged you to tell him,” Justine had replied.
“Why are you trying to protect him? He ought to know the consequences of his actions.”

  Aggie had gone over to her bed and removed her shoes. She hadn’t been trying to protect him. She had been protecting herself, as best she could. His pity would have crushed her.

  “Are you going to sleep now? Aggie?”

  She pulled the covers over herself. She had always admired patients who were good-natured and sunny and didn’t make a fuss, and had imagined that if she were ever sick, she would be that kind of patient.

  She was not. She was tired and angry and not sure she even liked herself anymore. Nursing student Aggie would have found patient Aggie a nuisance and a bore.

  “Aggie?” The next time, it had been Shiercliffe’s voice, but Aggie had kept her eyes closed.

  “I’m just resting,” she said.

  “Good,” Shiercliffe responded, surprising her. “You’ll want to be well rested for the operation.”

  She had opened her eyes then, to see the indistinct oval of Shiercliffe’s face looking down at her. “What operation?” For a moment, she thought Shiercliffe meant that Aggie was supposed to observe someone else’s surgery, and then she sat up. “Tell me, please.”

  Shiercliffe’s hand had clasped hers in an unexpected display of affection. “You’re going to receive a corneal transplant. We’ve found a donor.”

  “A donor?”

  “Yes. Young and healthy and with perfect eyesight. We’ll operate first thing in the morning.”

  Now it was morning, and she was lying in the middle of the operating theater, dimly aware of the presurgery bustle of preparations going on around her—footsteps going back and forth, abbreviated questions and shorthand answers, the clatter and clink of instruments being arranged, the odor of carbolic acid and fresh linens. No one spoke to her or told her what was coming next, and even though she was ostensibly the focus of all this activity, she had never felt more alone.

  “Aggie.” She was surprised to hear Victor’s voice. “Would you prefer a local or a general anesthetic?”