Tenfold More Wicked (21 page)

I
N FOG-STRAINED MORNING SUNSHINE, HIPPOCRATES
lay prostrate on Eliza's desk blotter with his legs in the air. “Be still,” she scolded, waving a screwdriver. “This won't hurt.”

Hipp wriggled like an upturned turtle. “Evidence insufficient. Conclusion spurious. Recompute.”

She blinked gritty eyes. She was stumbling in mind and body, exhausted by Lizzie's intrigue and her own rose-scented nightmares of Mr. Todd.
If you attempt to thwart me again . . .

Not to mention Lizzie's palaver with Edward Hyde. Eliza had already scribbled a note to the Philosopher. She hardly dared imagine the response. Hyde was befuddled. Mad. Flirting with catastrophe.

Did that same disintegration threaten her future, if she couldn't keep Lizzie under control?

Carefully, she loosened Hipp's propulsion spring.
WHIRRR!
Hipp's legs jerked, and flopped limp.

She pried up his brass casing, blowing dust from the clockwork, and squinted through her magnifier. A pair of
notched cylinders, his voice recorder. His data store, a stack of tiny crosshatched wafers. His power generator, a kernel of light emitting the faint whiff of burned aether . . .

Clink!
Her tweezers hit an unexpected bump.

She poked it. The size of a pea, it seemed
attached,
by a network of fine wires. She pulled harder.
Pop!
Off it snapped, and bounced onto the blotter. Tiny octopus-like limbs writhed from a silvery metal body. A filament unwrapped itself, turning inquisitively like a snail's stalked eye. The horrid thing's wire tentacles flexed, a hungry parasite searching for a host.

She trapped it under an upturned beaker, wrinkling her nose in distaste. She'd built Hipp. She knew what was meant to be there. She flipped a thicker lens into her magnifier, peering closer . . .

An hour later, nervy and breathless, she tapped the knocker on Captain Lafayette's door near Inner Temple Gardens.

Across the wide boulevard, steam barges putted on the Thames, alongside paddle-driven rafts and bobbing coracles. The dirty fog had thinned, and sunshine jeweled the water, painting golden ribbons along the iron-railed Embankment and the stately granite arches of Waterloo Bridge. The trees lining the bank shed a rich summer-blossom scent.

She fidgeted on the flower-lined garden path, waiting. Maybe Lafayette wasn't home. He hadn't yet responded to her telegram from yesterday. Was
he
avoiding
her,
now? She'd all but accused him of betraying her to the Royal. Called him a torturer . . .

But the thing had to be faced. The issue of his proposal remained to be settled. And she'd left Hipp at home in pieces.
As if it weren't death to a lady's reputation to call on a gentleman alone. Good God, this was insane. Mortified, she turned to scuttle away.

“Leaving already?”

She halted, flushing. In the doorway, Lafayette smiled at her, ingenuous. Coatless, his shirt blinding white. Sun-glare ricocheted off the river to kiss his chestnut hair with gold.

“Er . . . no. Good morning.” She'd come to apologize for her foolishness, start afresh . . . but some stubborn diamond of fearful caution still glittered in her heart. She despaired. Would she ever get over this? Did it matter? Even Lafayette's epic patience must have limits.

He ushered her in, with a swift glance left and right along the street. Searching for ordinary prying eyes? Or Lady Lovelace, that steel-hearted spy?

The hall was bare, ancient wood panels well oiled. Just a table and mirror. Only recently moved in? No ornaments or pictures. The place felt . . . empty. Soulless. Nothing of the man himself.

He took her cape, and she glanced around, curious. “Don't you keep anyone?”

“Not here. I need a place to be alone.”

She forced a smile. “I hope you don't mind my dropping by. I've a development in the case—”

“I've something to show you. Come.” He offered his hand. As if he hadn't been listening.

Swallowing, she took it. He led her to the back stairs, where a weak electric light flickered and buzzed. “After you, Doctor. Dusty, I'm afraid. I haven't had the chance to clean up.”

Nonplussed, she peered down into the gloom. “Am I to be
interred alive, like poor Fortunato? Do you belong to the secret coven, too? Or is it just your own personal dungeon?”

He handed her a lit candle. “Don't despair, I shan't shackle you to the wall and starve information out of you. At least not this morning.”

“How comforting.” She descended, brushing away an arc of cobweb, to find a long wooden room where a frosted basement window admitted grudging light. Once a servants' hall, empty now.

Except for an iron cage. Six feet square of two-inch bars, bolted to the scratched floor. Twin fat padlocks dangled from bolts as thick as her thumbs.

“For dogs,” he explained. “I bought this place from ratters.”

Eliza covered her mouth. The awful thing made her shudder. Dungeons, torture, all the terrible things she'd accused him of. The bars looked unbreakable. But Lafayette's monster was no ordinary animal. “Oh, Captain. You can't . . .”

“I must.” Dark, final. No choice. “Tomorrow night will be the first test. It has to be better than Regent's Park Zoo. At least I'll be out of sight.”

Her own selfishness mocked her, a witch's cruel laughter. She'd troubled him with such irrational suspicions, when he was preparing to endure
this
. She faced him. “I owe you an apology.”

“That isn't necessary—”

“I'm afraid it is. You've given me no reason not to trust you. And your work is your business.” She twisted her gloved hands. “It's only that I hate this! I can't bear not knowing what Lizzie said, or where she's been. I'm scared she'll . . . I don't want her to spoil things.”

Lafayette just watched, unfathomable.

“But I see she already has. Or rather, I have.” Her stomach hollowed, desolate. “Well, it was kind of you to see me. I shan't trouble you further—”

“Don't go.” He touched her shoulder to halt her. “Madam, I apologize for yesterday from the bottom of my heart. I was perfectly rude. I should have told you about meeting Lizzie, and as for the other . . .”

“The fault was mine.” Her throat tightened. Impossible man, to warp her selfish jealousies into
his
failing. “I spoke cruelly, and you reacted, and that's that. I believe we've endured sufficient apologies for one day.”

“Truce, then?” A blue twinkle that made her laugh inwardly. Honestly, the man was unreasonably charming.

“Cease-fire, at the very least.” Briskly, she dusted her skirts. “While you walk me home, and we discuss your murder case. You'll never guess whom I ran into outside the undertaker's.” As they returned upstairs, she told him about Brigham's confession. “Apparently, this Dr. Silberman is the brains behind the whole thing.”

Lafayette grabbed his hat and scarlet coat. “So that pretty rascal
was
lying. Well done him. Cleverer than I credited.”

She shrugged into her cape. “Don't despair. The poor fellow's still languishing in love. I told him you'd protect him and he practically swooned at my feet.”

“Perhaps I'll torment him further, then. Could use a strapping lad to clean up after me. Likes dogs, does he?”

“That really isn't funny.” She arched her brows as he buckled on his pistol. “Are we expecting a fight?”

“Always.” Lafayette fastened the front door—triple locks, no chances—and they strolled onto the sunny Embankment. Crows squawked in green leafy branches. A light breeze wafted, bringing the first clear day for a week. A skinny fellow pedaled by on a reclining aerocycle, lurching along unsteadily on flapping canvas wings.

Self-conscious, she slipped her hand into Lafayette's elbow. His sleeve felt smooth, overwarm.

He glanced down, a flicker of surprise. A damp curl licked to his cheek beside his ear. “Immediately I wonder from what you're distracting me.”

“I might ask the same, sir. You're running a fever. I trust you're not ill.”

He smiled, tolerant. “As much as I relish the prospect of your medical ministrations? No. Just a little expectant.”

“Oh.” Dizzy laughter threatened to unbalance her. That special time of the month.

“So what's next? Track down this mysterious Silberman?”

“Indeed. I checked at the College of Physicians. No Silberman is a member. If he truly is a doctor, he's not from London. I telegraphed Edinburgh and await their reply.”

They turned onto the Strand, leaving the river behind. The traffic thickened, rattling wheels and the
boom-bang!
of engines impeding conversation, and she was glad. How she wanted to relish this. Forget the case, Mr. Todd, Moriarty Quick. Savor the simple pleasure of walking in the sun with a man she liked.

But as they passed the grassy corner of Lincoln's Inn Fields, where law students caroused and painted ladies prowled, she couldn't put it off any longer.

Reluctantly, she pulled from her bag the tiny metal creature, which she'd forced into a jar. It batted the glass angrily with its wire filaments, a thwarted spider. “I tried to fix Hipp this morning, and in his works, I found this.”

Lafayette held it to the light. “A recording node. I've heard of these. Amazing. So tiny. Whatever will they think of next?”

“Fascinating, to be sure. But it means I'm under surveillance.” She squirmed. Would he make her ask?

But he just shrugged. “I almost wish I could ease your mind, but this isn't mine. Which begs the question: Who put it there, and why?”

She lowered her voice. “Could it be Lady Lovelace? What if she's watching us? Watching you?”

“Wasting her time if she is. What would she learn? You work too hard, Hipp's an idiot, and I'm irretrievably besotted with you?” He grinned, offhanded. “Hardly requires a secret surveillance system.”

“That obvious, are you?”

“Madam, I positively bleed infatuation. Hadn't you noticed?”

“How quaint. I thought you were just playing the village idiot.” As they approached Russell Square, a costermonger called out his wares, offering roasted chestnuts in paper cones. Their dark scent watered her mouth. She hadn't breakfasted. Perhaps Captain Lafayette could join her. Tea and toast, just half an hour of relaxation . . .

She sighed. Ignoring her problems wouldn't make them vanish. “It could be Mr. Finch she's after.”

“Then wouldn't she watch his shop? No, I fear this is someone else's work entirely.”

“But who'd want to spy on me? I'm just a police physician . . .” Her voice trailed off. A team of brutish fellows in shirtsleeves were carrying furniture from a doorway and piling it in the street.

“I say,” remarked Lafayette, “isn't that your house?”

Bewildered, Eliza picked up her skirts and ran, leaving Lafayette behind. She leapt up her steps, shoving the men aside. In the hallway, Mrs. Poole steamed indignantly, hands on stocky hips. “Doctor, thank heavens. These ruffians shoved me aside like a sack of suet. Imagine it! A frail old woman like me.”

“Don't worry, Mrs. Poole, everything's fine.” Eliza rounded on a pear-shaped fellow in a disreputably dusty coat who loitered on the steps. “What's the meaning of this?”

He tipped his crumpled hat. “Bailiffs, madam. Are you . . .” He checked his paperwork. “Dr. Eliza Jekyll?”

“I most certainly am, sir.”

The bailiff flourished an official-looking form. “You owe fifty-six pounds seven shillings and threepence to a Professor Moriarty Quick.”

A horrid sensation of falling.

“That little rat,” she burst out. “I've never done business with him in my life. It's a malicious lie!”

Unperturbed, the bailiff shrugged. “That's for a court to decide.”

Her thoughts scrambled. Quick must have bribed the bailiffs, falsified the documents. His laughing Irish lilt capered in dim Lizzie-colored memory.
A preparation that'll favor you over the other. Think on whether it'd serve you better to oblige me.

Her stomach sank. Fifty-six pounds. More than she earned in months. She could challenge the claim in debtors' court, of course. Take it to Chancery, even, plead that Quick's claim was concocted. But those exorbitant lawyers' fees . . .

Illicit rage curdled her blood. The vermin was clever. The law dealt harshly with debtors: if she couldn't pay, she'd be thrown in prison until she did.

Prison. With Lizzie popping out at will. God help her.

Agony knifed her belly, and she stifled a gasp. Her spectacles misted, a flush of fever. Evil cackles echoed left and right, and her vision doubled and refocused. Indigestion? Dropsy? Had she eaten something rotten?

This wasn't just Lizzie fighting. Something was terribly wrong.

“Leave my things be, sir,” she demanded shakily. “I've a week to settle from service of claim. You should know that.”

The bailiff just ignored her while his men carried her gleaming hall table into the street. Outside, spectral Lizzie popped into view, shaking the wrought-iron fence. “You rank little squeeze-arses, I'll chew your skins off and spit 'em out!”

Vexed, Eliza yanked the bailiff's arm. Close up, his skin held a greenish cast, his forefingers over-sized and wet like a frog's. “Didn't you hear me? It's all a mistake. You can't take my belongings without due process!”

“Madam, I've heard that every day for fifteen years. Take it up with the sheriff's office.”

“Don't be so damned impertinent, sir. You know perfectly well the lady's correct.” Lafayette had caught up at last, and roasted the bailiff on an electric glare. Behind him, Lizzie cheered and waved.

At the sight of Lafayette—scarlet uniform, Royal Society badge—the froggy fellow blanched, and seemed to shrink three sizes, as if he'd washed himself in too-hot water. “Only doing my job, Captain,” he muttered.