The Constantine Affliction (17 page)

Or tried to run. Ignoring the ache in his leg, Adam surged forward as quick as he could, and seized her from behind. She was frail as a twig in his hands, and he squeezed her throat as she beat her hands against his chest and face helplessly. Finally she went slack, and he continued to squeeze, because it took longer to cause death than it did to induce unconsciousness. Once he was convinced the woman was dead, he slung her body over his shoulder and trudged back up the hill. A shame. He had hoped to walk back home unburdened. He could always toss her into the river, but he wasn’t one to waste a perfectly good body. She could become one of Abel Value’s mindless whores, perhaps. Or failing that, she could join Adam’s honor guard—or become food for them. He had over a dozen of his own feral, reanimated women now, each one officially a failed experiment, as far as Value knew. Adam did not expect that he would ever have need of their violent services, but when dealing with someone as treacherous as Value, it was good to have protection—and why should Value be the only one with bodyguards? The honor guard was ravenous, though, and he had to keep them fed, or even the magnetic devices he’d implanted in their brains to let him guide their movements would prove insufficient to curb their natural urges. They were not altered into docility like the unliving whores he provided to Value.

His honor guard required flesh, and no matter what, they would feed.

A Body, As Evidence

“T
here we have it, then.” Whistler shone his alchemical torch on the corpse his men had dragged up from the riverbank. “Right where Worth said she would be, and in the state he promised.” He shook his head. “Why go to all that trouble to remove a woman’s brain? Just to toss it in the river?”

“Who can fathom the behavior of such men?” Pimm said. “I understand his wife was transformed by the Affliction, and disappeared not long after. Presumably Worth was infected by a whore—one of his own, he was a known purveyor, after all—and then brought the infection home to his wife. He may harbor some twisted grudge against such women as a result.”

“Motives do interest me,” Whistler admitted. “And what you say makes a certain amount of sense. I still don’t understand the bit with the brain, though. Worth said it was just a strange impulse, a whim, but good heavens, the effort—the
tools
—required to cut open a skull and—”

“It is a mystery.” When Pimm had asked Adams to dispose of the body in this spot, to make it appear Worth had dumped her corpse here, the giant scientist had paused and said, “I will do as you ask, so long as I am permitted to keep her brain. I enjoy having someone to talk to. It is generally very lonely here.”

Pimm had assented, having little choice—the mutilated skull would be noticed in any event, even with the brain shoved back into the cavity. Worth had been disgusted when Pimm suggested he tell the police he’d mutilated the body. “I never left a mark on them!” he’d objected, “or took souvenirs, either!” Pimm had apologized but insisted, saying it was the only way to make the police believe his confession. It was the oddest apology he’d ever given.

“Worth says he has information about Abel Value,” Whistler said. “But I hesitate to deal with someone who commits acts like
this
.”

“It is a terrible crime,” Pimm acknowledged. “And Worth is a terrible criminal. But Value’s criminality is of a whole other order. Worth commits terrible acts personally, according to some derangement, but Value orchestrates terrible acts coldly, impersonally, and whilst in full possession of his faculties.”

“True,” Whistler agreed. “No one is actually howling for Worth’s head, since the murders have not been publicized—or even noticed, really. If he does have information that might be useful to me, I can save him from the gallows tree, and see him merely imprisoned, or committed to Bedlam. The latter seems appropriate, after seeing what he did to this poor girl’s head. You’ve brought me another long night of work, Halliday. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

“I am always pleased to help the police with their inquiries.” Pimm shook Whistler’s hand. “Now, sir, I believe I will take my leave. I don’t mind staying awake until the sun rises, but I prefer to spend those late hours in more pleasant occupations than this.”

He started to turn away, but Whistler put a hand on his shoulder. “Take care, old man. Don’t overindulge, eh?”

Pimm smiled. “You know I believe alcohol is the panacea, detective. If one has a triumph, champagne for celebration. If one has a setback, whiskey for comfort.”

“As long as you have a
reason
for drinking a whole bottle down,” Whistler said. “It’s when one starts to empty bottles for no particular cause that I become concerned.”

“Ah, but a resourceful man can always find reasons to celebrate, detective—or to seek comfort.”

Whistler sighed. “It’s none of my business, Pimm. But this work we do… I’ve seen good colleagues succumb to drink, because they could find no other way to deal with the things they’d witnessed.”

“Fortunately I am a mere hobbyist when it comes to being a detective,” Pimm said. “My profession is being a bon vivant. Fortunately, I excel at both.” He tipped his hat.

“You know, I thought finding a wife would settle you down.”

Pimm looked skyward, striking a pose of thoughtfulness. “Winifred? Settle me down? Oh, that’s right. I forgot—you’ve never met her.” He grinned wolfishly, and the detective snorted laughter.

“Away with you, then. I may have further questions tomorrow, after I talk to Worth a bit more. I trust you won’t tell me any more lies?”

“Not any important ones,” Pimm promised.

***

At least from the outside, Lord Pembroke’s home was not as lavish as Ellie had expected. She wasn’t sure
what
she’d expected, but surely the younger son of a Marquess could be expected to live in splendor. His home was certainly
nice
, but it was not the palace she had, on some level, anticipated. (Of course, his family’s country estates were surely a different matter.)

Lord Pembroke and his wife had a small house near Hanover Square in Mayfair, with a front garden surrounded by an iron fence, and colorful stained glass panes set in the windows. Ellie rapped on the door, well aware of the lateness of the hour, feeling ridiculous and conspicuous.

She had expected a servant to answer the door, remembering only as it swung open that Lord Pembroke’s man Ransome had left his employ without notice. Instead of a servant, the open door revealed a woman with long blonde hair, a face that might have been the model for a Greek statue of a nymph, and a body in keeping with that general theme. She wore a robe of Chinese silk in shocking red, patterned with gold dragons, and held an ebony cigarette holder smoldering in one hand. The other hand was hidden behind the door… and Ellie, strangely, wondered if she was hiding a weapon. Lady Pembroke’s eyes were blue and merry, and her lips the sort of red that most women required cosmetic assistance to achieve. Ellie felt a certain shifting in her attitude toward Lord Pembroke, a change epitomized by the stray but fully-formed thought:
Ah, so he likes women like
this
, then.

“May I help you, sir?” She looked Ellie up and down. “Or, rather, madam? Pray do let me know which form of address you prefer—should I refer to you as what you are, or as what you are attempting to appear to be?”

Ellie blinked. She had assumed a woman who looked like this—who answered the door looking like this—would not be particularly perceptive, but she had punctured Ellie’s guise readily, and responded with a certain sardonic wit. The sparrow always hopes the peacock is a dullard, Ellie supposed. How unfair that one person should be both bright
and
look as though they’d just stepped off a pedestal in a museum. “Ah, I am Eleanor Skyler. My appearance is… Here. I have a letter from Lord Pembroke.”

“Dear old Pimm sends the most peculiar messengers.” Lady Pembroke held out her hand, and Ellie passed her the folded sheet of paper. She opened it and scanned the page rapidly, a line appearing on her forehead just between her eyes. The line did little to mar her appearance. Indeed, Ellie suspected most men would find it adorable.

Lady Pembroke lifted her eyes to Ellie. “Did you read this, Miss Skyler?”

“I did not.”

“Did Pimm tell you what it said?”

“Ah, just that he would explain who I am, and….”

Lady Pembroke dazzled Ellie with a smile. “It does tell me who you are, and more. Come in, my dear, come in, get changed, have a drink if you like, I’ll get the guest room prepared. But I hope you aren’t too tired. You must tell me
everything
.” She beckoned, and for the next twenty minutes Ellie found herself caught in a sort of benign whirlwind as Lady Pembroke (“Call me Winnie, dear”) poured her a cup of tea laced with a lavish dollop of brandy, helped her remove her false mustache and the sticky spirit gum, exclaimed over her short hair (“Just tell everyone it’s the latest Continental style, the height of fashionable rebellion among the young ladies in Paris”), convinced Ellie to wear one of her nightgowns (fortunately quite modest), complimented her writing (“Mr. E. Skye is a woman! You are a credit to our sex!”), and generally never gave Ellie the chance to tell her
everything
, or really much of anything at all.

Only when Ellie was settled to Winnie’s satisfaction did the woman of the house curl up in a chair by the window, smile enigmatically over the rim of a steaming cup of tea, and say, “Pimm thinks quite highly of you, it seems. He does not often invite those he’s only just met to stay overnight.”

“It was a very kind offer,” Ellie said. “But if it is any imposition, I—”

“Nonsense, I adore having a captive audience. Tell me, did you see anything terribly shocking while you were out with my husband?”

Ellie considered. She was capable of writing sensational articles, and dramatizing situations to entertain the public, but in this case, she did not have the strength. It had been a long day and a longer night. “I saw a dead woman,” Ellie said. “And the murderer brushed past me in an alley. The night began as something of a lark, almost—dressed as a man, sneaking around in the darkness—but…”

“You found the murderer, though. Pimm’s note said that much. So all is well. Yes?”

“I suppose so. But the culprit, Mr. Worth, he implied there was some deeper conspiracy involved. We have solved one mystery, but we may have also found the leading edge of another.”

“Then you simply must investigate further!” Winnie declared. “A crusading reporter and a dogged detective, fighting crime together. What combination could be better?”

Ellie smiled. She had worried Lady Pembroke would be jealous or suspicious of her—a young unmarried woman, attaching herself so firmly to another woman’s husband. But Winnie seemed entirely unbothered by their relationship. Which made sense. Why should a wealthy, beautiful woman possibly worry about Ellie becoming close to her husband?

Still. It would have been nice if she saw Ellie as
something
of a threat. Even if only slightly. Ellie felt more drab with every moment she spent in Winnie’s presence. “I am not sure your husband would welcome my further involvement. I am afraid I was rather indelicate when I offered my assistance—”

“Threats of blackmail, hmm?” Winnie struck a lucifer against the surface of a beautiful antique table and lit another cigarette. “You threatened to write a story about him working for Abel Value?”

Ellie stared at the floor. “I… may have implied something of the sort. But later he explained that he needed Value’s cooperation to capture the killer, and could not risk involving the police without losing Value’s assistance.” She considered mentioning that Pimm was also trying to protect someone he cared about from Value’s blackmail, but it was hardly her secret to reveal. And what if that someone was Lady Pembroke? Who knew what secrets
her
past hid?

“Mmm. That
does
explain it,” Winnie said. “Pimm is not a bit nefarious, you know. He drinks too much—even more than I do—and he doesn’t tend to think much beyond the end of the night, or the end of the week at the latest, but he means well. He almost
pathologically
means well. If there is a mystery, he will find himself compelled to unravel it, and if you can assist him, I believe you should.” Winnie leaned forward. “He
likes
you, Ellie. I can tell from the note. He was most unsparing with his adjectives. And Pimm does not like many people. He finds people
interesting
, certainly, but liking them is a whole other proposition.” She yawned. “I’d best turn in. I have a busy day of being idle and rich and socially provocative ahead of me tomorrow. Do you need anything else?”

“No, thank you. You’ve been too kind already.”

“Sleep well, then, and I’ll see you in the morning. I’ll cook eggs. I like to dabble in the kitchen, and I’m getting quite good at it. Last time I made breakfast, hardly any bits of eggshell made it onto the plates.”

***

The house was dark when Pimm arrived home, and he wove with the ease of long practice around the ottomans and tables and chairs until he reached his bedchamber. He’d made that walk successfully in far drunker circumstances than these—indeed, he was abominably sober, having emptied the flask he habitually carried in his jacket long ago. A fresh flask waited in his bedside table, and a last bit of brandy would send him off to sleep nicely, he hoped, banishing the cares and worries of the day before they could transform into dreams of broken skulls or wrathful crime lords.

He sat on the edge of his bed to remove his shoes, not bothering with a light, and very nearly screamed when a quiet voice said, “Good morning, Pimm.”

“Freddy! What the deuce are you doing in my bed?”

His best friend levered herself up on her elbow and chuckled. “Keeping up appearances, of course. Unless you’re planning to wake up earlier than usual, Miss Skyler might notice if we were sleeping in separate rooms. She might begin to wonder about the health of our marriage, don’t you think? Feel free to take a pillow and a bedspread to the floor. That Chinese rug I bought last month is quite thick.”