The Diabolical Miss Hyde (30 page)

“Have you, indeed?”

They reached the entrance, and Will held the door for her. Outside, the park was busier now, couples strolling to and fro, children frolicking on the lawns under their nursemaids'
watchful eyes. A swirling breeze rustled between the tall trees, and clouds on the horizon threatened rain.

“Well, I must to work.” Will eyed the rain clouds with a long-suffering sigh. “Lunatics in bad weather sleep for no man. I imagine I'll be there until quite late this evening. Perhaps I'll see you, next time you happen to visit Bethlem. You never know what you might find.” And he made her a little bow and was off.

She watched him go, unsettled. This aetheric discharge was a vital clue to the murderer's identity. If Fairfax's library contained books that could unravel the mystery, she had to see them. Even if it meant leaving her uncomfortably in Will's debt. And besides, what if . . .

She hesitated, but the thought was too compelling, too bittersweet.

Too many of Mr. Todd's idle remarks had proved accurate. What if his bizarre insights really could help her trap this murderer?

She shivered, flame and frost. Well, what if he could? Asking why was pointless. The real question was: would he help?

And what would he take in return?

She trailed back towards the railway station, feeling strangely alone without Hippocrates scuttling at her ankles. The pale sunshine barely warmed her, and she huddled in her cape against the breeze. Ducks quacked on the pond's edge, and beside the brick-edged path, a little golden-haired boy in a blue-and-white sailor suit rolled in the grass, giggling. A young governess in an unadorned gray gown called to him, demanding he put on his coat at once . . .

Bells chimed in Eliza's mind, resolving into a perfect chord.

A drab gray dress, as a servant girl might wear. A governess, she'd thought, or a lady's maid.

Clara Morton had been among the crowd at the scene of Ophelia Maskelyne's murder. The scene from which, in full public view, Eliza had collected the very aether sample she'd just tried to show Clara.

But Clara pretended she'd never seen Eliza before.
Why don't you catch some killers?
she'd snapped. Hostile. As if she were dismissive of the failure. Or . . . gloating?

Eliza shook her head, trying to sort her thoughts clear, but they scattered like blown leaves. Percival's denials, Temple's sly remarks, Will and his forbidden books. And now Clara Morton.

This morning, it seemed, everyone had something to hide.

E
LIZA HURRIED UP THE STEPS INTO BETHLEM ASYLUM
in the dark, with a cold blustery breeze tugging wisps of her hair loose. Heavy clouds purpled the sky, blotting out the moon. It had rained, and her skirts were splashed with mud from a puddle she'd stepped in when she'd jumped off the omnibus.

Her wet boots did nothing to warm her numb feet, and she stumbled on the stone steps as she climbed to the first level. Fairfax's corridor was dark and silent. No nurses walked the halls. Only the groans of lunatics kept her company.

But at the top, a male keeper in a wire mask grunted at her. A large man, brutal arms stretching his shirtsleeves. “A raw night, Doctor. They're up and about. What's your business?”

“I must see William Sinclair, up in the solitary cells. He telegraphed earlier, you see. I'm afraid it's an emergency.” She clutched her bag to her hip—a spare bag, which she didn't like nearly as much as the original—as if it contained something important. In fact, it held only a notebook and pencil, plus a few basic medical supplies. She'd gone to Mr. Finch's
to collect Hippocrates, and the little fellow was so excited, he nearly popped a spring, but she'd left him at home for this visit. Even the placid lunatics made him squeal.

She grinned weakly at the keeper, wishing for Lizzie's courage. But Lizzie slept still, the smug slumber of a well-fed cat.

Down the corridor, frightful wails echoed. The keeper turned to lumber away. “Sinclair? I'll fetch him.”

“I think not,” said Eliza quickly. “He's the only one down there tonight, and this man I must see is very ill. Will can't leave him unattended.”

The keeper scrubbed at his cropped hair. A bug scuttled out. “Aye. But you're not going unescorted. This place is a frigging zoo tonight.”

She wished he hadn't mentioned the word
zoo
. He led the way to the female ward, unlocked the iron-barred door, and ushered her through, gripping his electric whip in one enormous hand.

The madwomen danced and howled, a shabby circus act. One banged her head against the wall, leaving a splash of blood. The rain-soaked air zinged, heavy with anticipation, and the lunatics drank it in, feeding on its energy. An old woman lay on the ground and screamed, over and over, pausing only for breath. One girl tried to climb the walls, tearing her nails on the rough bricks. Every time she fell, she moaned and sobbed, reaching bloody fingers for the high window.

Eliza and her escort strode through, unhurried. It was best not to aggravate the patients with any sudden movements. Annie the pig girl rooted in a pile of dirty straw and swatted at another woman who snatched a handful of stalks and stuffed them into her mouth. A girl with bedraggled hair
grabbed Eliza's arm and hissed something unintelligible in her ear.

The keeper flung the woman away. It was Miss Lucy, she of the sharpened teeth. She raked back her hair and grinned, blood oozing down her chin.
A nice cup of blood.
Was it her own?

Eliza was glad when she'd left the ward behind her. Ahead, shadows whispered and beckoned. The keeper locked the gate, grunted, and lumbered back to his post.

Alone, she hurried down the corridor. Invisible fingers floated over her skin, danced in her hair. Ahead, an electric lamp gleamed sick yellow in its wire cage. Screeches pierced the dark, grunts, the retching sobs of a man weeping his heart out. The air stank of blood and urine, but it wasn't the smell that made her fight for breath. The air stretched tight with questions unasked, chances untaken, anticipation she daren't feel.

She peered through the barred gate. “William?”

Abruptly, the sobbing ceased.

“Will?” she called again, louder. Wind moaned in the window slits. Somewhere, an owl hooted.

The darkness stirred, and William emerged, holding his lantern aloft in a pool of golden light. “How unexpected,” he said with a grin.

“I happened to be passing. What a happy coincidence.” Her clammy sleeves clung to her arms, and she shivered. “A foul night.”

“Not for madmen.” Will fished a chained key ring from his pocket. He wore the same dirty apron over stained shirtsleeves, and his unruly blond hair was crusted with workaday
grime. “Bad weather brings out the funny in these fellows. Some of them are true comedians. They ought to be on the stage.”

The heavy lock clunked, and the gate creaked open. “Fascinating, isn't it?” said Eliza, as he relocked the gate behind her. “I've often wondered what excites them so about a storm.”

“You want my unlearned opinion? A frustrated physician, condemned to the lowly hell of surgery?” A joke, but touched with bitter truth.

She knew what it was like to be looked down upon. “You're as learned as anyone when it comes to lunatic behavior, Will.”

“It's the aether in the air. They absorb the energy somehow. But it's also the idea of indiscriminate destruction. A power greater than us all that doesn't care if we live or die.” Will shrugged. “That's the difference between a sane man and a lunatic. We strive for order, they yearn for chaos.”

She thought of Lizzie, laughing in her gay red skirts, dancing, flirting. Doing exactly what
she
wanted . . . “Is order so desirable?” she found herself asking. “Couldn't we all do with a little chaos in our lives?”

“Well, that's the question, isn't it?” The electric lantern-light glinted in Will's eyes. His cheeks looked hollow. “How much chaos can we bear before we scream for order?”

How close he was standing. Close enough that she could feel his warmth . . .

Instinctively, she tugged off one glove and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. Slick, clammy. “You're running a small fever, Will. Perhaps you should go home.”

Perhaps they should
both
go home.

But Will backed off in a hurry. “Gosh, I'm sorry. It's been
a long day.” A pale smile. “The madness rubs off on me a little when I'm tired. Forgive me.”

And he led the way into a long wide hall lined with cells. No bars here, only brick walls punctuated with stout iron doors, each bolted and padlocked, pierced with a tiny viewing slot covered in a lockable metal slide. A single electric light buzzed. No windows, save for ventilation slits a few inches wide, out of reach just below the ceiling. The wind moaned and whistled,
aaah! oooh! aaah!

Deep in the cells, a man sang along with the wind, his voice ragged. He was making up words, strange syllables that held no sense. Another man yelled in a Cockney accent and cursed at him to shut the fuck up.

In the anteroom's corner sat Will's desk, piled with papers and study notes. An illustrated medical text lay open, a drawing of a sliced brain. No pens or pencils, nothing sharp. A chained metal rack bolted to the wall held electric whips and hoop sticks. Somewhere—that wooden door at the end?—a storeroom held leather restraints, buckles, manacles, hoods, the tools of the madhouse.

Will laid his lantern on the desk, shoving aside a pile of papers. She caught a glimpse of one of Mr. Temple's pamphlets—S
LAUGHTER AT THE
E
GYPTIAN
!—and Will hastily tucked it under some lecture notes. “I'm so pleased you could come. I don't get much reliable conversation around here. Do you hear old Mr. Matthews wailing?” he added irrelevantly. “He's been in here a very long time. That'll teach him to embarrass the Foreign Office with all that peace-with-France nonsense. Mad now, of course. Forty years in here would drive anyone out of their mind.”

She pulled her glove back on and hugged herself, shivering. “Why do you work here, Will? No windows, no fresh air, all this noise in the dark. Don't you find it . . . disturbing?”

He smiled shyly. “I like taking care of them. The smallest kindnesses can make them so happy. I guess it's a nice antidote for being a surgeon, where all you do is hurt people all day.”

“What's that you're studying, brain anatomy?”

He wrinkled his nose. “Yes. A matter of conjecture, if you ask me. No one knows the truth of it, not even Mr. Fairfax.”

“Don't tell him that.”

Will laughed. “I wouldn't presume. Did you know that's supposed to be his wife's brain in that jar on his desk?”

“You don't say.”

“That's what the staff told me. Poor Lady Fairfax went mad before she died, and he's been trying to discover what caused her madness ever since.”

With a pang of sympathy, Eliza recalled the black-edged portrait in Fairfax's office. “Do you believe it?”

“Well, he's certainly dedicated to curing brain sickness. You wouldn't believe some of the things he's tried.”

“Perhaps I wouldn't. Does he really keep his library here, in your cells?”

Will nodded towards a door near the end. “Ingenious, isn't it? Only the books he doesn't want anyone to see, of course. He's spent years making sure everyone knows he's as orthodox as the Russian pope.”

“Isn't it a little damp for keeping books?”

“Certainly. All the more reason no one will come looking.” Will seemed about to say more, but cleared his throat instead.
“Anyway. Your Chopper case, eh? Must be quite exciting. Being a police doctor, I mean. What did you say this was about?”

“Electrical machines.”

“Ah, yes. I've one particular book that might interest you. A scientist's experiment journal, with diagrams, technical specifications, and the like. It's old, unfortunately, and the damp isn't good for the books, as you say. But . . .”

She frowned. He was fidgeting, evasive. “Is something wrong?”

“No. I mean . . . Are you sure you want to . . . ?”

“William.” She fired him her warning glare.

“It's just that . . .” Reluctantly, he met her eye. “You know I allow Mr. Todd to read.”

Her nerves wriggled, but found no escape. “It's very kind of you. I'm sure he appreciates it.”

A lunatic let out a fearful cackle. The other fellow was still singing, louder now, and the groaning wind raised its voice.

“Oh, he does.” Will gave a fleeting smile. “Mostly, I give him newspapers and the like. He especially enjoys Matthew's pamphlets. But sometimes . . . well, he's so dreadfully clever, you see. And he gets so bored . . .”

The ghost of warm breath tingled in her hair. “Will, tell me what's going on, or I shall shake it out of you.”

“This morning, he was in a good mood, so I put him in with the books.” Will's cheeks reddened. “I might have let it slip that you were coming. And now he won't come out.”

Eliza wiped sticky palms on her skirts. “Open the door. I'll talk to him.”

The singing lunatic wailed, the pitch rising. Will took out his keys, selected one, and unlocked a door.
Clunk! Clonk!
He yanked the bolt,
screech!
The door squeaked open an inch, and light welled from the crack.

“Mr. Todd?” called Will. “You've a visitor. Are you decent?”

No answer.

Will shrugged and backed off towards his desk. “All yours. I'll be right here if you want me,” he added. “Just yell.”

Eliza swallowed and pushed the door open.

The room smelled of mildew and old paper. An electric hurricane lamp threw shadows up the walls. The ceiling was lost in darkness, and the outlines of piles of books edged from the gloom. Somewhere, a rat scuttled.