The Diabolical Miss Hyde (39 page)

A green-faced man with a beak for a nose and mouth passes me a long-stemmed brass pipe. I suck on it, the smoke bitter in my mouth. My senses spin. I suck again and wobble on my feet.

“Good stuff.” My voice zooms into the distance. My legs feel muddy, their strength washed away.

“Like it, cherry pie?” Beakface grins. He's wearing a coat of lank gray feathers. “More where that came from.”

Someone thrusts a drink into my hand. Gritty black liquid sloshes over my wrist and stings my skin. What the fuck is this? I don't care. I raise it to the ceiling. “Hail to the King,” says I, and I gulp it down.

Warm languor crawls from my stomach along my limbs. Oh, my. Which way's up? I'm floating, miles above the earth where the sky is black and silent, where stars and planets whirl in cosmic waltz. Dance, and you'll dance forever.

Somehow, that don't seem so bad any more.

Thunk!
My head hits the floor. I'm on my back, someone's tugging at my hair, my dress, snapping the hooks on my bodice. Greasy fingers fold over my wrist. Something warm and wet's on my fingers, pulling. Sucking. Trying to consume. A tongue wrapping my knuckles, teeth nibbling at the skin between thumb and forefinger. The pain is muted, distant. I can barely feel it. I can't even move.

My breasts were cold, but now they're warm, slick, so tender. Something bites my nipple. A creature's crawling under my skirt. Some hot, wet thing slithers up between my legs, hunting for an opening. A mouth nibbles on my thigh. Teeth sink in. I try to yell, but all that comes out is a groan. The same noise that mutilated thing in the corner was
making. Jesus fucking Christ, are they
eating
him? Are they eating
me
?

Beakface leans over me, grinning. His tiny jagged teeth gleam, and his mildewed feathers stink and crawl with fleas. “Easy, now. Relax. It'll take a while.”

I try to grab him, fight back, bite his ugly face off, but my muscles are water, so heavy. So very heavy. I try to scream, but my throat is clogged with woolly goo, and something grabs my jaw and forces itself into my mouth. Fur, cold and bitter, choking me, working itself deeper down my throat . . .

Suddenly, I can breathe again. I'm free. Someone—Beakface?—screams, and cartilage pops, a horrid
crack!
Warm arms lift me, the familiar scent of flowers, his rough coat on my cheek. He carries me, light as the wind, up to where it's bright and the air is dry and warm, and now that I can taste what I've drunk, bile burns my mouth and I spew gritty black hell.

He lays me on something soft, so blessedly soft, like a cloud. I sink into it, deeper, warmer. His fingers trace my forehead, my cheekbone, my bruised lips. I struggle to focus, but his mismatched eyes guide me, lure me to safety—or is it ruin?—and I try to whisper his name, but darkness ambushes me. A rough-edged voice curses fit to strip paint, not Johnny but someone else, and I try to stay afloat but I can't and the last thing I see before I fall is my father's twisted face.

Moonlight slants silvery ghosts onto the darkened landing, and dust motes dance. It's long past little Eliza's bedtime,
but she can't sleep. She keeps hearing noises. Scuffles in the dark, sobbing, the ominous creak of floorboards . . . and other, stranger sounds. The ones monsters make.

She knows about monsters. She's seen them, late at night, leering shadows on the wall of Father's laboratory. They cackle. They caper. They howl.

Maybe she was dreaming. She should go back to bed. She should call for Mother.

Anything but keep walking into the dark.

Her white linen nightdress is still warm from bed, but the old house's floor is chilly under her feet. She hugs herself, shivering. Ahead, candlelight leaks from a half-open door. Voices within, muffled, frantic. Someone is pacing, nervous, back and forth, back and forth.

Compelled, she pads up to the door and peers in.

A candlestick burns on the bedside table. Light licks the rich red carpet, the hem of the bed's white drapes. The door is in the way, she can't see the bed entire, but she can see one corner post, and the edge of the lace curtain is dipped in wet, dripping darkness.

Dangling beside the bedpost is a lady's pale arm. Limp, motionless fingers, beseeching the uncaring floor.

“No.” Father's voice, his beloved scent of cigars and laboratory alcohol. “No, it wasn't the way you think. He's . . . oh, dear God.” A heavy sigh. “I have to wake Gabriel, tell him—”

“Henry.” A second voice interrupts, low and persuasive. “Henry, old bean, listen to me. Gabriel will go directly to the magistrate. Pretty society wife tumbles down the stairs?
In her condition? They'll never believe you, don't you see? Let me take care of it.”

Father's voice drops to an angry whisper. “What do you mean, ‘take care of it'?”

A rustle, maybe a shrug. “A dark street, a few strategic wounds. An accident, Henry. Poor pretty lady, a victim of senseless violence. These tragedies happen all the time—”

“I swear to God, sir, you will not violate my wife.”

The strike of a match, the smell of tobacco smoke. “Who said anything about violation? A simple robbery scenario will suffice. Won't even need to crease her skirts.” A sigh. “I did warn you to keep her out of it.”

A fragment of harsh laughter. “You told me so, is that it? We've both been in this from the beginning—”

“Which is why we can't give up now, not after all we've worked for.” A deep exhale. “One way, you'll hang. The other way, you'll burn. My way? We fix this, and we carry on. What's it to be?”

Silence, broken only by pacing footsteps and the inexorable drip-drop-drip of that dark stain.

“Very well.” Father's voice trembles. “Very well, damn you. But we are proceeding with formula twenty-seven right away. I'll countenance nothing else.”

“Very well. I'll return presently. Burn the sheets. And Henry . . .”

“What?”

“You know who we can talk to about this.”

“Take care.” Steely threat.

“Victor's ready. But we have to be quick. Before the decay sets in—”

Scuffle! Thump!
Someone falls and takes furniture with him. “Never speak of that,” Father says grimly. “Never, hear me? Not for her.”

“Of course, old bean.” Indistinct, wet. “Merely a suggestion, say what? No need for violence. Carrying on.” Light footsteps approach the door, a tune hummed under his breath.
“And her ghost wheels her barrow . . . through streets broad and narrow . . . crying, ‘cockles and mussels, alive, alive-oh . . .'”

Little Eliza flees. Back to her cold bed, where she yanks the quilt over her head and curls into a tiny weeping ball, her hand stuffed into her mouth . . .

E
LIZA WOKE TO THE RATTLE OF LITTLE BRASS FEET.

Her head pounded, swelling with each thud. Damp all over, cloth sticking to her limbs. Why so hot in here? Morning sunlight scorched her face, and she groaned sickly and rolled over.

Her cheek hit cool sheets. Her own bed. Someone had brought her home.

Our father,
whispered Lizzie hoarsely.
King Eddie Hyde. Daughter of rats, that's what we is. The bad half of a bad half . . .

For once, she hadn't the heart to tell Lizzie to shut up. The truth of it ached, deep in her soul where she'd always known something was amiss . . .

Cogs whirred, and the sheet tugged away under her cheek. “Urgency required,” trumpeted a little metallic voice. “Sleep inappropriate.”

She muffled her eyes with the pillow. Her stomach was scraped raw. “Go 'way.”

Hippocrates pulled the sheet again. “Telegraph. Urgency required. Make greater—”

“Uhh.” She fought to lift her head, which had suddenly
filled with lead, and cracked one eye open. The room swirled, underwater. “Wha'?”

“Telegraph, eight o'clock. Current time, half past nine.” Hipp jigged, blinking his blue light, and his cogs grated anxiously,
rrrk! rrrk! rrrk!

“Half past nine?” She stumbled out of bed, tangling in sweaty sheets. Her guts boiled, vengeful. “Oh, dear . . . Out of the way, Hipp.” She staggered for the washstand and emptied her stomach contents into the jug. Ugh. Her eyes streamed, burning. Vile black grit swam in the mess, and she wiped her mouth and averted her gaze.

Her damp skin felt chilled, and she realized she was naked. She winced, imagining the efforts of those who'd carried her home. Wonderful. Had Mrs. Poole seen? Molly? The neighbors?

Lizzie snorted.
You think Mr. H can't deal with a few nosy servants? He'll have their eyes clawed out before they whisper a word. And Johnny might be a lying dog, but he ain't stupid.

Mr. Hyde was a murderer. He must be brought to justice. She could call the police. She could set the Philosopher on him. She could march on down to the Rats' Castle and wring his scrawny neck . . .

Hipp bounced impatiently at her feet. “Telegraph.”

She wiped her face on a towel. “What is it, Hipp? Show me.”

He flashed his
happy
light and spurted out a length of ticker tape.

She tore it off and fumbled for her spectacles. Blinked at the printed letters . . . and the bottom fell out of her guts all over again.

An hour later, she shoved along a crowded Strand, south of Covent Garden. Malicious sunshine glared, seeking out her eyes and making them sting. The very air seemed oppressive this morning, closing in around her, creeping cool hands up her skirts. Even Hippocrates slunk along hunched over, his little brass legs poised to scuttle beneath her petticoats.

An evil glint graced every eye. No doubt, pickpockets threaded through the crowd, taking what they pleased from unsuspecting pedestrians. That group of gentlemen by the fence were probably robbers, planning their next heist. Urchins gathered in the alleyways, envy brooding in their gazes, peering out at the world they could never belong to, only infiltrate, undermine, poison. Probably they were monsters in disguise.

A newsboy yelled and waved his paper. “Human heads in the Thames! Gruesome discovery! Moorfields Monster claims more victims!” Beside a butcher's shop, a dog growled at her, guarding a discarded pile of offal. Hipp buzzed angrily, and the urge possessed her to growl back, to kick that dog until it howled. She hurried on, turning left up Southampton Street. The church there was abandoned, the door boarded up, and the sun flashed on dusty broken glass, sharpening the edges into fiery weapons.

Above the crowd bobbed the stovepipe hats of policemen. The too-familiar sight of a barrier of bedsheets hove into view, covering the entrance to the churchyard alleyway.

She peered between a tiny gap in the sheets. A dirty bodice, the edge of a green sleeve, a neatly severed wrist . . .

Inspector Reeve grunted. “Go away,” he said, puffing cigar smoke. “You're not needed here.”

“Am I not?” she asked brightly. “Your case still open and shut, is it?”

Reeve bristled. “Madam, kindly escort yourself from the scene, or I'll—”

“Or you'll what?” Captain Lafayette strode up, and speared Reeve on his sharpest glare. “Dr. Jekyll's expertise seems to me just what you require. How fortuitous that she should be passing by.”

Reeve looked him up and down—scarlet coat, polished arc-pistol, silvery Royal Society badge—and chewed angrily on his cigar. “The girl's a pest,” he said finally. “I can't have her interfering with my investigation—”

“I'm the Royal Society, Inspector,” cut in Lafayette breezily. “I'll interfere wherever I please. Come along, Doctor, no time to waste.” And he lifted the sheet aside and ushered her through.

Inside the barrier, Eliza managed a cautious smile. “I received your telegraph. I confess, you surprise me.”

Lafayette shrugged. “Thought you'd be interested. You're the expert, after all. Besides, I knew you'd be dying to see me.”

“Naturally. I breathe again.” She hesitated. “Thank you for returning my optical. It's precious to me. I shan't forget your trouble.”

“Don't mention it.” He tugged at a stray chestnut curl and grimaced, looking oddly boyish. “Actually, do mention it. Was that an invitation to truce?”

Unwillingly, she recalled how cold she'd been to him, that night in the rain. At least now, she knew he wasn't the murderer. “Would you like it to be?”

“I'd like it to be unconditional forgiveness.” A steady stare, darkened to ocean blue. “For whatever you believe I've done.”

Lizzie smiled, melting.
Oh, we know what you did, Remy. We know how you play, warm and wicked and splashed with moonlight . . .

Eliza flushed. “Is that your idea of an apology?”

“It's my idea of a ‘not guilty' plea.”

“Perhaps you should retain a lawyer.” She adjusted her bag over her shoulder. “But it'll do for the moment. Shall we?”

The bedsheets protected several yards of the alleyway, stretching from the church wall to the opposite building. At least Reeve had managed that much. A pair of constables squatted, picking through piles of refuse for evidence. The dead woman lay on her back, a pool of clotted blood seeping from each severed wrist.

“And we revert to type,” murmured Lafayette. “Female, drugged, hands sliced off. What are the odds it's the same weapon?”

Eliza examined one thin wrist, then the other. “Same edge on the bone, same angle of slice.”

Lafayette poked the dead woman's apple-green skirt hem aside—a fine lady's dress, but well-worn, second-hand—to reveal booted feet, still attached. “Was he interrupted?”

“Or perhaps . . . already fully stocked with feet? He already has Miss Maskelyne's and Miss Pavlova's.”

“Are you imagining a larder?” He wrinkled his nose. “Charming.”