The Diabolical Miss Hyde (42 page)

T
HE BOW STREET CELLS STINK A LOT WORSE FROM
the inside.

The crushers heave me in and slam the iron-barred door. I land on my chest,
splosh!
Mud and shit splatter my face. I crawl to my knees and let the curses blister off my tongue and roll after 'em up the stairs.

A bunch of greasy blokes is crammed into the cell next to me. We're separated only by bars, there's no wall, and I hear snoring, farting, the mutters and complaints of bored and thirsty men. That Geordie kid ain't here. Probably off somewhere getting the tripe beaten out of him.

I wipe muddy hands. “Baby Jesus,” I mutter, “you lot stink like a sewer.”

“Shut up, you moldy snatch.” Sullen, from the rear of my murky cell. Great. I'm not alone.

“Piss off, Limpdick.” My throat burns, swollen, as if a poisonous toad is buried in there. That final image of Lafayette—stripped of his courage, suspicion like a beacon on his face—rips me raw. I told him I'd betray his furry little secret
to the Royal, and he
believed
me. My eyes ache for tears, but I won't weep.

I won't.

I clang my head against the bars, frustrated. The rust-coated iron is unbreakable in my fists. Luckily for me, no one's in this cell but me and Mr. Limpdick. They've emptied my pockets, taken my stiletto. Even pulled the pins from my hair, and it flops stinking onto my face. The light in here . . . well, there really ain't no light in here. Just a few queasy leaks, from cracks in the floorboards above. The stench of ordure, sweat, and bad breath makes me want to rake out my mouth with a brush.

I am, as they say at the Metropolitan Board of Works, knee-deep in shit.

I can't stay here. I'm weary, and already, Eliza mutters and wriggles beneath my skin. My bruised heart clenches for her. She won't never survive in here, with her stiff manners and nice ideas about fairness and equality. This dank, filthy place is Miss Lizzie's world, and I'm damned if I'll make Eliza suffer it just because I can't solve my own problems.

Solving problems, after all, is what I'm here for.

I grip the bars and bellow at the copper on duty at the top of the stairs. “Oi! You there! Mr. Crusher, sir!”

He don't answer. Probably used to prisoners hollering.

“Ain't no place for a lady down here, is it?”

The bloke in my corner guffaws. “Good thing you ain't no lady.”

He's old, maybe forty, mud caked on his coat and at least a week of bristly gray beard. In here on his own. Hmm, thinks
Miss Lizzie. Could it be because them other blokes might tear strips off him? A snout, maybe, what stirs up radicals and then betrays them to the brass? Some corrupt putter-up what entraps good honest villains and sings like a canary? Or just some filthy sod like Billy Beane, whose crimes they despise?

I spit in his direction. “Oh, aye? A limp dick, that's your problem,” I yell out again. “Constable, never mind. I were a-fearing for my poor woman's virtue, but there weren't no cause. This bloke's dick is just as limp as can be.” And I kick mud at him, splashing his face with piss. “Couldn't raise a stand for the fanciest whore in London—”

He comes for me. I dance aside and slam his head into the bars.
Clang!
A fine noise he makes, too. “Ha ha! Beaten by a girl. What do you say to that, gents?”

The blokes in the next cell jeer and make ruckus. Any entertainment's good down here. I bang Limpdick's head again and knee him in the guts a few times. “Constable!” I holler. “Damsel in distress down here. You gonna be a hero?”

At last, the copper's coming down, boots splashing on the steps.

What's my plan now? No idea. I just hurl Limpdick aside—
splat!
—and get ready to run.

The policeman lifts his lamp to peer into my face, and the halo of light swings, crazy-like. It's Mr. Avid Reader, from the corridor outside the morgue. Blond boy, daft eyes. “What's going on here?”

“He attacked me,” I announce. “What a beastly fellow. Let me out of 'ere, guvnor, or I declare I shan't last the night.” The clowns in the next cell are laughing. Behind me in the mud,
Limpdick groans and bleeds, and hastily I kick him quiet and fan out my wet skirts to hide him.

The copper peers in, befuddled.

God spare me from idiots. I lean closer, show off the ripe female flesh at the top of my bodice. Ain't quite the same effect without the cherry satin, but a girl makes do. “I'd be ever so grateful, sir,” I purr. “Maybe there's somewhere we can go. Y'know, private-like.”

Sorry, sweet Eliza, but my life's at stake.
Our
life is at stake. If we have to suck and swallow our way outta here, we will. Just close your eyes and think of Chelsea.

The circus act over there hoot and call out crude suggestions. “Give it to her!” “Stuff her face with it!” “See if her arse is as smart as her mouth!” O-ho-ho, my sides are splitting.

The copper glances at me. Down at my chest. Back to me. Down at Limpdick, who's moaning and rolling about like a leper. Back to me. Pulls out his iron key ring and unlocks the door.

Yes. I simper and sashay out into the corridor. “Righto, let's get it over with—ugh!”

He just grabs my elbow and drags me off. Not towards the stairs. Further down into the dark, where stinking oily water drips down the walls and rats writhe in the mud, and there's a cell with no one in it.

Clunk!
Now,
I'm
in it. Alone.

I grab the bars and hurl curses, but the copper just hooks his keys back onto his belt and stamps away, towards the far-distant mist of light.

Shit.

I yell a bit more, but no one takes notice, and eventually I give up. I can barely see my fingers in front of my nose. Rats
nibble at my boots, and I kick 'em away. I'm weak, exhausted. This dank blackness chills me to the core. But I won't let despair overtake me, never mind that cold bitter crunch in my mouth and the roiling in my stomach that whispers
you're screwed, Miss Lizzie, so you are, screwed right to the wall, and how'd you like
them
apples?

I won't.

But there ain't no escape, not from the Bow Street house of fun. I've naught to pick the keyhole with, and even if I could, there's a station full of crushers to worry about.

I'm here until they decide to come get me. And that could be a very long time.

I'm tired. My eyelids can barely stay apart. I swallow on cold slimy fear. Bear with me, Eliza. We've got each other. I'll hold on, just as long as I can. I promise.

But I'm so very tired.

And I fold my muddy skirts, and sit on my haunches in the corner, and stare stubbornly into chilly dark.

L
AMPLIGHT SHOCKED ELIZA AWAKE.

Doiiing!
Her forehead clanged against the bars. She blinked gritty eyes. It was freezing, her clammy limbs chilled in the mud. The fetid cell's stench made her ill. Her mouth was parched, and hunger stirred in her stomach.

Lizzie must have fallen asleep. For how long? What was that light? Was Inspector Reeve coming to interrogate his prisoner?

“Lizzie!” she whispered fiercely. “Come back. I need you!”

And Lizzie struggled and kicked and pawed, but like a drowning woman, she couldn't break the surface.

Eliza almost chewed her tongue in frustration. It was the same with the elixir. Eventually, Lizzie exhausted herself. Like anyone, she needed sleep, time to recuperate.

Time Eliza didn't have.

The light brightened. Booted feet sloshed in the mud. Prisoners at the far end grumbled and swore. “Fuck off and let us sleep, you nosy swine,” called one. Eliza scrambled up, wet skirts slopping around her ankles, and rats scattered.

First, a constable, holding a lantern aloft in the bluish light. Not the same man, but someone Eliza didn't know. At least that was something . . .

“Open up,” ordered Captain Lafayette, halting before her cell. The light fractured in his eyes, cold like broken glass. “This woman's under investigation by the Royal. Give her to me.”

Eliza gripped the bars urgently. “Captain, I must—”

“Silence,” he snapped. Not angry. Disinterested. Bored, almost. As if he really didn't care. All in a day's interrogations. He glanced at her muddy skirts and ruined bodice, and it didn't even raise a flicker.

The constable unlocked the door, and before she could protest, Lafayette dropped a bag over her head.

She squealed, the sound amplified inside the rough linen. “What are you doing? Let me go!”

But she knew what he was doing.

Strong hands grabbed her elbows, bound her wrists efficiently with wire that bit into her soft skin, and escorted her firmly from the cell.

Up the steps, splashing through the mud, the musty smell of the bag stifling. At least this time, there was no cherry-blossom drug. The corridor above was silent. Perhaps the hour was very late.

Outside, where an icy breeze dragged at her hair, and down the steps. Her shins cracked into something sharp—a step?—and instinctively she climbed. Her rear hit a hard wooden bench, and a door clacked shut with a rattle of glass panes. A carriage.

“I'll take it from here, Constable.” Lafayette's effortless au
thority sliced like sharpened steel, and the policeman muttered something and shuffled away.

Wheels and brassy feet clattered, and the carriage jerked forwards. Eliza's head swam with hunger and fatigue, and she fought to sit straight. Her wet skirts stank of grime even through the canvas bag. The wire on her wrists cut in too tight. Her fingers ached and puffed up, the circulation blocked.

She reached out with her feet, but met only empty air. The rumble of metal wheels on flagstones drowned out her ragged breathing. “Captain? What's going on?”

No answer. No hint of movement. But she couldn't help feeling that he was sitting only inches away. Watching her. Staring at her and saying nothing.

“Remy, please, we can talk about this like civilized people . . .” Her voice crisped, scraped away by despair. They'd gone far beyond civilized. She recalled her vision of Lafayette as a torturer—how
wrong
it had seemed—and crazy, high-pitched laughter choked her.

Wrong, indeed. Lafayette hadn't needed to stoop to torture, not with foolish Eliza. He already knew all her secrets, and he'd extracted them efficiently, callously, without a single scream or one solitary drop of blood. And now she'd burn, like Clara Morton, on a pyre in St. Paul's churchyard, only she'd be surrounded by a jeering death-hungry crowd.

What an accomplished, abominable man.

After a few minutes—an hour? who could tell?—the carriage lurched to a halt. The street was strangely quiet, as those same steely hands dragged her from the carriage, over a gutter, her wet skirts slapping against stone. Wind groaned,
and the air sparkled with the fresh sensation of distant rain, prelude to a storm. A door creaked open. He pushed her into a close, threateningly warm room. Her heartbeat ran wild, and instinctively, she stumbled, desperate to delay whatever was about to happen.

The door tinkled shut, and he tore the bag away.

Apothecary's counter, rows upon rows of drawers, gleaming golden in warm firelight. The smell of herbs and alchemy, welcome after the bag. The blinds were drawn, and outside, it was dark. Distant thunder crashed, and the air stung with latent power.

Marcellus Finch blinked at her, his white hair sticking up like a bleached porcupine. He wore a purple velvet smoking jacket and a yellow scarf. “I say, young man, is this necessary?”

Dumbly, she stared back. The hairs on her arms crackled.

Lafayette cut the wire that bound her wrists—
snip!
—and eased it free. “Worked, didn't it?”

“But look at the poor girl. She's . . .
soiled
.”

Lafayette emerged into her view and shrugged sheepishly. “Sorry about that, Doctor. All the killer's teleportations have been to open spaces. I figured the cells were the safest place for you while I figured things out.”

Eliza spat out the breath she'd been holding. Her heart still hammered, her limbs reluctant to obey her. Good thing, because she burned to hit him. Longed for violence with a ferocity that would have stunned Lizzie herself. She didn't know which was more infuriating: that he'd left her out of his plans or her absurd gratitude and relief that he hadn't betrayed her after all. Not to the police. Not to the Royal. Not to anyone.

Her eyes burned. Furious, she shoved Lafayette in the chest. “Safe? Is that what you call it?”

“I didn't know what else to do—”

“You let the police
arrest
me,” she accused. “They threw me into a filthy cell riddled with rats and maggots and lice and God knows what else, not to mention killers and thieves. I'm freezing. I stink. Everything hurts. Just what, pray, have you been ‘figuring out' that necessitated that?”

The Philosopher's portrait frowned down at her from the wall, and she wanted to tear it down and stamp on it. Lafayette didn't retaliate. It just made her itch harder. Punch him. Claw his face. Grab his pistol and fire. “Tell me what's going on,” she demanded, “or so help me, I'll break your neck with my bare hands.”

Lafayette only nodded towards Marcellus. “Mr. Finch has news.”

“Hmm?” Finch blinked, befuddled. “Oh, yes. Your famous drug. Ha-ha! I've completed my analysis. Tricky little animal, too.”

Eliza glared at Lafayette, but curiosity got the better of her. “Well?”

“It's a psycho-active alchemical preparation,” supplied Finch. “Fire and mercury, a little wormwood, some other things. A poison, yes. In sufficient dosage, it stupefies in seconds.”

“And in insufficient dosage?”

Finch beamed. “That's the best part, dear girl. An automaton effect! The mind is dissociated, but the body functions normally. When the patient awakens, they suffer drowsiness, confusion, memory loss. They don't remember what their body did without them.”