Her Dark Curiosity (25 page)

“Juliet,” Montgomery’s voice came with a warning. “Not too close.”

Something roughly the size of a large cat was suspended, unmoving and silent, in the water. As my eyes adjusted to the low light, I could make out the vague shape of a half-formed creature not unlike a large rodent with only a hint of limbs. It was hairless from the tip of its jaw to the suggestion of a curling tail. The mouth was further developed than the rest of the body, powerful and wide like a reptile with a gleaming set of teeth.

Recognition dawned on me. “They’re the creatures from the island. Father’s ratlike creatures, only much bigger.”

Montgomery came to peer within the murky water. “It’s your father’s design, for certain,” he confirmed. “Although I’ve never seen one created in this fashion. They haven’t been stitched together. It’s as though they’re growing them here, using these tanks as artificial wombs, made from various animal components. Rat and opossum, I would guess, given their physical traits, with something to account for their large size.”

Memories returned to me of a glass jar in Father’s laboratory, a strange living thing pulsing the water. Is that what Father had been doing with those glass jars I’d smashed on the island? Could this be how he’d created
Edward
? My stomach shrank to think of Edward in a tank like this; he was too real for such things, too much a person like me.

“There’s more!” Lucy said. She shone the candle against the opposite wall, which had a dozen more half-formed creatures in tanks.

“What are these
things
?” Lucy asked.

“Experiments,” I said, glancing at Montgomery. “This is where the King’s Club does their experiments. They’ve already begun.” The horror of it crashed into me, and I leaned against the wall, afraid I’d be sick. Lucy’s face had gone white as the walls.

Desperate to know why, I grabbed the candle from Lucy’s hand and went to the cabinets lining the walls. A stack of journals sat on one end with a bundle of loose notes. Flipping through the pages, I recognized Father’s precise handwriting.
This
was the research he’d sent, in exchange for them funding his expenses and supplies. I pored over it quickly, but as well trained in anatomy and physiology as I was, little of it made sense to me. Highly detailed explanations of cellular replacement and something Father kept referring to as “hereditary transmutational factors,” with complex pen-and-ink blueprints of the water tanks and creatures within.

“See if you can make some sense of this,” I said, handing the pages to Montgomery, who took them and pored over them with careful attention. I started in on the notebooks, which were all in the same hand, but not Father’s. I called Lucy over, who said it wasn’t her father’s handwriting, either. The notebooks contained dated records of their experimentation. The most recent was on top, the latest entry just this morning. I read it with stilled breath.

DECEMBER 22, 1895, 7:10 AM.

Provided the specimens with a nutrient-rich compound. Rate of growth is 29/38, even faster than we had anticipated. By all projections, specimens will be full-grown within one week of receiving the cerebrospinal fluid replacement. With an estimated 2000 ml of cerebrospinal fluid from the host, we will have enough for a minimum of 200 cellular replacement therapy procedures.

I let the notebook tumble from my fingers as I turned to study the half-formed creatures in the water tanks. This wasn’t the vivisection I had witnessed in Father’s laboratory. This was something new, the procedure he’d designed to create Edward. And now they just needed Edward’s spinal fluid—the host—to finalize their development and bring them to awareness.

“Father’s letters outlined the process for them, blueprints for these tanks and the fluids to use and how to grow the creatures. But his letters could only take them so far. It’s one thing to build a body, quite another to give it life. For that they need Edward and the transmutational code in his spinal fluid. If they can insert that code into the host bodies, they’ll replicate and make life possible.”

Lucy put a hand over her mouth.

I flipped back through the notebook quickly and saw that the attending biochemist came twice a day, morning and evening. All the evening entries were dated between eight o’clock and eight-thirty at night.

“Montgomery, what time is it?” I asked quickly.

He drew a watch from his vest pocket. “Ten till eight.”

“The King’s Club’s doctor will be back soon. Blast, he can’t find us here.” I replaced the notebook in a hurry and arranged the stacks to give no sign that we’d been there. “It’s time we told the professor about this. I wish we didn’t have to involve him, but he knows these men and can give us information.”

We locked the door behind us and climbed the stairs back to the basement level. Whoever had been pursuing us was long gone, and only silence echoed in the hallways. We climbed up yet another flight of stairs to the main floor, where the lecture hall was just emptying of sleepy-eyed ladies, and we joined the crowd headed back out into the dark evening. Montgomery helped us into the carriage before climbing into the driver’s seat outside.

Once we were safely alone in the carriage, Lucy leaned forward. “You said they need something within Edward’s body,” she whispered in a trembling voice. “Does that mean they’ll have to kill him?”

I was glad the carriage was dark enough to hide her face. “I believe so, yes.”

We were silent the rest of the way to Lucy’s house, where we dropped her off with plans to meet tomorrow. Alone in the carriage, I worked through what I’d tell the professor. Perhaps it had been a mistake not to tell him sooner; he’d exposed my father’s crimes because it had been the right thing to do, and I knew he would do what was right now, too. He was a quiet old dog, but he could bite when provoked. Once I explained everything, they’d understand. Elizabeth would make us her licorice tea, and the professor would dig up some cold meats from supper, and we’d come up with a plan and have a good night’s sleep for once.

At the professor’s street, Montgomery stopped the carriage up short in front of the neighbor’s house. I didn’t understand why until I climbed out and saw another carriage already blocking the professor’s front gate.

A heavyset horse with a cropped dark mane stamped its feet besides a constable. I caught sight of Elizabeth on the front steps, talking to another police officer. The front door was open, spilling warm light into the night shadows and over her face and hair. At the sound of my footsteps, she turned.

Tears streaked her face. She wore her housedress with an old coat of the professor’s hastily pulled over it. The lecture had only run a little late, so I couldn’t imagine we’d worried her. When she caught sight of me, she pressed a hand to her chest and stumbled down the steps.

“Juliet,” she breathed. “Thank God you’re home.”

“I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Her hands pulled at my hair, reassuring herself that I was safe.

“Is the professor still awake?” I asked, swallowing back a feeling of foreboding. “I’d like to talk to him.”

At the sound of his name, she sobbed harder and pulled me close. Over her shoulder, I saw the policemen shifting nervously, then noticed several more people inside the house.

All these men just because we were a little late?

“Oh, Juliet. The professor . . .”

My eyes fell on the broad side of the police carriage. It had bright white lettering painted over blackened wood, two words that seemed to sear themselves into my soul.

Police Morgue.

“The professor is dead,” came her strangled voice. “He’s been murdered.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

..................................................................

TWENTY-SEVEN

T
HE POLICE HAD NOT
yet moved the body. Dimly, I was aware of them explaining about a “crime scene” and a “murder investigation.” Words that reduced the professor’s life to pages in a report. It wasn’t a crime scene; it was the professor’s tidy little study where the cat liked to nap in the worn depression of his chair. He wasn’t just another victim, as the police kept referring to him—he’d given me a life again. In time, he could have been the father I should have had.

As they explained the murder, Montgomery kept his arms tightly around me, as though he feared the news would make me slip away into nothing. Elizabeth shivered in the professor’s oversized coat, despite the warmth in the house.

“I want to see him,” I said.

“Oh, Juliet. I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Elizabeth said. “I wish I hadn’t seen. Coming home from supper at the ladies’ club and walking into that study to find . . .” She turned away before her voice broke.

“I have to,” I said.

Montgomery said nothing, just took my hand and exchanged a few words with the police, who followed us into the study. I recognized the shape of the professor’s head, sitting like he always did in that chair. He was as cold and silent as the rest of the room.

Beneath the chair dripped a pool of blood.

I stumbled forward, one shaky step at a time, until I could see him. His wire-rim spectacles were missing, his eyes still open. His murderer hadn’t touched his face, only left three deep slashes across his chest.

I turned away with a cry, collapsing into Montgomery’s arms.

I thought of how the professor had made me tea once when I’d been ill, and how he loved to tinker over that old clock with a plate of Mary’s gingerbread.

“Don’t look,” Montgomery said, pressing his hand against the back of my head. “It’s better if you don’t.” Even his voice, normally so calm in the face of any crisis, sounded hollow.

“He’s dead,” I said, coiling my fists in Montgomery’s rough shirt, anger sparking through the nerves of my muscles.

“I’m so sorry.”

“He’s
dead,
Montgomery! Heart clawed out, just like the rest . . .” I choked on the thought of the bodies in the morgue. I thought the Beast only killed those who had wronged me, but the professor did nothing but provide for me, believe in my chance for a future, treat me as a father should treat a daughter. Those thoughts turned to the Beast’s snarling lips as he’d held me down in my workshop, twisting Edward into a fiend before my very eyes.

I never should have forgotten what he really was.

“You
know
who did this,” I hissed.

Footsteps sounded in the doorway. I looked up to find Inspector Newcastle, dressed in finery as though he’d been called away from a state supper. His copper breastplate was gone now, as was the revolver at his hip, and it made him look younger somehow. He paused in the doorway, exchanging a few low words with Elizabeth before taking in the body with the calm eyes of an inspector who had seen this sort of thing countless times.

“Miss Moreau. How sorry I am for your loss, and in such a manner . . .” He swallowed, looking for once unprepared. I doubted he’d had much practice speaking to ladies on Highbury Street about murder.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, stepping forward and extending his hand to Montgomery.

Montgomery introduced himself and added, “I’m Juliet’s fiancé from Portsmouth. I’ve been staying here a few days.”

Elizabeth cleared her throat and excused herself, though as she left the room she gave Montgomery a careful glance, her eyes settling on the bulge at his side where his revolver was holstered. She was a shrewd woman. Before the night was out, she’d want an explanation for why my supposed fiancé was carrying a pistol.

“I’ll have to examine the body before we move it,” Inspector Newcastle said. “Terribly sorry. It would be best if you weren’t here for that, Miss Moreau.” He raised his hand as though he might give my shoulder a reassuring pat, but Montgomery cleared his throat, and the inspector let his hand fall. “Perhaps you might stay, Mr. James, for a few questions.”

Montgomery turned to me, a question in his eye. I nodded.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” I said, and started to leave.

“You’ll have to be questioned as well, I’m afraid, Miss Moreau,” Newcastle said. “They’ve already taken Elizabeth’s statement.” But he must have seen the look on my face, because he quickly added, “I’ll get what I need now from Mr. James, and you and I can speak later, at a more appropriate time.”

I didn’t answer, just slunk into the hallway. I heard the cuckoo clock squawk on the hall landing, then squawk twice more in quick succession, and looked up to find Elizabeth standing before the clock, winding it again and again to make the little wooden bird pop out so she could pet it as the professor used to do. It made my heart clench to see her so lonely, so lost, capturing this echo of his habits.

My dress shoes echoed too loud in the quiet room, so I kicked them off and walked in my torn stockings to the kitchen. I’d always felt comfortable there, among the roaring fire and Mary’s herb box in the windowsill. But I stopped in the doorway. The two chairs at the kitchen table were already taken.

Balthazar sat in one. I’d been so distraught over the professor’s death that I’d scarcely given him a thought since we came home. He kneaded his big hands together, mumbling soft reassurances.

In the other chair sat Sharkey. He must have slipped inside during the commotion. I realized that Balthazar wasn’t just mumbling to himself; he was assuring the little dog that everything would be all right.

“Balthazar,” I said, though my voice cracked.

He jumped up, lips moving as he awkwardly searched for words. “So sorry, miss,” he said. “So sad, what happened.” He gestured to Sharkey and added, “I’ll put him out again, miss, if you like. Only he looked so cold outside those windows, I thought I’d just let him warm up a bit.”

“It’s fine.” I stepped into the kitchen, where the stone floor froze my stocking feet. I picked up Sharkey and held him in my lap. I scratched the scruff of his neck and stared into the dying kitchen fire.

“His name is Sharkey,” I said. It felt good to talk about anything other than the body upstairs. “He belongs to me, in a way. I never told the professor about him because I feared what he’d say. But now . . .” My voice trailed off. “Well, I can’t imagine Elizabeth would deny me a comfort after what’s happened, even if he does bring fleas into the house.”