Her Dark Curiosity (31 page)

“My condolences, miss,” a voice said behind me.

I whirled, thinking I had been alone. A spindle-thin man wearing a canvas work jacket and a few days’ unshaven beard leaned on a shovel, nodding toward the gravesite. “You must be family,” he said. “You’d be surprised how often family comes out ’ere, needing a moment o’ peace. Reckon he was a great man. Never seen a crowd like this.” He removed his cap in a stiff gesture.

“He was,” I whispered. “Will you be the one to bury him?”

He nodded, the cap pressed to his chest, wisps of graying hair dancing in the wind.

I opened my purse and fished out a few coins. “Thank you, then,” I said, holding out the coins.

He took them almost reluctantly. “Won’t be nothing. The empty ones are easy.”

“Empty
ones?”

“Empty caskets, I mean. Cremated ones. Don’t weigh an ounce, really.” He paused. “Didn’t you know, miss?”

Cremated? It made no sense that the professor’s body had been burned. As next of kin, Elizabeth would have been the one to make that request, and though she had modern beliefs, there was no reason for her to have done something so blasphemous.

“Who gave that order?” I asked.

He scratched his ear. “Came straight from the police.”

The
police
? There was something very odd about this situation. Cremations were only done in rare cases, such as if the body had been plagued with disease. The professor’s death had been violent, but his body was still intact and certainly not diseased. Why on earth would the police have ordered him cremated?

I mumbled my thanks to the gravedigger, who tipped his hat before shuffling through the snow.

The Beast’s words returned to me:
I didn’t kill him. Believe me or not, it’s the truth.

It was true that the professor’s murder went against the Beast’s twisted desire to protect me. And thinking back, where had the Wolf of Whitechapel’s telltale flower been? A strange tingle began at the back of my spine.

If the Beast hadn’t done it, who had?

“Juliet,” Montgomery called.

I turned, watching him crossing the courtyard toward me. Behind him Balthazar stood in the cloister with a constable in a police uniform. I dug my fingers into the earth to steady myself.

“Are you feeling well?” Montgomery asked. “You’ve been out here half an hour. The service is over.”

I nodded, thoughts on the empty grave site.

Montgomery’s voice dropped. “Inspector Newcastle wishes to speak with you. I tried to put him off—said you’ve been feeling unwell, and today of all days, right after the funeral . . . But he says he can’t wait any longer for your statement. He’s already stretched the law as much as he can.”

I wet my parched lips. Scotland Yard was the last place I wanted to be right now. And yet, as the tickle grew up my spine, I realized Inspector Newcastle would have details of the professor’s murder. He’d have the autopsy reports, investigation reports. He might be able to tell me why the professor had been cremated, and why no flower had been left by the murderer.

“It’s all right,” I said. “I’ll go.”

“I’ll come with you,” he said. He led me past the professor’s freshly dug grave, toward the waiting constable.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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THIRTY-FOUR

S
TEPPING THROUGH THE FRONT
doors of Scotland Yard with the constable at one side reminded me of the last time I was here, months ago, handcuffed and sick and seething with anger at Dr. Hastings and a society that would let him accuse me when
he
was to blame.

“This way, miss,” the constable said, motioning to a staircase. “I’m to take you to the inspector’s office. The gentleman will have to wait here, I’m afraid.”

Montgomery touched my back. “Will you be all right?”

“This is a police station. If I’m not safe here, god help us.” I motioned him to the bench lining the chilly entryway hall. “I’m sure it won’t take long; he only needs my statement.” I didn’t say how I wanted to feel out Newcastle cautiously, perhaps discover some new information about the professor’s murder.

The staircase of Scotland Yard was made of marble that might once have been grand, but years of dragging feet had worn it through. The constable led me up three stories, where the freshly polished floor contrasted with the rest of the worn-out, perfunctory building. These must be the officers’ offices, high above the riffraff.

The constable knocked on the last door, which swung open to reveal Newcastle in his copper breastplate and black silk cravat he’d worn to the funeral. He dismissed the constable and gestured me in.

“Miss Moreau, I do apologize for this unforgivable inconvenience. I know you’re grieving, and Elizabeth told me you’ve been unwell recently.” He shepherded me into his office. “Some tea, perhaps? One of the constables swears by an herbal remedy for getting over illness. I could have some sent up.”

I put a hand to my head, wishing he didn’t speak so fast. “I’ll be fine, but thank you,” I sank into the wooden chair across from his desk.

His office was a bastion of academic learning. Bookshelves with stately tomes spanned the length, and two paintings hung on either side of his desk, one of London in the rain, the other of a Middle Eastern bazaar. I supposed the son of a shoe seller didn’t have portraits of illustrious ancestors to hang on his walls.

I reminded myself that I would have to be very cautious. Newcastle wanted what was best for the city, but the King’s Club was powerful, and an orphan girl making accusations against them would seem preposterous. It might even stir questions about my
own
background.

He took his place at the desk. “You’re certain about the tea?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He smiled sympathetically, drumming his fingers on the edge of his desk. I folded my arms self-consciously, waiting for him to start, so I could ask my own questions. My eyes fell on a daguerreotype of Lucy on his desk, in a silver frame that must have been the most expensive item in the room. It made me smile, despite everything. At least she had someone who loved her, who would keep her safe.

“I didn’t get a chance at the funeral to offer my condolences on the professor’s passing,” he said at last, easing back in his chair. “I understand he was quite gracious to take you in, with no living parents of your own. I found it curious that you insisted at the masquerade that your father had passed away, and yet there’s been no obituary, no court records. . . .”

“I’d rather discuss the professor’s murder. I’m sure you understand.”

“Indeed,” he said. He moved to the edge of his chair, producing a handkerchief from his coat pocket. “I imagine his death affected you very much. I’m sorry for that. Especially at the hands of that monster.”

I didn’t answer, wondering if I dared to share my doubts with him. A glance at his desk revealed a thick brown file labeled
WOLF OF WHITECHAPEL.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened that night,” he said gently. “If you can manage.”

I tried not to keep staring at the file I so desperately wanted to look into. “Montgomery James is an old friend—and my fiancé, though we haven’t made a public announcement. He escorted Lucy and me to a lecture at the university. When he brought me home, that’s when I saw the morgue carriage and learned of the murder.”

He scribbled some notes on a pad, nodding solemnly. “Very good. Terribly sorry to make you come all this way today, of all days. But we’ve policies, you know.”

I started. “You mean that’s all you need from me?”

He nodded, setting down his pen. “Unless you wanted that tea?”

“No,” I stuttered. Now was the time I was supposed to leave, and yet I still couldn’t shake the feeling something about the professor’s murder wasn’t right.

“I wonder, Inspector,” I asked slowly. “Do you have other leads on the case?”

“Oh, I’m quite certain the murderer is the Wolf of Whitechapel. The wounds were identical.” He cocked his head. “Why, do you have cause to believe someone else might be responsible?”

I balled his handkerchief in my hand, thinking of the Beast chained in the greenhouse.

I didn’t kill the professor.

“It struck me that there wasn’t a flower left in the professor’s study the night he was murdered. Strange, don’t you think?”

He nodded, leaning back in his chair. “We’ve been looking into that, but it means nothing in and of itself. Perhaps the murderer ran out of them. Perhaps they all froze.” He rubbed his chin. “You’re very observant to have noticed.”

“Well, it didn’t occur to me until later.” I hesitated. I might not like the police, but Inspector Newcastle had proven quite different from those constables who had arrested me at the hospital. He’d made his way to the top at such a young age through hard work and ambition. He had every reason to want to solve this case—a promotion, gratitude from an entire city, perhaps even a more favorable chance with Lucy.

My eyes traced over the books lining the shelves. Philosophy, academics, forensics. If I told him that I suspected there might be another murderer, a monster even, would such a rational man believe me? The Beast had said he was innocent, but there was no way to verify that claim except by proving the identity of a second killer.

I tapped my boot against the floor, debating. Inspector Newcastle might think me mad. Or perhaps he might have the tools to help. . . .

“There might be another possibility,” I said slowly.

Newcastle raised an eyebrow. I stood and paced in front of his bookshelf to help ease my nerves. “I’m afraid it will sound a bit far-fetched,” I said.

He smiled. “You’ve no idea how many far-fetched theories I’ve heard of the Wolf’s identity. A girl as observant as you, however, I am inclined to take a bit more seriously, unlike all those other blatherskites.”

I froze at the word.
Blatherskite.
Not a common term, yet I’d heard it before. I remembered standing with Montgomery in Lucy’s garden the night of the masquerade, eavesdropping on the King’s Club members overhead. One of them had used that word.

I peered keenly at Newcastle. Perhaps it was a coincidence. Like the missing flower, it proved nothing. We had seen the roster of King’s Club members, seen the photograph, and Newcastle wasn’t in it.

“Your theory, Miss Moreau?” he prompted kindly.

I gave him a second glance. He said he trusted my opinion, but what inspector would take anything seriously said by a seventeen-year-old girl? I bit my lip. Perhaps he was only humoring me because I was a friend of Lucy’s. I sat down slowly, trying to make sense of it.

“Yes, my theory,” I started. “It has to do with the missing flower, and why the professor was so unlike the other victims.” My mouth felt dry, and I swallowed hard. Newcastle was watching me intently, seemingly patiently, though his fingers were drumming on his desk.

Why would someone merely humoring a young woman listen so anxiously?

My eyes fell on the brown folder, and I looked closer. Unless I was mistaken, I had seen that handwriting before. I scooted closer, clearing my throat, using my illness as a reason to lean on his desk.

The particular slope to the l’s, the flourish of the g’s. Yes, it was quite familiar. I had seen it only days ago and remarked on it, but where?

The hidden laboratory in King’s College,
I realized.
The journals.

My insides shrank. The handwriting was the same as that in the journals kept by the King’s Club’s scientist who monitored the water tanks. Inspector Newcastle was that scientist; he had to be. But how had he learned so much about biochemistry? I clenched my fist to keep it from shaking as I looked around the room, at the books, the paintings. The plaque over his desk said he majored in forensics. Forensics was the study both of criminal investigation
and
medicine. He wasn’t just an inspector, then.

He was also a scientist.

The air in the room started to feel too thin. I did the calculations in my head as fast as I could—Inspector Newcastle was the right age to have been one of Father’s students.

All of it came together in one terrible suspicion.

Was John Newcastle
one of them
?

I thought back to what I knew of him. When he’d caught me searching the cadaver room . . . hadn’t the door he’d emerged from been the same one that led to the subbasement laboratory?

Newcastle regarded my silence strangely. I grabbed the handkerchief and dabbed at my eyes to cover my shock. Is this why he had asked me so many questions about Father? Why he was so ingratiating to me?

This entire time, he’d played me for a fool.

“I wonder if I might have a cup of that tea after all,” I stuttered. “Thinking of the professor, I find myself quite weak all of a sudden.”

I forced a few tears, which looked all the more convincing given how hard I was shaking.

“Certainly,” Newcastle jumped up, thrown by the sight of a woman crying in his office. He opened the door. “Marlowe? Where the devil did that man get to . . . One moment, Miss Moreau.” His footsteps echoed in the hallway as he disappeared.

The minute he was gone, I practically crawled over his desk. I opened the folder and found pages of notes and letters, but nothing out of the ordinary. I searched through Newcastle’s drawers frantically, finding more letters and journals, but none in Father’s handwriting, none that spoke of an island or experimentation.

I heard a door closing downstairs and was about to return to my seat when my eyes settled on a familiar emblem printed on one of his envelopes. An image of Prometheus bringing fire to mankind, writing in Latin encircling it.

Ex scientia vera.
From knowledge, truth.

The motto of King’s Club—I recognized it from the old photograph hanging in the King’s College hallways.

With trembling fingers I opened the letter, read the contents. An induction letter into the King’s Club, pending certain unspecified achievements, to be announced and enacted upon in the new year.