The Diabolical Miss Hyde (25 page)

But he just held the door, and she stalked into the crowded street, Hippocrates at her heels. Horses and clockwork carriages veered too fast, instilled in her mind with fresh recklessness. Cogs over-speeding, the animals' eyes rolling in fear. The air was sour, gritty, a boiling cloud of frustration.

Lafayette fell into step beside her, gazing carelessly into the bright sky. “Such a lovely morning for a walk. May I?”

“If you must, sir,” she replied with ill grace, “you may walk with me as far as the station.”

“Excellent.” Either oblivious to her reluctance or pretending to be so. The sun flashed on his iron badge, licked over his polished weapons, gilded his hair. She waited sickly for him to offer her his arm. She didn't like the idea of touching him. Of triggering dark memory, a scent or a familiar sensation . . .

He didn't. Just ambled beside her, hands tucked behind his back. “I wanted to ask your advice on another murder case. An intriguing scenario.”

“Mmm?” As they strolled—an infuriatingly slow pace, with Hipp muttering “make greater speed” at her skirt hem—passers-by sidled away, giving them a wide berth. Most avoided eye contact with Lafayette, and she hid an ironic smile. Served him right. That was what the Royal's badge got you.

Lafayette just smiled gaily at them, nodding to the ladies. “Perhaps you've heard of the victim. William Beane?”

Her pulse quickened. “Oh. Yes. Horrid fellow. I gave evidence at his trial.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Well informed, as usual,” she remarked coldly. “Did he die? What a shame. No doubt they're weeping from here to Newgate.”

“I also know you already examined his body.” He shrugged, an arrogant apology. “As you say, Doctor: well informed. What I don't know is why you'd lie about it.”

She flushed, wishing for Lizzie's facility with bending the truth. “I did not lie, thank you very much. I merely withheld certain facts. You of all people should understand that distinction.”

“I also understand when someone's avoiding my question.”

She sighed and countered with a half-truth. “If you must know, Beane's murder is not Inspector Griffin's case. I examined the cadaver without authorization, and there are men at the Bow Street Met and elsewhere who'd happily see the last of a ‘lady' police doctor on any scrap of pretext they can unearth. Surely you understand if I don't care to make a fuss.”

“And you imagine me to be one of those men.”

“On the contrary. I remained silent because I imagined you not caring about me or my career, one way or the other.”

“Oh, please.” He grinned, dazzling. “Aren't we past that? I've nothing but admiration for your skill.”

“And nothing but disregard for my schedule, apparently. Really, Captain, I'm in something of a rush—”

“Then I'll keep it brief. I found burned aether at Beane's murder scene. Scorch marks in the wall, same as the other two crimes.”

Her breath sucked dry. Lizzie scraping in the dirt, fingers sliding over rough charcoal burns, the smell of thunder.

Lizzie had cornered Billy Beane that fateful night, stiletto in hand, ready to do him all manner of harm . . . and the next thing she knew, she was back in the flash house, drinking gin, and Billy was dead. Time lost, memories vanished, events never recorded.

They won't remember what happens next.
Marcellus's words stained bright with fresh meaning. Anterograde amnesia.

Billy's murderer had drugged Lizzie. Just like the Chopper.

But why would the Chopper choose Billy Beane?

“How unexpected,” Eliza covered brightly. “Do you think it can mean . . .”

“I'm not sure what else it could mean. Unless, of course, we're missing the point, and the aether has nothing to do with anything.”

“Zero correlation improbable,” mumbled Hipp, subdued. “Recompute.”

“Indeed,” agreed Eliza smoothly. “Don't tell me you believe in coincidence, Captain.”

“I believe in material causes. Which rather tend to cancel out coincidence.”

“Well, I hope to find out more about those causes. Tomorrow morning I'm attending a galvanic demonstration by Dr. Percival.” She named the eminent scientist whose class she and William Sinclair were planning to attend, and her cheeks warmed faintly. She'd forgotten about Will and his shy affections, if that was what they were. “Percival's an expert on the latest electrical technologies. I'm hoping he might know what kind of machine could produce such a singular discharge.”

“Excellent notion. Do let me know how you get on.” Lafayette's smile tweaked. “Perhaps your Mr. Todd could enlighten us. He seems to know a lot about it.”

“He is not
my
Mr. Todd,” Eliza retorted. But she squirmed. How much of that conversation had Lafayette overheard?

“He certainly thinks he is, madam. You should pay more attention to the hearts you break.”

“Sir, I really must protest—”

“In any case,” continued Lafayette, as if he hadn't changed the subject, “there are other similarities between Beane's assailant and the Chopper.”

She frowned. “But the B—but Beane wasn't mutilated in
the fashion of the other victims. The wounds I found on his body were entirely different.”

“Odd, isn't it?”

“Nor was he drugged.”

“Doubly odd. What could be going on?”

She smiled wryly. “Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.”

“No traps, Doctor. Merely an observation to which I'd like your response.”

“Whatever do you mean, sir?”

“Oh, nothing.” He tugged at his coat front, almost sheepish. “Just that I can find only one other connection between Irina Pavlova, Ophelia Maskelyne, and Billy Beane.”

Hipp perked up. “New data. Information please.”

Casually, she fiddled with her gloves to gain a few seconds, and thought desperately. The theater, Geordie the simpleton, severed limbs, stupefying drug . . . nothing that pointed to Billy. The other two victims were female, famous, talented, beautiful. Billy was none of those. And Billy alone had yielded the coarse golden hair, the scratch wounds.

“I can't see what that could be,” she said at last. “Other than the aether, nothing seems to—”

“Actually, it's you, Dr. Jekyll.” A dark glint of threat in his gaze. “Intriguing, wouldn't you say?”

A
SICK YELLOW CLOUD BLOTTED OUT THE SUN.

Shadows bubbled hot under her skin. She wanted to scream. Grab him, smack his annoyingly handsome face, tell him to stop being so damned obtuse and just tell me what you know, you god-rotted lying son of a dog . . .

Eliza fidgeted, sweating. “Well, naturally. I work for the police. Murder victims do tend to crop up.”

“Oh, I think it's more than that.”

“Kindly explain, sir.”

“You went directly from the ballerina's crime scene to the Old Bailey for Beane's trial. Where he was found ‘not guilty,' incidentally, despite your eminently learned and scientific evidence, when everyone within a mile of St. Giles's steeple knows he was anything but.”

And then, Lizzie had prowled to the Holy Land in search of Billy. Where someone had stepped in at the critical moment and killed Billy in her place.

Eliza reeled, seasick. Murderers had been known to lurk at their own crime scenes, enjoying the fun. Maybe someone had followed her from the ballerina to Billy's trial and thence
home. Someone who'd seen Lizzie slip out of Eliza's house, and followed her, too . . . and then . . .

Confusion misted, treacherous as any yellow London fog. And then what? Stabbed Billy Beane in the throat? What on earth for? Who was this person who seemingly knew her secret, yet did nothing to blackmail or endanger her? What then was his purpose?

No one wants a scene,
whispered A.R. in her memory.
If I have to protect you, I will . . .

Oh, my.
She fought rising panic. Deny. Obfuscate. Insist she knew nothing. If Lafayette dug too deep . . .

“I fail to understand what Beane's acquittal has to do with the Chopper murders,” she countered.

“So do I. Abjectly. Infuriating, isn't it?”

Her mouth had already opened to deny whatever accusation he'd been about to make. Foolishly, she clamped it shut.

“But these are the facts with which we must deal,” he added. “Our killer took time out of his busy and suddenly urgent limb-chopping schedule—two in two days, in case you hadn't noticed—in order to smite an undrugged, unmutilated, unfemale, unfamous, and otherwise equally unrelated victim.”

“I'm glad you admit it seems random and ridiculous,” she said tartly.

“But for your involvement in all three cases.”

“Astonishing. Truly, my nefarious exploits range far and wide. When you discover how I am an accessory to these murders, please be sure to let me know.”

“Oh, I shall.” A bright smile. “Depend on it.”

“And what of our charming Inspector Reeve's chief
suspect?” she added daringly. “Beane was Reeve's informant, did you know that? He's determined to catch Billy's killer at any cost. Where does his famous ‘woman in red' fit into my evil plans?”

“I believe her to be innocent.”

“Oh?” She feigned only polite interest. “How so?”

“I questioned the lady. She convinced me she's no murderess. At least, not Billy Beane's.”

Eliza's palms prickled, relief and disquiet in equal measure. “Clever of her. How hard did she have to try? I didn't pick you as a man to be baffled by a pretty smile.”

“Didn't you? How inattentive you've become. I find I'm routinely baffled by yours.”

She laughed. “A word of advice, Captain: cross ‘pretending to be a fool' off your list of interrogation techniques. It becomes you not at all.”

Lafayette cocked one eyebrow. “Madam, I've just given you far more information than you gave me. If this is my interrogation technique, I ought to look for another job.”

“Yes, perhaps you should,” she retorted. “Seeing as your current one is such a dangerous waste of time. Really, Captain, I must be going—”

“What exactly did you discover on Beane's cadaver?” he cut in coolly, abruptly all business. “I'm finding your reluctance to share disappointing. If you have information that tends in another direction, I strongly suggest you tell me now.”

She halted, heedless of the milling crowd. At her feet, Hipp quivered, belligerent like an angry cat. Defiantly, she folded her arms. “Or what?”

A steady blue stare. Not threatening. Just . . . calm. Unruffled. Certain. “You really don't want that answer.”

Icy wire spiked her veins. Had she truly imagined she could trust him? He'd hurl her in the dungeon in an instant if it suited his purposes.

Her stomach boiled. Lafayette might seem intelligent and easy-going, but he was just a man in the end, using bullying and brute force to get what he wanted from those weaker than he.

She'd known that all along. So why was she disappointed?

“Claw marks.” Her voice was small, dry. What point in dissembling? He'd find out, one way or the other. “Billy was stabbed in the throat, you see. That was the cause of death. But I found claw marks, and hair fragments from an animal.”

He stared. “I see,” he murmured at last. “What species of animal?”

“Canine. I've no sample that precisely matches. But the animal was large. Perhaps a bear-baiting dog.”

“Thank you, Doctor. I appreciate your cooperation.”

“I
feel
appreciated,” she said coldly. “Truly.”

He ruffled his hair beneath his hat and sighed. “Look, you don't understand. It's a matter of some urgency for me—”

“Oh, I understand, Captain Lafayette.” She yanked at her gloves, hard enough to make the leather snap. “I
understand
that you've done little but threaten me since we met. And I
understand
that you're accusing me of involvement in some outrageous cover-up of murder, if not the murders themselves. The next time you need a crime scene investigator? Call someone else. Good day.” And she stalked away, fuming.

He didn't follow. She barely noticed. God's blood, she'd been so
stupid
. She should never have trusted him for a moment . . . well, she hadn't trusted him, had she? Her fists tightened. That was the most infuriating part. She hadn't trusted him, yet she'd tolerated his presence anyway.

What kind of fool was she?

Should have let me kill him,
whispered Lizzie.

“Then why didn't you,” snapped Eliza waspishly, “if you're so clever?”

Don't give me that. You know why.

Her cheeks flamed. “Don't you
dare
put this onto me—”

A crowd swarmed out of the Underground, knocking her almost flat. Hippocrates squawked and scuttled to keep up. She shoved with belligerent elbows towards the entrance. “Come along, Hipp.”

A shoulder bumped her off balance. Heavy hands caught her, gripping too tight.

“I say, let go—oof!” A hard object jabbed into her stomach, punching her breath away. Hippocrates screeched. Something black dropped over her head—a bag?—and she sucked in air to scream, but too late she recognized the smell.
Cherry blossoms . . .

And her senses blotted like wet wool, sinking her into warm, fevered darkness.

T
HE WORLD TILTED AND SWAYED, LURCHING ELIZA
from drugged insensibility. Thundering hooves, squeaking carriage brakes. It was still black as night. Her head ached, as if she'd indulged the night before. She fumbled for her face to tear the bag away. But two pairs of rough hands grabbed her arms, dragged her from the carriage, set her swaying on her feet.