The Diabolical Miss Hyde (47 page)

But the talented Mr. Todd was gone.

L
ATE AFTERNOON SUNLIGHT PEERED THROUGH THE
window of Eliza's study, inquisitive. Pen stand and clock threw long, reddish shadows onto her desk. The fire had burned dim, and the tea Mrs. Poole had fetched sat cold on the tray, untouched.

The report on which she was working was lengthy and detailed, and she was finished at last. She signed her name—
Eliza Jekyll, M.D.
—blotted, and addressed an envelope:
Commissioner, Metropolitan Police, Great Scotland Yard
. Tucked the report inside. Sealed it and put down her inky fountain pen with a sigh.

In the end, she'd confined the report to pure forensic evidence. Never mind bothering Harley with the details. He had enough to deal with.

She'd attended Mrs. Griffin's funeral with a heavy heart. Another woman in a coffin, dead too soon. Harley was gutted, going through the motions, a corpse brought woodenly to life. Eliza had vowed she'd not let Inspector Reeve take the credit for his work. But the funeral had left her in a dark place, a shadowy tomb inhabited by the ghosts of dead
women. Miss Lucy, Lady Fairfax, Irina Pavlova, Ophelia Maskelyne, Sally Fingers, Madeleine Jekyll. She knew they'd haunt her for a long time.

Death was death. You couldn't defeat it. You couldn't come back. Not without . . .
spoiling
something.

But the Commissioner would have her report in the morning, and it left no room for argument. The Chopper was dead. Case closed. End of story.

End of story, hell,
whispered Lizzie dismissively.
You know this ain't over.

Eliza shivered, though the room was over-warm. Will Sinclair had proved true to his word about one thing, at least. The drug he'd given her was temporary, and once it wore off, Lizzie had woken, bad-tempered and sore but intact.

But they'd searched the asylum up and down, high and low, in every gallery and twisting staircase and hidden corridor, under every sodden bush in the garden. Mr. Todd was gone. Skipped out into the storm and vanished, a stain of breath on glass. And next morning, when she'd awoken late, exhausted and bleary-eyed after that mind-bending night, she'd almost tumbled from her bed in shock.

On her pillow lay a single, perfect, long-stemmed rose. Crimson, the exact shade of Mr. Todd's hair. And beside it, on the pristine white linen, a single, perfect teardrop of blood.

That was a week ago.

She was still jumping at the tiniest sound, her pulse skipping at shadows, flickering lamps, unexpected chilly breezes. She'd barely slept. And in those moments when exhaustion did claim her, she dreamed. Sprinting along endless midnight streets, a nightmare city drenched in blood and fire. A monster
breathing on the back of her neck, heartbeat in rhythm with hers, limbs moving in step, its distorted shadow hulking on the wall. Fingertips brushing her shoulder, a soft kiss on her cheek, the sweet scent of blood and starlight and wild red hair . . .

Rat-a-tat!
A doorknock snapped her awake. She caught her breath. “Come.”

Mrs. Poole strode in. “What kind of visiting hours do you call this?”

Eliza smiled weakly. “Quite. Could we start from the beginning?”

Mrs. Poole busied herself clearing the untouched tea tray. “There's a gentleman to call on you. Some presumptuous fellow. Shall I get rid of him?”

Her heart squeezed tight. “Who is it? Did he leave a card?”

“He left a pair of dazzling blue eyes and a grin fit to stun a horse. Is that enough?”

Faint bitterness stung her mouth.
Disappointed?
whispered Lizzie slyly. And Eliza had no answer.

She and Lafayette hadn't spoken since that night at Bethlem. What did he want? And from whom?

Her gaze fell once more upon her desk, where a second, unfinished letter sat. She'd addressed it simply to
The Philosopher, Royal Society, Tower of London
.

That was all she had so far.

She chewed her lip, troubled. Mr. Hyde had killed Madeleine. Twice. Killed Henry, too, though proving
that
in a court of law would be a first. And he'd threatened her with the same fate. He deserved to be brought to justice. Protecting him would cost Eliza her career, and probably her life.

But he was her father. He'd cared for her and Lizzie all these years, asking nothing in return but to be left alone. In his twisted way, he loved her—both of her. Was it justice to condemn him for his sins, when she knew too well the dark temptations of her own shadow side?

Lizzie snorted derisively.
Whatever you say. You gonna let that mean old walking skeleton order us about? Screw him, and his brass-brained lackeys too.

Resolved, Eliza picked up her pen once more.

Yours, &c.
                   

Dr. Eliza Jekyll
            

That would buy her some time. No matter her father's crimes, she couldn't betray him to save her own skin. Not to the Royal. Not to anyone. She'd just have to deal with the Philosopher when the time came. In the meantime, she'd conduct investigations of her own into what the King of Rats was up to. If he truly was plotting against the Royal, she'd discover it. And she had Lizzie to help her. It wasn't finished between Eliza Jekyll and Edward Hyde. Not by a long shot.

Eliza smoothed her hair and reluctantly headed downstairs. The delicious smell of warm pork pie drifted from the kitchen, but her appetite had long since withered.

The fire in her consulting room wasn't lit. Sun slanted through the blinds. On the mantel, in a narrow glass vase, Mr. Todd's rose still bloomed, unwilted. A solitary green thorn curled from the stem. The crimson petals were startling, incriminating. Passionate. Not a color associated with chaste courtship.

Lafayette stood tall, hands behind his back. Weapons polished, Royal Society badge bright on the breast of his scarlet tailcoat. He'd cut his hair, she noticed, but his curls already crept too long, and with a start she realized why. It must be difficult, staying presentable.

Her stomach parched, sick. He was intelligent. Amusing. Handsome. Had a refreshing lack of respect for propriety. Everything that made his acquaintance desirable, or at least acceptable. And at the sight of him, Lizzie's smile shone, filling her heart with liquid sunshine.

But it only made Eliza's guts twist tighter.

She nodded stiffly. “Captain, how good of you to call.”

“Doctor.” He wasn't fidgeting, not exactly—nothing so insecure—but did his gaze slip, just a fraction?

“Still with the Royal, I see.” Had she expected him to quit? Things seemed different. But . . .

A gunflash smile. “I've lied to them this long. I confess I rather enjoy it.”

“Still monsters to hunt?”

“Always.”

“The world is alive with strangeness, Captain. May there be mythical foes aplenty in your future.” She waited. “Well, if—”

“I could use a good crime scene investigator,” he remarked, gazing out the window. “From time to time. Off the books, of course. The Royal doesn't take kindly to your flavor of meddling, madam. But in your case, I can make an exception.”

Despite her misgivings, the prospect tantalized. The stranger the case, the better . . . “Are you offering me a job?”

A little grin. “For shame. Nothing so mundane. What I'm offering is a few hours of subterfuge, cutting-edge science, and deadly peril in your otherwise excruciatingly dull days of ham-fisted bludgeonings and idiots with arsenic. Sounds more outrageous that way.”

“In that case,” she said brightly, “how could a respectable lady refuse?”

“A respectable lady
would
refuse, madam. That's the point.” His grin faded. “How is Griffin, by the way? I was sorry to hear. He's a decent fellow.”

“He's . . . having a hard time. You know, I think he'd appreciate your call.”

“Really?” A bashful shrug. “I had the idea I annoyed him.”

She twisted her hands. “I'm sorry for what happened. That Will Sinclair was killed, I mean, before you had the chance to question him. I know you were counting on him for help.”

“For a cure, you mean.” This time, he looked directly at her. “It's different for me. We don't all cope as brilliantly as you.”

She squirmed. She felt too much of what Lizzie felt. She didn't feel enough of it. “Listen, I know that Lizzie—”

“I didn't come to see Lizzie. I came to see you.”

“Captain . . .” She saw his expression and broke off with a sigh. “Remy . . . I'm afraid this isn't going to work. Whatever you and she might . . .” She flushed. “We're not the same person, do you see? I mean, we are, but . . .”

“I understand that,” said Lafayette softly. “Truly, I do. I won't embarrass you by asking what you remember. I only hope you can accept my apology. I am so desperately sorry, Eliza, that things happened this way.”

How she longed to vanish. Fall into a suddenly yawning crevasse. Combust spontaneously. “Then what else is there to say?”

“Please, just hear me out. First a confession, then a promise. Finally, a request. If you don't like any of the three, I swear I'll never speak of it again. Fair?”

Numbly, she sat on the sofa and waved him to a chair.

Lafayette didn't sit. Didn't pace or fidget. Just stood straight, square, fearless. “You once asked me why I fled India for England. I told you I killed someone.” He swallowed. “The person I killed was my wife.”

Eliza stared. She should feel disgust, or horror, or fear. But all she could feel was a pale reflection of the pain he must have suffered. She knew what it was like, to want to tear your own insides out. And Lizzie knew the same.

For the time being, she and Lizzie were reconciled. But what in the future? They wanted different things. Adventure. Safety. Independence. Love. What would Eliza do when . . . ?

“I couldn't control what I'd become,” admitted Lafayette, “and I destroyed what I should have treasured most of all. I vowed with her blood on my hands that I would learn to control it or die trying. And I make you that promise now. I won't ever hurt you, Eliza. I cannot. I'll die first. And that goes for Lizzie, too.”

“I see.” She licked dry lips, seasick. That was heartfelt. Romantic, even.

“You think you're speechless now.” A wry grin. “I haven't finished.”

“Do your worst, sir. I warn you, I don't shock easily.”

“I've noticed.” He took a steadying breath. “We can help each other, you and I. You can help me find a cure while we hunt monsters and miscreants. I can protect you from the Royal, and from any other idiot who decides to meddle in your affairs. And I don't mean to be crude, but there's also the matter of a sizable pile of money, which I have and you could surely put to use.”

Oh, no.
Eliza's brain froze.
No no no . . .

“I understand that you don't appreciate interference,” he added. No flicker in his courage, no glimmer of doubt. “And I'd be the last man to intrude where I'm not wanted. But alone, you and I are oddities. We attract unwelcome attention. Together, we're respectable. Untouchable, even. And curse me for a self-punishing fool, but I rather enjoy your company.”

All Eliza's instincts implored her to speak, say anything, stop him before he said more. He was rational. Mathematical. He made perfect, terrifying sense.

But on the mantel, Mr. Todd's crimson rose bloomed. Vibrant, fresh, its passion undimmed.

Lizzie held a warning breath.

And for once in her life, Eliza couldn't find a single thing to say.

A
FTER SUNSET, NEW OXFORD STREET SPRINGS
alive. Shoppers, thieves, clockwork carriages and clattering hooves. Along the sidewalk, fine ladies and their gentlemen promenade in expensive suits and silken skirts, crinolines and stoles of every shade.

Alone, the crowd parting around him out of some primitive collective instinct, strolls Mr. Todd.

Inhaling the scents, tasting the sky. His scars are healing quickly, and already his time in the asylum has faded, washed thin like an inked sketch abandoned in the rain. The air is fresh now, after the stormy weather, and the clean smells of stone and rain are miraculous. The city's chattering melodies shed welcome ease on his music-starved ears. He wears a new suit—black, all the better to blend in—and the crispness of the fine wool and linen pleases him.

But most of all, he's
watching
.

After so many months in hueless squalor, the colors make him weep. Mr. Todd lives in a world of rainbows, and to deprive him of color is crueler torture than any electroshock. Innumerable shades breathe on his skin, tingling, stimulating.
A glaring chartreuse skirt; a pile of cerise roses on a cart; a young lady's eyes, so ultramarine, his mouth waters. He can stare for hours at a single subtle shift in shade. Some might call that insane.

Bethlem hasn't tarnished his manners. He touches his hat to the girl and smiles. She flushes, avoiding his gaze.

Decent people—self-appointed, naturally—look away from Mr. Todd because his red hair is threatening and he thinks bright thoughts and smiles just so. As if by existing, he's somehow scandalous. Briefly, he imagines this girl sliced and bleeding, her warm wet breath on his cheek, the slick softness of her lips as she dies . . . But it's all wrong, a pointless brushstroke that must be erased before the paint sets. He walks on.

A courtesan dressed as a lady slants her painted lashes at him. His glance slides over her and on. The idea of her hurts, faintly, like prodding an old bruise. Across the street, a pair of clockwork Enforcers strut along in line. There are more of them now than before. The way the light strikes their brass chassis offends him, and he looks away.