Tenfold More Wicked (16 page)

B
LACK MAGIC,” TRUMPETED HIPP FROM UNDER THE
bed. “Irrational! Does not compute.”

“Any more irrational than senseless mutilation?” asked Lafayette. “If killing Carmine was the only aim, why not just sneak up while he slept and cut his throat? This was done for a reason, and in my experience, torturers operate for one of two.”

“Depravity or insanity?”

“I was going to say information or pleasure. I further remark that tearing out the victim's tongue seems an odd interrogation technique.”

Images flashed, of dark cells in the Tower where the Royal's agents tormented their captives. Screams, bloodied sweat, the stink as the victims lost control of their functions. Crunching bones, crackling voltage . . . and always in her visions, the torturer's face remained stubbornly obscured. “Not how you'd have done it?”

Lafayette's gaze frosted. “No, since you mention it. The subject's fear of pain is the primary weapon. To act on such
threats is the last resort of incompetence. This”—he indicated the bloody mess—“is recreational. Or in this case, ritual.”

Eliza considered. “So. First, our man stabs Dalziel with a crucifix. Carves a pentacle onto his chest, removes his face, and rips out his heart.”

“Then two days later, he tortures Carmine to death,” continued Lafayette, “and
munch!
takes a bite.”

“I'd call that an escalation, wouldn't you? Although apparently he's lost interest in peeling faces. Whatever prompted that in Dalziel's case wasn't present here.”

Lafayette examined the dead man's torn fingernails. “So either we're looking for an abruptly rapacious madman with no motive but cruelty, who happened to know both Carmine and Dalziel. Or . . .”

“Or a disciple of this mythical coven everyone insists doesn't exist,” she finished. “With Carmine dead, we're left with a bunch of suspects who conveniently lack apparent motive or opportunity. I for one am growing skeptical of this ‘dinner party' of Dalziel's. Perhaps they were up to darker things than dining.”

“Still, that clockwork footman corroborated Mr. Brigham's tale. For that matter, so did that charming trio at the Exhibition, including poor Carmine. Everyone left before two, and Dalziel was alive at ten to four.”

Vague memories stirred, a crowded bar, a cuckoo clock cackling madly. “So either they're all lying, or this crazed killer returns afterwards. Perhaps Carmine and Dalziel saw something at that party they weren't meant to see.”

“Or did something that raised the killer's ire.”

“So he gifted their souls to the Devil,” she mused. “Vengeance . . . but for what?”

Lafayette crossed his eyes.

“It sounds ridiculous,” she admitted. “Maybe the killer faked the whole thing. Made this
look
like black magic, to cover his true motive.”

Her skin prickled. His true motive . . . or his usual method. A method so singular, it was burned into the memory of every police officer and thief-taker and vigilante prowler in London.

No, it didn't ring true. Hiding wasn't Mr. Todd's style. Besides, he was never caught unprepared. He'd dispatched each of his seventeen victims with an ivory-handled straight razor. Even those he hadn't strictly planned to kill.

“So far as you seen,” put in Lizzie, who suddenly lounged in the corner, tossing the bloodstained pliers from hand to hand. “Who knows what mad arsepokery that loon gets up to? Remember what he told you? ‘Shadow don't always behave.'”

“What's that?” Lafayette eyed Eliza strangely.

“Nothing,” she lied. “Something Mr. Fairfax at Bethlem Asylum used to say about lunatics.”

Lafayette was already hunting through papers on the desk. “Accounts, sketches, diaries, the usual. Some in Italian, some in English.” He hefted a leather purse. “A lot of gold for a penniless artist.”

“Not if he's a thief and a con man.”

“Look at this.” He handed her a torn scrap of paper, and she read aloud.

               
Your assistance in this matter is

               
appreciated. Proceed tonight as planned,

               
and we shall meet afterwards,

               
when the thing is done.

                    
DF

She frowned. “Dalziel Fleet?”

“No salutation. Seems strange. What ‘thing is done'?”

She dug in her bag for the papers they'd taken from Dalziel's closet. “These might help. Could that one be a reply?”

Together, they sorted through them. “Sketches,” said Lafayette, “and scraps. I don't see . . . Wait, do you smell that? Something spoiled, or . . . yes.” He ferreted out a crinkled page.

               
Canvas 6' x 4'

               
Ormond's best varnish, 2qt

               
New liniment

               
Linseed oil, special

               
Enamel (gray)

               
Cochineal—not from Maw's!

               
Horsehair, 1 oz.

               
Ethyl alcohol

She eyed it dubiously. “An odiferous art supply list? How is that relevant?”

“Your confidence staggers me. Observe the initial letters of each line.”

“CON LECHE,” she read. “An acrostic? They did tell me you were clever for a man.”

“That candle stub, if you please.”

She lit the wick. He held the paper a few inches above the flame . . . and
between
the inked lines, new letters charred and smoked.

“Milk!” she exclaimed. “Cleverly unearthed, sir. I take back everything I said about you.”

Lafayette grinned, satisfied. “Doctor, I present a secret letter.”

I beg you do not ignore this.

We must speak in secret before tonight's

Conclave. I can not write what I know

or our Master will discover me. He is a

Traitor and Wicked beyond sense. If we

do not unmask Him everything is lost.

He will be the End of us all.

She ran her thumb over the blackened writing. “Carmine's hand? The syntax is a little stilted, as one might expect. Who is this ‘master'? Does he mean an artist?”

“Or someone who murdered two men rather than be ‘unmasked.'”

“The leader of their alleged black magic hocus-pocus?” she scoffed. “Please.”

“Give me a better explanation for that.” He pointed to the savaged body. “Magic is a capital crime. If someone threatened to expose you, wouldn't you take drastic steps?”

Think on whether it'd serve you well to oblige me,
hissed Moriarty Quick in her mind, and behind Lafayette, Lizzie mimed wringing a scrawny Irish neck.

“Yes,” admitted Eliza, “but I wouldn't torture a man to death.”

“You might if you worshipped the devil.”

“I suppose this could be a bad attempt at blackmail. Carmine and Dalziel threaten this ‘master,' he kills them before they proceed. But it all supposes this fabled coven actually exists, and the ‘master' truly has something to hide.”

Lafayette shrugged, non-committal. “Time we looked more closely at that dinner guest list.”

She gathered her things, glad to be leaving that ravaged corpse behind. But something Lafayette had said gnawed at the edges of her mind.
An interest of mine.
Why an interest in witchcraft? “What happened to those witches you investigated, by the way?”

“Superstition and foolishness, the lot of it.” Lafayette's expression was grim as they exited the room. “But they believed it. And the Royal burned them all.”

Outside, she peeled off her gloves, squinting in foggy sunshine. Zanotti's tumbledown tenement teetered among its fellows with an apologetic air. “What now? Do we call the police?”

Lafayette brushed dirt from his coattails. Muddy rats scattered away from his boots. “I suppose we must. Let Reeve make a mess of it.”

Hippocrates scuttled beneath the wooden steps, pouncing on a squirming rat. “Mess,” he echoed gleefully. “Evidence inconclusive. Information please.”

They sloshed towards Upper Thames Street and Blackfriars Bridge. “We labor under no dearth of suspects,” admitted Eliza, whisking her skirts from the mud. “Any of the twenty dinner-party guests could have done it. If it truly was only a dinner.”

“Everyone at the house said so.” Lafayette hopped across a wide puddle, offering his hand.

She took it and jumped, boots sinking into the gloop on the other side. “That's what disturbs me.”

“Disturbed!” yelled Hipp, splashing up and down in the noisome gutter. “Disturb-urb-urb . . .”

“Well, conjecture never solved a case. I must collect more samples, perform my analyses.” She gritted her teeth. “Assuming Reeve will let me see Dalziel's cadaver, which he won't.”

“Oh, the body isn't at the police morgue.” Lafayette grinned. “The weeping widow wouldn't allow it, and Reeve didn't dare insist. It's at an undertaker's near Regent's Park, for embalming. Not that you'd be interested.”

“Embalming!” trumpeted a mud-spattered Hipp. “Data destroyed! Make greater speed!”

Eliza groaned. “Why does no one understand about preserving evidence? It's hardly multi-dimensional physics. We must examine the body before it's too late.” She adjusted her bag over her shoulder. “Well, shall we risk Scotland Yard's awe-inspiring displeasure?”

“You go ahead. I've a report to make. Ritual magic, ahoy! Lady Lovelace will adore me forever.”

Just the mention of that name bristled Eliza's hackles. “How nice for you,” she said coolly.

Lafayette laughed. “Not really. After the way that Chopper business ended—you might recall wolves were involved?—I had to invent a lot of stories. Convincing her I'm playing for her team is hard work. Being utterly merciless with a murdering Satanist ought to earn me a few points.”

“You could tell her about my elixir,” suggested Eliza, half joking. “That'd win her over.” But she squirmed, all too aware that it wasn't funny. He'd everything to gain from betraying her.

“Now you're being ridiculous.”

“Just what she needs, isn't it, to heal those dying half-flesh abortions of hers?”

Lafayette stopped walking.

“Did Lizzie visit you last night?” She wanted to slap a hand over her mouth, but the question had already bolted.

“Yes.” He didn't flinch from the truth. Never did.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“You didn't ask.” His eyes narrowed. “Don't you remember?”

Dream shards whirled, colliding. A midnight street, a snake man snapping rotted fangs. A fat Chinaman's sidelong smile.
Is that what I am, an AFFLICTION?
Crisp hair in her fists, the bright shock of a kiss, smoke and blood and carnal pleasure . . . and a flash of bloodsoaked steel.

Lizzie's guilt swamped her, a rising tide. “Something terrible happened,” she spluttered. “What did Lizzie do? Tell me!”

“I don't know,” insisted Lafayette. “We spoke, that's all. Argued about you, if you must know. Then she left.”

The pink remedy frothed up in her throat, aggressively sweet, and with it bubbled unnatural suspicion. Her fingers clenched stubbornly. “Is that all?”

He laughed. “Would you like me to say we met for some illicit lovers' tryst?”

“Yes, if it's true. I remember . . .” Her face burned, surely the color of beetroot. “Lizzie was with someone. Was it you?”

“No.” Not a flicker. “I don't want secrets between us. Do you truly believe I'd lie?”

“Of course not. I just . . . Where did she find you? What were you doing in that place?” A dark den writhing with green smoke, strangers whispering in French, absinthe's licorice lure. Not a classy establishment.

“I'm working for my brother. Official business. I'm afraid I can't tell you.”

“Involving un-deported enemies of the state? Hardly likely to endear you to Lady Lovelace.”

Lafayette didn't drop his gaze. “If it were my choice, I'd tell you everything, but the secrecy's for your protection. And before you ask, I didn't tell Lizzie either.”

Now she couldn't meet his eyes. It was
she
who was keeping secrets. How she longed to scream them to the sky, heave this horrid weight from her heart and be free.
Yes, I wrote to Malachi Todd. Yes, I begged him not to kill anyone else, because he imagines himself in love with me and I thought he'd listen, but it didn't work. He kills to get my attention. He's the reason I can't marry you. Now tell me I'm a weak, irrational, unprincipled woman and leave me be!

But her throat swelled tight, and she couldn't speak.

With a sigh, Lafayette ruffled his hair. “I realize this is difficult. But if Lizzie's a separate person, with affairs of her own, then what right have I to discuss her behind her back? And if she isn't, then . . . well, the mind boggles.”

She gave a half-laugh, half-shrug. “I don't know. I'm sorry. I just . . .”

“You just what? Don't trust her?” Surprised laughter. “Won't you please tell me what's bothering you?”

She squared her shoulders. “What bothers me, Captain, is that I know so little about you. Specifically, your job for the Royal
bothers
me. What exactly do you
do
?”