Tenfold More Wicked (22 page)

A twinge of sympathy surprised her. Lafayette hadn't said the word “fey.” Hadn't glanced at the clear fluid oozing from the bailiff's misshapen hands. He didn't need to. The fellow knew too well the danger he was in.

“Then do it better,” said Lafayette. “Replace those items immediately, or I'll have you investigated for taking bribes in public office.”

The bailiff's green jowls wobbled, hidden gills bubbling wet. “I'm fully invested—”

“Oh, are you an idiot? My apologies. I'll translate into smaller words.” In a purple-crackled blur, Lafayette leveled his pistol at the man's eyeball. “Belay my lady's things, or I'll shoot all three of you for the dirty thieves you are.”

Crash!
The lackeys dropped her table and backed off. Passers-by stopped to watch.

Humph. Gratifying, to be sure, but the nasty amphibian fellow had
ignored
her. Whereas because Lafayette was an officer . . . and a Royal Society agent . . . and a
man
. . .

“Who cares?” crowed Lizzie, a flash of red skirts beneath the steps. “Getting us what we want, ain't he? Caught in a lie, you fat fuck. Sheriff's office, my arse.”

Lafayette flicked a glance at her door. “Go on, back to where you found it. Good lads. Not a scratch, mind.”

“You heard him.” The bailiff sounded resigned.

His men obeyed, and triumphantly, Eliza snatched the paperwork away. “I'll get to the bottom of this. You can tell
your
friend
Professor Quick”—she salted the name with sarcasm—“that I'll see him in court.”

“In a dark alley, more like,” muttered Lizzie. The bailiff and his men shambled away, and she spat after them, cursing. “Hope that crackbrain Todd really
is
watching us. He'll slit your pudgy throat, frog man. And Moriarty friggin' Quick's, and all . . .”

For once, Eliza's respect for due process seemed foolish and naive. Her lovely furniture knocked about by idiots. Ugly boots trampling her carpets. Her housekeeper
manhandled
. That thieving Irishman deserved harsher justice. Didn't he?

Oblivious, Lafayette powered down his pistol,
hiss-flick!
“That was unpleasant.”

“Thank you for your help, Captain. What despicable fellows. I'm sure I can take it from here.” Eliza kept her voice light. He meant well. But the idea of needing his help—his very presence, forever popping up at her side whenever she felt vulnerable—bristled her hackles. “My lady,” he'd said. As if he
claimed
her.

“So who's this Professor Quick?” Concern lit his face. It looked genuine. What expression of his didn't?

She sighed, and explained about Quick's harassment. “I expect I'm the victim of a scam,” she finished. “But what can I do, other than fight it in court?”

“Did he threaten you?” Matter-of-fact, grim. “Physically, I mean. You could report him for assault.”

“Not exactly.” Memory flickered, a blurred cinematograph of Quick at the Cockatrice. He'd grabbed Lizzie, laughed . . .

“Could he be responsible for sabotaging your pet? Likely that's some misdemeanor they could arrest him for.”

“I hadn't thought of that,” she admitted, recalling poor Hipp lying in pieces upstairs. “He claimed to be an old acquaintance of Mr. Finch's, and to know something of my, er, medicines.”

“Ah.” Lafayette grimaced in sympathy. “A pity. Anything I can do?”

Her belly heated. How tempting, to set the Royal on Moriarty Quick . . . But this didn't add up. If Quick merely wanted money, why falsify such a large claim, so easily challenged? He could simply have blackmailed her in private, risk-free.

No, Quick didn't want money. He wanted attention. He wanted not to be ignored.

At her side, Lizzie grinned like a hungry eel. “Why, then, we'll give 'im just that. Only he won't enjoy my attention so much as he thinks.”

Eliza managed a smile. “I believe I can deal with it.”

“I'm sure you can,” said Lafayette, “but—”

“Peace, Captain. You can't imprison everyone who looks at me the wrong way.”
Or murder them,
she nearly added.
No, that's Mr. Todd's job.

Lafayette grinned. “Actually, I can. Perquisite of the badge.”

And now she couldn't meet his eye.

“Well,” he added, “I'm sure your affairs are in perfect order. If ever you should need a loan, I can put you in touch.”

She flushed. He meant a gift. A second son, to be sure, but he'd made his own fortune in India. Fifty-six pounds would be nothing. But the air twanged taut like wire with what he
hadn't
said.

Quick's vexatious lawsuit, her dearth of employment, her refusal to share in Mr. Hyde's ill-gotten gains. All her financial worries would vanish—
if
she agreed to be Lafayette's wife.

Her courage quailed. How easy, to reject responsibility and ambition. To allow oneself to be taken care of, like a child . . . or a pet. But the very idea stung her teeth hollow. “You're very kind, but I'm sure I can solve my own problems. Did I tell you I found Dalziel's face? The painted version, I mean, from that picture torn down from the safe. The killer cut the face out and stuffed it down Dalziel's throat.”

“You don't say. What on earth for?”

“I intend to find out. We must re-examine the dinner guests, find this Dr. Silberman. Any one of them could be next.”

“Silberman it is.” Lafayette studied his fingernails. “I've business with my brother this afternoon. Sure you wouldn't care to meet him?”

Invisible walls closed in around her. Meeting his family made it
real
. How close were the brothers? Did this François know about Remy's curse? About
her
? “I couldn't possibly impose—”

“He asks after you, you know. He's dubbed you my Mythical Mistress of Mystery. Which,” Lafayette added airily, “rather paints me into a corner where denials are concerned. If I say, ‘Don't be ridiculous, François, she isn't mythical,' then
he
says—”

“Yes,” she cut in coolly, “I see the potential for your feeble schoolboy hilarities. But not today, I'm afraid. I must seek Mr. Finch's advice. Perhaps this Quick can be dissuaded with common sense.”

The falsehood clanged, harsh discord. Lizzie's rash eagerness to act boiled Eliza's blood, made her reckless in turn. Lafayette was no fool. Surely, he'd call her on her lies, ask what she was truly planning.

But he just made an elegant bow. “Another time, then. I'll call this evening if I'm able. Good day, Doctor.”

“Good day, Captain.” She watched him go, perplexed. His generous resourcefulness impressed and maddened her at the same time. She needed to fight her own battles. If she wedded, it'd be because she
wanted
to. Not because it was expedient or cheap. And certainly not on a girlish whim.

Besides, in the dark depths of her heart, she'd a niggling idea about exactly how to deal with Moriarty Quick.

Aye, we most certainly do.

I
DID WARN YOU, DEAR GIRL,” REMARKED MARCELLUS
Finch sadly, tipping powder into the silver hopper of his pill machine. Midday sun glared, and the coal fire glowed, overheating the pharmacy to sweating.

“He approached
me,
” Eliza protested. “Twice. Then this morning, he takes my furniture! Those odious bailiffs wouldn't listen to a word. It was only fortunate that Captain Lafayette happened to pass by.” Impatiently, she wiped perspiration from her cheek. She'd wanted to quiz Finch about that angry pink remedy, but it hardly seemed the time. “This Professor Quick. Is he a colleague of yours?”

Zealously, Finch yanked the machine's handle, stamping a new row of pills in a cloud of funny-smelling dust. “Pah! Quick's no professor. Haven't seen the sneaky charlatan for years. Bad circus act, I've always said so. Snake oil, flim-flam, blue-sky concoctions. As likely to kill you as cure.”

“He told me he specializes in unorthodox pharmaceuticals.”

“Dark alchemy, he means. Nose-poking where noses shouldn't poke, say what?”

“Like that exploding hallucinogen?” She'd sent to Finch by courier those tissue samples from Dalziel's corpse, to help identify the substance. So far, no luck. “I thought alchemy didn't differentiate between good and evil.”

“It doesn't. But the flow of life force is directional, eh? The Worshipful Company of Alchemists—long since disbanded, and good thing, too, the persnickety old fools. Honestly, all that trouble about galvanism and homicidal body-snatchers and the proper Latin word for ‘electric shock.' Anyhow, back in the day, the guild mandated rules.” Finch popped a misshapen pill into his mouth and crunched. “Oh, that's foul. A pinch more caterpillar brains. Hand me that nutcracker, would you? Like any science,” he continued, bashing a pile of dried grubs to dust, “we've basic laws that can't be fooled with. Up versus down, light versus its absence. Subvert those, it gets messy, doesn't it? Can open, worms wriggling all over the joint, say what?”

On the wall, the obligatory portrait of the Philosopher—imperious and arrogant, at the height of his near-miraculous powers—glared down in tacit disapproval. She resisted a bright urge to tear it down and stamp on it.

“But how did Quick find out about me?”

Finch poked a finger into his mouth. Withdrew it stained blue, and frowned at it, cross-eyed. “Trust me, dear girl: you don't want to know. Quick has loathsome ways.”

Her rebellious flesh crawled, and she squirmed, overheating.
Shut up, Lizzie. Keep out of this. We're doing it my way.
She pulled out her remedy—that gleaming pink poison—and gulped. Her heart rate jumped, her vision swimming. It didn't help. She swallowed more, gasping at the chill in her gullet.

“I say, don't gobble that! I said one drop only.”

Unnatural suspicion slithered in her veins. “Why? What does it do? To whom else have you given this?”

His gaze shifted, sullen. “No one.”

“Marcellus,” she warned.

“Hereditary afflictions,” he muttered. “Same blood, same medicine. Worth a try.”

She gaped. “You made this for Edward Hyde?”

“It was supposed to help,” protested Finch. “He was raving. Eddie's no longer two people, remember. He's only
him
. I thought a dualistic stimulus might calm him down.”

“You tried to
cure
my father? What kind of hare-brained idea was that?” Her palms itched to strangle Finch. Already, the strange pink drug sprinted laps in her skull, whooping and turning cartwheels like an over-eager village idiot.

“Experimental, dear girl. Cutting edge, final frontier, all that. Worked about as well as you're thinking, too,” he added glumly. “Still, science is never wasted.”

“But . . .” She clenched shaking fists. Finch's loyalty had always been to Hyde first, to everything else second. “We'll discuss this later. Quick said I should tell you he ‘hasn't forgotten.' What did he mean?”

Feverishly, Finch hammered his caterpillars. “Who knows? He's a maniac! Off his rocker. Marbles reported missing. A spanner short of the toolbox, say what?”

“Marcellus, tell me what's going on, or I shall tickle you into a shivering heap.”

“You wouldn't dare.”

Eliza arched her brows, waiting.

He sighed, and from a drawer he pulled a faded sepia photograph.

Her heart sank. A dusty laboratory, men in old-fashioned stiff-necked suits. “Another of my father's shady colleagues? I swear, Mr. Finch, one day I shall tie you to a chair with a pen in your hand, and you shall write me an essay entitled ‘Mad Scientists Who Worked with Henry Jekyll,' just to ensure there will be no more surprises.”

She recognized most of the men by name. Henry, of course, beside a bright-eyed and boyish Finch. Arrogant Mr. Fairfax, the late surgeon of Bethlem. Victor Frankenstein, the eccentric from Geneva with his macabre electrical machines. And poor Mr. Faraday, so admired by Lady Lovelace and burned for defying the Philosopher's rules.

She frowned. “But I know nearly all these people. Quick isn't here.”

“Isn't supposed to be in it, that's why. Perilous experiments, widely ill thought of. Volatile chemicals, incantations, hocus-pocus. Henry ejected him from the cabal, you know, which considering what Henry got up to . . . well, even Victor denounced Quick for a madman.” He pointed to a fuzzy shape in the background. A man bending over, fiddling with a retort, half hidden amongst lab equipment. “There's Quick, sneaking about like a spider. Lab assistant, pah! Meddler, more like.”

“So what happened?”

Ruefully, Finch scratched his head. “I told you I was once investigated by the Royal? Quick's fault, naturally. Wise Marcellus talked his way out of it.” He tapped a sly finger beside his nose. “For Moriarty, fourteen years in Van Diemen's Land.
Chain gangs, cannibals, floggings before tea, and desperately unfashionable arrows on your clothes, eh?”

“Transported? Don't the Royal execute alchemists?”

“Ah, but the magistrate interfered, didn't he, and a deal was done. A matter of missing persons. Strange cuts of meat roasting in Quick's kitchen. Horrid stench, neighbors complaining. Only escaped a hanging because no one could prove he actually killed anyone.”

“So you two are enemies? What does he hope to gain from tormenting me? Revenge on you? Hardly seems reasonable.”

“Reason, sadly, is not Moriarty's defining characteristic.”

I'm a rational man,
whispered Mr. Todd in her ear. She shivered. What did “rational” mean to a murderer?

She eyed Finch sternly. “Fabulous. I'm so pleased you didn't mention all this earlier.”

“Eh? Don't mumble, dear girl. Can't understand a word you're saying.” Finch blinked vaguely at the bailiff's summons. “Fifty-six pounds? Gadzooks. Paying the odious fellow off would be easiest. Don't suppose your young man's got the pocket change?”

“More,” she admitted. “But I can't accept such an enormous gift, and I certainly shan't marry him for it.”

“Wise, dear girl, very wise. Besides, if you pay up this time, what's to stop Quick coming back?”

Me,
muttered Lizzie, roiling in brackish depths.
Just let me at 'im with a carving knife and we'll see who comes out second best . . .

“Can't we just have him re-arrested?” Eliza cut in hastily. “You said he's a convicted felon.”

“Double jeopardy, eh? Can't transport a man twice. No, I fear it's Chancery for us.” Finch sniffed gloomily. “I suppose we ought to discuss lawyers. Miserly space-wasters, the lot of them. Bottom of the Thames, say what?”

Interminable hours later—was it only three o'clock?—Eliza closed her front door, exhausted after an afternoon at Finch's, discussing counsel, applications, hearings. Her mind boggled in protest, and Lizzie thrashed beneath her skin, demanding to be free.
Who cares about god-rotted lawyers? Put this arsehole Quick in a box and be done.

Eliza's head throbbed. She wasn't a murderer. She didn't take justice into her own hands. She'd see to Quick the legal, civilized way. But her vision doubled repeatedly, edged with glaring rainbows, as if she viewed the world through two sets of eyes: one in ordinary colors and the other . . .

Mrs. Poole emerged, dusting floury hands. “Back at last? What was all that fuss this morning?”

Invisible centipedes crawled all over Eliza's body, pincers nipping at her skin. She wanted to slap them, force her thrashing flesh still. “What? Oh. Just a silly misunderstanding. I really must go—”

“Lucky that handsome captain of yours showed up. Flashy fellow, isn't he? Fancies himself, for certain.”

“Couldn't agree more.” Her chest bulged, a creature inside writhing to escape. Lizzie would burst out, and Mrs. Poole wouldn't be able to pretend anymore. The lie they'd enjoyed all these years—the pleasant fiction that she wasn't thrusting
the dear woman into terrible danger, every day of her life—would be over.

“Quite the show-off,” added Mrs. Poole blandly. “Anyone would think him desperate to impress you—”

“Forgive me, I've much work to do.” Eliza scooted into her consulting room, slammed the door, and doubled over, clutching her guts. Oh, God, it
hurts
. Our lungs burn, a hot autopsy knife levering our ribs apart. Our chest bursts like ripe fruit, and
pop!,
out I splurt, screaming bloody vengeance.

My reflection looms in the mantel mirror, pale-faced and glitter-eyed like a consumptive. My itching hair hangs in a madwoman's hanks. I fumble for our corset, the damned buttons won't open, I scrabble until the dress tears and I let out a raw-throated yell.

Fuck me, I'm so furious it's shredding my insides. Why can't she ever do what's best for us?
Civilized way,
my arse.
I'll
put that weasel Quick right, and it won't be Miss Lizzie coming off second best.

I hurl Eliza's spectacles away. She's got mail, a folded note. A visiting card drops out.

M
ISS
P
ENELOPE
W
ATT

I grab a pen and scribble
THE
LIAR!
after her name.

               
Dr. Jekyll,

               
We met only briefly, but I feel I can trust

               
you implicitly. I must speak with you in

               
strictest confidence. Might I call this

               
evening for an appointment?

                    
Your friend,

                    
PW

I snort. Whatever you say, you tight-laced hussy. Here's a telegraph ticker tape, too.

PROF QUICK: DANGEROUS FELON.

AVOID AT ALL COSTS. HG.

Well, thank you, Inspector Obvious. I toss it aside, and find what I'm seeking.

P
ROFESSOR
M
ORIARTY
Q
UICK!

P
OTIONS!
L
OTIONS!

E
FFICACIOUS
P
HARMACEUTICALS!

T
HE
B
EST IN
T
OWN!

My damp fingers crush the pasteboard.
Best in town,
indeed. Time for palaver, Professor Dangerous Felon.

But I can't go undefended. The memory of Mr. Todd's breath still creeps over my skin, a hungry rose-scented spider. I ain't safe.
We
ain't.

I raid the drawers for a weapon, any weapon. And unseen, I slip out.