The Diabolical Miss Hyde (31 page)

“Mr. Todd?” Her knees shook, and she steadied herself on the rough wall. Shadows snaked across the bricks. Instinctively, she stepped towards the light.

At her back, the door squeaked shut.

She whirled, stumbling backwards, away. And behind her, gentle hands caught her waist and set her on her feet.

Her heart jittered. His breath was delicate on her hair like a spider. His body's strange warm aura, that tiny sound as he licked his lips . . .

Sweating, she jerked away and turned.

From the corner, Mr. Todd gave her his secret green-eyed smile. As always, the light seemed to seek him out, curling over his thin frame, his stained white shirt, licking his crimson hair with fire. He held a book, one finger along the spine to mark his place.

No shackles. No chains. Nothing.

“How the raindrops glitter in your hair,” he remarked. “Jeweled like a medieval queen. Shall I compose a sonnet to your loveliness?”

She realized she was crushing her bag and forced her fingers to relax. “A poet as well as an artist? I'm impressed.”

“And I'm flattered, but it's a matter of cruel necessity.” He rubbed his red head against the wall,
scritch-scratch,
and tapped an agitated fingertip on the bricks beside his thigh. “I have no paints. No
tools
. My inspiration overflows and runs to ruin. Alas, one must make do. And now here you are,” he added with a cunning grin. “My muse, delicate as a rose and clever as thorns. And all I have are words. What a shocking waste.”

“Will doesn't allow you to paint?”

“William? He'd positively adore a painting, especially one of you. No, no, it's Fairfax. Afraid I'll stab him in the throat with a paintbrush.” Todd looked faintly disgusted. “Honestly. Of all the revolting ideas. I say ‘one makes do,' but . . .”

She swallowed, avoiding his direct gaze. “What are you reading?”

“Ah. The lunatic educates himself. What could it be? Machiavelli, you're thinking? Rousseau? De Quincey, perhaps, on the art of murder?” He showed her the book's frontispiece. “Merely Alhazen,
De Aspectibus
. A frightful translation, but it gets the gist. He pointed a telescope at the stars five hundred years before Galileo.”

“And what did he see?”

“Stars, of course. What did you expect he'd see?”

How long since Mr. Todd had gazed up at the stars? Since he'd seen the sky?

He put the book aside. “Did you know that Mr. Newton would have tossed his new color-corrected reflecting telescope in the closet and forgotten about it, if his friends hadn't
presented it to the Royal Society on his behalf? If only the fellow had stuck to optics,” he added slyly, “instead of all that futile messing about with
aqua vitae
. What a world we'd be living in.”

He caught her gaze at last. Bloodshot green eyes, ringed dark with fatigue. A burn shone angry and wet on his forehead. He wiped his nose, smearing blood.

Her breath caught. “You're injured. What happened?”

Todd smiled at his bloodied hand. “Ah. Fairfax's idea of hospitality. He has this peculiar notion that electric shocks will make me like him better. Perhaps he should try boiled sweets.”

Eliza's skin wriggled, a living coat of worms. “Does it . . . is it painful?”

“Pain is life, Eliza. It sharpens the appreciation. He tries to hypnotize me, you know,” he added carelessly. “What a charlatan. Forces frightful purple concoctions down my throat and peppers me with erotically charged questions about blood and razors and such. Fairfax, I told him, you execrable excuse for a human being, you've no need to ply me with narcotics to get your way. If you require instruction, all you have to do is ask.”

She recalled Fairfax's description of his horrid new regime. How she longed to grab Todd, examine him, quantify the damage. He could have a concussion. Blood clots. Nerve damage. Worse.

She twisted her hands. “What exactly has he done to you?”

“This morning, you mean? Didn't he tell you? I call it ‘Fairfax's Fun with Wire.' Anything you can jab an electrode into is fair game.” Todd sneezed, and more blood splashed his
hand. He wiped it on his already filthy sleeve, clicking his tongue in annoyance. “I say. Anyone would think me a common convict.”

She laughed shakily. “Mr. Todd, I assure you, you're far from common.”

“You're too kind.” He tugged a singed red lock over his forehead, frowning at it cross-eyed. “William insisted on cutting my burned hair. Dear boy, he finds any excuse to touch me. Do you like it? Tell me. I won't be affronted.”

His hair had always fascinated her. Rude, almost. Too outrageous to be real. Today it was shorter, the ends snipped raggedly, but still it sprang wild, refusing to be domesticated, a rakish lock falling over one bruised cheekbone. Vividly, she recalled the fresh, clean scent of it, the softness as it brushed her cheek . . .

“Uh . . . certainly,” she stammered. “Most fetching. I say, Will mentioned a certain book—”

“I do apologize for my appearance, you know. Ordinarily I'd never court a lady in such a shabby state.”

She tried to keep it light. “How scandalous. Is that what we're doing, then? Courting?”

“A tryst in a secret library, no less? Alone by electric light, amid the perfume of blood and excrement, the howls of lunatics our serenade? What else would you call it?”

Sweat trickled into her collar, and she wished for Lizzie's courage, to obey her instincts, do as she pleased. She wanted to run. Yell for Will. Sink her fingers into that scorched crimson hair, soothe that bruised skin . . .

She shivered.
Lizzie, help me.

But Lizzie didn't answer.

“After all,” added Todd softly, “you chose the venue. ‘Not guilty by reason of insanity.' What an odd thing for you to say about me. Anyone would think us enemies.”

His accusation stabbed her, a guilt-poisoned blade. But guilt for what? Condemning Todd to this sordid den of despair? Or because her testimony had saved the life of a multiple murderer? “We all do what we must, Mr. Todd.”

“Don't we.” He walked towards the light. “William tells me you're searching for certain books.”

A knot in her stomach loosened, just a little. “Yes. I'm investigating a case, and . . .”

“So I've heard.” He grinned, glittery like false gold. “I did enjoy Mr. Temple's garish little tract.
Slaughter at the Egyptian! A Tale of Magical Murder!
Flamboyant fellow, isn't he? Temple, I mean, not our friend ‘the Chopper.' I should say
his
talents run more to the aesthetic.”

She thought of Todd's painting of drowning Ophelia, that beautiful corpse drifting in black water. “How did you know about that?”

“William brought me a copy. He and Mr. Temple are great friends, you know. Or perhaps you didn't.” Todd sniffed. “I don't like the fellow, frankly. He wrote about me, you'll recall, in most uncomplimentary terms. ‘Lurid' was the word he used. One could speak of stones and glass houses.”

She made a mental note to ask Will: Had Temple recently visited Bethlem? And why? “I didn't mean the pamphlet. I meant the second victim. You knew this miscreant would repeat his crime in similar fashion. How?”

“I say, it's getting rather late. You look tired.” Todd leaned
idly beside a stack of books. “After such a sleepless night, too. Your shadow's been busy.”

She laughed, shaky. “Such things you say, Mr. Todd. One wonders if you invent them on the spot.”

“Come, you know me better.” He flicked a speck of grime from his sleeve, but his handsome mouth twisted at the corner. “I confess I'm envious. It must be so exciting for you, watching from a distance. Tell me: Do you think she's tempting you? Or trying to frighten you away? I found that a difficult dilemma. For a while.”

She had to look away, trembling. The impossibility of his insight terrified her. Surely, he was only teasing . . . “I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”

“You're lying.” Suddenly his tone sliced exquisitely. “Don't insult me.”

Silence stretched, just the lamp's fairy-fire gleam and the beating of her heart.

“Your trace evidence will lead nowhere,” added Todd blandly, as if he hadn't digressed, and the tense silence snapped like spun glass. He picked at the brick wall and examined his fingernail with a frown. “If you're going to catch your man, you must first understand him.”

“But how?” Her courage shrank. Understanding a killer. She'd edged far too close to that already.

“Come, it's elementary. Just watch what he's doing. He's a shy fellow, can't you see, but he thinks things through.”

“I don't follow you.”

Todd sighed. “How would you characterize the murder scenes?”

“Well, the victims are—”

“No, no,” said Todd impatiently, “I said ‘characterize,' not ‘describe.' Who is this fellow's god? What guides him? To what does he aspire?”

A dull ache flared behind her eyes. Was this a test? “No blood splashes, no mess,” she said at last. “It's all very tidy. He aims not to shock, but . . .”

“But what?”

She squirmed under his scrutiny. “His method is elaborate. He's spent time selecting these victims, developing his method, looking for escape routes. It's . . . precise. Mathematical.”

“Just so!” A taint of sarcasm. “The effort he puts into planning his scenarios is special. He likes order. He likes things to be just as they should be. What does that say to you?”

She stammered. “Well . . .”

“It says that he
cares,
Eliza. He wants this very badly. His killings are acts of seduction. This is how your artist makes love.”

“But . . .” Frustration gripped her, a dull student who couldn't follow her master's lessons. “If he's in love with his victims, why kill them? Anger, perhaps, he finds he can't perform as he wishes . . .”

“Oh, I shouldn't say so.” A bright red smile. “The
tableaux
positively exude joyous abandon. He's happy with his results. Your Moorfields Monster,
au contraire
? Now
there's
an angry lad. Such primitive duality dwells in the human spirit. It's enchanting.”

“Jealousy, then. The victims loved other men . . .”

“The hands were damaged,” interrupted Todd, “did you see that?”

“I'm sorry?”

“Disappearing Ophelia's hands. They were disfigured somehow, yes?”

“How did you know that?” she demanded breathlessly, for what seemed like the dozenth time that evening. “We kept that little fact out of the papers. And Mr. Temple's pamphlet.”

“Have you ever studied a ballerina's feet, Eliza?” Todd's sharp nose twitched. “How those ladies suffer for their art.”

“I don't follow.”

“Try harder.” Todd reached out one palm. A scar glistened on his wrist beneath his sleeve, the mark of a manacle. “Show me your hands.”

He hadn't moved. Hadn't edged closer. But suddenly the walls shuddered inwards. The cell threatened, frighteningly dark and cramped.

“Come, I shan't kill you with a paintbrush.” A delicate grin. “Supposing I had one handy.”

She held her breath and offered her right hand.

He took it, and light as a butterfly's wing, eased away her glove. Traced one fingertip over her palm, that all-too-familiar search for reaction.

She gasped. So sensitive. His fingertip so smooth and warm. What if he touched her face, as he'd done that night long ago, his strange scent alive, his breath tingling on her cheek, until . . .

Or maybe he'd kill her. He'd no weapons. It didn't matter. Doubtless he could end her life as easily with his bare hands. Artist's fingers, well-trained, so precise as they sought that fragile place in her throat and
squeezed . . .

Mr. Todd trailed his finger over her knuckles, where her skin was roughened from work. Over the edge of her forefinger, tough from holding scalpel or curette. Between her thumb and fingers, where an old cut still stung faintly, unhealed. She wanted him to press harder. Press his lips to the aching spot and taste her, the way he'd tasted her blood long ago . . .

“Look,” he whispered, “at what your work makes of you.
Now
do you see?”

A doctor's scars. A ballerina's tortured feet. And poor Ophelia's broken hands . . .

“He's removing the damaged parts,” she blurted out. “He's making them perfect.”

Todd smiled faintly and tucked his hands behind his back, and Eliza realized she'd snatched her hand away.

Fresh bitterness stung her heart. He lived alone here, in the dark, his only company Will and Fairfax and broken men who screamed. Her visit, this conversation . . . probably the most interesting thing that had happened to him for weeks.

Of course he'd try to fascinate her. He wanted her to come back.

“But the next victim could be anyone,” she covered in a rush. “We could search for injured women, deformed women, those in the public eye somehow . . . but it's a long shot. I must know how he's doing it.” She tugged back an escaped wisp of hair. “This electrical machine he's using, I must know what it is. Will mentioned a scientist's journal . . .”

“Oh, you mean this?” From behind him, Todd produced a blackened book.

The tooled leather cover was scarred, burned. Sinister. “What is it?”

“I had an inkling you'd be interested. Do you read German?”

“Only a little.”

“Well, never mind. There are illustrations enough, and what Latin he uses is tolerable. The man was a visionary, for certain.” A twinkle of knowing eyes. “I should have liked very much to see his inventions brought to life.”

Her fingers tingled, eager. “Who's the author?”

“You'll see.” He made no move to give it to her. “When you discover your Chopper, what will you do?”