Sometime around 10:00 a.m.
Olivia hurried down the street, her feet moved swiftly and surely. Though she was fully aware of her surroundings, she was also lost in thought, trying to determine the number of people she absolutely had to see this morning. She’d awoken after a restless sleep. The conversation she’d had the day before with her sister kept ringing in her mind. She wanted Sophia to have her absolute dream wedding and, if Olivia had anything to say about it, that was exactly the wedding her sister was going to have.
When she arrived at Lady Templeton’s shop, Olivia said a little prayer that the woman would be feeling generous. Lady Templeton was not unkind, but fabricating a wedding dress at little to no cost would test the magnanimity of even the most generous of persons. She pulled the door open, causing the little bell at the top to ring, and heard a feminine voice call from the back of the room.
“Give me just a moment and I will assist you.”
Olivia walked further into the room and looked over the various samples of the Lady Templeton’s work. The dresses were exquisite, true works of art. She ran her fingers down the soft silk and fine lace. They weren’t really the style she would choose for her own wedding, but she knew her sister would love any one of them.
“Olivia.” Lady Templeton’s voice came from just behind her. “How good to see you!”
She turned to face the woman and smiled at the genuine pleasure in the lady’s eyes. Templeton truly was happy to see her, and that helped calm Olivia’s nerves. “It is good to see you, as well.”
“What brings you in today?”
“It’s Sophia,” she began. “She’s to be wed. We haven’t formally announced it, mainly because we haven’t had the invitations made just yet. Dr. Jackson Elliot proposed to her just two days ago. They are to be married in twelve days.”
Lady Templeton couldn’t help the tears that welled up in her eyes. She loved the Hill family. They had endured so much and were continuing to endure much with what Sophia was facing. Knowing that she would have some joy in her life, no matter how short, warmed her heart. “Well, it’s about time,” she said through her tears.
Olivia laughed. “That’s what I said. I finally got Sophia to remember that she’s still alive. Cruel as it sounds, she isn’t dead, yet and she desperately needed to be reminded of that.”
“Bless you for being willing to speak the words that the rest of us aren’t bold enough to say,” Lady Templeton said.
“Now,” Olivia’s voice grew businesslike. “I realize twelve days is not a lot to work with—”
Lady Templeton held up her hand, stopping the young girl from continuing. “I can handle it. This isn’t my first dress, you know.”
Olivia smiled. “No, I suppose it isn’t.” She paused and then gathered her nerves. “In regards to payment…”
Again, Lady Templeton held up her hand. “Your money is no good here, nor is any other form of payment you might come up with. This is my wedding gift to your sister. And please do not argue with me.”
Olivia wasn’t about to argue. She was proud, as was Sophia. But Olivia’s pride had limits, and anything that would help her sister have the special day she deserved was worth swallowing a little pride over. She shouldn’t have doubted for a second that Lady Templeton would do such a thing. The woman’s charitable heart was known around the neighborhood, and Templeton certainly knew the position of the Hill family after their father’s passing. “Then I will simply say thank you, so very much.”
“That I will accept. Now…” Lady Templeton walked over to her work table and picked up her measuring tape. “You and your sister are basically the same size, minus a few inches for her, I think, mostly around the bosom—no offense dear.”
Olivia snorted at the lady’s bluntness. “None taken,” the curvy Olivia said, though she couldn’t suppress a shade of redness that passed across her face.
“I’ll do your measurements, minus an inch of fabric here and there, and then a couple days before the wedding you bring her in for the final fitting so I will have a day to make adjustments.”
Over half an hour later, Olivia was walking down the street once again. Lady Templeton had told her to go on to Mr. Crawley, the baker, and let him know he was to assist Olivia in any way she needed. When Olivia gave her a questioning look, Lady Templeton explained that she used Mr. Crawley’s services for every event she hosted and encouraged all of her brides to do the same. If the man wasn’t willing to do as she wanted, then she would take her business elsewhere. Olivia smiled to herself as she thought about the influence Lady Templeton had in their community, not because she was a bully, but because she was only willing to give her business to people in the neighborhood. She expected kindness and good customer service in return.
When she opened the door to the baker’s shop, another brass bell announced her arrival. The scent of bread and freshly baked cakes enveloped her sense of smell and reminded her of a time when those same aromas came from their own kitchen. It seemed like ages ago since their old cook was working away, baking, and making dinner. She remembered, as a child, running though the kitchen with Sophia getting their hands slapped with a spoon when they tried to snatch food behind the cook’s back. It seemed like a lifetime ago, rather than a decade.
“How can I help you?” A booming voice startled her from her thoughts.
Olivia stepped up to the counter and faced the large man who stood on the other side. Mr. Crawley looked like a man for which quality control was of the utmost importance. Judging by his width, he didn’t let a pastry pass his counter without first having sampled a part of the batch from which it came.
“Lady Templeton sent me,” she said. Mr. Crawley laughed, the sound jovial and lighthearted.
“Did she now? Well, I suppose you better go on and tell me what it is you need. You know it’s never wise to keep the good lady waiting.”
“The order isn’t for her. It’s for my sister, Sophia.”
“Oh?” he asked, his face puzzled. Mr. Crawley couldn’t imagine why Sophia would need his baked goods.
Olivia nodded. “She is to be married in twelve days. Dr. Jackson Elliot asked her, and she said yes.”
He smiled and clapped his hands together, rubbing them as if they were cold. “That is wonderful news.” And he meant it. Everyone was aware of what poor Sophia Hill was facing, and they all wanted to see the young woman have some happiness in her life. “So we need a cake, I presume.”
“Yes, sir.” Olivia beamed back at him. “Lady Templeton—” she began, but as with the dressmaker, Mr. Crawley held up his hand and stopped her.
“This one will be on me. Your sister is a saint. After all she’s done for our community, it’s the least I can do. Do you have any idea of what you’re looking for, or would you like to see some of the samples I have in the back?”
“Actually,” Olivia said with a grin, “I know exactly what she wants.”
Another half hour later, Olivia was standing on the doorstep of Sir and Lady Grummons’ floral boutique. The couple was known to have the most beautiful flowers in all of London, and she could only hope they were feeling just as generous as the first two people she’d seen that day.
“Why are you standing out there staring at my shop, Olivia Hill?” Lady Grummons said as the door flew open, and a woman poked her head out of the building. “We have work to do.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Olivia asked, her brow drawing tightly together.
“I said we have work to do. You’re too young to be going deaf. Now get in here so we can talk about the flowers and decorations for Sophia’s wedding.”
“How did you—” Olivia began but stopped when Lady Grummons snatched her arm and tugged her into the boutique.
“Lady Templeton isn’t one to stand around when there is work to be done,” she told Olivia. “And neither am I.” The woman pulled her to the middle of the shop and flung her into a chair. “Before you ask, dear child, payment has already been arranged. No need to bother yourself about it. Now let’s get decorating.”
Olivia wiped the tears from her eyes and patted the hand that was still gripping her arm. “Thank you so much,” she said and truly meant it.
“Now, now,” Sir Grummons said as he came in from the back room. “We don’t have time for tears. We have a wedding to plan!”
Acres of manicured garden rolled past Inspectors Hill and Foster as their hansom cab travelled to the estate of Dr. Frederick Vincent located several miles outside the city close to Watford. Inspector Hill had decided on hiring a driver to escort them to the residence so they could ride in the cab and discuss their case on the journey. During the trip, which had taken the better part of an hour, the pair had bounced theories off of one another, each more fanciful than the last.
“Let’s assume for a minute that the guild, or someone working for the guild, is responsible for the murders,” offered Hill. “What is their endgame?”
“Can’t say,” replied Foster, “but you can bet Grey is behind it somehow. “He and Tesla are like peas in a pod. You never see one without the other.”
“Even more unlikely,” said Thomas. “Lord Grey is an elected member of Parliament. He answers to the people. He wouldn’t be mixed up in something like this.”
“Wouldn’t he?” questioned Foster. “Rumor has it that Grey is trying to wrest power away from the Queen. He’s a hero to the people. Each day he grows stronger, and Parliament grows stronger with him. As his power increases, Victoria’s fades. I don’t trust the man. He has a lean and hungry look about him that makes me nervous. You mark my words.”
“When did you become such an astute observer of crown politics?” asked Inspector Hill.
“Bah, I just know a rat when I see one. And Grey is a rat.”
“Probably wouldn’t do for the chief inspector to hear you talking like that. He’s a Grey man through and through. Grey is the people’s one great hope, according to Cox.”
“Yeah, right,” responded Foster. “Hope for him and his cronies is all. He’s pulling the wool over the common man’s eyes, you wait and see. If it were up to Grey, every able-bodied bloke in Cheapside would be shipped off to the mines in India. Why pay the Indians anything when we could do it ourselves and keep all the profits? Who cares if the mortality rate in the mines is over thirty-three percent?”
“And what does that have to do with our murdered women?” asked Thomas, hoping to bring Foster back around to their immediate predicament.
“Well, nothing, I guess. But that doesn’t make it any less true.”
“You just hate Grey because you’re infatuated with the queen.”
Foster made a noise halfway between a sputter and a gag. “Infatuated? How dare you? Just because I admire our country’s God-appointed, rightful monarch, who also happens to be wise, virtuous, and kind, doesn’t mean I’m infatuated.”
“You forgot incredibly beautiful,” said Hill smirking.
“I don’t know what her looks has to do with anything,” said Foster.
“It has everything to do with your infatuation.”
“I thought we were supposed to be talking about the case,” growled Foster.
“Ah, yes, I suppose your right,” replied Hill. “We’ll save your infatuation with Victoria for another day. I do hope this trip to the countryside yields us some sort of lead. It’d be a shame to come all this way for nothing.”
“I doubt it will. This bloke has nothin’ to do with it. You heard his assistant’s description ’a the doctor when we called at the man’s office—short, round, as wide as he is tall. Definitely not our man.”
“He certainly doesn’t match Mrs. Browning’s description. But perhaps he’ll have some ideas on who might be capable of such work.”
“Hopefully,” agreed Foster. “But I still don’t think it’s a medical man. They’re just too predictable. I’ve never met a doctor that wasn’t pretentious as hell, too good to get their hands dirty, they are.”
“What about Dr. Elliot?” Hill laughed. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate your description of him.”
“Okay, he’s the one exception. But he’s also the only doctor I know that wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his hand. All the rest of ’em come from Piccadilly.”
“Even so, I’d hate to rule out any possibilities without some hard evidence to the contrary. Who knows our killer’s motivations?”
“What if our killer doesn’t have any motivations?” said John.
“How’s that?” asked Hill.
“Maybe he’s just crazy. Simple as that. Turns him on somehow to cut open pretty girls and put clockwork hearts inside them. Like … playing with dolls, in a twisted sort of way. Or—wait, stay with me here. Maybe it’s a former mechanic, someone who quit the guild or was forced out. And this is his way ’a gettin’ back at ’em.”
“That’s a possibility,” remarked Inspector Hill, “but it doesn’t feel right to me. You heard what Jackson said. The person responsible for these killings has some surgical skill. That doesn’t sound like an ex-mechanic out for revenge.”
“I suppose not,” admitted Foster, “but, like you said, let’s not rule out any possibility without some hard evidence against it.”
“Touché,” said Hill “and now it’s time for answers. I believe this is Dr. Vincent’s place now.”
The cab pulled to a halt in front of an ornate wrought iron gate, which looked as if it could easily allow the entrance of five hansoms riding abreast. The inspectors departed their cab and stretched their legs, looking about the grounds. A manservant greeted them and escorted them through the gate and up to the front entrance, where they were in turn greeted by Dr. Vincent’ s butler a severe-looking fellow with a long, straight nose and thinning gray hair.
“Dr. Vincent will be with you shortly,” he announced impassively while leading the pair into the drawing room. “May I offer you gentlemen some tea?”
“That would be excellent,” replied Inspector Hill. “It’s been a rather long ride.”
“Aye,” agreed Foster.
“Very good, sirs,” said the butler, leaving to retrieve the tea service.
“Nice place,” said Foster examining the enormous sitting room. The room had twenty-eight-foot-tall ceilings supported by large columns spaced twelve feet apart. Renaissance artwork, each piece of which was the approximate equivalent of three years of the inspectors’ combined wages, was hung in ordered rows along each of the four walls. Priceless imported vases rested on spindly tables placed sporadically around the room.
“Indeed,” agreed Hill. “Let us endeavor to touch nothing. Something tells me Dr. Vincent will be less than helpful if we break any of his priceless treasures. In fact, let us just sit.” He took a seat on an overstuffed sofa covered in a floral pattern.
“Good idea,” agreed Foster, lowering his bulk slowly beside the inspector.
No sooner had they sat down when a squat individual came rumbling into the parlor like a boisterous hedgehog.
“Gentlemen,” he boomed, his voice reverberating around the cavernous drawing room. “I’m Dr. Vincent. What can I do for the Yard’s finest today?” He extended his hand to the two gentlemen, who each rose and took it in turn.
The man’s handshake was as furious as his voice. Thomas briefly wondered if the man was shaking his hand or trying to pump water out of a parched well.
Withdrawing his quivering arm, Hill said, “I’m afraid we are here on unpleasant business, Dr. Vincent. Three women have been murdered in London—prostitutes.”
“Good God, man! Keep your voice down. What would Mrs. Vincent say if she heard you coming in here speaking of murdered prostitutes? I’d be sleeping on that damn couch behind you.”
Just then, Dr. Vincent’s butler returned with their tea service. After he’d poured each of their cups, he retreated the way he’d come, pausing outside the door to set aside the tray and pull the door closed.
“Now,” said the doctor, sitting in an armchair beside the sofa and motioning for the inspectors to resume their seats. He glanced around him, as if Mrs. Vincent might pop out behind a chaise lounge at any moment. “What’s this about murdered prostitutes? I’m intrigued. We don’t get that kind of juicy gossip out here in this blasted country. I do hate it here, but Mrs. Vincent despises the city. Only goes there to shop. Says the smog doesn’t agree with her delicate pallor. What a load of tripe. I’m the doctor. I know what agrees with her and what doesn’t. That’s why I have to endure a forty-minute cab ride every morning to get to my clinic. Anyway, what’s going on?”
“Well, Dr. Vincent,” began Thomas. “You must understand what we tell you needs to be kept in the strictest of confidences. Any publicity could jeopardize our investigation.”
“Of course, of course,” said Vincent, waiving his hands in the air as if he were shooing a fly. “My lips are sealed.” He leaned forward in his chair, looking like a dog waiting on the receipt of a particularly juicy bone from its owner.
“Foster, the heart, if you please,” said Inspector Hill.
John reached inside his coat pocket and removed the mechanical organ, passing it to Thomas, who took it and placed it on the coffee table in front of them.
“Have you ever seen anything like this before, Dr. Vincent?” Hill asked, indicating the heart.
“Odd’s Bodkins! Is that what I think it is?” he said, snatching up the device and holding it close to his face. “Unbelievable. That old devil! He’s actually trying it?”
“Who’s trying what, Dr. Vincent,” asked Foster.
“Dr. Phillips, that barmy American. I assume that’s where you got the heart?”
“Actually, no, Doctor,” replied Hill. “That heart was taken from the chest of one of the murdered prostitutes to which we were referring. Her body was found here in London. We telegraphed America. The heart couldn’t have come from Dr. Phillips. He is practicing in Philadelphia.”
Dr. Vincent started at the device in awe. “How do you mean taken? Do you mean to say that someone implanted the device in the poor woman?”
“Precisely,” responded Hill, “and removed her old one, it appears. Do you know anyone who could have done such a thing?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea who could have done it. Any lunatic with a scalpel, I assume. Dr. Phillips is the only one I know who has done any real research into organ transplants. I always thought the man was a total crackpot. Out of curiosity, why in the world would you gentleman come to me about this? I don’t have any particular knowledge of transplant procedures.”
“Ah, yes. You’re seeing the device out of context,” said Thomas. “Apparently, whoever placed the device into the woman was a very skilled surgeon. We were given your name as one of two men who would have the skill to perform the procedure.”
“I see,” said Vincent, almost beaming, despite being possibly implicated in a murder, “and so I might.” He turned the device in his hand, examining it from every angle. “Could I remove a person’s heart and replace it with this? Perhaps I could, assuming the device worked like a normal heart, of course, which I’m sure it doesn’t. Intriguing question. Intriguing indeed. But even if I could, where would the money be in it?”
“I’m sorry?” questioned Inspector Hill, a quizzical look on his face.
“I mean, who would pay for something like this?” asked the diminutive doctor.
“I’m not sure I follow,” replied Thomas.
“Look around you, Inspector. Do you think all of these trinkets come cheap? Mrs. Vincent doesn’t let me go around performing surgery for free. The woman has expensive tastes. I’m not only the best surgeon in London, I’m also the most expensive. Why, I’ve operated on Lord Shaftesbury himself. I didn’t get all this by dilly dallying in all that transplant nonsense. That tripe is for idealists, save-the-world types. All that’s well and good, I suppose. But nothing beats a plate of succulent prime rib paired with a glass of 1700’s pinot noir. You don’t get that by researching miracle cures. You get that by putting scalpel to tissue and collecting the fee, and that is something I do best.”
“Do you think an organ transplant is even possible?” asked Foster. “A successful one, I mean.”
“Maybe one day, who knows? Like I said, I always thought Dr. Phillips was barmy. But even crackpots stumble onto a viable medical discovery every once in a while. You know what they say, even a blind hog finds an acorn every now and again. But I’m not going to be the one spending all my waking hours in a laboratory poring over experiments trying to figure it out. Once again, there’s no money in it. But I think I might be giving you boys the wrong impression of me. I’m not just a greedy old miser who likes to hoard up his treasures for his own sake. Let me show you something.” He rang a brass bell that was sitting next to him on an end table. In a few seconds, the butler appeared from the hall.
“Yes, sir, Dr. Vincent?”
“Jeeves, fetch Mrs. Vincent please. There’s some gentlemen here I’d like her to meet.”
“Of course, Dr. Vincent,” he said, retreating again.
A few minutes later, Jeeves appeared again in the doorway. “Presenting Mrs. Florence Vincent,” he said and backed away, making room for the woman behind him.
Dr. Vincent hopped up and hurried to her side, ushering into the room the most stunning woman Foster and Hill had ever seen. “Darling,” he said, “please meet Inspectors Hill and Foster, of Scotland Yard.”
The inspectors both rose from their places on the sofa, though their mouths stayed somewhere in the vicinity of the floor. They each looked at one another then turned back to Mrs. Vincent. The woman had long blonde locks that fell smoothly past her shoulders and was wearing a silk red dress, complete with leather corset, which pushed her ample bosom up near her chin.
“Pleasure to meet you, inspectors,” she purred, extending a dainty hand, which neither Hill nor Foster seemed to know what to do with.
Foster recovered first, shaking it quickly. “Pleasure,” he croaked.
“Yes, indeed,” said Hill, also coming to his senses. “A pleasure.” Seeing this woman, who was well over five and a half feet of slender arms and legs standing next to the dumpy, round doctor was so incongruent that Hill’s mind almost refused to accept it.
“The inspectors here were just explaining some bad business going on in London,” said Dr. Vincent. “They needed my surgical expertise on one of their cases. Can’t really explain more than that, though, of course, until the investigation is concluded.”
“Naturally,” she said, her soft red lips held in a smirk. “I do hope my husband was of some help, gentlemen. Don’t let his bluster put you off. He really is quite brilliant.”
“He’s most been most helpful, Mrs. Vincent,” said Foster. “Thank you for being willing to spare him for a few moments.”
Florence chuckled lightly, as if, despite her words, the notion of her husband’s usefulness was amusing. The sound of her musical laughter brought to Hill’s mind a choir of angels softly ringing hand bells.
“That will be all, darling,” said Dr. Vincent. “I just wanted you to meet a couple of the hardworking men of Scotland Yard, so you’ll know how tirelessly our civil servants work to keep you safe while you are making your little forays into the shopping district of the city. Why don’t you go wait for me in the parlor? Let me finish up with the inspectors, and I’ll be in to see you in a minute.”
“Don’t keep me waiting too long,” she said to her husband. “You gentleman have a pleasant day.” And with that, she took her leave.
“Now, boys,” said Vincent, turning back to the inspectors, who were visibly clearing the cobwebs from their heads, “do you see why I have to be so practical? You don’t keep a woman like that on an academic’s salary.”
“Understood.” Foster chuckled. “You certainly seem to have your hands full.”
“Exactly, giving me precious little time to go about researching ways to swap out the vital organs of prostitutes.”
“Of course, Doctor,” said Mr. Hill. “Other than Dr. Phillips, do you know of anyone else who might be interested in this kind of medical research?”
“Can’t think of anyone,” Vincent replied. “Just out of curiosity, who was the other likely capable surgeon suggested to you?”
“A Dr. Evans. He was poorly when we called on him, so we decided to visit with you first. Hopefully, he’ll be feeling well enough to meet with us soon.”
“Ah, yes, Dr. Evans. He’s talented, no doubt, but getting on in years, I’m afraid. He was one of my professors at University many moons ago. And come to think of it … hold on. Be right back, gents.” He hurried out of the room, leaving the inspectors staring at each other questioningly.
“Look, here,” said Dr. Vincent, bouncing back in a few minutes later. He held in his hands a familiar green book, A Primer on Organ Removal and Replacement, by Dr. Eugene Phillips. “Here is a copy of Dr. Phillips’ book, detailing his ideas about all this transplant nonsense. I’d forgotten I even had a copy.”
“We’ve seen it,” interrupted Hill. “A friend was nice enough to give me his copy.”
Vincent raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Hmm, well, look at this then.” He flipped open the book to the second page. The word “Acknowledgments” was written at the top, with the following in typeface below it: The author of this book would like to thank his research associate, Dr. Clarence Evans, for his tireless hours spent in the laboratory dedicated to uncovering the secrets of the amazing wonder that is the human body. Your contribution was invaluable. This book never would have been written without you.†
“So Dr. Phillips and Dr. Evans know each other?” said Foster.
“And fairly well, by the looks of it,” said Hill. “I didn’t even notice this before.”
“I guess we need to put that visit with Dr. Evans top ’a the list,” remarked John. “Maybe we’ll bring him a bit ’a chicken soup to help him feel better.”
“Dr. Evans was a very skilled surgeon, like I said, in his day,” offered Vincent. “I don’t know that the man’s hands are steady enough nowadays. You’ll see when you meet him. I’d be shocked if he was involved.”
“I trust we will,” said Hill. “Foster, if you’ve nothing else for the good doctor, I think we can be going. Thanks again for your time, Dr. Vincent. This was extremely helpful.”
“Not a problem, gents, not a problem at all. Good luck. I hope you catch the bastard. I’m honestly intrigued by your case. Can’t wait to see what you come up with. Jeeves will show you gentlemen out.”
Inspectors Foster and Hill spent the cab ride back to the city in much the same way as they had spent the ride to the country, theorizing about their case. And just as with the outbound trip, their brainstorming was most likely fruitless. There was one thing they both agreed on: Dr. Vincent had had nothing to do with the murders.