A NETWORK OF RIDDLES

BY THE TIME SHE RETURNED TO RUSSELL SQUARE, twilight had slunk off into the mist like a whipped dog, and dark chill blanketed empty streets. Lights shone from upstairs dining rooms, the clatter of plates and conversation filtering along the footpath.

“Mrs. Poole?” She dropped her dripping umbrella into the stand and peeled off her wet gloves, grateful for warmth. Hipp hunkered by the hall table, falling into a doze. “So sorry I’m late. Another Slasher victim, I’m afraid.”

She’d walked home along electric-lit New Oxford Street, enjoying the fresh air at first. She’d wanted to give Hipp some time outside, but mostly to clear her own head, where incoherent memories warred with gruesome autopsy details, haunting her like the specters of the victims the Slasher had left behind. Other murdered souls, too, soaked in crimson, not mangled with abandon but precisely, artfully sliced . . .

She’d lingered, peering in shop windows without seeing, wandering through gaslit parks where hurdy-gurdies and trumpets rang out amongst street performers and mountebanks. Now it was after eight, her sodden mantle chilled her to the core, and her head was no clearer than before.

Who had killed Antoinette de Percy, and tried to shoot Professor Crane?

Would she ever catch the Soho Slasher, when trace evidence was so lacking?

Could she truly live in Henry’s house at Cavendish Square, with its ghostly battalions of memories forever marching by? Was she fooling herself to imagine this marriage could work at all?

She unpinned her rain-soaked hat. Perhaps she was hiding behind ingratitude to soothe her dented pride. She could never have afforded such a grand house. Was it so awful to accept a gift? To be cared for and loved?

But she couldn’t shake the creeping feeling that she’d lost control. That she was being forced into relinquishing her independence, into accepting an arrangement she detested because society left her no alternative. And every rational cell screamed at her to flee before it was too late.

She shook herself, determined to be cheerful. Ridiculous. What was she afraid of? Nerves were perfectly natural. But now she’d returned to Russell Square, her quasi-hospital nightmare hovered in the shadows, waiting to pounce. The scratchy tube wriggling down her throat, making her gag. Smooth hands holding her still, manacles biting her struggling wrists. A tight band encircling her temples, the scritch-scratch of wire. A metal lever, creek-clunk! Electricity crackles, and she screams in white-hot agony . . .

A rusted knife, gleaming in my fist. I stab down, laughing, a hot spurt of blood . . .

“Stop it!” Her voice squeaked, too loud in the silent hall. She recognized those treatments. She’d seen Mr. Fairfax use them at Bethlem, on Malachi Todd, amongst others. Therapeutic electric shock. Her dream wasn’t of a hospital, but an asylum. A madhouse for lunatics. “Lizzie, that’s enough. Think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

But Lizzie didn’t appear. No laughter, no ghostly dry scent. Nothing.

Shivering, Eliza entered her consulting room. A pleasant den, with bookshelves behind her big desk and a couch for patients as well as a chaise by the bay window for reading. An electric lamp burned on a low table. Hipp trotted in sleepily and plonked down by the fire.

She emptied her damp bag beside the mail tray. The rough copy of her report from the Bow Street morgue stared up at her, alongside its buff folder of gruesome crime scene photographs. Abdominal cavity emptied . . . features hacked beyond recognition . . . liver stabbed, depth 2¼ inches . . . throat severed, fourth and fifth vertebrae notched . . . as before, a sharp surgical blade or butcher’s knife . . .

The victim—the Slasher’s fifth, so far as the police knew—had been discovered that morning. A young man known in Soho as Turquoise Tim, a prostitute—or as the papers liked to say, an “unfortunate.” Just like the others, carved up and tossed aside like a broken doll.

But aside from modus operandi, Eliza had found no forensic trace of the killer. Not a hair, nor a shred of skin, nor a splash of sputum or semen. Nothing.

All she and Griffin had ever discovered was that the Slasher was likely right-handed, and had pale or gray hair. Wonderful. That described half the men in London, from the peerage through to beggars.

Guilt stung her all over again. Trace evidence spoiled quickly, obliterated by careless hands, or weather, or simply the passage of time. Harley had tried to reach her all day while she was out enjoying herself. If she’d only attended the crime scene . . .

Still, the evening had ended on a high note: Harley had found a potential witness to Turquoise Tim’s murder. A young prostitute from Soho named Saucy May, who’d seen what she called “a small dirty cove in fancy britches” lurking about the grimy tenement where Tim’s body was found.

Again, a far from conclusive description. Dare Eliza hope it would lead to an arrest?

But the name—Saucy May—plucked discordant harp strings in her mind. A young thief slinking through midnight streets, green mist sparkling in her wake. A dusty studio bathed in moonlight, a single red rose in a glass vase, a card bearing the name Odysseus Sharp . . . and a greasy room in a Soho brothel, a girl called Rose with pigtails and silk stockings, sucking on a candied apple . . .

Mrs. Fletcher’s. The name sprang into her mind from a dark chasm. A brothel, with white lacquered dressing tables and the smoky scents of opium and gin. Saucy May was a streetwalker who occasionally rented a room there. A better class of bordello, with shady gentlemen and lords in disguise for clients. Patronized by the King of Rats himself.

Her post-mortem report stared at her, accusing. Like a swollen corpse on the Thames tide, events kept dragging her back to Edward Hyde—and a horrid thought nearly tipped her from her chair.

A small dirty cove in fancy britches.

Her father was a large man, in truth, almost as tall as Remy, but his crooked back made him seem smaller. An odd limping gent in fine clothes that had seen better days. What if . . . ?

Lizzie’s world swamped her, sickeningly rich scents and sounds and flavors. Gin, aether, absinthe, breathless lovers’ laughter. Atishoo! Atishoo! We all fall DOWN . . . Charred fingers beckoning through rusted iron bars . . . and Edward Hyde, his gut-rich guffaw, lust like a lightning strike in his stormy gray eyes.

I’ve a thing to show you, Rose. Such a pretty thing.

What sort of thing?

Eliza’s throat dried. Stupid. Not possible. There was no evidence. No reason to suspect Hyde was involved.

“And never will be, neither!” With a gleeful laugh, Lizzie grabbed the report and hurled it into the fire.

“No!” Eliza leapt up in dismay, but flames consumed the dry paper like tinder. Her notes, Harley’s sketches, irreplaceable photographs. All those hours of work. Gone.

Lizzie did a little dance on the hearth, warming her hands by the roaring flames. “Just you try and stop me! Ha ha!”

“Lizzie, for heaven’s sake—” Eliza’s vision veered in and out of focus, and pop!

Lizzie was gone. And the report sat on the desk, exactly where she’d left it.

A huge fist squeezed her chest, crushing her lungs to wet pulp. Lizzie’s fist, somehow, a giant malevolent Lizzie who laughed at her agony. Like hell I ain’t here, missy. See if I can’t crush you like a stinkbug. You don’t need me, you don’t want me. Fine. I don’t want you, either!

Frantically, Eliza fought for air. Pain lanced through her chest, tighter, harder. Spots danced before her eyes. Ferocious fists pummeled inside her skull. Her muscles cramped, evil agony that wouldn’t ease. Can’t move. Can’t escape . . .

Whoomph! Her guts lurched, an angry punch, and the pressure in her chest released. She doubled over, wheezing, her throat scraping raw.

She’s only in my head. Not real . . . But this was no accident. The treacherous jade knew exactly what she was doing.

Lizzie was driving her insane.

Finally, her aching lungs eased. She fumbled for her bottle of remedy, and tilted it up into her mouth. But only a few drops splattered her tongue. Almost empty already. Despairing, she shook it, desperate to drain it to the last, and behind her, Lizzie laughed.

She whirled, panicked. No one there.

Steeling herself, she shoved the bottle away, sat down, and stubbornly opened the report again. She spent a while making notes and corrections, then wearily pushed it aside. She’d make a fair copy after dinner. Deliver it personally into Inspector Griffin’s hands, so no press vulture could steal it to publish. This poor boy’s death was a tragedy, not a spectacle for public titillation.

Beside the folder sat the revolver from the ill-fated demonstration. Her pills and medicine phials, sans the one Sir Isaac had confiscated. She was keen to see the results of the king’s treatment, the new dosage she’d prescribed. She held high hopes . . .

Her courage quailed. Was she really treating the king with lux ex tenebris, right under the Philosopher’s nose? Did she harbor a reckless death wish? She could imagine Marcellus’s reaction. Eliza, he’d say, you foolish young squirrel, have you lost your wits? Marriage rots the brain, say what?

But she couldn’t shake the itching certainty that the Philosopher knew everything, had always known everything. It suited his purposes to have her beholden to him—and the ugly thought struck her that his hold over her might never end.

Sighing, she arranged the bottles on the shelf. A slip of paper rustled in her fingers. Antoinette de Percy’s mysterious equations.

She studied the notation with fresh interest. Magnetic wave equations, said Starling. But Seymour Locke had remained insolently silent about what Antoinette had been working on.

Still, Remy had been doing his finest impression of an overbearing Royal Society thug. Faced with a badge, most scientists worth the description would lie to beat the devil. A useful interrogation technique, for lies multiplied like rabbits and scattered, easier to catch.

This time, it had backfired.

Perhaps she herself could investigate. Mr. Starling—Byron, she corrected with an inward smile—might be a fine target for more personal questioning. In private, with an eyelash flutter or two thrown in.

But the echo of his voice from her nightmare—get a move on, Fairfax, she’s waking up—made her shudder.

Molly knocked and entered with her dinner tray, hair once more neatly pinned.

Eliza eyed her archly. “Cleaning finished for the night?”

“Aye.” Molly’s smile glinted. “Enjoy your surprise, Doctor?”

“Perfectly, you crafty minx. How long have you known?”

“A few weeks.” Molly arranged the cutlery. A succulent beef roast, plus herbed vegetables and a steaming pot of tea. “We’ve had fun making that old place presentable. I wasn’t sure about that captain of yours at first. Far too clever and handsome, if you ask me. But I suppose now he’ll do nicely.”

Eliza laughed. “Will he, now? Well, once we’ve got the place fixed up . . .” She faltered. “Should you want to work for us, that is. If you find a better position . . .”

Molly made a delighted curtsey. “Not a chance. I’ll stay, if it please you.”

Eliza studied her uneasily. A pretty girl, with smooth blond hair and big eyes, not to mention a sleek figure. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain decorative young butler, would it?”

A faint flush. “What if it does? Begging your pardon,” she added quickly.

“Molly,” said Eliza uncertainly, “you do understand that Mr. Brigham is . . . that he . . .”

Molly just blinked at her.

She couldn’t find a gentler way of breaking it. “That he prefers men.”

The girl colored more deeply. “I know that. He told me. Doesn’t mean he isn’t right in the head. Or that he can’t, you know, do a girl justice.”

“Of course not. I just—”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t be happy, neither. D’you think I don’t know other lads only want me for this?” Molly smoothed her dress over her hips, making defiant fists. “They leer and follow me about and call out horrid things. At least Charlie’s my friend. He can keep his own ways, see, and if he’s got a wife it’ll go easier for him. He says we can have a baby, if I like. I want a family, Doctor, always have. This way, I get it all without the heartache.”

“So it’s to be a wedding?”

“We’ll post the banns in the spring, begging yours and the captain’s leave. Not so fancy as yours, maybe.” A glint of laughter. “We can’t all be courted by carriage folk.”

Eliza smiled, but the girl’s explanation stung too close to her heart. To surrender your freedom for the sake of safety and convenience. A transaction. “But don’t you want love, Molly? Someone to be yours alone?”

“Charlie loves me,” said Molly stoutly. “Just not like that. A relief, in truth. All that pawing and sweating and pretending you’ve got a headache. Who could be bothered?”

Eliza shook her head with a sigh. “Young people these days. It seems you two have everything settled. At least you needn’t fret about him making eyes at other girls.”

Molly snorted laughter, reminding her startlingly of Lizzie. “Reckon it’s yourself ought to watch who Charlie’s making eyes at, Doctor.”

“Indeed. Well, let him look. You need not fear on that score.” But dismay cooled her skin. What kind of life would Molly have, married to a man who led two lives? Who lived two truths, secrets forever walled in by a façade?

What kind of life for Remy, married to her, Eliza?

She forced a smile. “Good luck to you, Molly. That’s all for tonight.”

Molly made another curtsey, and hurried out.

Eliza started on her meal, forking a mouthful of beef—delicious, the potatoes flavored with mint—and pulled the mail tray close. A note, and a package with a letter attached.

The note was short, on railway station writing paper.

Thank you for being far more

wonderful than I deserve.

Remy.

She touched the page to her lips, tasting salt breeze and thundery aether. An electric train? She thought of indignant Mr. Paxton. Our technology is thoroughly tested. Or was Remy taking some more exotic mode of transport? A skyship, perhaps? She imagined him flying over dark water towards benighted France, wind in his hair, this same sea-breeze taste stinging his lips, the strange black-and-silver amulet around his neck.

She sipped a cup of hot tea, reaching for the package. Tied with string, it rustled, as if it held papers or a book. It smelled faintly chemical. The attached letter was scrawled with a fine-tipped pen, the letters shaky, as if scribbled in frantic haste.

Dr. Jekyll,

We met only briefly this afternoon, but I feel I can trust you as a woman of objectivity and compassion. Indeed, I have no choice, and can only hope your keen-eyed guard dog with the iron badge is not standing by as you read this.

I need your help. Something terrible has happened that I dare not put in writing.

Visit me tonight and I will explain everything. I beg you, do not bring this package with you. Hide it in your safest place, and for both our sakes tell no one.

Yours in science,

Prof. E. Crane

The teaspoon slipped unheeded from Eliza’s fingers.

Something terrible. More terrible than Mr. Ormonde’s injury? Than months of work ruined, the vital public unveiling of this new technology foiled by an assassin’s bullet?

For both our sakes tell no one. Professor Crane had written this in fear for her life. Who had fired at Crane in the theater—and why?

She undid the wrapping. Inside sat a well-thumbed foolscap notebook, two inches thick with a marbled paper cover. On the title page, in Crane’s handwriting: Royal Institution, Aether Engine Miniaturization, Volume V.

An experimental journal.

She leafed through, marveling. Pages of methodology, lists of components and materials. Inked diagrams, carefully ruled and labeled, as well as rough pencil sketches. Here was a table of energy output readings. “My, that’s an extraordinary quantity, Hipp. When she said ‘super-efficient,’ she wasn’t joking.”

“Extraordinary,” repeated Hipp sleepily from the hearth. “Super-efficient. North-Western Railway.”

She unfolded a map-sized chart. Circuit diagrams, with notes and formulae in the margins. “A schematic of the engine demonstration. Here’s the coil, and the glass globe. These lines here are the electrodes. But . . . this is more than just an engine. What’s this component?” She ran her finger over symbols for capacitors, switches, chained resistors. It looked familiar. It reminded her of a venerable, mildew-stained journal written in old-fashioned German, half its ragged pages torn out . . .

Eliza sat back, shoving the book away as if it burned her.

She’d seen drawings like this before, in the forbidden work of a colleague of Henry’s. A madman called the Chopper had used them to build a teleportation machine. The thing was marvelous, certainly, but it was cumbersome and made a lot of noise, boom!, like a thunderclap, and deposited piles of messy black residue. Inefficient and impractical.

What if Crane and de Percy were improving it? Adapting their new power conservation principles to matter transference?

Excitement rippled under her skin. This could revolutionize transportation. Render railways and other vehicles unnecessary. A commercial threat, indeed.

But such a machine was wildly unorthodox, not to mention dangerous. In the wrong hands? A weapon.

Troubled, she returned to the notebook. The most recent entry was dated the day before Antoinette was killed. A typewritten passage cut out and pasted in, the dictation from a phonograph.

Royal Institution, 2:45 p.m.

Project Interlunium is in crisis. I hardly know what to do. The ₃ travel device is functioning, of course, but the complete machine produces alarming advanced side effects that threaten to destroy us all.

Of course, S. insists we are at a critical juncture and seeks further information from sources I dare not reveal. Naturally A. supports him. They are thick as thieves. Greedy for knowledge, these young ones, a hunger that engenders in me such horror of the spirit that I retired here, ill, before the meeting concluded.

I want nothing more to do with this infernal project, but he will not listen to me. I am trapped. Worse, I fear our discussions were overheard by that sniveling serpent across the hall. If so, we are all in the gravest danger.

Even so, our demonstration must proceed. My original engine is the key to my escape. Contract negotiations with B. proceed apace, and I have doubled the secrecy. I’ve reason to hope all will be concluded soon, and I will at last be set free.

“Project Interlunium,” she mused. “New moon. What does it mean, Hipp?”

Hipp bounced importantly. “Moon. Lycanthrope. Transformation imminent.”

“I’m sure that’s not it.” But she shivered. Any mention of the moon was a threat to Remy, his monthly battles with tooth and claw. Where had he truly spent this last moon? Where was he now? Sailing in darkness across a foamy sea? Riding over ravaged countryside, where sorcery had razed crops to ashes and scarred the earth asunder? Or already in Paris, blood on the cobbles and the stink of dying flesh on the air?

She read the letter over. Advanced side effects. ₃ travel device. Destroy us all. So much for Lady Redstoat’s list of “fornicators.” Starling and Locke, Crane and Ormonde. Antoinette’s diary had read “1: Team Meeting.” But it wasn’t a figure one. It was an I, for Interlunium.

Eliza studied the schematics again. There was a blank expanse, where the circuit diagrams trailed to dotted lines. Only a rough circle, some penciled equations—and beside them, an underlined double question mark: ??

As if a component were missing. One they hadn’t yet completed.

Was “S” for Starling? So much for his visit to Mr. Finch’s, seeking Faraday’s forbidden books. Sources I dare not reveal, indeed.

Or was “S” for Seymour Locke? The man who’d claimed he knew nothing of physics. Just a lowly assistant.

But who was “B,” and what were the negotiations? An escape, indeed. And who was that sniveling serpent across the hall? Across from where—Crane’s office at the RI? She recalled Princess Victoria, insulting an impervious Remy. A baby snake. Again in the Regent’s office, concerned for the drooling king. I don’t want that reptile to see him like this.

She checked the torn envelope. Dr. E. Jekyll, it said, Russell Sq. As if Crane didn’t know her full address and had done the best she could in a hurry. The return address was printed in the corner.

Ireton House, Red Lion Square

Bloomsbury WC

Only a few blocks away.

Eliza glanced at her unfinished report, and back to Crane’s letter. Hide it in your safest place. Tell no one.

In a few minutes, she was out the door, dinner forgotten on the desk, hastily re-stuffed bag over her shoulder, and sleepy Hipp stumbling after.