Tenfold More Wicked (6 page)

“Whereas my shining investigative skills would swiftly pin him for the cowardly felon he is?” Lafayette fanned himself. “Madam, you make me blush.”

“And,” she continued, ignoring him, “those footprints weren't Brigham's. Five feet three if he's an inch. Our man is taller.”

Lafayette wrinkled his nose. “What odds on Lady Fleet's footman? Drives up from Wimbledon, bumps the old man off
for her,
splat!
Makes a mess, knowing Brigham won't risk a beating by coming up. Legs it back to the country before seven, and
voilà!
Lady Fleet gets a dead husband, the ‘stolen' loot returned in secret, and a butler she loathes upon whom to pin the blame.”

They stopped at New Bond Street, where lamps in shop windows burned like beacons through the fog. Tree branches hung motionless in still gray air. A mare shied, clattering her ironclad hooves. Her eyes rolled in fright as Lafayette brushed past, and absently he edged away. Was his blossoming wolfish scent upsetting her?

A few yards up the street, Finch's Pharmacy beckoned. Eliza's head pounded, her skin rippling like a shedding snake's. This was unendurable. Lizzie was threatening chaos. What if she'd
changed
in public? In front of Lady Lovelace? Eliza needed her remedy. Now.

But like that mare, her mind danced, unsettled. “It doesn't seem right. Why would this murderous footman mutilate the body?”

“To throw us off the scent?”

“Surely. But why not just fit poor Brigham up for it properly? Without the ghoulish details, Reeve casts around for the closest thing with a motive and a heartbeat, and arrests our long-suffering butler. Case closed.”

“Whereas now, Reeve must investigate?”

“Exactly. Why would Lady Fleet want that? Even Reeve occasionally stumbles across the truth.”

“Perhaps her killer footman's an idiot,” suggested Lafayette. “Did you notice him? Calves like a Greek god. I don't imagine she hired him for his intellect.”

“But if Sir Dalziel was already suspected of black magic, why confirm it and risk Lady Fleet's reputation?”

“Because the killer didn't care?”

“Or he did it deliberately. Either way, something strange is going on.”

Lafayette grinned, contented. “Don't look now, Dr. Jekyll, but you just took my case.”

“Humph. One almost suspects you dispatched the poor fellow yourself, just to get my attention.”

“It's possible. You should investigate.” He offered his wrists to be cuffed. “Interrogate me thoroughly.”

She eyed him sternly. “I said I'd look, nothing more.”

“But you know you
want
more,” he insisted. “You need the job. You're desperately intrigued. Reeve will be furious. What's stopping you?”

She smiled weakly. “I'm afraid I'm late for work,” she lied. “How time's getting on—”

“Please, Doctor.” Not threatening. Just sincere, a hint of disarming vulnerability that halted her in her tracks. “Lady Lovelace is watching me. I need your help.”

She hesitated. He'd trusted her with his secret. Shouldn't she trust him? “Well . . .”

“You can't deny we work well together.” A sly eye twinkle. “We might even have fun.”

Of all the things he could have said, that was the worst.

“I'm sorry, I can't possibly fit it in.” Briskly, Eliza shook his hand. “Lovely to see you again, Captain. I wish you luck with your case. Good day.”

E
LIZA MARCHED UP NEW BOND STREET TOWARDS
Finch's Pharmacy, fighting for breath. Cloying fog swirled around her, stuffing her lungs like wet wool. Her corset was squashing the life from her, and this cursed acid air wasn't helping. She pinched her waist with both hands, trying to heave in a proper lungful.

Lafayette didn't follow, of course. Didn't try to persuade her. Nothing so crude.

“Freedom!” shouted Hipp, muffled by the bag. “Confinement unreasonable. Motion imperative!”

She fished him from beneath Lafayette's sheaf of letters. He sprang from her grip and screeched up the street, flashing his lights,
blue-red-blue-red!
“Finch! Freedom!”

At last, her cramping chest eased. She fanned her damp face, thoughts muddling like dark treacle. Lafayette knew how to engage her interest. His case, a blend of mystery and glaring inconsistency. His amusing conversation, unfettered by social pressures. His damnable flirtation, which thanks to Lizzie worked all too well.

Lizzie fought, a hooked fish.
Right. All my fault, is it? As if you ain't flirting right back.

But what did he really want? The spectacle of those Enforcers—and steel-faced Lady Lovelace—had only underlined his dangerous hidden motives. Too cunning by half.

Pain stabbed between Eliza's eyes, an all-too-familiar symptom of her dependence on the elixir. Her wits clogged. Lafayette was tormenting her for his own murky reasons. Nothing else made sense.

“Aye,” taunted Lizzie. Somehow, she'd clambered from the bag, too, and sauntered alongside, a shimmering red-skirted specter. “Almost as if . . . hell, I don't know. He likes you?”

Eliza hurried on, raking itchy forearms. Lizzie wasn't really there. How could she be? “It isn't that simple. Nothing's ever that simple.”

Lizzie flicked transparent mahogany curls. “Only 'cause you're making it difficult.”

“I am not! He's up to something. I know it.”

“Bollocks. You're jumping at shadows. Delusions of persy-cootion, eh? That bonehead Philosopher lurking under every rock?” Lizzie danced a hop-step, skirts frothing. “Remy could've shopped us months ago, if he cared to, so what's he waiting for?”

“I haven't the faintest idea. I can't read his mind, can you? Now stay where you belong. Just because you're smitten doesn't mean I should let down my guard.”

Lizzie cocked one hand on her hip. “Aye. 'Cause you ain't never acted the fool for a gentleman's bright eyes. Green, wasn't they?”

Eliza stomped up the pharmacy steps, where Hipp bounced impatiently. “Shut up. That's different. Did it escape your notice that said green-eyed gentleman was a razor murderer? That's enough to render anyone nervous in his company.”

“Nervous? That what they call it these days? Have you lost your friggin'
mind
?”

In the street, an enormous mauve crinoline with a woman inside tilted to stare . . . but with a ghostly giggle, Lizzie vanished.

Had Eliza shouted those last few words aloud? Hallucinations, talking to herself.
Delusions of persy-cootion.
She grinned sickly. “Rehearsing for a comedy. Charity performance for addle-brained orphans. Won't you come?”

“Quite,” muttered the crinoline, and flounced away.

Quite,
mimicked Lizzie in posh tones, once again tucked safely away in Eliza's mind . . . for now.
I'll “quite” you, you uppity tart.

The bell tinkled, and Hipp charged in, skidding across the polished floor and nearly bowling over a round-faced girl in blue velvet skirts who was examining the interior window display.

Out o' the way, brown-eyes! Comin' through!
crowed Lizzie.

“My apologies, miss,” cut in Eliza desperately. “Hipp, for heaven's sake, calm down.”

“Finch! Finch!” trumpeted Hipp, oblivious. The girl muttered and hurried away.

Delightful warmth washed over Eliza, the familiar scents of possets and medicines and alcoholic solvents. Sheaves of strange-smelling herbs hung drying. Bottled liquids of every
color lined the shelves. Smoke wafted from behind a leather curtain, bringing the throaty
bubble-pop!
of some viscous preparation boiling.

She leaned over the counter, where rows of Latin-labeled drawers were stacked to the ceiling. “Marcellus? Are you there?”

Mr. Finch popped up like a jack-in-the-box. Thin and angular, apron smudged with charcoal dust, blinking vaguely over a silver-rimmed pince-nez. “My dear girl, you look awful!” He rushed around to take her hands. “In twenty years I've never seen you so . . . floury.”

“It's Lizzie.” Her tongue stumbled in haste. “She's growing stronger. I can't hold her in.”

“Remedy still inadequate?” Finch pressed his knuckles to her cheek. They felt dry, cold. Was she sweating?

“I dosed an hour and a half ago. It's not working.” Finch brewed her elixir, but she'd grown cruelly dependent on it, and he'd also fashioned her a remedy to bring respite. “My dreams are worse. And during the day, I see her. She talks to me. It's as if she's a separate person.”

Crash!
A pile of boxes toppled. Hipp charged in a circle, doggedly chasing his own rear end.

“Hello, little fellow.” Finch eyed him dubiously. “I say, is he overwound? Excess elastic energy, eh? A tonic, say what? I've just the thing!”

“Hipp's made of brass,” she reminded. “A tonic won't do much good.”

“Oh. Right. Never mind, then. May I?” Finch peeled back her eyelids with his thumbs. He smelled of spicy herbal tea, a happy scent that recalled her childhood. Little Eliza in a white
pinafore, cross-legged by the fire, practicing her letters on a slate while Mr. Finch read aloud. Not fairy tales, but dusty tomes bound in cracked leather, inked with alchemical symbols. Treatises on forgotten pharmaceuticals, dissection notes, arcane Latin rhymes with compelling rhythms that spoke to her.

Finch had taken her in when she was orphaned. Until her uncouth guardian, Edward Hyde, took charge, leaving her alone in the gloomy Cavendish Square house, supervised by an endless string of strange tutors and absent-minded governesses.

Or so she'd thought. Until she'd learned Henry hadn't died after all. Hyde had consumed his better half, little by little, until Jekyll was eaten away. Hyde was but Henry in a darker, murderous guise. And who'd known all along? Marcellus Finch, who beneath his “vague old man” act harbored a secret sinister side. He'd fooled everyone, including her.

Finch squinted. “Your irises are cloudy. Eat more turnips, improve your digestion.”

“Genius, Marcellus. I shall inform Mrs. Poole directly.”

His face paled. “Must you encourage her? Last time I dropped by, your housekeeper—” He glanced left and right, beckoning her closer. “She
made conversation,
” he whispered.
“Fiercely.”

Eliza hid a smile. “That only means she likes you.”

“That's what terrifies me.” He wriggled a finger into Eliza's ear and examined it, frowning. “That worthy woman has designs on my virtue. Elaborate, explicit ones.”

She giggled. “Come, a dalliance might do you good. Have you never been in love?”

“Eek! Don't be absurd. Why should I want to fall in
love
? All that sighing and mooning about with your wits in a fuddle,
stricken with the urge to vomit bad poetry. Not to mention the
kissing
.” He screwed up his nose. “Not scientific, dear girl. Dangerously irrational. I'd steer well clear if I were you. Now, don't blink.” He brandished a glass dropper, filling it from a tiny bottle.

Drip! Drop!
Her vision stung blue.

“I say, how curious.” Finch leapt back around the counter like a white-haired locust. He wasn't as old or feeble—nor
quite
as insane—as he appeared. He rummaged in one drawer after another, pills and powders and herbs flying left and right. “We had these difficulties with your father's elixir. Henry, I'd say, Henry, you foolish old badger, you have to
tell
me when this happens. I can't be expected to read that decrepit dustpit you call your
mind,
and thank heavens for that, come to think of it, so you can't hold me responsible for titers and dilution regimes and molecular purity and so forth if you aren't being
honest
with me . . . Aha!” He unearthed a tiny tin and popped the lid. “Watch your teeth,” he warned, and puffed green dust into her face.

Poof!
Sweetness fizzed, blinding her temporarily. She sneezed, tears dripping. “Marcellus, really—”

“Egad! As I thought!” Finch tossed the tin aside and waved his arms, nearly knocking over a shelf of bottles. “But did the stubborn old parsnip listen to wise Marcellus? No! Of course he didn't. He'd just let Eddie gad about town willy-nilly, wouldn't he, swilling vats of gin and smoking frightful Oriental cigarettes and complaining of headaches and gout and itching eyeballs and forgetting to mention it if he should happen to
overdose
.”

Eliza froze, guilty.

Finch skewered her on his stare, no longer so vague. “Did
you
overdose, dear girl?”

She lifted her spectacles to wipe streaming eyes. “I might,” she admitted, “have consumed more than sufficient. From time to time.”

Finch clucked, scolding. “To be expected, with your dependency. But do be careful. The active ingredients will accumulate in your tissues. Once they reach toxic levels . . . well, you can ask Eddie about that.”

“But I can't stop Lizzie drinking it,” Eliza protested. “She thinks it'll let her stay longer.”

A sharp glance. “Interesting. Does it work?”

“Sometimes,” she admitted. “I'm losing my memory of her episodes.” Not that she'd want to remember. Dark streets creeping with ghosts, horrid laughter, the stink of gin and sweat. “I don't suppose she's visited you?”

He blinked, innocent. “Why would she? Last time, she practically throttled the tripe out of me.”

“I—I thought she might want medicines of her own. If she does . . .”

“Of course, dear girl. Goes without saying.”

Inwardly, she despaired. Finch's curiosity and compulsion to experiment sometimes overwhelmed his good sense. Could she trust no one?

“Luckily for you,” said Finch brightly, “I'm developing a new formula. Splash of alkahest, dash of hush-hush, all that. If you're game,” he added gloomily. “It's erratic. I behaved quite bizarrely when I tested it. Perhaps you shouldn't . . .”

“I need to do
something
.” Suddenly, unaccountable tears burned her eyelids. Science could cure any problem. Why
was this remedy so elusive? “Lizzie practically popped out in public just now! She's putting us all in danger.”

Finch gave a cunning grin. “Excellent! Intrepid voyagers into the unknown are we!” He plopped a bottle of luminous pink-purple liquid onto the counter. “This takes a different approach to your existing remedy. Instead of starving the, er,
need,
we feed it. It's a singular sensation, but . . . well, you'll see. Put one drop under your tongue,
hora decubitus.
” He wagged a warning finger. “A single drop only. Tastes vile, naturally. Can't abide strawberries. A dose now, if you would, and monitor tonight for any adverse reaction. Telegraph if your skin starts peeling off, eh?”

She took the bottle, fingertips sticking to the cold glass. The pink substance was frosty, calculating. Not like her elixir, seething with sinister heat.

She eased out the glass dropper. On the tip glistened a single berry drop. She licked it. Chilled fumes wafted, heady like gin with a sickly, sugared flavor. Her skin tingled, icy yet warm. Did her pulse slow, just a little?

“Good.” Finch's expression darkened. “But from time to time, you
need
to drink the elixir. You must give Lizzie her space. Otherwise . . . well, you know what happened to Henry.”

“You can rely on me.” She slipped the bottle away. She'd no intention of giving Lizzie space. Not if it meant getting them both thrown in the Royal's dungeons. “I've crime scene samples for analysis, if you're able?”

He beamed. “Do my part for justice, all that. Saliva from suspected cannibals? Blood of a monster? You get all the good
jobs, now you're so practiced at catching bloodthirsty killers. How
is
your young man, by the way?”

Her throat constricted. “Excuse me?”

“Smart regimental fellow, with the badge and the wolf problem. Haven't spied him for weeks.”

“Oh.” She hadn't told Marcellus about Lafayette's proposal. Hadn't told anyone except Harley, who'd expressed his approval by teasing her mercilessly at every opportunity, and Mrs. Poole, who'd been eavesdropping from the stairwell and knew all about it anyway. Not that Eliza didn't want anyone to know. Only that . . . well . . .

“He's disgustingly well, as ever,” she conceded. “But that prophylactic you mixed him didn't work.”

“Full moon too powerful, eh? A formidable furry foe! Never fear, we shall renew our attack!” Finch rubbed eager palms. “Did you say samples?”

She offered her test tube. “Cigar ash from a murder scene. Something odd in it.”

He held the phial to the light, and his pince-nez polarized, glittering like prisms. “Odd, indeed. Let's see.”

He disappeared behind the stiff leather curtain and Eliza followed. She pushed aside dangling copper cables. Acrid smoke and alcoholic solvent vapor stung her eyes. Gas flames darted, and in the corner, a coal fire glowed red. Upon it steamed a vat of a strange-smelling black substance that bubbled and roiled like a living creature.

Already, the heat made her perspire. No windows; secrecy was too vital. Just a ventilation shaft, the updraft billowing her skirts.