Tenfold More Wicked (24 page)

Hmm.

I
BARELY REACH ELIZA'S HOUSE IN TIME. BECAUSE AS I
blunder in the front—I have to, don't I? my cabinet's locked from the inside—when I creep in, muttering to myself like a nut-crazed squirrel, Penny Watt's waiting in Eliza's consulting room.

Shit. I'd forgotten. The murder case, those alibis. Penny the liar. And now Moriarty Quick, with that tell-tale symbol inked into his skin.

“Hello,” says she, pleasant-like. “I'm waiting for Dr. Jekyll. Is she available?” Still wearing mourning black, her skin improbably flawless. That twenty-quid enamel? Waist not so tight-laced today, curls neatly pinned. Daytime Penny, fit for public consumption.

Like the Eliza version of me.

“Um. For certain. I'll just fetch her. You, er, wait right there.”

Cursing, I duck upstairs to Eliza's study. Her brass pet's still in forlorn pieces on the desk. I grab a paper scrap, scribble a message, stuff it down our bodice where she'll find it. I breathe deeply, relax. Let Eliza out.

She don't come.

I try again. Soften my muscles, ease in a breath . . .

I rub stinging eyes. My head's swirling, dark storm water down a drain. Come, Eliza, don't ignore me now . . .

Nothing.

Quick's potion. Only a sip. Just a whisper on my tongue.

It works.

Perverse sunshine warms my soul. I giggle and whirl, arms outstretched.
It works.
I'm FREE, God rot her, this body is MINE and I can do as I please . . . and I took only a drop! Imagine if I scarfed the
whole thing . . .

But abruptly, I subside. Jesus up a drainpipe. Not
now
. I need her.

Ain't irony a killer?

Swiftly, I stuff Quick's greasy bottle under the sofa cushions and fumble in her bag for Finch's sugar-pink poison. Eddie's Patented Calm Juice, eh? How'd that work for you, Marcellus?

I quaff, nearly draining it in haste. Unbearable chilly sweetness, obliterating the gritty oil of Quick's hellbrew. The stuff splashes into my stomach, a starburst of cold
sick,
and too late it occurs to me that we never asked Finch what this gear actually
did
to Eddie.

My guts thrash like salted snakes, and Eliza stirs. Yes. Come, girl. No danger here. I breathe, wriggle, stretch . . .

Spoinngg!
Eliza gasped, fighting misshapen lungs. Her skin stung, overstretched, and her scalp tingled with newly blond hair shrinking tight. A horrid oily taste coated her throat. She felt as if she'd been dragged headfirst through a laundry mangle.

She fumbled for her spare spectacles, fastened her loos
ened buttons . . . and paper crackled under her fingertips. She pulled it from her bodice, smearing fresh ink.

Lizzie's handwriting, stark and black.
QUICK,
it said, and a symbol. Half-circle, circle, cross.

Mercury.

Dizzy images floated. Saffron curtains, frothing lace, a fine crimson-dripped slice. B
EAUTIFUL FOR
E
VER
. What deal had Lizzie done with Moriarty Quick?

Baffled, Eliza pocketed the note and hurried down to her consulting room. “Miss Watt, so pleased you dropped by.”

Heartily, the girl shook her hand. “Please, it's Penny. May I call you Eliza?”

“Of course. Tea?” she offered belatedly, noticing Mrs. Poole hovering meaningfully in the doorway. “I'm afraid I've nothing stronger.”

“Tea would be lovely.” Penny arranged her skirts as Mrs. Poole poured. A pair of corkscrew curls hung starkly against her ultra-pale cheeks, and a stiff jet choker forced her chin high. A doll, pretty and pliable, but her eyes were puffy from weeping. “Did you hear the dreadful news about Carmine? I'm beside myself. If I'd only done the decent thing and taken the poor boy home that night, he might still be alive.”

As Mrs. Poole exited, Eliza played with her cup, wishing for Harley Griffin's talent for detecting lies. Penny's distress
sounded
genuine. “Do you mind if I ask . . .”

“Not at all. One must face these things head-on.” Penny sipped delicately. “Do I know anyone who'd want Carmine dead? Dozens, darling. We're all frightfully jealous. Including me, sadly. I'd give anything for a fraction of his talent.”

Eliza's indignation flared. The man was a common thief. “Was Mr. Lightwood jealous, too?”

“Especially Sherry. Are you establishing alibis? How exciting.” Penny's gaze shone. “That evening, I visited Soho again. More gruesome all-night debauchery, I'm afraid. Sheridan, too. I suppose it pleases the little monster to sneer at me.”

Liar!
Lizzie's yell echoed from afar.
I seen Sherry that night at the Rising Sun. But
she
weren't there.

“Well, that's strange,” countered Eliza, “because I've since heard a different story about what happened at Sir Dalziel's the night he died.”

Penny laughed. “From whom, pray? They must be lying.”

“Did you really leave before two?”

“Of course.”

“Wasn't something other than dinner happening?”

“I'm sure I don't—”

“Carmine didn't paint
Eve and the Serpent,
did he?” Change-of-subject ambush, Lafayette style.

Tea splashed Penny's hand. “What? Nonsense. You must be mistaken.”

“No. I happen to know the true artist. Carmine stole
Eve
and passed her off as his own.”

“You don't say.” Penny's face greened. Eliza had envied her brash confidence. But she didn't look confident now. Just scared and vulnerable.

Firmly, Eliza crushed her sympathy. This was no time to go easy. “Oh, I do say, Miss Watt. Hard to believe his closest friends knew nothing. I daresay the police will be interested in your version of the story. Or would you prefer to tell me?”

Penny set her tea aside, saucer rattling. “After Dalziel was
killed, we suspected what had happened, but I was afraid. I didn't know what to do! But now Carmine's dead, too.” Her eyes shimmered. “We should have spoken up. It's all my fault.”

“You can't blame yourself.”
Yes, you should.
The uncharitable thought splattered like blood. Just like Lizzie, acting up and crying about it later. What had Penny expected? Actions had consequences, even for celebrated art models and society butterflies. “Tell me everything, and maybe we can fix this.”

Penny cleared her throat. “I'm afraid we've been dishonest with you. Sheridan and I, that is. That night, after Dalziel's party . . . we were together. A scandalous liaison. It went badly for him, and he's frightfully vain. I . . . I didn't want to tell anyone. So we lied about where we were. But Dalziel was alive when we left the party.” She shuddered. “I can only deduce what happened, but . . .”

Eliza recalled her suspicion that Carmine had hidden his true whereabouts. She'd picked the wrong liar. “Tell me about the coven meetings,” she prompted. “We found letters suggesting that Carmine and Sir Dalziel were threatening to expose someone they called the ‘master,' for practicing black magic.”

“Then they were fools. He always knows everything.”

Eliza leaned forwards. “Who? The culprit won't go unpunished. You have my word.”

Penny toyed with her choker. “The
séances
were fun, the first few times. Incantations, sex magic, pretending to raise the spirits of the dead. A change from dry political talk. And you needed a secret invitation to get in. All very cloak-and-dagger. But it was only in fun. There was absinthe, opium, arsenic. All manner of debauchery.”

“So the magic wasn't real?”

“I didn't say that. Crazy old Dalziel was convinced he'd made a pact with a devil he called ‘the gray man.' He claimed he sketched for this gray man, and in return the gray man gave him eternal life.”

Nutty as a fruitcake,
Brigham had said.
He thought he'd live forever.
Uneasily, Eliza recalled the Philosopher's ageless eyes and translucent skin, all his vitality drained. A living husk. What had Sir Isaac sacrificed for his immortality? “The gray man? Did he mean this Dr. Silberman?”

Penny hesitated. “Have you ever experienced mesmerism?”

Eliza winced. She preferred to keep an open mind. Once she'd attended one of those popular entertainments where people spoke in garbled tongues or flapped their arms like a chicken's wings, supposedly under a hypnotist's influence. Oddly, she'd remained unaffected. The Royal Society insisted mind control was rubbish. For once, she agreed. “I don't believe it has scientific basis.”

“That's what I thought. But I tell you, I
saw
those ‘demons' he pretended to conjure. I was drawn in utterly. Mass hypnotism is very real, Doctor. Eagerly, I agreed to everything he wanted. You can imagine the sort of thing. Disgusting.”

“Who?”

“The master. The man with the tattoo. His power is terrifying. Everyone becomes his slave.”

“You mean Silberman?”

Penny shivered, nodding. “That isn't his real name. Sheridan and I sneaked a look at his things once. I found a card.”

“Yes?” Eliza held her breath. In her pocket, Lizzie's note rustled, ominous. Quick. Mercury. Quicksilver. And the German word for “silver” was . . .

Scritch-scratch!
Something rubbed against the door.

Abruptly, Penny shrank back into her seat. Frustrated, Eliza jumped up and flung open the door. “What?”

At her feet, a pile of blue skirts cursed, and from it scrambled a young lady, her plum-red lips pursed in an expression of chagrin. Not remorse. Just disappointment she'd been caught.

It was the girl Hipp had knocked over in Finch's shop. Who'd ridden a velocipede past Eliza's house yesterday afternoon, almost knocking Eliza over in turn. Same blue velvet dress, round face, pretty brown eyes.

Swiftly, Eliza leveled her stinger. “Who are you? How did you get in? Answer, or I'll have you arrested.”

“I'm sorry,” said the intruder. “I can explain . . .”

“Miss Burton, there you are!” Mrs. Poole bustled into the hall. “Oh, have you two finally met? About time.”

The girl bobbed a defiant curtsy. Miss Burton. Her boarder. Eliza spluttered. “How dare you eavesdrop on my private conversations?”

“I say,” put in Penny, emerging from the consulting room, “how frightfully droll. Do carry on, ladies.”

“Humph.” Mrs. Poole folded indignant arms. “Spy, is it? We'll have you out on the street, you little ingrate. I've a mind to report you to the police.”

“I wouldn't recommend that.” Miss Burton held out a polished iron badge, engraved with the words
N
ULLIUS IN
V
ERBA
.

A Royal Society agent.

Flee,
Eliza's muscles hissed urgently.
The game's up. Run!
Delusions of persy-cootion, indeed. She'd been right all along.

But guilty waters swirled over her head. She'd invited the spy into her
house
. Asked no questions. What a fool she'd been. “Are you spying for Lady Lovelace? Did you put that listening device in my pet, you brazen jade?”

Miss Burton slipped her badge away. “A spy, as you say, but I didn't touch your pet. And I don't work for Lady Lovelace.”

“Then who . . . ?” Eliza's voice withered. “Oh, my. He sent you to watch me, didn't he?”

“As I said, I can explain—”

“He put you in my
house
. And all the time, I . . . Heavens, I must be the daftest woman in London . . .”

Crack!

She recoiled, flailing. What now?

The front door's mail slot snapped, dropping a tri-folded letter at her feet. A crimson seal winked up at her, the imprint of a tiny rose.

Breathless, she feigned disinterest. “Well, this is a fine snake pit of deception, isn't it? Miss Burton, you'll leave my house the minute you've somewhere fit to go. Miss Watt, thank you for your information. I'll follow up in due course. Might I see you out?”

The moment she was alone, she tore the letter open. Mr. Todd's handwriting looked bolder, messier. As if he'd written in a frenzy.

               
My princess,

               
It
'
s so piquant to write to you, knowing you have read my letters and misunderstand me so utterly,
it hurts. Your reply opened my eyes. Some days, I see more clearly, and I know now that I see what you are to me in shifting shades.

                       
Yes
—
I
'
m laughing as I write this!
—
it
'
s true. Something wonderful has happened to me
—
to
us
? I no longer know the word. Was it in that frightful asylum, those wires stabbing hellfire into my skull, all those hours spent screaming into the dark? I only know that I
'
m no longer myself. Or am I myself at last? Ha ha!

                       
As for your offer of distraction and solace, I
'
m afraid it won
'
t do. The world must be put in order. It
'
s merely a matter of
time
. Oh! I can barely contain my excitement. You and I will be special together, Eliza. I crave that so deeply. If you saw how I imagine us
—
well, you
'
d blush. I know I do.

                       
So, shall we begin? I left you a gift, at that desperately somber establishment you visited yesterday. As you know, I can
'
t abide rudeness. Messy, I
'
m afraid, but I
'
m out of practice.

                       
I hope you enjoy it.