Steampunk Omnibus: A Galvanic Century Collection (61 page)

"What does it do?"

"It disperses heat." I turned to glance back at her blank expression and decided to elaborate. "To extend the duration a mechanical engine can run without overheating."

She was leaning against a bare spot of wall, one knee bent, hands behind her back. "So... the knife?"

I placed the blade atop the table and began taking the glassware from the cabinet below, assembling it as I spoke. "These alembics have been treated with a special phosphorescent mercury coating reactive to the N-Ray signatures present in an organic sample. Blood is particularly effective, though skin, hair, or aqueous humour would be somewhat effective if first dissolved in a strong acid."

"Wouldn't the acid destroy the tissue?" She strode forward, eyes keen.

"The tissue, yes." I scraped a crust of the dried blood from the knife's blade into one of the test-tubes. "But not the N-Ray energy, which would persist in the resulting slurry long enough for our purposes."

"And we do have blood."

"Yes." I removed the handkerchief Bartleby had dabbed in Director Paddock's blood from my inner vest pocket, and carefully tweezed some of its flakes into the other tube.

She leaned over the drafting table. I was keenly aware of her scent, of all things, like a field of lilacs drenched in strawberries. It left me light-headed. "Will this identify the killer?"

"Not directly," I said, leaning back out of the miasma of her pheromones. "But if the energy signatures match then we know for a fact that this is the murder weapon.

She looked at me. "Is that in doubt?"

"Not doubt," I said, "Never doubt. There is no place for doubt in science. Simply what has been proven, and what has been disproven."

"And what of the rest?"

"Possibility," I said without hesitation.

Doctor Teague smiled, and I tried to concentrate on my task. "You are not like the others of your gender that I have known."

I heard her shift. "Oh? How so?"

"You pay attention. You ask the right questions, rather than wait for someone to explain what is going on to you. Your mind works in analytical ways."

"And you say that the other women you know lack such a capability?"

"Not inherently. Biology is not my forte, but there is no grand structural difference between the male and female mind. I have a theory that women are, in England, trained not to find the answers themselves, but instead to be reliant on men."

She was silent.

I continued. "It's a gross inefficiency and a detriment to the Empire."

When she spoke again, her voice was soft, distant. "Why do you suppose this is so?"

"I don't pretend to be able to understand people or their motives. I leave that work to Bartleby. Suffice it to say that we live in an inefficient world where foolishness is both rampant and encouraged."

She let out a long sigh, and I tore my gaze away from the chemistry apparatus long enough to spare her a glance.

Doctor Teague had perched on the side of a collection of wooden crates, and was now half-slung across them as if exhausted.

"Your sex is on the receiving end of much of this foolishness," I said. "What does your psychiatry attribute this to?"

"Psychiatry has its theories, but for all the academic understanding, I've never had a closeness with other women. Even growing up, I saw my mother as too much the romantic. I can tell you that during my early socialization, I was constantly admonished to be more ladylike, despite such mannerisms being distinctly suboptimal."

"You seem feminine enough to me," I said, though admittedly I am perhaps a poor judge.

A wry smile crossed her lips, one that I found quite charming. "I have taken on what behaviours serve me more than harm, particularly where comes to the appearance I project."

"Superficial sacrifices for common convention." I could empathize. Bartleby insisted I wear trousers. Even in my lab, even under the protective apron.

"Where I perhaps differ from my fellow women," she continued, her voice hardening, a light gleaming in her eyes, "is the refusal to profit from weakness. I will not lower myself to using my sexuality to bargain for favours from men. I will be recognized only on my own merits."

"As well you should be. Honestly, I've heard Mrs. Fiske suffer many of the same indignities."

"Mrs. Fiske? She seems born to this life, these roles."

"I have my issues with Aldora, but she's far more than what English society permits. She does, perhaps, play the role well, but it takes its toll on her."

"I had no idea."

"You should speak with her, perhaps. I've no doubt you'd have much to talk about."

"Perhaps, but as I said, I've never really gotten along with other women." She seemed to catch herself. "Terribly sorry, you must forgive my passion."

"Not at all. You've had a rough go. And passion should never be apologized for."

He smile seemed less than genuine, even to me.

She pointed at the flasks. "They're glowing."

The test tubes were emitting that peculiar greenish phosphorescence of N-Ray energy, tinting the entire laboratory along the spectrum towards the emerald. I crouched alongside them, my gaze casting between them to gauge their relative luminosity.

"Do they match?"

"Well enough," I said. There was some room for error, but not significantly. Still, I made a mental note to create a visor capable of precisely measuring visual wavelengths of radiant energy for future comparisons. I estimated that I could have a working prototype by the time such expertise was needed for the trial of whomever the culprit was.

"So it is the murder weapon."

"Yes."

"What does this tell us? About the killer, I mean."

There was that inquisitive mind. "Precious little on its own, but now that we know it to be the murder weapon we can attempt to discover if the killer left any finger prints on the handle."

"Finger prints?"

"It's a recent development in forensic technology," I explained, wrapping the knife in linen. "Pioneered in Calcutta, and adopted by our own Metropolitan Police this last decade. Each person's fingers possess a unique structure to them, and it is possible to capture the pattern of oil left behind by the bare fingers. The technicians at Scotland Yard will be able to compare what we find on the knife to the patterns on the inmates' fingers."

"I had no idea," Doctor Teague said.

"It isn't something they advertise," I said. "Or I suppose all criminals would simply wear gloves."

She held out her hand. "I can take the knife to Scotland Yard. You should return to Bartleby."

"We can hand it to an officer at the barrier in front of the hospital," I said. "Besides, you'd only get your own prints on it, and that would muddle things for the technicians."

She withdrew her hand, eyes widening, staring at her fingertips. "I suppose you're right."

I smiled. My reaction to the forensic development had been much the same. I'd studied my own fingertips for weeks.

In Which Alton Bartleby Assists

"Primary laceration from sternum to right hip," James said.

Primary... laceration... Alton wrote in the little notebook he carried. He was not in the habit of taking his partner's dictation, but when the man was elbow-deep in Director there was little one could do but accommodate him.

"Wound is deep enough to gouge the hip-bone, and lacerated the large intestines. If he had lived he would have been facing significant septic shock."

"Fortunate he was spared that then," Doctor Teague said from across the room.

She was leaning over one of the wash basins, facing away from the corpse. Alton couldn't blame her.

Lacking the madmen's permission to remove Director Paddock's body from the facility, James was forced to perform his exploratory autopsy in the asylum's bath, primarily because its stone floor would be easier to clean afterward, and it was the only chamber with a drain in the floor.

"Puncture wounds to the heart, lungs – both – and left kidney."

"Poor man was used as a pin cushion," Bartleby said.

"This is ghastly," Teague said.

"You can go if you like," James said. "Wait in the hall."

Alton couldn't help but find his partner's infatuation adorable.

"No, I... I owe it to Arthur."

James nodded, then went back to his gruesome task. "One thing to note."

Alton tapped his pencil against his lip. "Yes?"

"These wounds are very neat."

Doctor Teague risked a glance over. "They look rather bloody."

"No, I mean controlled. Clean. Precise. There isn't the ripping and tearing I'd assume from a knife-wielding psychotic."

"Have you much familiarity with the handiwork of knife-wielding psychotics?" she asked.

Both detectives replied in unison. "Yes."

Doctor Teague adjusted her glasses and rose to join them, eyes averted from the gore. "The classic psychotic is not, as one would assume, driven by a boundless rage."

"No?" James asked.

"No. Their compulsions are as varied as their diagnosis, but they're more rational than emotionally driven."

"Rational," Alton said, bemused.

"If you understand the motivation. Pathology is a puzzle, gentlemen. If you understand the drive behind our patients, their actions make a good deal of sense indeed."

"Really."

"What I mean to say is that they are consistent."

Alton snorted. His personal experiences spoke to the contrary.

Doctor Teague frowned. "Mock me if you will, Mr. Bartleby, but the precision of these strikes is not something a sane man could easily manage."

"I can't argue with that," he said. "I bow to your superior education, Doctor."

Her frown lessened. Slightly. "Some of our patients have minds that are so orderly and structured that it is almost impossible for them to cope with the chaotic unpredictabilities of the world we live in."

Alton shifted, suddenly interested again, the disdainful fop disappearing from his manner. He gestured towards the body. "Is such a mindset consistent with these injuries?"

"It isn't inconsistent," Doctor Teague said. "I can give you a list of the patients who might manifest in such a way, if you like."

"Excellent," Alton beamed.

"I'll need to access my files."

"In your office then?"

James waved a crimson hand. "Give me a bit to get Director Paddock sorted and clean up, and I'll catch up with you."

"Fine. We'll wait for you in Teague's office."

James nodded, and the pair departed.

20 September, 1911 - 3:00 pm

Aldora landed behind me with a soft pat. I'm proud of the way I refrained from turning to look.

"You've just missed your husband and the doctor."

"I do not care for that woman," she said.

"No? It seems you'd have quite a bit in common."

"We do not." The frost in her voice consumed whatever good will I'd earned earlier.

I finished drying my hands and tossed the hand towel into the basket. "What's wrong with her?"

"I did some investigative work of my own. Spoke to some of Teague's classmates at Girton."

"You do get around."

"There were rumours, James, of misconduct between her and one of her professors. That she had exchanged... favours for her certification in Psychiatric Evaluation."

I tsked. "You of all people should know how threatened by an intelligent woman men can be. And how gossips will rag."

Her lips drew taut. "Perhaps, James, but listen carefully. She later made allegations that this professor had stolen the credit for work on her thesis. When the academic council rejected her claims, that same professor was later found murdered, a fountain pen thrust through his eye."

"Was there no investigation?"

Aldora shook her head. "Scotland Yard's notes indicated that while she was questioned, she was dismissed as a suspect on account of being, and I quote the report, "A simple, scared, and helpless woman."

"Well, there you have it," I said.

"James. Have you known Teague to be simple, scared, or helpless?"

"No, but I've not known her to be a ruthless killer, either."

"All the same, I strongly suggest you not write her off. But listen, James--"

"I find her quite amicable."

"James. Listen."

I turned to face her, and noted the grave look upon her face.

"There's an inmate in the tunnels below the baths--"

I glanced at the drain. "There are tunnels below the baths?"

"Pay attention, good lad. He's wandering there, covered in blood. Not his own, I'd wager."

"What were you doing in the tunnels below the baths?" I asked.

"Being thorough," she said. "And it's a good thing I was. He seems an apt candidate for your killer."