The Constantine Affliction (16 page)

“Can you answer one question for me?” Skye said.

“Almost certainly not.”

“I will ask all the same. How is Bertram Oswald involved with Mr. Value?”

Pimm frowned. Sir Bertram? What a strange question. Might as well ask how the Prime Minister was involved with Value, or the Queen herself. Surely there was no connection.

Worth tried to twist around in his chair again. “You ask the right questions, at least, Mr. Jenkins.”

“And yet you refuse to supply useful answers.”

“What do you expect? I am a lowly killer. Now let us find a real detective, Lord Pembroke, so that I might make my confession.”

The Living, the Dead,
and Others

“T
his is the bit where you leave, Jenkins,” Lord Pembroke said, helping her into her borrowed coat in Worth’s foyer. “I can just barely explain my presence here, or come up with some explanation the police won’t bother to question, but your presence would make things difficult, especially the way your mustache is wobbling on its foundations.”

Ellie tried to hide a yawn behind her hand. “I did see Mr. Worth flee a crime scene. I could be a witness.”

“Hardly necessary when he intends to confess. Besides, there is no crime scene any more, as the body has been moved. I may need to do something about that. A crime with no victim is a difficult crime to prosecute… Well. Just because sleep will be a long time coming for me does not mean you should stay awake.”

“I am happy to accompany you.” She stifled another yawn, less successfully. “This has been quite interesting.”

“For me as well. You can make it home all right?”

“At this hour? Alas, my rooming house is firmly shut for the night, and nothing less than the trumpeting of an angel of judgment could compel my landlady to open the door past midnight. But it is no matter. I have a key to the newspaper office. It would not be my first night spent sleeping at my desk.”

Lord Pembroke looked horrified at the prospect. “Nonsense! No, you must stay at my home. I have no idea when I will be along, but I will write a letter for you to give to my wife.”

“I could never intrude so! To wake your wife—”

“Ha. Winifred keeps owl’s hours, Miss—ah, Jenkins, and she loves nothing more than the disruption of routine. Our apartment has a spare bedroom that I daresay would be far more comfortable than your desk.”

Ellie groped for further objections, though in truth, the thought of meeting Lord Pembroke’s wife intrigued her for reasons she could not specify beyond her usual intense curiosity. What kind of woman would marry a man like
this
? “But, my attire—”

“It is unfortunate,” he said. “But our house is relatively secluded, and we have no servants at present, as my valet, who also served as our butler, has moved on to pleasanter prospects, as you heard. I think you can slip in without causing a scandal. And if anyone asks, claim to be Winifred’s brother, visiting to see how married life is treating her. No one in London knows her family.”

Ellie bowed her head in assent. “You are too kind, Lord Pembroke.”

“Please, call me Pimm. After what we’ve been through tonight, a bit of informality would be welcome, don’t you find?”

“Then you must call me Ellie.”

“It would be an honor. Here, just let me write a note to my wife, explaining who you are and so forth.” While in the midst of scribbling on a bit of paper taken from Worth’s desk, he said, in a voice so casual she knew it was anything but: “Why did you ask Mr. Worth about Bertram Oswald?”

“It is… complicated. I did not mention Oswald’s name before because it hardly seemed germane to the pursuit of a murderer, which surely took precedence over all other matters. But… I have reason to believe Oswald has some connection with Mr. Value. I am curious to discover the nature and extent of that connection.”

Lord Pembroke whistled. “Indeed? You saw them together?”

“I…” She laughed, the very idea of telling him about her visit to a clockwork brothel embarrassing—but also, oddly, titillating. She reined herself in. He was a married man, and she was a spinster. This was business. “When I said it was complicated, I was not exaggerating. Telling the tale would take some time.”

“I’d very much like to hear it,” Lord Pembroke said. “There are a few reasons a man of Sir Bertram’s stature would be involved with someone like Value, and none of them are terribly salubrious. If I were you, I would be
very
sure of my facts before I wrote a story linking two such well-known figures—and even if I were sure of my facts, I would still consider whether drawing the ire of the man rumored to be the Queen’s consort would be worth selling a few papers.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t publish it under my name, fear not.” She smiled, to make it light-hearted, but Lord Pembroke’s expression remained serious.

“If a man like Oswald wants to find you, Ellie, he will do so. The shield of a pen name would prove insufficient under his attack.”

The words chilled her. Crippen had recognized her tonight—in her male guise, at least—and would surely report to Oswald that Lord Pembroke had been seen in the company of the same man who’d discovered him at the brothel. Was Ellie putting Lord Pembroke in danger, too, by keeping that connection to herself? “Perhaps it
would
be best if I told you the whole story,” she said, and then yawned, hugely.

Lord Pembroke nodded. “I would be pleased to hear it, as I said. But not tonight. I have much work ahead, and you need sleep. We will talk tomorrow, all right?”

Ten minutes later, Ellie was climbing into the waiting carriage. If the driver was curious about what she and Lord Pembroke had been doing in the house, or why only Ellie was leaving now, he did not show it. She gave him Lord Pembroke’s address, and he jostled the reins and set the horse to clip-clopping along the stones.

Despite the terrible things she’d witnessed that night, Ellie allowed herself a small smile beneath her faltering mustache. Her life had certainly taken some unusual turns.

Spending the night at Lord Pembroke’s! She wondered if she could squeeze an article from that experience. Or perhaps just write a profile of his mysterious wife. That would certainly be a coup.

***

Detective Whistler emerged from Worth’s study, frowning. “He’s confessing to terrible crimes, Pimm. Are you sure he isn’t mad?”

Pimm, who sat on a stiff chair with a cup of rapidly cooling tea balanced on his knee, shook his head. “No. Some of my contacts have mentioned rumors of working women disappearing in Alsatia in recent weeks. I was prowling about the area this evening, hoping to catch sight of anything untoward—don’t smile at me like that, I’m serious—and happened upon this man in an alley. I smelled ether on him, suspected him of wrongdoing, and confronted him. He fled, but I was able to track him here, where I gained entry to his home and convinced him to confess.”

“I see.” Whistler’s voice was mild. “I sense you have elided over several relevant details in that account, such as how you knew women were disappearing, and how precisely you tracked the man, and how you enticed him to confess.”

Pimm sighed. “Jonathan, I have… certain sources in the underworld. You know that. I would rather not have to name them. They might be less willing to talk to me in the future if I involve their names in your inquiries.”

Whistler took a seat. “The problem, Pimm, is this: I have no evidence that a crime has occurred, only this man’s word.”

“You don’t believe him?”

“Belief is irrelevant. I require evidence. No bodies have been found. We had a man down at Scotland Yard yesterday who claimed he’d killed the moon, knocked it right out of the sky.
He
believed he was telling the truth. But that didn’t make it true. My men are searching this house, looking for some evidence, but apart from a rather large quantity of ether, they’ve turned up nothing. I’ll admit, the ether is suggestive, but it does not constitute proof of murder. I—”

One of the officers appeared in the doorway, holding a carved wooden box perhaps a foot across. “Mr. Whistler, sir, you should take a look at this. Mr. Worth said we should look in a secret compartment in his desk if we didn’t believe him, and…” He handed over the box. Whistler opened the lid and looked inside for a long time.

“What is it?” Pimm asked, though he knew quite well, having advised Worth to reveal the box and its contents—which Pimm had provided. He’d coached Worth extensively after Miss Skye was gone about the best way to confess. Pimm hadn’t wanted to reveal the extent of his planning to Miss Skye, lest she think ill of him. Pimm had known ever since speaking to Margaret’s brain that he’d need to manufacture evidence to implicate the killer, and he’d taken steps to create a compelling proof of crime. False evidence of a true murder… well, it wasn’t strictly ethical, but it would get the job done.

“Rather cheap jewelry, for the most part,” Whistler said. “Rings meant to look like silver, necklaces meant to look like gold. A bloody knife wrapped in a handkerchief, and a hank of blonde hair, tied up with a ribbon. There appears to be blood in the hair as well.”

“I would say that is more than suggestive,” Pimm said.

“And if I find a dead
body
that matches this hair, I will agree that we may have a murderer on our hands. Until we do…” He shrugged.

“Perhaps Worth would be willing to—”

“Lead me to the location of his latest victim’s remains, yes, I know my job, Pimm. The man has already offered to do just that. I shall have to investigate, of course, and hope the trip is not a waste of time. But something about this whole affair strikes me as odd. I sense there is much you are not telling me.”

“I feel obliged to protect my informants, but I can assure you, none of them are guilty of anything as terrible as this string of murders.” Not entirely true. Value had surely done worse things… but he was a target for another day.

“I gather we’re bound for a trip down to the river, then. Would you like to join us?”

Pimm considered, then nodded. Best to see this thing through. If Mr. Adams had not done as Pimm requested, some improvisation might be necessary. He hated plans that depended on unreliable people doing him favors. Worth had acquitted himself admirably, at least, salting his true confession with the inventions Pimm had prepared for him, but Adams was an enigmatic fellow. Who knew if he would do as Pimm had asked? The scientist had waved away the offer of money for his service. Pimm would have felt better if he’d believed the man could be bought.

“Let’s go then,” Whistler said. “There’s nothing I like better than tromping through riverfront slums looking for corpses.”

“Come now, Jonathan. You love a good crime.”

“No, I love a good mystery, and there is no mystery here—everything is laid out neatly before me. At this point, it’s all mere police work. Still, it must be done, I suppose.”

***

Adam carried Margaret’s corpse over his shoulder as he trudged through the stinking tunnels beneath Alsatia—but the stink did not bother him, for the redolence of nearby sewage brought with it a vision of beautiful swirling gray-green fog, with patterns that fascinated him. He did not whistle as he walked, but he considered whistling, because he had seldom been happier.

Bringing Margaret’s brain back to life had been a great triumph. Adam’s own creator had been able to reanimate dead flesh, yes, but he had not been able to maintain continuity of mind, and memory, and personality. Whatever thoughts Adam’s own brain had possessed in its original life were lost forever, entirely overwritten by his new personality. His creator had brought dead flesh to life; but Adam had brought a
person
back to life.

Of course, he’d ruined her body in the process, something he had not mentioned to Margaret. But he had some ideas about how to correct that situation. Since he had no pressing use for her broken-skulled corpse, he was content to perform the favor Lord Pembroke had asked of him—the detective had brought him a freshly-killed woman, as requested, so Adam owed him a favor in return. He did not understand Halliday’s plans, nor did he much care. After Margaret revealed the name of her murderer—her former pimp, Thaddeus Worth—Halliday had asked Adam for a knife, and a hank of Margaret’s bloody hair, and for any jewelry or personal effects that remained from the other dead women. Adam kept those few things Value’s thugs didn’t steal for themselves in a box on a shelf, mostly because he never threw anything away in case he someday needed it, and he handed the cheap rings and necklaces over without comment.

Halliday’s final request had been for Adam to deposit Margaret’s body in a particular location near the river. Halliday had been very concerned about how Adam might manage to complete that task without alerting the guards, suggesting a series of complex subterfuges, until finally Adam grew bored enough to say, “Fear not, detective—I have my own methods for traveling throughout the city unseen. There are… tunnels.” Halliday had looked about him then, peering into the laboratory’s darker corners, clearly unnerved at the thought of secret passageways all around him, and why not? There were all manner of mysteries beneath the Earth. Adam himself was one of the least of them.

He reached the end of the tunnel, and peered up toward an exit hatch, which was hidden beneath a heap of refuse behind a dockside cavern. Adam gently deposited Margaret’s broken-headed form on the ground, then climbed up the wall, fitting his feet into holes cut into the stone long before his own creation. At the top, he shoved open the hatch, emerging to look around and make sure he was unobserved. He descended again, collected Margaret, and clambered back up. Adam could fault his creator for many things, but at least he had endowed Adam with prodigious strength.

He closed the hatch, kicked rotted vegetables and broken boards across it to once again disguise its existence, and made his limping way toward the riverbank. The bank was built up here, bolstered by crumbling stones, and he had to step over a low wall and then gently ease himself down a steep slope toward the muddy, mired edge of the water. As he lowered poor Margaret’s body to the mud, he heard a gasp.

Turning, Adam beheld one of the creatures called tide-waitresses, women clothed in filthy rags who picked among the refuse along the banks of the river for anything they could sell, from bits of wire to empty bottles to pieces of wood. She stared at him, and Adam stared back, and then she shrieked and ran.