“I was about to tell you. Inspector Reid of Scotland Yard escorted Pearly Poll to the Tower of London. Everyone in the garrison who’d had leave on Bank Holiday night was lined up on parade for her to inspect, but she couldn’t recognize the man, or even her own client.”
Mark frowned. “She must have been lying.”
“So they believed.” Trebor finished his wine and set the glass down on the table beside him. “But to give her the benefit of the doubt, they went through a similar inspection at Wellington Barracks, this time with the Coldstream Guards. And this time she immediately indicated two men — one a corporal and the other a private — and accused them.”
“Thank goodness.” Mark nodded and leaned back in his chair.
“Save your gratitude,” Trebor murmured. “Further inquiries disclosed that the corporal had been home with his wife all evening, and the other guardsman returned to barracks at ten o’clock.”
Mark’s hand went to his mustache again. “But if it wasn’t a soldier, then who—?”
“The verdict of the coroner’s jury was murder by person or persons unknown.”
For a moment Mark glanced away, meeting the silent stare of the portraits on the wall. Then he faced Trebor again and when he found his voice the words were scarcely audible.
“My fault,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I should have spoken to the woman. I fully intended to. That’s why I left so abruptly. After what you told me about their circumstances I meant to give both of them some money, enough for a decent night’s lodging. But when I got outside and saw them going off with those drunken brutes I lost my nerve. And my dinner.”
“You were ill?” Trebor said.
“Yes. That’s why I didn’t come back to the pub.”
“Where did you go?”
“To my rooms. I would have apologized to you next morning but you weren’t here.”
“Business took me out of the city,” said Trebor. “I just returned last night. When I read about the inquest it occurred to me that perhaps I could give testimony.”
Mark swallowed quickly. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“No need. After hearing the proceedings I thought the better of it. All I could have done was corroborate the victim’s presence at the pub and this had already been established by others. No point bringing myself into the picture. Or you.”
Mark nodded. “Just as well. Let sleeping dogs lie.” Then he shook his head quickly. “I shouldn’t say that. She wasn’t a dog — she was a human being.”
“Whoever killed her didn’t think so.” Trebor spoke slowly. “Over thirty stab wounds. Not just murder, but the savage mutilation of a corpse after her death agonies in the dark. The work of a maniac.”
“Yes, it must have been.” Mark rose, his face pallid in the wan light from the window as he turned and started for the door. “We must talk further. But it’s time for me to make my rounds. If I can be excused—”
“Of course.”
Mark moved away and the door closed behind him, leaving Trebor alone in the gathering twilight. Only the eyes in the portraits saw his troubled frown.
~ SEVEN ~
Rome, A.D 85. A robber was crucified in the arena. He did not die quickly enough to please the crowd, so a bear was set loose to eat him as he writhed upon the cross.
Bracing herself against the worn seat-cushion of the swaying hansom, Eva stared out at the gathering fog.
Over the clop of the horse’s hooves and the rattle of revolving wheels, the bells of St. Mary’s Whitechapel sounded seven times, marking the hour and the end of her holiday.
Eva’s sigh held no regret, only relief. The fortnight with Papa had been more of an ordeal than she’d anticipated, though she might have known what to expect. Papa was an old man, and his retirement offered him nothing but poverty and loneliness. Worst of all, after a lifetime in the pulpit, now he had no one to preach to.
But why must he preach to me? Eva frowned at the thought, hastily summoning excuses. Papa was getting senile, didn’t understand that things have changed, he was afraid of dying.
True enough, yet hardly consolation against his constant whining and complaining. He exaggerated on his age and infirmities to gain sympathy, still trying to wheedle her into returning home.
But even if she wanted to, that was impossible now. Times had changed. She had changed — the last six months proved that. The things she’d learned about the world, the things she’d learned about herself, had taught her there could be no turning back. This time Eva saw Papa through different eyes; a selfish old man whose thoughts dwelled only on death and suffering.
Suffering? Eva glanced up at the sudden sound of a whipcrack and the curse of the cabbie as he lashed the horse forward around a corner. Cruelty and suffering were everywhere; she didn’t need Papa to remind her of the presence of pain. And if she tried to tell him that pain had its uses he’d never understand. The idea of taking a whip to the cabdriver and teaching him a lesson would horrify Papa; he believed that punishment must come only from God.
Eva sighed again. Perhaps he was right. At least she had no intention of carrying out her thought as the hansom pulled to a halt at the curb.
The cabbie climbed down from his perch and came around to open the door. “ ’Ere we are, Miss. Number Seven, Old Montague Street.”
She opened her purse as he helped her out, extending the fare with her face turned away to avoid his beery breath.
“Want me ter give you a hand with yer bag?” he said.
“No, thank you. I can manage.” Eva reached in and grasped the portmanteau resting on the hansom seat.
As the cab rolled off she moved up the walk. The streetlamp at the corner was unlit and no light was visible in the windows of Number Seven. Through the twilight fog the bleak bulk of the building loomed above her.
So did the figure.
A dark shadow rose swiftly from the stairwell beside the entrance. It swooped forward, hand extended, grasping her arm.
The shadow had substance. And a voice.
“Miss Sloane?”
Eva blinked up toward the dim outline of the face before her, then relaxed as recognition came.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” Mark Robinson said.
“Sorry. My train was late.”
The mustached mouth formed a smile. “That’s quite all right. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten our dinner engagement.”
“Oh no—!” Eva shook her head. “As a matter of fact, I did. Please forgive me, I feel like such an idiot—”
“No matter, you’re here now.”
“But you don’t understand. I can’t dine out this evening. Not after the train trip. I’m due to report for duty at six tomorrow morning, and I’ve still not settled in my new quarters here—” As she spoke Eva realized that she did feel like an idiot, but there was no help for it. “Really, I’m so embarrassed — if you could possibly postpone your plans until—”
But she was talking to herself.
Mark had already turned abruptly and now, as Eva watched, the figure of the man in the deerstalker cap vanished in the night.
~ EIGHT ~
Rome, A.D. 265. The historian Eusebius writes of the persecution and punishment of Christians in his Ecclesiastical History. “The flesh was flogged from their bones or scraped to the bone with shells, and salt and vinegar poured on the wounds. Others had molten lead poured down their throat or were tied to the bent branches of two trees which, when released, sprang back apart to tear them asunder.”
Gaslight cast a ghostly glow over the walls of the medical laboratory, flickering faintly in sinister silence.
And there was something sinister about the silent man who crouched before the clutter of chemical retorts on the tabletop, glancing about furtively to make sure he was not observed. His normally-composed face was haggard now, his trembling hand tensing with an effort at control as he carefully measured off a few drops from a retort and poured the colorless concoction into a beaker. The liquid bubbled and foamed. Raising the fuming vessel to his lips he drained its contents at a single gulp, then stood swaying as the beaker fell from nerveless fingers.
Clutching his throat, face contorted with agony and anguish, he gasped, staggered, and fell behind the table.
For a moment all was still.
Then the silence was broken by the sound of panting as he rose slowly to face the light.
But now his features were changed. The pale aristocratic countenance had disappeared; in its place was the hairy bestial visage of a monster. Glaring wildly, the beast-man turned toward the door at the sound of a knock and a muffled voice crying out.
“Dr. Jekyll — Dr. Jekyll — are you there?”
Spontaneous applause resounded, drowning out Richard Mansfield’s reply. The Royal Lyceum Theatre audience was completely captivated by his performance in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
Or almost completely.
Trebor, seated in the stalls beside Mark, observed the ovation without emotion. And when the curtain fell for the interval, he led Mark through the jostling, murmuring mob thronging the foyer, and ordered two whiskies at the bar.
As the drinks arrived the younger man’s hand moved toward his breast pocket but Trebor restrained him. “My treat,” he said. “You paid for the tickets.”
Mark lifted his glass. “I’m glad you came,” he said. “Seeing as how it was a last-minute invitation.”
Trebor nodded. “Stood you up, eh?”
“What do you mean?”
“The young lady.” He smiled. “Obviously, since you booked seats in advance, you must have counted on more pleasant companionship.” Trebor caught himself quickly. “None of my business, really. Her loss is my gain.”
Mark downed his drink, making no reply. Still Trebor couldn’t help wondering. The lady in question — who might she be?
But now it was Mark’s question he must answer; the sound of his voice registered over Trebor’s thought. “Well, what do you think of it?”
“The play?” Trebor set his glass on the bar as he resolved his reply. “Mansfield is a consummate actor, no doubt about that. But the premise is utterly absurd.”
“Do you really think so?” Mark’s eyes were thoughtful. “Of course the device is childish. I realize there’s no chemical agency which could bring about such a drastic, instantaneous transformation. But we both know that seemingly normal personalities are capable of a sudden change.”
“Granted.” Trebor shrugged. “In this instance I must admit that bad science can also make for good melodrama.”
He turned to return a nod of greeting from a tall man striding past, monocle glinting from one scowling eye. His close-cropped hair, down-pointed mustache and stiff bearing seemed better suited to a uniform than evening clothes.
Mark glanced at him. “Friend of yours?”
“Sir Charles Warren. He’s the commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.”
“Sounds important.”
“That he is, and he’d be the first to tell you so. Warren was Major General of the Royal Engineers when they put down the Bantu tribes in Griqualand West, then commanded them again at Suakin. Quite the heroic figure, but not exactly an endearing one. When he took over as commissioner last year he called out the troops to fire on demonstrators in Trafalgar Square. ‘Bloody Sunday,’ they call it.” Trebor shook his head. “I’d be hard put to find many who’d count Sir Charles Warren a friend.”
Now the warning buzzer sounded and they returned to their seats. As the curtain rose again Trebor noted Mark’s total absorption in the drama. Strange that he should be so completely captivated by such claptrap. The play was quite obviously the product of a morbid imagination — and morbid anatomy. Trebor recalled that the author of the story. Robert Louis Stevenson, was known to suffer from phthisis, and no doubt the disease exerted an influence over his mind as well as his body. But the work had power, and at its conclusion the audience clamored its approval. Curtain calls were still continuing when Trebor and Mark made their way through the lobby, glancing appreciatively at the new display of electrical lighting.
Its dazzle formed quite a contrast to the fog they found in the street. Here in the gathering gloom artificial light gave way to a darker reality.
As they strolled. Mark murmured softly, almost to himself. “It could be true, you know.”
“The play?”
“Just the idea behind it. An ordinary man turning into a monster.”
“Medically impossible,” Trebor said. “There are no such chemicals.”
“I’m not thinking about a physical change. But suppose there’s something inside the brain itself that can sometimes be summoned to take control. Perhaps we all have a monster hidden inside us.”
“Nothing’s hidden inside me that I know of except the need for a stiff drink.” Trebor shivered in the chill of the damp street. “What say we stop for a nightcap?”
Mark shook his head. “If you don’t mind, I’ll just go on to my lodgings.”
“Suit yourself. Personally, I’ve no taste for this weather.”
“I rather like it,” Mark said.
“You’d be better off to hail a cab—”
Trebor’s voice trailed off as he realized the young man wasn’t listening. With a gesture of farewell, Mark turned the corner and the fog swallowed him.
For a moment Trebor considered following, but then a stronger impulse inclined him in the direction of the public house directly across the street. Its brightly lit windows blazed a promise of warm delights within.
Strange that the notion had taken him so suddenly. How many times had he told himself that a man his age must put aside the pleasures of the flesh? But the urge was always there, buried somewhere inside him, and now he felt it emerging like the monster Mansfield played. Suppose that another drama was about to unfold—Dr. Trebor and Mr. Hyde?
Hurrying toward the entrance of the public house he shrugged the thought away.
There was nothing monstrous about wanting a woman…