When I reached the constable house, I found it in an uproar. Such agitation I initially ascribed to my abrupt disappearance, but I was soon forced to abandon that theory in favor of one less flattering to my ego. None of the constables seemed all that impressed with my sudden arrival, and though a few here and there glowered at me as I came near their arguments, none paused in their bickering to inform me as to what was going on.
Just as I was beginning to take offense at their apparent lack of concern about my disappearance—and a similar lack of relief at my return—I saw Patricia in the middle of the chaos. She stood just inside the entrance, her face clouded with anger. Though her expression did not bode well for me, I made my way through the madness to her side. “Ms. Anderson, I—”
Before I had spoken a fourth word, Patricia had thrown her arms about me. As undignified a gesture as it was, I could not manage to loosen her grip. Her face burrowed into my chest, leaving her voice muffled. “Hector Kingsley, you idiot, where have you been? When I came to your apartment, the door was ajar. Everything inside had been left in disarray; even the safes in the office and the bedrooms had been breached with some kind of explosive. I thought you’d been taken, just like von Messner.”
The raw emotion in her voice smote me, and a wave of shame washed over my craven heart. I placed my hands on her shoulders and pushed slightly, allowing her to step back. “You have my apologies, Ms. Anderson. I was…unavoidably detained elsewhere at the time of the intrusion at my apartment. You said that my belongings had been interfered with?” She nodded, and a slow ebb and flow of anger began to build within me. “Perhaps Devonshire has begun to tire of my attentions, and took measures to silence me once more. I would assume the Dollmaker would use much subtler methods if he meant to attack me.”
Patricia began to respond, and then her eyes seemed to flicker. She drew back, her expression now guarded. “Why would he move against you now, Hector? You’ve been occupied with the investigation here, haven’t you?”
Before I could respond, I heard Aberforth’s voice over the noise of the bustling constables. “I believed that you were safe, Mr. Kingsley, but it does relieve me to see you.” I turned to see the constable approaching from the backroom office. He was escorted yet again by the dour constable who had greeted us the night I had been ushered to the spot by Crimson. Aberforth did not seem to have nearly as much confidence as he once had enjoyed. In one hand he held a length of paper. His fingers were clenched about it, as if he was trying to strangle the page.
I stepped away from Patricia, conscious of how our behavior might have looked. “I wonder what reason I might have given you for such concern, Mr. Aberforth. I have no intention of going anywhere until this business is done.”
“Neither did von Messner and his men.” His grim tone offered all the confirmation I might have needed, but it was obvious there was more.
“Have their bodies been found, then?”
“No, but we remain sure of their deaths nonetheless.” Without another word of explanation, he handed over the page. I took care to straighten the crumpled paper as I unrolled it, careful to not smudge the writing scrawled therein.
The message was brief, yet clear despite its dearth of loquaciousness.
So you’ve hired hunters to hunt the hunter, have you? It seems a fine enough arrangement to me. The blood of a fighting man is hot; they provide a wonderful challenge for a man like me. You should be careful to hire mercenaries of a better quality. These were spent far sooner than I expected. And Ms. Evans is done as well—I suppose that I must hunt again. You will hear again from me soon.
There was no signature. One was entirely unnecessary, given the context. When I looked up, I found that Aberforth continued to watch me. When he spoke, his voice had gone even more grim. “The note was found at a constable house near the building where you were ambushed. There was also a doll representing Ms. Evans, his most recent victim. The wounds on it…” His words seemed to fail him, and he appeared to suffer a moment of helpless silence before he continued. “I fear that our investigations through you have only heightened his frenzy, his hunger. He will strike again soon.”
I felt a stream of satisfaction flow through me. “Not yet, Mr. Aberforth. He must rid himself of their bodies first.”
There was another moment of silence; both constables appeared to be shocked at my lack of personal horror in the matter. Patricia, on the other hand, had traded such concerns for a helping of practicality. She shook her head all the same. “We’ve already looked for dump sites, Hector. There’s nowhere else to look.”
“It’s not a where, Ms. Anderson. It is a whom.” I drew out the canister that had once been such an inscrutable mystery to me. Its meaning was now altogether too clear. “Our adversary this time has been exceptionally clever as well as generous. Each corpse he has created, he has donated to the auspices of science.”
“What nonsense are you referring to, man? Or have you merely lost your deluded little mind?” Aberforth’s companion sneered at me, though Aberforth gave him a disapproving frown. The rude constable’s skepticism notwithstanding, I remained quite certain of my theory. His words brought only a slight smile before I gave him an explanation even he could understand.
“He has taken on the disguise of a resurrectionist, my good friend. We have not found any of the bodies of the victims because he has been selling them to men of questionable motives for their studies. We lack only to find such a man whose research has accelerated despite a lack of official cadavers, and we have found the man who has seen the Dollmaker face-to-face.”
The realization dawned over their expressions, and Patricia’s lips formed a rather stunningly ferocious grin. She hefted her carbine to her shoulder and checked its mechanisms. “Well then, what are we waiting for? Let’s start checking them out now, and we should have him by tonight.”
I held up a hand. “That is not necessary, Ms. Anderson. I have already taken the trouble of consulting with various sources. They have been able provide me with sufficient clues.” Benjamin had been more than helpful, once I made my reasoning clear. He had outdone himself with such speedy work, though I believed he was mostly motivated by the fact that it might free Patricia from her obligations in time to help with our attack against Devonshire.
“A certain artisan by the name of Dr. Robin Burke has a reputation as an expert with medical tools. Dr. Burke has been quite active in the medical community as an advocate of experimental medical research, and he has been giving demonstrations of his tools on a consistent basis.” I paused. “According to the public records I have found, however, his last officially approved cadaver should have rotted ages ago. Yet the demonstrations have continued unhindered—in fact, in recent days they have increased substantially, and the majority of the cadavers have been female. He has to be in league with the Dollmaker.”
“Then let’s get a move on! We’ll have the bounty by lunch.” The entirely unwelcome voice of Mr. Eaton had intruded on my blissful peace of mind. I could barely suppress a frown as I faced him. He looked rather well rested and full of a peculiar kind of excitement. Perhaps the sudden revelation had merely encouraged him as much as it had Patricia, but I privately wondered if the diminished number of competing mercenaries had more to do with his good cheer.
Patricia was obviously of the same mind because she armed her carbine with a swift motion. “Who said we invited you, Billie? Hector was the one who tracked him, not you. He and I should collect the good doctor, and maybe if you play nice we’ll let you pick up some of the crumbs.”
Eaton failed to look discouraged in the least, despite her challenging tone. He merely hooked his hand inside his gun belt and grinned at her. “Well, I do apologize then, Trish. I just assumed that since the Dollmaker proved a bit hard to handle last time, you’d appreciate the help this time around too. I was offering something any gentleman would, but if you feel like risking your health by refusing, I guess there’s not much I can do about that.”
My hopes that she would confirm the fact that he was not welcome were quickly dashed when Patricia hesitated. She paused long enough that I began to worry, and my concerns were proved fully justified when she finally spoke. “I guess there’s no harm in bringing you along, Billie. After all, you want him as much as we do, and another set of eyeballs can’t hurt this time.”
I could hardly believe my ears. It was as if she had developed a sense of caution at precisely the wrong time. “Ms. Anderson, I assure you that we could easily subdue this man. He is merely a doctor, after all. The Dollmaker may not even be present.”
Her good sense won out again, however much it might have pained me. “No, we’ll take him along. He’ll be good in a fight, and it won’t hurt you to share.” She offered me a frustratingly enigmatic smile along with that last phrase, and I knew by the resolution in her tone that an argument would be useless.
“Then I suppose that my assistance would be helpful as well, Ms. Anderson?” The sibilant tone drove a cold spike of shock into my spine. I had not expected to hear from Crimson so soon—or ever, truthfully—and her abandonment during my attempt to infiltrate the jewelry shop had convinced me to doubt her reliability, if nothing else.
Yet as I turned to look at her, I saw a suggestion of guilt in her features. Perhaps the circumstances had been beyond her control—and the consternation on Patricia’s face was nearly worth the possibility of a dangerous ally. Surely she could be no worse a companion than Eaton would be.
Before Patricia could object, I bowed low. “Of course, Ms. Crimson. I would be delighted to enjoy your company on this hunt.” The Changling favored me with a tight smile, as if acknowledging the doubts I had so far concealed about her. Patricia, on the other hand, glared fiercely at me, while Eaton merely shrugged. I felt my satisfaction lessen slightly as Patricia faced Aberforth with a jerk.
“So we’ll be going now. Unless there are any others waiting in the wings to tag along?” She fell silent and looked around expectantly.
None answered her challenge, and I wondered if there was a sign in the fact that the rest of the constables, aside from Aberforth and his rough comrade-in-arms, had declined to assist us any further. Obviously the deaths of the mercenaries under von Messner had made an impression. Regardless, there was no purpose in waiting longer. With a minimum of further grumbling and backbiting, we embarked on our journey to the office of Dr. Burke, where I hoped that the Dollmaker—finally—would be found.
The Royal London Hospital had been located in the Whitechapel area since time immemorial. Its sturdy, plain walls had stood there for nearly a century, through the rise and fall of the Empire’s fortunes, through the massive upheavals caused by the discovery of the Distillation and the Changes which had followed, and through even the Great War against the reborn Empire of France. None of those catastrophes had managed to destroy the edifice, and the building still housed one of the finest examples of the medical profession in London.
Of course, such trials will always find their way to leave a mark. The Royal London had plenty of scars to bear witness to the sacrifices it had made to survive. One of the wings still bore stones that had been scorched by French aerial bombs. Rioting had left the doctors no choice but to fortify their front entrance with a large, spiked fence. The same barrier still existed today. Adorning the façade of the hospital was a clock powered by the Distillation; its facets had been made from the crystal as well, before the danger had been realized.
The reputation of the Royal London had suffered its own lasting scars. Whitechapel had been one of the places where the first Changlings had been quarantined, and the Royal London had been the epicenter of several regrettable experiments during those frantic times. Those experiments had continued under the stress of the Great War, and the hospital had descended even further into the ethical morass which had threatened to consume it. More recently, the backers of the hospital had attempted to redeem the old institution, but as of now it remained a remarkably dangerous place for someone who any mad scientist might view as “interesting.”
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All of which meant that none of my party was surprised when I led them to the hospital’s doorstep. Dr. Burke was one of the people who had worked in the place since the quarantine, and as such would not be too terribly hard to find. Aberforth had raised the concern that the cadavers would be hidden away from view, but I knew better. A man as proud and formerly successful as Burke had been was not likely to hide his work in some back-alley laboratory.
With Patricia and Crimson at my side and Eaton at my back, we marched up the steps and through the door of the facility. A pair of guards watched us warily, but the dour constable at Aberforth’s side showed them his badge and they retreated back to their posts. Our search took us through the scrupulously clean hallways of the hospital, past doctors and nurses who stared in horrified fascination at our attire and weaponry. We reached the area where space had been provided for the artisans and physicians whose work had more to do with research and teaching than with healing the sick, and very shortly we found our prey.
The good doctor—or poor one, perhaps I should say—was in the midst of a lecture. He had an audience of fascinated students and solemn professors gathered around a very clean table in a similarly spotless room. In one hand he held a sharp-edged scalpel. With the other he poked and prodded at something beneath a sheet. His discourse was loud enough to reach my ears as we entered the room.
“And here we see how the mechanism can help to separate the ribs enough for the use of other medical tools. The automated system can also be used to preserve a level of sanitation that would not be possible under normal conditions. Some care must be taken with the parameters, of course; too small an opening will delay the surgery, while too large of one will leave permanent damage to the rib cage.”
Aberforth brought an end to the morbid discussion by raising his voice. “Dr. Burke, we need to have a word with you.”
Every one of the assembled physicians turned in unison to consider us. Their expressions ranged from the merely curious to the venomously contemptuous. Dr. Burke, for his part, simply adopted a visage that expressed resignation and disappointment. He gestured to the cadaver under the sheet. “Might your questions wait until the end of my demonstration? We have a very limited time before the cadaver is no longer usable.”
The constable glanced at the sheet. His lip curled in disgust. “Most unfortunately, our questions involve the cadaver as well. Please move away from the body, Dr. Burke.” Aberforth motioned for his fellow officer to advance, and the sullen man did so with a hand on his truncheon.
Understanding dawned on Dr. Burke’s face, and though he strove to conceal it, desperation tinged his tone. “You are being most unreasonable, constable. We are assembled here to test and perfect the newest tools of medicine. Our work here can save countless lives!” As he spoke, the doctor moved the hand holding the scalpel, drawing it closer to the head of the cadaver. My fingers tightened on the grip of my pistol, knowing that one of the Dollmaker’s victims had to reside under that sheet; otherwise, why would he attempt to destroy the evidence?
Patricia must have realized the same danger, for she tensed and laid a finger on the trigger of her carbine. Aberforth noticed as well, and his next warning came in a clipped, deadly tone. “Your…charitable…concerns notwithstanding, we do need you to answer our questions. We also need you to drop the scalpel and move away from the corpse.”
Dr. Burke made no move to obey. The other physicians, less brave, began to edge away with alarmed expressions. Those who had merely been students now registered the situation with ill-disguised horror. Burke’s older colleagues seemed far less idealistic and rather more concerned about the fact that they would be associated with the man they now left isolated and alone on the laboratory floor. A few even directed spiteful glares in his direction, as if he had somehow compelled them to share in his ill fortune.
His expression now curiously blank, Dr. Burke acknowledged none of those stares. Instead, he watched the approaching constable with an unconcerned look. When the dour constable had nearly reached him, Burke heaved a weary sigh. “You’re shortsighted and petty, you know. All of you. You cannot see what kind of good I bring to the world, and you certainly have not the understanding to judge me. None of you do, and none of you ever will.”
Aberforth drew his truncheon. A rasp of metal on leather told me that Eaton drawn his pistol. Patricia worked the action of her carbine, the snap and click of its metal parts ringing loud in the operating room. In the hush that followed, I spoke. “Dr. Burke, perhaps your explanation of the situation might redeem you in our eyes, and perhaps not. If you do not surrender your scalpel, however, you may never get the chance.” I nodded to Patricia, and the doctor’s eyes widened as he looked at her. When he turned back to me, I continued. “Put down the scalpel, Dr. Burke, and persuade us of your cause. Only then will history judge well of you.”
For the barest of moments, it seemed as if my words had reached him. The doctor searched my eyes, likely looking for signs of deception or betrayal. He seemed to find none. Though I did not precisely empathize with the man, I could understand his view and certainly wished him no harm. He was, after all, a physician, and one willing to risk his livelihood to develop new methods for the healing arts. At the very least, out of practical concerns, he would help us find the Dollmaker, and that alone encouraged me to keep him alive.
He must have sensed my genuine desire for his survival, but he still hesitated long enough to search among the others who stood by me. Dr. Burke’s eyes paused on Patricia, and then shifted to the two constables. What he found in their stance and their expressions must have reassured him, for his grip on the scalpel lessened and the little blade lowered slightly.
Then his gaze caught one of the figures standing behind me, and his blue eyes widened. He stared for a moment, half in fear and half in outrage, and his grip tightened again on his blade. “You. You’re here. I should have expected it.”
I glanced behind me. Both Ms. Crimson and Mr. Eaton stood there, apparently taken aback by the venom in the doctor’s tone. When I looked back at Dr. Burke, the man had taken a step forward, drawing closer to the corpse on the table. His voice raised an octave in pitch. “Your plan is obvious to me. Don’t think I haven’t figured it out! They’re your puppets, just like me. Pets! Well, if you think I’m willing to take the fall for you, to take responsibility for what you’ve done, I am afraid you are mistaken. I’m taking you with me, you bloody-handed vampire!”
Even as I stiffened from the anger in his words, the dour constable rushed at Dr. Burke. The doctor stabbed his scalpel at the man. As the constable fell back with a cry of alarm, though the blade had not cut anything more than the sleeve of his uniform, Dr. Burke drew a revolver from beneath his coat. His weapon drew into line with me, and my breath froze in my throat.
Then it swept past me as the crack of a pistol shot rang in the air, but the gunshot had come from behind, not ahead of me. Eaton’s shot was high, possibly intended only to warn the doctor and force him to back away from the corpse which would expose his crimes. In this effort Mr. Eaton was half successful; Dr. Burke did not approach the corpse, and inflicted no further violence on anyone.
Unfortunately, the reason he did no such thing was that Eaton’s shot took him in the throat.
The bullet struck to sickening effect. Blood, sudden and bright, sprayed out into the still air of the laboratory. Dr. Burke choked, his eyes rolling wildly and one hand clutched to his ruined throat. It was all in vain. Even a layman could tell the wound was beyond even the best surgeon’s help. The doctor collapsed in a heap on the floor, a pool of red spreading across the floor.
I spun to face Ms. Crimson. The Changling’s eyes were fixed on the blood now spreading in a pool around the dead man, and she seemed entranced by the sight. Her knife was drawn, and the tip seemed to twitch and jump of its own accord. Mr. Eaton was likewise staring dumbfounded at the dead man as if he could barely believe the doctor was dead. His pistol dangled slightly in one hand, as if astonishment had loosened his grip.
Patricia suffered no such hesitation, however. She had her carbine aimed and a finger on the trigger before my own thoughts had even caught up with events. Her voice was cold. “I knew you were trouble, vampire. Drop your knife!”
Crimson did not appear to have heard the command. She started to edge forward, her eyes still fixed on the blood. Aberforth was the next to speak; I noted that the constable still had his truncheon out. “Crimson, in light of this evidence, I will have to ask you to come with us. Please drop your weapon.”
She seemed oblivious to either the words or the weapons directed toward her. It was obvious that she was fighting the pull of the blood, too caught up in the struggle to pay much attention to such trivial concerns as survival and culpability. If the situation progressed, it was very likely that she would be shot down as she ran for the body. Though Dr. Burke had all but confirmed her guilt, I could not allow it to end that way.
I stepped in between Crimson and the fallen doctor, my pistol held ready. Patricia hissed at me to keep out of the way, but I ignored her and focused on the Changling before me. “Ms. Crimson, you need to focus. Focus on me, not on the blood.” She did not seem to recognize me, and took another sliding step forward. I tried again. “Ms. Crimson. Ms. Aleman.” Desperation filled me. Everything had gone very still. “Edith.”
At the mention of her first name, she blinked, and some understanding returned to her eyes. Her attention seemed to flicker now, first staring at the blood, then glancing back at me, and then returning to the spreading pool of red. She licked her lips, and her brow furrowed. I pressed on. “Edith, you don’t need it. Focus. Fight it, Edith. Fight!”
The Changling came to a halt. She wavered in place, as if the pool tugged at her. “I…” She looked at me. “I can’t…” Crimson turned her gaze back to me at last, and I saw helplessness in that stare. Her hands twitched, and her eyes went back to the pool of blood. She licked her lips and took a tentative step forward. “The smell. It would only be a little. Not enough to kill.” Another step. “Just a little.”
“Edith? You need to stop.” The urgency of my voice seemed to break through her distracted obsession. For a heartbeat as she looked at me, her dark eyes seemed to fix upon me to the exclusion of all else.
Or more accurately, they fixed upon my throat.
When she launched herself for my jugular, I had the distinct impression that my efforts to reach her had failed in a way I had not anticipated. Patricia’s carbine barked a shot, but the bullet missed and blew a hole in the wall near the entrance. Crimson crossed the distance between us in three bounding strides. Her shrill shriek of hunger and despair filled the room.
Her approach gave me just enough time to regret having forgotten to replace my lost scent bomb before she leaped the final distance toward her goal. Motivated rather keenly by my desire to retain the blood inside my veins, I struck at her knife with a right jab. The blow sent the blade spinning away across the room, but she batted my pistol aside before I could bring it in line. The weapon skittered away, desperately out of reach. Then she went for my throat with both hands, her fingers grasping at skin she so desperately wanted to rend and tear.
I managed to catch her hands in a one-handed grip, but she started to writhe and thrash with inhuman strength. Engaged now in an awkward backwards dance, I fumbled with my free hand for Patricia’s brass knuckles. My fingers closed about the device just as one of Crimson’s hands wrapped around my windpipe, squeezing with an appalling lack of mercy. Her fingernails cut deep, and I heard a victorious growl as she scented my blood.
Then I brought my left fist around, the knuckles already activated. The impact tore her away from me, hurling her backward across the near-empty laboratory. I lurched after her, unwilling to allow her space to recover from the punch, but my knees buckled. My strength was just about expended now, and it was hard enough work to stay conscious.
As I struggled to rise, I discovered that my attack had not done much to deter Crimson. My mind filled with her words about the lack of pain she felt. Crimson smiled, flashing terrible white teeth. She rose easily from where the knuckles had thrown her and stepped forward to complete her work. Just as she was about to leap once more, the butt of Patricia’s carbine smashed into the side of her head. This time, it was not an attack the vampire could shrug aside; she staggered, trying to face her new attacker. Then the vampire wavered as if she meant to keep her feet, and slid boneless to the floor.
For the next few moments it was simply enough to breathe. The air rasped in and out of my throat; each breath caused pinpricks of pain where Crimson’s nails had dug into my skin. I continued to stare at the unconscious vampire, terribly aware of how close to death I had come. Then Patricia reached to help me stand, a support I received gladly.
Mr. Eaton had his pistol trained on the vampire now. Eagerness to pull the trigger gleamed in those eyes, and had I not been so shaken by my own encounter with death, I might have remarked on the way he licked his lips. “She won’t be waking up from that. We should get rid of her. If she’s the Dollmaker, there’s no reason to keep her around.”
Aberforth shook his head and lowered his truncheon. “No, Mr. Eaton. We will put her on trial as she deserves, and we will let the evidence stand to convict her.” The constable looked toward the table where his companion had inspected the body. “Constable Rutherford?”
The sullen man nodded at his superior. “It’s von Messner all right, cut up and disfigured. Some of it had to have happened before he got into this place.” He spat and seemed to revel in the discontent the gesture inspired those still in the room. Then he looked down at the blood-soaked body of Dr. Burke. “He’s already gone. Pity, he would’ve made a wonderful witness.”
“Indeed.” Aberforth’s voice gave little hint that he actually regretted Burke’s passing. The manner in which he strode over to Crimson gave me the impression he had already put the dead doctor out of his mind. “Mr. Eaton, if you will help me carry her to the station, I believe we will want to have her in chains before she wakes.” Eaton continued to hold his pistol on the unconscious Changling for a moment more, and then holstered it with a growl. Aberforth supported one of her arms while Eaton took the other; the dour constable trailed behind them, truncheon ready in case she awoke.
Patricia and I remained behind, both still recovering from the shock of the incident. The possibility of having the Dollmaker in our midst—indeed, of having walked in the street with her, fought Devonshire’s thugs with her, unsuspecting all the while—had not seemed possible to me before. Now, staring that colossal oversight directly in the face, I found myself horribly uncertain and in doubt regarding my own capabilities as an investigator. If I had been taken in by so simple a ruse and deceived by such an obvious candidate for the murders, how could I hope to challenge Devonshire in his plots? What other disaster waited in the wings that I had not foreseen?
In an effort to rid myself of those doubts, I looked to Patricia. “My thanks, Ms. Anderson. I would have been killed without your help.”
She smiled bitterly at me. “I knew she would be trouble. Maybe next time you’ll listen.” As she turned to follow the others, I heard her mutter, perhaps unknowingly loud in the still laboratory. “Too bad about Little Miss Edith, I suppose…”
Her sullen mutters preceded me through the doorway. I had no reply as we left the London hospital behind. The investigation into the Dollmaker was officially over.