Beneath Ceaseless Skies #135

  Issue #135 • Nov. 28, 2013

  “Moreau’s Daughter,” by Holly Messinger

  “Your Figure Will Assume Beautiful Outlines,” by Claire Humphrey

  For more stories and Audio Fiction Podcasts, visit

  http://beneath-ceaseless-skies.com/

  MOREAU’S DAUGHTER

  by Holly Messinger

  Her face caught his eye, pale ivory against the black December night, a still visage amidst the eddies of humanity that laughed and sang and fought and fornicated in the shadows around the Ten Bells public house. She had paused to lean against the lamp-post, eyes closed, face slack with drink and fatigue—a moment of repose that was unlikely to last long, since the patrolman would circle around in another four minutes and tell her to move along.

  It was a younger face than Jack Nemo normally liked, but two things caught his attention: the stupid, intoxicated quality of her expression, and the exotic slant of her bone structure, especially around the eyes. It reminded him of early days when he had been a half-formed creature, surrounded by half-formed creatures, struggling through metamorphosis....

  The predator in him was familiar with risk, and with opportunity. He left the shadows, leisurely, swinging his cane like the gentleman he affected to be, strolled across the street, and took the girl by the arm, shaking her gently alert.

  She opened her eyes—less Oriental than he had supposed from the distance, but no matter—and smiled a drunken, welcoming smile. “Hallo chéri,” she said, in slurred Parisian gutter French. “‘Oould you want to come ‘ome wit’ me, then?”

  To hunt other Men was in strict violation of the Law. But the Maker had made clear that females were expendable.

  Jack offered his arm. “Have you a room nearby, my dear?”

  * * *

  Despite her long journey and ulterior motives for visiting, Lily Quinn felt a joyous uplifting of spirit at the sight of Madame Thérèse’s townhouse, in its respectable but not-quite-fashionable London neighborhood. A light dusting of snow on the gate and shrubberies sparkled in the crisp sunlight. It was mid-morning yet—nobody out except the coal-carrier and the street vendors—and Lily wondered whether she would be intruding on her friend’s beauty-sleep. But the carriage had barely stopped before Thérèse herself was opening the front door and hurrying down the steps, her beautiful face alight with pleasure.

  Lily chose to forget she was in London and posing as a refined lady. She leapt from the coach without waiting for the steps to be set down and hurried to throw her arms around her friend.

  Thérèse was laughing at her already. “Lily! Too long cooped up in traveling cars, I see! It is so good to see you, chérie. I hope the journey was not too tedious.”

  Lily linked her arm through Thérèse’s as they swept up the front walk. “No less tedious than any other train journey, I’m afraid. Not even any bandit attacks to fend off.”

  Thérèse laughed merrily at their old joke. “Perhaps you can go walking after dark and find a few ruffians to keep you in practice.”

  That remark was more prescient than Lily cared to admit, so she only chuckled.

  The house was quiet, since most of Thérèse’s girls were sensibly still abed. The front parlors were rich and opulent, arranged for the pleasure of male customers, but the kitchen, Thérèse’s private parlor, and the back bedrooms were homey and comfortable. Thérèse took Lily to a room on the second floor, adjacent to her own, where a maid was preparing the bath.

  Thérèse dismissed the girl immediately. The maid stole one curious glance at Lily’s face, which Lily pretended not to notice. Thérèse’s servants were well-trained in discretion, but Lily suspected the new chambermaid had heard an earful about Madame’s strange foreign-looking friend.

  “You appear well,” Lily observed as she shed her cape and gloves. “Business has been good?”

  “Quite so,” Thérèse said. “Business has actually increased this autumn, due to the unpleasantness in the East End.... Did news of the murders reach Shanghai?”

  “I might have heard something about it.” Lily made her tone blasé.

  “I don’t doubt,” Therese said dryly. “You may have heard, then, the speculation that the killer is an educated man, possibly a gentleman. So understandably, a number of gentlemen feel the need to distance themselves from Whitechapel, and my custom has increased correspondingly.” Her lips folded together in regret. “Of course I have also had an increased number of girls begging for boarder positions.”

  “You cannot save everyone.” Lily reminded her, removing her hat. “Or so you always tell me.”

  “No, but I am considering opening another house.” Thérèse knelt before Lily’s trunk, taking out fresh undergarments, hairbrush, cosmetics, and a heavy leather packet that clanked when she shifted it. “Do you want this out, chérie?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Lily took the packet and opened it on the bed. She removed the derringer from the pocket of her skirt and stowed it in its leather sheath. Then she reached under the false-buttoned front of her bodice and loosened a small Chinese knot, allowing a whole ladder of interlocking loops to slip out of each other, quick as a conjurer’s trick. All of Lily’s English clothes used tricks from Peking opera costumes, so they could be discarded swiftly in case of emergency. Beneath her sensible wool travelling suit she wore black silk trousers, closely wrapped from ankle to knee, and a tunic with long sleeves.

  “Still no corset, I see,” Thérèse teased. “Were you expecting trouble on the train?”

  “I am only English on the outside,” Lily reminded her. “And a woman travelling alone can never be too careful.” From the concealments in her leg-wrappings she drew two long, slim stiletto blades, and from similar bindings against her wrists she removed a pair of short, fine knives. “Though, I must admit I will be grateful to shed these silks—I think they may be permanently glued to my skin.” With all of her tools properly stowed, she peeled off the clinging black undergarments, then climbed into the bathtub with a sigh of relief.

  Thérèse fetched the hot water kettle from the fire and emptied it carefully into the bath near Lily’s feet. “Not to be tactless, chérie, but do you have other business here? Fond as I am of you, I know you like to kill two birds with one stone.”

  “No business,” Lily said truthfully, reaching up to pull pins from her hair. She hesitated. “The Ambassador and I... came to an agreement. I am now free to pursue my own interests, outside of Shanghai.”

  “Good,” Thérèse said vehemently. She lifted the thick black coil of Lily’s hair from her nape and began to tease a brush through it, letting the ends trail over the tub’s edge to the floor. “I hope that means you will not go back. The man has too many enemies, and your reputation has spread too far. Sooner or later someone will realize his deadly Ghost Flower is a woman, and then you will be a liability to him.”

  “Perhaps.” Lily stretched her aching legs to the opposite end of the tub and raised her elbows to rest on the rim, rolling her wrists out of habit. The sheen of water accentuated her scars—thin, precise lines tracing the insides of both arms and legs, where incisions had been made to reshape muscle and tendon. She worked her limbs daily to prevent their stiffening and contorting, but even with diligent chi practice the pain was never completely absent, only sleeping. Lily thought it far more likely that scar tissue would catch her up before her reputation ever did, but she wouldn’t say so to Thérèse. “I will confess... your mention of the Ripper murders was perceptive.”

  “Oh, Lily,” Thérèse groaned. “You are so predictable. I almost hoped you would not hear of it.”

  “Women are being butchered and discarded like trash. You kno
w I cannot ignore such brutality.”

  “You know I feel the same. But it is not your duty to suffer and bleed for every lost soul in the world.”

  “Someone ought. I can.”

  Thérèse sighed. “Oui, mon amour. I never doubt your capability.” She paused, and Lily could imagine the tightness of her lips, the line of worry between her brows. “I only fear for you, Lily. I know you think... what was done to you, changed your nature. But I think sometimes you take too many unnecessary chances, to punish yourself for surviving what was never your fault.”

  Lily sat still for a minute, her eyes lowered against Thérèse’s words. She had the familiar feeling of holding a door closed in her mind, against a nightmare of filth and pain and fire. She turned abruptly, lifting her arms to rest on the lip of the tub, and smiled coaxingly. “The pleasure of your company is never an afterthought, dearest.”

  Thérèse’s own smile was wry, but she was, after all, in the business of pleasure—and the soft pressure of her kiss was a temporary balm against memory.

  * * *

  The whore latched onto Jack’s arm like a lamprey, and pressed her body against him as they fell into step together. No one paid them the slightest notice; people brushed past them on all sides, but Jack knew no one would see anything other than a rich gent with a dollymop.

  Despite the girl’s drunken appearance, she was light on her feet, and rather than the gin stench he anticipated, she smelled of sandalwood and spice—incongruous scents in the chill of London. This was a fresh flower, indeed, and probably in better health than the others. Jack smiled down at her, and she grinned back, cooing, “Ah, you’re a ‘andsome one. What’s your name, chéri?”

  He smiled, thinking of all the aliases he affected—in his rented rooms, in his taunting letters to the police—and all the names given him by the newspapers. Even drunk as she was, “Saucy Jacky” would likely put her on her guard. “You may call me Mr. Nemo,” he said, knowing she would not understand the reference to Odysseus.

  And of course she didn’t. “M’sieur ‘Nimeaux?” she laughed, corrupting the Latin for “no one” into the French for “animals.” “Are you a zookeeper, M’sieur Animeaux?”

  The question startled him, drew him away from his constant surveillance of the street. “I was, of a kind.” He was years past his apprenticeship, but her ignorant mention of animals, and her exotic perfume, brought to mind the old days, when he’d still been learning his craft: the original thrill of inspiration, the genius of like-minded men....

  He felt a heightened throb of anticipation. He’d come close to touching greatness with the last girl, but like the others she had proved a disappointment, a failure. This sylph seemed to have dropped into his hands by sheer providence—perhaps this one had the requisite raw material, in some metaphysical way he scarcely understood.

  He reminded himself to be patient. Even the Master had seen many failures before constructing his masterpiece. Jack stole another glance at her face—there was definitely some Oriental blood in this one. He’d seen enough mixed-race children in the old days to be sure. And Moreau had always maintained that mongrels, like hybrids, produced the hardiest stock.

  “Here we are, chéri.” The whore led him into Miller’s Court and unlocked the door on a dim, featureless, sixpence-a-day room: wooden bedstead behind the door, small table beside the bed, chair and fireplace with a copper kettle hanging over. It was like any other hovel in that neighborhood, with one notable difference: straw had been scattered on the floor near the bed, and a subtle animal scent rolled out of the room. Like the island. Like the cribs where the children were kept....

  The predator was dangerously close to the surface. He wanted to sink his teeth into the whore’s neck, throw her into the room and mount her from behind.

  But that was in violation of the Law.

  Not to go on all fours: that is the Law. Are we not Men?

  Not to eat Flesh or taste Blood: that is the Law. Are we not Men?

  “I am more than a Man,” he whispered fiercely. “I am made in His image. Mine is the Hand that Makes.”

  The whore looked over her shoulder at him, a question between her brows, and her gaze fell on his left hand—he had thoughtlessly clutched the doorframe, nails sunk into the wood in his excitement. He gave her no time to grasp what she had seen. He swept off his tall silk hat with his left hand, and kicked the door closed behind him.

  * * *

  “The killer struck again while I was en route,” Lily mourned, flinging the newspaper onto the breakfast table. “I feared he would. News from London reaches Shanghai so slowly.” She paced violently across the Turkish carpet, the wide sleeves of her silk tunic creating a breeze that fanned Thérèse’s hothouse flower arrangement.

  “I am as eager as you to see him stopped,” Thérèse said. “Perhaps more so, now that he has killed a victim in her own room. It does not beggar the imagination to suppose he will expand his attention to establishments such as mine.”

  “As long as I am here that will never happen,” Lily said fiercely.

  “I know that, chérie. Do please sit down.”

  Lily sat and picked up her teacup. It was not the awful black English tea she’d been forced to drink for most of the trip; Thérèse kept delicate, expensive wulong in her larder for favored company.

  “And while I do not doubt your ability to... dispatch the killer once you have located him, how do you propose to do the locating? The police are baffled, they have arrested a half-dozen suspects only to clear them days later. Eyewitnesses’ stories contradict each other, describing everyone from a wealthy Englishman to a degenerate sailor to a—”

  “Heathen Oriental?” Lily suggested smoothly.

  “I don’t believe anyone has yet pointed a finger at the Chinese, but there was suspicion of a foreigner—someone dark.”

  “Someone dark who had spent time in the East and learnt about their barbaric practices—I read the piece, myself.” Lily’s breast swelled with well-worn anger. “Ironic, is it not, that the English choose not to see the savagery their own countrymen commit? Even when it on their doorstep. On their hearth.”

  “Yes, dear. Englishmen are quite, quite evil in their own right.”

  Lily shot a wry look at her friend and banked her ardor. “The police suspect a doctor or butcher of the murders. They have said it is a man with medical knowledge, operating with precision, and they have said it is a madman who slashes and slices without pattern or reason. So far as I know, no one has considered that the two possibilities are not mutually exclusive.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Lily picked up a fork and sank it into a piece of jam cake, watching the raspberry filling bleed out onto the white plate. “I mean, the killer may be a vivisectionist.”

  * * *

  The room was a near-perfect copy of the last operating theater he had used. Had he been this close, then? Was the location so important to success? The metaphysical aspects of the Master’s work had always been hardest for him to grasp... but No! He could not afford to doubt.

  Mine is the hand that Makes. Master, I will succeed where you failed.

  He watched as the little whore bent over the coals, stirred them to life and added a few sticks of kindling. She seemed less intoxicated than she had on the street. There was a sure, sultry quality to her movements, and when she glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes gleamed gold in the lamplight.

  He remembered the puma, how its screams had sounded like a woman’s, and a delicious shudder went through him. He set his bag on the table and turned up the lampwick—he needed plenty of light for the procedure. She rose to her feet and watched him. There was definitely something feline in her posture.

  “Take off your clothes.” The room was not yet warm, but he was sweating. His fine suit seemed constraining, unnatural. He swung his own greatcoat off; removed his coat and waistcoat as well.

  She let her shawl slide to the floor, quickly followed by the cheap wool bodi
ce and skirt. She wore no corset. Her body was covered only by a thin cotton chemise and pantaloons, which the firelight shone through, outlining her lean hips and thighs. Her bare arms gleamed as if they were carved from ivory, the shoulders shapely with muscle. She wore black Chinese slippers on her feet, and wrappings over the legs like the street acrobats in Hong Kong.

  That detail stopped him. He didn’t know why it should, but it changed the context of what he saw in her: not a gin-soaked French prostitute with a touch of Chinese blood, not a sylph sent to lead him to enlightenment but a ghost, a knife blade, a tigress.

  She turned her arms slightly in the firelight, and he saw the faint silvery scars running along their length—the unmistakable work of the Maker’s hand.

  * * *

  “Oh no, Lily,” Thérèse said. “You cannot truly believe—this man, this killer cannot be one of the monsters who tortured you. What the Frenchman did to you was cruel beyond measure, but it was precise.” She reached for Lily’s hand across the table. “And while I would not have wished your suffering on anyone, I cannot condemn the result of his labor. What this killer has wrought in Whitechapel is pure destruction. There is no vision in it, only hate.”

  Lily squeezed her fingers gratefully. “I do not believe it is one of the surgeons who operated on me, no. But there were other men at the house—dogsbodies, who bought the children and brought them to the island, who fed the animals and helped dispose of the... the remains of the failed experiments. I am thinking of one in particular, who fancied himself an apprentice to the Frenchman. He enjoyed carving up the... discarded parts.” Lily felt her thoughts retreating into darkness, into smallness and helplessness. She shook her head, sat up straighter, and then stood and paced in a tight circle, rotating her wrists; a tigress in a cage.

  “Even if that is true,” Thérèse argued, “and the man escaped the conflagration—”

  “Some did,” Lily reminded her. “I did.”

  “—how will you find him? Will you recognize him if you see him? The police believe the killer may be using disguises.”