We locked the door behind us and climbed the stairs back to the basement level. Whoever had been pursuing us was long gone, and only silence echoed in the hallways. We climbed up yet another flight of stairs to the main floor, where the lecture hall was just emptying of sleepy-eyed ladies, and we joined the crowd headed back out into the dark evening. Montgomery helped us into the carriage before climbing into the driver’s seat outside.
Once we were safely alone in the carriage, Lucy leaned forward. “You said they need something within Edward’s body,” she whispered in a trembling voice. “Does that mean they’ll have to kill him?”
I was glad the carriage was dark enough to hide her face. “I believe so, yes.”
We were silent the rest of the way to Lucy’s house, where we dropped her off with plans to meet tomorrow. Alone in the carriage, I worked through what I’d tell the professor. Perhaps it had been a mistake not to tell him sooner; he’d exposed my father’s crimes because it had been the right thing to do, and I knew he would do what was right now, too. He was a quiet old dog, but he could bite when provoked. Once I explained everything, they’d understand. Elizabeth would make us her licorice tea, and the professor would dig up some cold meats from supper, and we’d come up with a plan and have a good night’s sleep for once.
At the professor’s street, Montgomery stopped the carriage up short in front of the neighbor’s house. I didn’t understand why until I climbed out and saw another carriage already blocking the professor’s front gate.
A heavyset horse with a cropped dark mane stamped its feet besides a constable. I caught sight of Elizabeth on the front steps, talking to another police officer. The front door was open, spilling warm light into the night shadows and over her face and hair. At the sound of my footsteps, she turned.
Tears streaked her face. She wore her housedress with an old coat of the professor’s hastily pulled over it. The lecture had only run a little late, so I couldn’t imagine we’d worried her. When she caught sight of me, she pressed a hand to her chest and stumbled down the steps.
“Juliet,” she breathed. “Thank God you’re home.”
“I didn’t mean to worry you.”
Her hands pulled at my hair, reassuring herself that I was safe.
“Is the professor still awake?” I asked, swallowing back a feeling of foreboding. “I’d like to talk to him.”
At the sound of his name, she sobbed harder and pulled me close. Over her shoulder, I saw the policemen shifting nervously, then noticed several more people inside the house.
All these men just because we were a little late?
“Oh, Juliet. The professor . . .”
My eyes fell on the broad side of the police carriage. It had bright white lettering painted over blackened wood, two words that seemed to sear themselves into my soul.
Police Morgue.
“The professor is dead,” came her strangled voice. “He’s been murdered.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
THE POLICE HAD NOT yet moved the body. Dimly, I was aware of them explaining about a “crime scene” and a “murder investigation.” Words that reduced the professor’s life to pages in a report. It wasn’t a crime scene; it was the professor’s tidy little study where the cat liked to nap in the worn depression of his chair. He wasn’t just another victim, as the police kept referring to him—he’d given me a life again. In time, he could have been the father I should have had.
As they explained the murder, Montgomery kept his arms tightly around me, as though he feared the news would make me slip away into nothing. Elizabeth shivered in the professor’s oversized coat, despite the warmth in the house.
“I want to see him,” I said.
“Oh, Juliet. I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Elizabeth said. “I wish I hadn’t seen. Coming home from supper at the ladies’ club and walking into that study to find . . .” She turned away before her voice broke.
“I have to,” I said.
Montgomery said nothing, just took my hand and exchanged a few words with the police, who followed us into the study. I recognized the shape of the professor’s head, sitting like he always did in that chair. He was as cold and silent as the rest of the room.
Beneath the chair dripped a pool of blood.
I stumbled forward, one shaky step at a time, until I could see him. His wire-rim spectacles were missing, his eyes still open. His murderer hadn’t touched his face, only left three deep slashes across his chest.
I turned away with a cry, collapsing into Montgomery’s arms.
I thought of how the professor had made me tea once when I’d been ill, and how he loved to tinker over that old clock with a plate of Mary’s gingerbread.
“Don’t look,” Montgomery said, pressing his hand against the back of my head. “It’s better if you don’t.” Even his voice, normally so calm in the face of any crisis, sounded hollow.
“He’s dead,” I said, coiling my fists in Montgomery’s rough shirt, anger sparking through the nerves of my muscles.
“I’m so sorry.”
“He’s dead, Montgomery! Heart clawed out, just like the rest . . .” I choked on the thought of the bodies in the morgue. I thought the Beast only killed those who had wronged me, but the professor did nothing but provide for me, believe in my chance for a future, treat me as a father should treat a daughter. Those thoughts turned to the Beast’s snarling lips as he’d held me down in my workshop, twisting Edward into a fiend before my very eyes.