“Of course we knew her! Ambrose took her out of a workhouse so there would be someone to cook and clean for us. But she was more than that, wasn’t she?” Eliza demanded, landing a savage kick to Julius’s leg.
Julius groaned and covered his face with his hands.
“The child,” I said suddenly. “Julius was the father.”
Bitterness twisted her mouth. “He got her with child and then cast her out of the house. He told her she had made her bed and now she must lie on it.”
“And so she threw herself into the canal,” Wilfred said.
“She did not throw herself in,” Eliza corrected savagely. “She ended up in the canal becausehe put her there.”
Julius dropped his hands. His face was that of Janus, half-pale as marble, half-stained with his own heart’s blood. “I had no choice. She said she would tell,” he said feebly.
Eliza looked at him in frank disgust, but when she spoke, it was to us. “Julius took her for a walk late one night. He came home shiveringand half fainting, and the next morning her body was discovered. We knew exactly what he had done, Ambrose and I. We helped him to cover the crime.”
“And you extracted the promise of the experiment as the price of your help,” Stoker guessed.
“She was a workhouse maid, of use to no one anymore. Nobody would come looking for her, and Julius could be hanged for murder if someone else handled the body and realised what he had done. But she could still be useful to me. She was Julius’s end, but she was my beginning. Until heruinedit.”
“You grew too attached,” Julius murmured. “There was something unhealthy about your obsession with making her live again. It had to be stopped.”
“Or were you just afraid that if I did revive her, she might tell everyone the truth about what you had done?” Eliza demanded. “You never expected I would be successful, but when you realised it was possible, that I just might make it happen, that is when you destroyed it all.”
“I did what I thought was best,” he protested.
“And so must I,” she said, straightening.
“What do you mean to do, Eliza?” I asked calmly. “You cannot think to escape justice now.”
She lifted her chin, resolved. “I do not mean to escape at all.”
Stoker started forwards, but she put up a hand. “My quarrel is not with you. But you cannot have him.” She dropped the poker and reached for the jar of formalin, holding it aloft in front of the fiery hatch of the engine. “Go. Save yourselves.”
Stoker hurled himself towards her just as she flung the jar into the engine.
There was a pause, a moment suspended in eternity, and then the explosion, the bursting, roaring, rocking of the whole world that went on until the end of time.
And then silence.
After the silence came the muffled ringing in my ears. I had been flung backwards and hit my head upon the wall during the blast. It was some minutes before I could gather my wits enough to stand. When I did, I saw that the whole of the tunnel was afire. It seemed as if the very gates of Purgatory had opened, inviting us into Hell, and I dashed towards it without hesitation. If Stoker was there, I would find him and drag him out. And if I could not do that, I would join him.
A hand grabbed my arm, and I looked back to see Wilfred, struggling to his feet and protesting. I could not hear what he said, but he was shaking his head and trying to pull me back. There was no time for polite preliminaries. I kicked him, hard and remorselessly, in a place I do not care to name. He rocked back, and I lurched forwards again, screaming Stoker’s name.
Again, a hand at my arm, and I turned, my own hand curled into a fist, and landed a solid blow before I realised whose hand held me fast.
“Stoker!” I screamed the name or choked it out on a gasp for air. I could not say which. I only know it came from the depths of my soul. He pulled me to him at the same moment I threw myself on him. We landed together upon poor Wilfred who slumped into merciful unconsciousness at that point. Without a word, Stoker hoisted the fellow onto his shoulders and motioned for me to follow. Smoke was filling the tunnel, and the air was thin and harsh in our lungs, obscuring the way. I held onto Stoker’s belt as he mounted the stairs. We took them, one slow, painful step at a time, upwards and into the light.
As we reached the top, a great, almighty roar surged through the tunnel, blasting rock and timbers free from their moorings. Stoker pushed ahead, carrying Wilfred to safety as I followed. We hurried through the mortuary, emerging into the street as Mornaday and J. J. dashed up in a hansom.
“My god!” Mornaday exclaimed. We must have made a terrifyingsight. Wilfred was insensible, Stoker begrimed by soot which streaked him from head to heel, and my face still bore shards of wax, cracking and crumbling as I moved.
Mornaday leapt free of the vehicle to help with Wilfred. J. J. jumped out and took one look at me, shuddering. “Veronica, are youdecomposing?”
“Wax,” I told her as I plucked a piece free. “It is a very long story.”
“What of Eliza?” she asked. “And Julius?”
Stoker jerked his head backwards to the mortuary and then shook it.