Cold Stone and Ivy Read online

  Cold Stone & Ivy

  Published by Tyche Books Ltd.

  www.TycheBooks.com

  Copyright © 2016 H. Leighton Dickson

  First Tyche Books Ltd Edition 2016

  Print ISBN: 978-1-928025-48-1

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-928025-49-8

  Cover Art by Lane Brown

  Cover Layout by Lucia Starkey

  Interior Layout by Ryah Deines

  Editorial by Allison Campbell

  Author photograph: Alan Dickson Photography

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage & retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright holder, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third party websites or their content.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this story are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead would be really cool, but is purely coincidental.

  This book was funded in part by a grant from the Alberta Media Fund.

  For Subby

  Part I

  LASINGSTOKE

  Chapter 1

  Of Floating Arms, Blobs of Ink,

  and a Murder in Manchester

  September 11, 1888

  Grosvenor Railway Bridge, London

  IT LOOKED LIKE a dead dog floating on the river.

  Three boys had been sitting on the bank, counting the airships over the stacks of the Battersea Shipyards. It was dusk, and the lights of the yard turned the ships into dragons hovering over a land of smoke and volcanoes. For the boys, it was a magical sight, and as they sat on the bank they imagined worlds where friends carried swords, not coal shovels, and where enemies breathed fire, not steam.

  When they spied the floater, however, they scrambled to their feet.

  “What is it, then?” called Sharpie. He was nine and all grown up. His name was Cyril Sharp, but you’d get a shiner if you called him anything but Sharpie.

  “It’s a dog.” Martin Alcorn now, all of eight and tough as tack.

  “It’s not a dog, I tell ye,” said Sharpie. “Dogs ain’t pink now, are they?”

  “Mrs. Tumblemorey’s dog’s pink.”

  They stared at him.

  “It’s got a disease.”

  “It’s a disease-dog, then.” Sharpie grinned. “A skinny pink disease-dog.”

  “Maybe it’s a snake . . .” Ronnie Shipley now, the quiet one, and the boys’ eyes grew round at the thought of a snake. Not many snakes in Battersea. Dead ones were almost as much fun as the living.

  “Coo . . . a snake-dog . . .”

  “Can ye grab it, then?” asked Martin. “Pull it over! Let’s get a look!”

  Sharpie began to tug on the branch of a sapling growing on the bank. The others joined him, and within moments, the branch peeled away from the trunk into their hands.

  Sharpie turned and slapped the switch into the water, trying to drag the snake-dog to shore. It was tangled in branches and floating timber, and as usual, the current of the Thames was strong.

  “Get it, get it!”

  “I got it . . .”

  He dragged it in closer, and the dog rolled once, out from under the soggy brush.

  Cyril Sharp screamed and dropped the switch, bolting up the bank as fast as he could. Martin Alcorn began to back away and tripped over his feet before turning and scrambling up after him. Ronnie Shipley watched them for a moment, but he turned, picked up the switch, and dragged the floater to shore.

  “That’s no dog,” he whispered to himself.

  It was an arm, tied off by a piece of string, floating down the river toward Whitechapel.

  “YOU, SIR, ARE a fiend and a murderer,” said Penny, and she turned to her father, Chief Inspector Charles Dreadful. “Arrest him, Father. This man is your culprit.”

  “Bully for you, Penny,” said her father. “I knew you’d jump this case. You’re a crackerjack girl, you are.”

  She smiled at him, knowing it to be quite true.

  He turned to his men, Penny’s favourite boys in blue.

  “Come along, chaps. Let’s get this bludger into the claps!”

  As they dragged off the nefarious Alphonse Lemieux, Penny turned to her companions.

  “I always knew he was a villain,” she said merrily. “He had a certain sang-froid about him!”

  They all laughed and lifted their claret by way of a toast.

  And that is how Penny Dreadful, Girl Criminologist, not only caught the infamous Rue Buffon killer, but still had time to enjoy the new summer palette of French Chardonnay.

  The Conclusion of A Murder in Pariflb

  IVY SAVAGE GROWLED as the front door slammed, causing ink to spurt from her fountain pen.

  “Davis,” she moaned, looking down at the glistening papers on her desk. She had envisioned ending her story—Penny Dreadful and a Murder in Paris— with a bang. Instead, it was ending with a rather large blob.

  “There’s been another one,” called her brother from the foyer. “The coppers are out in full.”

  She sat up. “Another one? Where?”

  “Dunno. Whitechapel, I ’spect. That’s where the last one was.”

  She peered out through the rain-spattered window onto the black streets. A killing in London’s East End was nothing new, and in a policeman’s family, murder was a routine topic for conversation, along with burglary, pick-pocketing, and the treachery of four-wheeled steamcars. But with the recent slayings in Whitechapel, even her father was reluctant to discuss them. For a mystery writer like Ivy, however, it had only set her imagination racing.

  “There’s a mob collecting at the stationhouse too,” said Davis, and he stepped into the room, peeled a soggy sweater over his head. His Welsh accent was thicker than hers. She had worked very hard to rid herself of it. “It’s a bloody riot out there tonight.”

  “Did you see Tad?”

  “He’s on his way. I think Remy’s with him.”

  “Damn. It must be bad, then. Is it in the broadsheets?”

  “Not yet.” He dropped into a chair next to her desk, rainwater collecting in puddles at his feet. “So? Are you going to write it?”

  “Davis . . .”

  “Why? Mum can’t hear you. She’s as dead as the girls in Whitechapel.”

  “Davis! Hush!”

  He rolled his eyes as she glanced over at her mother sitting by the hearth, hands held limply in her lap. With her dull eyes, gaunt cheeks, and black-collared dress, Catherine Savage looked dead. But, truth be told, she’d looked that way for years. She couldn’t feed herself, couldn’t clothe or bathe or change herself. Those were duties left to Ivy, along with the raising of her brother. At the ripe age of eighteen, Ivy Savage had already been a mother for seven years.

  As dead as the girls in Whitechapel.

  “C’mon Ivy, don’t be such a ‘good’ girl,” said Davis, green eyes gleaming. “You’ve been talking about it for weeks. The whole street’s waiting for it.”

  She looked back at her brother.

  “Tad’ll kill me . . .”

  “What else is new?”

  “Right.” She turned her chair to face him. “I’m calling it Penny Dreadful and the Terror of Whitechapel . . .”

  “Cor,” her brother whistled. “I can’t wait to start the sketches on that one . . .”

  “I’m certain it will be very gruesome.”

  “Just the way I like it, blood splatte
rs ’n all. I may need more ink.”

  She smiled now, despite herself. Davis was only three years younger than she, a talented artist and very clever, with a rebellious streak as long as the Thames. He was set on the army, convinced his future lay in putting down rebellions in other parts of the world. But he was a boy. He couldn’t see past his own heart.

  The set of clocks chimed ten and, as if on cue, the front door opened again, a gust of wind flickering the gaslight in the hall.

  “Hallo, my girl,” called a voice, and she could hear her tad dropping wet boots to the floor. “Put on the tea! I’ve brought Remy with me.”

  Her father entered the small sitting room, smiling under his moustache. A well-dressed young man followed him, top hat and town coat heavy with rain.

  Ivy rose to her feet.

  “Christien,” she said.

  “Found him with Bondie and the other surgeons at the station,” said Inspector Trevis Savage, removing his bowler and tossing it onto the rack by the door. “Thought he might like a spot of tea with his fiancée.”

  “I couldn’t refuse,” said Christien. He flashed her a smile and Ivy felt her chest tighten. He didn’t smile much, for he was a very serious young man. With sleek dark hair, clear blue eyes, and skin like fine porcelain, Christien Jeremie “Remy” St. John de Lacey looked like he had stepped off the pages of a French novel. One she could never write. “But I can’t stay long, Ivy. There’s been another discovery.”

  “Ha!” yelped Davis, and he folded his arms across his chest. “Told ya.”

  “Another murder?”

  “Just an arm off the Railway Bridge,” said her father. “The rest of her’ll turn up sometime.”

  “I could help . . .”

  “Ivy, don’t be silly. You’re too busy with your mum.”

  “Well, I could.”

  Christien pulled the top hat from his head, gripped it in both hands.

  “Ivy, I’m afraid I can’t take you to the library this Friday . . .”

  “But Mr. Doyle’s never come to the Whitechapel Library before. He’s promised to read the entire first chapter of his new novel!”

  “I have a meeting, Ivy. I’m so sorry.”

  “Again?”

  “It’s a very influential club in Pall Mall. They’ve been after me for months and Dr. Williams insists I go.”

  “But I thought you hated those sorts of things. You say they give you headaches.”

  “I’m sorry, Ivy.”

  “Ah, life with a police surgeon,” said her father. “Get used to it, my girl.”

  “Perhaps we can go for tea on Thursday? I have an exam until noon, and rounds at Bethlem at six. We could fit it in between?”

  She nodded, heart sinking like a stone. Doyle was one of her favourite authors. His first novel had kept her up all night with the clues and plot twists and a fascinating protagonist. He had never come to the East End. No one of note ever did.

  “I picked up the post,” said Savage, pulling letters from the pockets of his waistcoat and tossing them onto the desk as he crossed the floor toward the fire. “Scribbles from your admirers, my girl.”

  “Your readers,” grinned Davis. “All three of them.”

  “Oh yes, and a parcel,” said Christien. He rummaged through his town coat, pulling out a brown paper package wrapped in twine and passing it into her hands. “Apparently from someone named Jack.”

  “Jack?”

  “You are the literary sensation of an illiterate neighbourhood,” said her father. He knelt down beside his silent wife, took her hands in his. “Did she eat tonight?”

  “Some soup.” Ivy sighed. “Not much.”

  “Lonsdale could help with that,” said Christien. “For a sanitarium it has a good reputation and Frankow is a decent psychiatrist. I wish you would consider my offer.”

  “I may have to, Remy,” said Savage. He rose to his feet, kissed his wife on the top of her head. “It’ll be difficult for Ivy to be her mum’s caretaker once she’s married.”

  “Ivy can stay at Lasingstoke Hall while Catherine is being treated. My uncle won’t mind and my brother is most often away.” He looked down at her. “It will be like a holiday by the bay.”

  His expression was earnest but she was disappointed and stubborn and cursed herself for it. They used to get on so very well, sharing stories of murder and medicine and the macabre world of policing. Then two months ago, he had surprised her with a ring and everything had changed.

  “Your brother?” Davis grinned. “The Mad Lord of Lasingstoke? Don’t he talk to ghosts?”

  “He’s a baron, Davis,” said Christien. “He sits in the House of Lords.”

  “Therefore he talks to stuffy old English politicians.” Savage grinned, poking at the fire and causing it to rise in its bed.

  “Still,” said Christien. “It’s a fine offer. You should both consider it.”

  “I might just do that, Remy,” said Savage.

  “Open the package, Ivy,” said Davis.

  “We don’t need to consider it, Tad,” and she turned the brown wrapping over in her hand. Her name and address were written in red ink, with “From Jack” in the top left corner. “My stories are selling and soon we may have enough to hire a nurse, care for her at home—”

  “But once we’re married you’ll be with me at Hollbrook House,” said Christien. “There are far too many stairs for her at Hollbrook.”

  “Open the package,” urged Davis. “Maybe it’s toffee. Or a pudding.”

  “But my stories—”

  “You’ll have duties as a surgeon’s wife, Ivy. Mrs. Williams is always throwing elegant parties, arranging games of whist for the doctors’ wives.”

  “I’ll take care of her somehow.” She began to work the twine over the paper. “Or we can postpone the wedding a few months. I’ve read in the broadsheets about a law school in Paris that opened its doors to women just last year. I could go, take some classes, work for the Met or Scotland Yard like Tad.”

  “Hah!” laughed Davis. “A real life Girl Criminologist! Shocking!”

  “And who would care for your mother then, if you were in Paris?” asked Christien.

  It was true. From the first light of morning to the last stroke of midnight, she was trapped in black collars and lace, bland soup and bleach. Her life was her mother, as surely as if she were bound with velvet chains.

  “Then I’ll keep writing.” Slowly, she pulled the strings from the parcel. “Besides, I have an idea for a novel . . .”

  “Oh no, you don’t,” growled her father. “Not that again. Don’t you dare, my girls. Don’t you dare even think about it”

  “About what?” asked Christien. “Ivy?”

  Davis waggled his brows. “Penny Dreadful and the Terror of Whitechapel.”

  “It’s just a story, Tad,” said Ivy.

  “Good Lord,” her father grumbled. “You are a proud and stubborn girl. Why can’t you just get married like other girls, have babies, start a new life? Be safe for once, spare your poor old tad some grief.”

  “But I’m not like other girls, am I?” she grinned as the paper began to unfurl in her hands.

  “You are not, my girl.” He smiled, shook his head. “You most certainly are not.”

  Out of the paper rolled an object, dark brown in colour, the size of a fist.

  “Oh God,” breathed Christien. “Ivy . . .”

  Davis sprang to his feet. “What the bloody hell?”

  “Ivy,” hissed Trevis Savage. “Put it down. Put it down now!”

  As for Ivy Savage, future Girl Criminologist and writer of Penny Dreadful serials, she was surprisingly speechless, for in her very hands was a human heart.

  HE STOOD OUTSIDE the door of the row house, waiting for the frost. It would come, he knew it. It always did when they sent him. He had been standing there for hours, but he wouldn’t act until there was frost.

  The streetlamp cast shadows down the long, dark boulevard. Not a wealthy district i
n Manchester, but then again, far from poor. He’d been in better neighbourhoods and he’d been in worse. Murder was a knife that cut across all classes, an equalizer of the lowest kind. Victims, however, were mostly the same and he knew there was little he could do to change that.

  A steamcab chugged through the fog, and he pressed himself against the building, drawing his greatcoat close for protection. He wasn’t afraid. No one would stop him. No one would even see him. They would make sure of it. They always did. Still, he reached behind his back, to the pistol he kept in his belt. It was a fine walnut musket-bore, with three clockwork chambers fully loaded. His was a simple pursuit. He rarely needed more than one shot.

  Suddenly, his breath began to frost in front of his face. He could feel them behind him. Only three with this one, but three were too many. He preferred to stop them at one if he had the chance, but the dead were poor communicators. It took him a long time to understand, although their pleas were always the same.

  He stepped swiftly up the stair and rapped on the brass doorknocker, waited for a light or candle to spring to life inside. He rapped again to make sure someone would come and he prayed it wasn’t an automaton. Those were a bugger to get around, especially the modern ones. Some of them even had security systems. Damn the technology that was allowing them to think.

  A rattle at the knob and the black door swung open, revealing a short, stocky man in a dressing gown and nightcap. He wore a thick moustache and long muttonchops and appeared to be in his fifties. Rather typical, he thought. Looked like anyone’s banker or solicitor or clerk. His wife was peering around his side. She had a puffy face, soft and bovine. He could not feel for her.

  “What the devil do you want?” growled the man in a thick Manchester brogue. “It’s bloody well past midnight.”

  “Alistair Byron Tup?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes that’s me. And I ask again, what the devil do you want, sir? Tell me now, or I’ll raise the alarm.”

  He looked back over his shoulder. The three were there, standing on the walk. Their eyes were bulging, their throats red and swollen. They had been dead for months.