Cold Stone and Ivy Page 4

  “They just like to talk.” Lottie dabbed at the ink with the corner of her apron. “Just because the machines are old and the men are French. ‘Oh, ’e’s mad. Oh, there’s ghosts. Norman gold in the tower and Saxon bones in the cellar. Metal skulls and the Curse of Sebastien de Lacey.’ Things like tha’. People can be so cruel, can’t they? They talk but they don’t know. This is a fine ’ouse, a very fine ’ouse. Ah’m very lucky to be ’ere.”

  She looked up at Ivy and curtsied.

  “But don’t mind me, miss. There’s breakfast waitin’ downstairs. Quickly, now, or ye’ll miss it.”

  As she busied herself with the making of the great soft bed, Ivy marveled at her good luck. Norman gold in the tower and Saxon bones in the cellar. She couldn’t have written it better herself.

  She rolled out of bed and reached for her clothes.

  THE PEA SOUP had dissipated at some point and the houses gleamed gold in the early morning light. Christien was weary from his long night but as he trotted up the wrought-iron steps of Hollbrook House, he pulled the mask from his face and breathed the sweet smell of fresh air, wet trees, and chimney smoke. The row of white houses looked beautiful this morning, no trace of ghostly green, no eerie glow, and he had to admit life could have been far worse for him than to live here.

  “Hallo, Remy!” called a voice, and he turned slightly to see a man standing on the stair next door, holding a paper. He was a small man with thinning brown hair, neatly trimmed chops, and a rather common face. “Not coming home from classes, are you?”

  “Indeed I am, Dr. Jekyll,” Christien lied. Jekyll was an odd neighbour. He was a medical man and his research into the human mind bordered on scandal. He conducted frequent experiments in the cellar of his home, and Christien doubted they were sanctioned by any hospital or medical facility. “You remember your qualifying year, surely.”

  “I do indeed, Remy. Hated every minute of it. If you managed four hours of sleep a night you were accorded an automatic failure.”

  “That sounds about right, sir. And I am due my four hours now in fact.”

  “And how is old Bondie doing with that Leather Apron character?” He held up the paper. “The News has an article. Has he put a finger on anyone yet?”

  “Not yet, sir. It’s all very unofficial at the moment. Dr. Bond is A-Division and these crimes are occurring in H.”

  “Oh, the life of a police surgeon. It must be very exciting, catching a killer and all that.”

  Christien held his tongue. The public lived for their scandals, and the Whitechapel killer was selling more papers than the royal family. Even someone as odd as Jekyll was captivated.

  “We don’t ‘catch’ anyone, sir. We simply analyze the evidence. However it ends, I’m quite certain I will be the very last to know.”

  He turned to move into the house but Jekyll waved at him.

  “And the headaches, Remy? Still giving you grief?”

  “Yes, sir. But I can manage—”

  “If you need any more of those tablets, son, just whistle. I do only live a wall away!”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “I’ve worked on a new potion that I think will do just the trick!”

  Visions of ghastly faces and vile concoctions filled his head. He tried to smile.

  “Thank you, sir. I’m sure I will be fine.”

  Jekyll disappeared behind his door, and Christien threw a glance around the street. Cabs out now, chimney sweeps heading to work, street girls selling flowers. No one following him, no villains or voices out of place. Histrionics, he thought again. Science and fact, those were the cure for an overactive imagination. He welcomed the challenge, knowing the Ghost Club would find him a hard nut to crack.

  And with that, he stepped briskly up the last of the steps and pushed through the fine white door of Hollbrook House.

  SHE FOLLOWED LOTTIE down a long hallway, watching the sweepers whirring along the floors. They were all the rage in London now. Small, round, and mechanical, their spinning brushes polished the floors and beat the rugs. They detected changes in the surface of the floor, whether wood, carpet, or stone and adjusted brushes accordingly. They were also designed to avoid both furniture and stairs, and she could see tiny buttons in the top, glowing as the machines altered their courses at will.

  At the end of the hall there was a grand staircase and one of the devices was humming toward it.

  “Aren’t these ingenious?” she said. “I’m quite amazed at how they navigate the stair.”

  The device hummed to the very edge of the first tread and paused, bobbing a little. She could see the lights along the top blink and flash, then turn green. Suddenly, the sweeper shot forward into the air, dropping top over tail from step to step to step with a series of thumps. It ended upside-down on one of the landings, whirring and humming happily but going nowhere.

  “Perhaps that one is defective,” said Ivy.

  “They’re all like that,” said Lottie.

  Ivy grinned and followed the girl down the stair.

  Golden-framed portraits lined the walls, of great men and horses, fine ladies and dogs. She shook her head, wondering if the great men placed the same value on the horses and dogs as the ladies.

  “The Lords de Lacey,” said Lottie. “Ye must be quite ’appy.”

  “I would be happier back in London.”

  “’Onestly, miss?”

  “I’m sorry, Lottie. Don’t mind me. I’m not very good at restraining my tongue. It was a stubborn thing, growing up Savage.”

  Lottie smiled at her. “What’s ’e like, then, Mr. Christien?”

  “You’ve never met him?”

  “Only once, miss. Ah’ve only begun working upstairs this past year.”

  “Oh, he’s very clever and very serious. My tad likes him because he’s rich, but I like him because he’s clever. He’s so dashedly clever. He’s studying to be a police surgeon, in fact, like his mentor, Dr. Bond. That’s how we met. He was working with Bondie, met my father, and came back for tea with the rest of the coppers. I’m hoping he’ll let me help him on some of his cases. We would make such a grand team— Oh! Look! There he is!”

  On the last landing, there was a large portrait of a gentleman standing by a curtain, dressed in fine clothes with a pair of dogs at his feet. As far as paintings went, it was only slightly exaggerated, but the dark hair, porcelain skin, and delicate pouting mouth were unmistakable.

  If any man could be called beautiful, it was Christien.

  “Oh no, Miss Ivy. That’s Renaud Jacobe St. John Lord de Lacey, the sixth Baron of Lasingstoke.” Lottie nodded. “Yer Christien’s father.”

  “Oh, how remarkable.” She tried to study the painting more closely, but it was a large canvas mounted high on the wall. “You can most certainly see the resemblance.”

  “’E looks t’be very clever indeed, miss,” said Lottie with a grin.

  Ivy noticed the next and last painting in the line. It was also of a man in fine clothes, standing at a window. His back was to the painter, so that little could be seen of his face, and his hair was pulled back in a short queue. The rest of him was almost in silhouette.

  “Who’s that?” she asked.

  “Ah, that is the seventh Lord de Lacey, miss. Yer Christien’s brother.”

  Sebastien Laurent St. John de Lacey. The Mad Lord of Lasingstoke. Of his brother, Christien was notoriously silent. She honestly didn’t know what to think.

  “That’s a strange portrait,” she said. “Why can you not see his face?”

  “’E wasn’t there, miss.”

  “What’s that? He wasn't there?”

  “Not for the sitting, miss. The painter came every week for four months, but each time, ’is Lordship was unavailable or away. A painter can only paint what ’e sees, miss, and the painter did not actually see ’is Lordship.”

  “What an odd story,” Ivy mused under her breath, eyes still glued to the figure in the painting. There seemed to be far more t
han two dogs at his feet. “You’ve met him, then?”

  “Oh, yes, miss. Ah ’ave.”

  “And? What is he like, then?”

  “Well, miss, ’e’s, ah, ’e’s . . .”

  “I won’t talk. Promise.”

  “’E’s kind, miss. ’E’s very kind to me mother and Ah.”

  “Is he strange?”

  “Of course ’e is, miss.” The girl beamed at her. “As strange as can be.”

  And with that, she trotted down the last of the steps, and Ivy followed, but not without throwing one last look at the painting of the Mad Lord de Lacey, seventh Baron of Lasingstoke.

  DAVIS HAD ALREADY enjoyed his breakfast in the dining room and he perked up at the sight of them.

  “Hallo,” he said, tugging the brim of his cap. “I’m Davis.”

  “Lottie, sir.” She blushed and curtsied.

  “Are you the lady of the house, then?”

  “Oh no, sir!” She laughed. “Not me, sir. Ah’m just the maid.”

  “You’re far too pretty to be ‘just the maid,’ Miss Lottie.” He leaned his elbows across the table. “Does Lottie stand for Charlotte?”

  “It does, sir.”

  “Charlotte,” he repeated, green eyes gleaming. “What a beautiful name . . .”

  Ivy kicked him under the table but Lottie seemed not to notice. She curtsied once more.

  “Ah’ll fetch me mum. She’s trying to get the mop working. One of its gears keeps sticking.”

  As she ducked quickly through a doorway, Davis shoved a biscuit into his mouth and watched her as she went.

  “Sweet,” he grinned.

  “Davis,” she growled but leaned forward conspiratorially. “This house is haunted.”

  “I hope so. I’ll go bloody batty sitting around counting the sheep.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “You’re obsessed.” Her brother turned his chair and straddled it beside her, tossing a newspaper down beside her plate. “Did you read this? There’s been another one.”

  It was a newspaper, the Lancaster Guardian, and her eyes scanned for the article. It wasn’t on the front page. The murder of a prostitute did not warrant the front page. In Whitechapel, things like that were happening far too often to be considered news. But her father had seemed to think that this was different, this shadow man who killed with a stroke and dissected with skill. She began to read when a door pushed open and a woman bundled in.

  “’Ere. That’s not fit for breakfast readin’,” growled Cookie. She was carrying a tray covered in breads and scones, jams and jellies, and, of course, a pot of tea. “It’s not fit for anytime, if ye ask me.”

  Ivy swallowed. The woman was as fearsome this morning as she had been last night. Her voice was musical however, with a lilting Cumbrian accent that was likely tempered by years working in a great house.

  “It’s just a newspaper, ma’am.”

  “Don’t they teach ye nowt in London? Readin’ at the table is bad manners.”

  Davis laughed. “Men do it all the time.”

  “As Ah said, boy.” Cookie glared at his tweed cap. “Bad manners.”

  Davis grinned but, naturally, did not remove the cap.

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Ivy. “But my father is one of the investigators. I already know far more than the papers will print.”

  “Yeah,” said Davis. “It’s one of the reasons we’re here, ain’t it? Ivy got herself a heart in the post!”

  “An ’eart?” gasped Lottie from the door.

  In her hands was a mechanism that Ivy recognized as an automated mop. It was an awkward contraption, not at all like the sweepers, with springs and levers to move the mop-head back and forth. They were all the rage in London and used the steam that powered them to scour the floors. It was supposed to be efficient. From the looks of it, it was anything but.

  “It’s true,” said Davis. “Whitechapel’s not fit for any woman lately. That’s what Tad said. Murders here, murders there. He said, ‘There’s not enough in the pot for the coppers and the crooks is running the streets.’”

  “Davis, please,” said Ivy.

  “Well, he did.”

  “There’s murders everywhere, lad,” Cookie snorted. “Lancaster is an ’ell-’ole for ’em.”

  “Pelling, too,” said Lottie. “Tilly Barton got ’erself cut into pieces at the Solstice this summer.”

  “Lottie!”

  “But it’s true, Mum. The peelers still ’aven’t found ’er ’eart.”

  Ivy shuddered, remembering the feeling. Smooth, cold, and rather sticky.

  “She’s your mum?” asked Davis.

  “Oh! Mum!” Ivy gasped. She had completely forgotten. Cookie held up her hand.

  “Not to worry. She ’ad a good breakfast. Ate two bowls of me special pudding and toast and tea. Ah’ll put some meat on that ’en’s bones.”

  “I’m so sorry, ma’am,” moaned Ivy. “I didn’t sleep much last night, with the ice and the cold and the stories in my head.”

  “Ah’m taking care, child. She’ll be well with me.” The woman sharpened her eyes. “Ye . . . need to settle in like a proper young lady. Ye’ll be married soon enough and to a gentleman to boot.”

  Ivy felt deflated. Like an airship, collapsing into a billowing mess of hot air and canvas. She had never forgotten her mum. Never.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” she said in a small voice.

  “Not ma’am, child. Cookie.”

  “Yes. Of course. You’re the cook. Hence, ‘Cookie.’”

  Those stony eyes bored holes into her.

  “Me name’s Elizabeth Anne Cook, child. Hence, ‘Cookie.’”

  Deflating. Deflating. A billowing mess all over Piccadilly.

  “Yes, Cookie. Thank you, Cookie.”

  “Lunch at one, ’ere in this room. Dinner at seven in Middling.”

  And with that, Elizabeth Anne Cook, hence Cookie, left the room, taking most of the air with her.

  Ivy dropped her head in her arms.

  “I am a calamity.”

  “So, Miss Charlotte Cook,” grinned Davis. “Middling?”

  “The second dining hall, Master Davis,” said Lottie. “Lasingstoke has three.”

  “Cor. Three dining rooms. Let me guess—this is the little one.”

  “Exactly correct, Master Davis.” Lottie beamed at him. “This is Smalls. Then there’s Middling down the ’all, then Grande, in First.”

  Ivy sighed and raised her head, just a little. “First?”

  “First House, miss. First and Second make up the ’all. Third is where the servants live. It’s attached to the stables. The others mark a square along the property.”

  Ivy shook her head, confounded by the sheer enormity of the estate. Honestly, most people did not live this way.

  Lottie continued. “From Third, ye go east along the ponds. Ye can take a coach, but ’orse is best. Foot is good too, just mind the swans. They’re nasty. Chase ye as soon as look at ye.”

  Davis’s smile stretched from ear to ear, charmed.

  Lottie went on, oblivious. “Fourth is on the southeast corner. Fifth is southwest. Sixth is northeast. All good cottages. Very warm. Very welcoming.”

  Davis leaned toward her. “And where do you stay, Lottie Cook?”

  She blushed. Ivy had given up correcting him. Besides, the preserves were looking very good and the tea was steaming.

  “I’m with me mum in Fourth.”

  “And your tad?”

  “Tad?”

  “It’s Welsh. Means your father.”

  “Ah love yer accent,” she said, in thickest Cumbrian.

  “I love yors,” he said in thickest Welsh.

  “I thought there were seven houses,” said Ivy before biting into her scone. She closed her eyes. The preserves were delicious.

  “It’s a grand property,” answered Lottie.

  “Where is Seventh?”

  “Ehm, northwest, miss.” Lottie’s eyes flicked downward.
“But ye won’t be going there. Not Seventh.”

  “Why not?”

  “Ye’ll pass by, surely enough. There’s the church next to it, and the graveyard and the woods, which is a lovely walk. But Seventh, ye’ll not be going. Not Seventh. Never Seventh.”

  Ivy exchanged glances with her brother.

  “But why not?” she repeated. “Is that one haunted as well?”

  “Lottie!” came a voice from outside the room, and the young woman snapped to attention.

  “Ehm, Ah need to be fixin’ this mop,” she muttered, staring at the mass of copper piping in her hands. “Please excuse me, Miss Ivy, Master Davis.”

  And she curtsied once more before exiting the room. Davis folded his arms behind his head and leaned back in his chair.

  “Well, I know what I’ll be doing after I finish counting them sheep.”

  Ivy grinned and reached for the Guardian and the story not fit for reading.

  London Steam Standard

  September 15, 1888

  Regarding the story ran on the arm found off the Grosvenor Railway Bridge, Police Surgeon Dr. Bond has concluded that the arm assuredly belonged to a tall young female with a history of comfort, but has declined to comment whether or not she was a victim of a murder or whether this is the work of the same Leather Apron who is stalking the women of Whitechapel.

  Information of the discovery has been forwarded to all the metropolitan police stations, and it is expected that the Thames police will today renew their search for other portions of the body. In the meantime, it is impossible to form an opinion as to whether another revolting murder has been committed in London, or whether the arm has been placed in the water as a grim joke by some medical student.

  Of both crimes, the police are continuing to investigate.

  Chapter 5

  Of Bond’s Boys, French Warmbloods,

  and the Mad Lord de Lacey

  IT WAS A puzzle, he realized. A puzzle of blood and limbs and tissue and bone and he had to put her together before the doors opened on the gentlemen of the Ghost Club. The smoke was heavy, the lab was hot, the locket was flashing merrily, and it was very hard to know which body part went where. Both Williams and Bond were standing to the side, watching him with surgical blades in one hand, pocket watches in the other, and very quickly, he realized that the body was Ivy’s and that someone had stolen her heart—