Cold Stone and Ivy Read online

  “I do not think a man clever who has to steal to make a living.”

  “What about a man who doesn’t have to steal, but simply chooses to?”

  “Then he is a rogue, sir, and a cad. Do you know anyone like that?”

  His grin widened. “Is your horse as quick as your tongue, Penny Dreadful?”

  She scowled. “Quicker.”

  “Then catch me and I’ll tell you.”

  And he wheeled his horse and galloped off the common. Penny spurred Marlborough in the flank and set off in pursuit.

  Chapter 9

  Of Brass Rings, Love Songs,

  and a Woman named Annie

  CHRISTIEN LOOKED AROUND the chaos that was the Stationhouse. The floor was packed with officers. Those who had desks were at them, others milled about with papers and reports. He could tell the plainclothesmen from the clerks at a glance. There were several bobbies in uniform and a few reporters as well, and the entire building had the smell of old coffee and pistol grease. It was the Leman Street Station—the heart of the Metropolitan Police’s H-Division, Whitechapel.

  Automatons wheeled and clanked through the crowd, doing the menial work of filing and fetching, delivering and recording. They were adept at navigating the chaos with a minimum of bruised shins, and Christien wondered how long it would be before the Surgeon’s department had robots doing simple procedures. As he watched them carry on with their tasks, he envied them their singular lack of emotion. It would make his job so much easier.

  “This way, Remy,” called Trevis Savage as he appeared amid the crowds of coppers. “I’ve passed it on to the boys in Analysis. They seem to think the ink was the same, and they have an automaton running tests on the paper now. It’s a low quality, likely something used in a butcher shop to wrap meat.”

  Christien fell in at his side as they moved down a narrow hall.

  “He’s not a butcher, sir.”

  “And so you keep saying. The postmark is the same as Ivy’s parcel.”

  “London E.”

  “Yes, by Jove, it is. Good observation.” And the investigator smiled at him, green eyes wrinkling at the corners. “I knew Ivy had met her match in you.”

  The investigator pushed open a door into a room painted a sickly yellow with a window so high up that nothing was visible save a grey sky. Photochromes lined the walls, maps pinned and dotted with red. An automaton was working in a corner, punch cards moving in and out of its mouth like a tongue, and the room smelled of burning wire. Sitting at a table covered in documents, a small man with thinning dark hair and great handlebar moustache looked up.

  “Freddie,” said Savage. “Here’s Remy—I mean Dr. de Lacey. He’s the one who received the note.”

  “Inspector Frederick Abberline.” The man reached out his hand and the pair shook. For a small man, his grip was strong, and he glanced down at the automaton in the corner. “And this is PAUL. Police Automaton Under Law.”

  PAUL’s optic plates flashed twice.

  “Just a few questions for you, Dr. de Lacey,” asked Abberline, and he indicated the chairs. “If you don’t mind?”

  Christien and Savage took seats at the table, and the detective pulled a slip of paper from the rest.

  “The ’bot downstairs is running some tests on the original, but we’ve made a transcript here. Can you read it for me, please?”

  Christien took the paper, took a long deep breath.

  “Ha ha my son. Nevr giv a woman yor hart. They will not keep it hole.

  Next ones for you.

  This is yor fathr, back from the ded.

  Call me, Jack”

  He laid the letter back on the table, looked up at the man. Abberline steepled his fingers beneath his chin.

  “You work with Bondie, yes?”

  “I’m in my last semester now.”

  “The letter. What do you think it means?”

  “I couldn’t tell you, sir. I would think it a joke from the boys had it not been for the heart Ivy received in the post.”

  “Miss Ivy Savage of Stepney,” rang PAUL’s tinny voice. “Daughter of Detective Trevis Savage, Metropolitan Police H-Division, formerly of A.”

  “Thank you, PAUL,” said Abberline. “The ‘boys?’”

  “My fellows, sir. But they didn’t do this.”

  Savage grunted and Abberline noticed.

  “You’re certain of it, then.”

  “Quite, sir.”

  He folded his hands across the table.

  “Interesting letter, isn’t it?” said Abberline. “What’s your first impression?”

  “Atrocious spelling, sir.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I am particular, sir.”

  “Take a guess.”

  Christien blinked slowly. This man would never be a match for Bond. “Intentional, perhaps? To throw us off the trail?”

  “Us?”

  “The police, sir.”

  “So you think the villain intelligent?”

  “He could be. There must be a reason he has eluded capture.”

  “You have assisted in these cases, have you?”

  “Only the post-mortems, sir. I am very good at stitching, or so I’m told.”

  “And what do you make of them?”

  “They are very gruesome. I can’t fathom it.”

  “Bond tells me you have a theory.”

  “I have no theory, sir. I simply stitch and dissect.”

  “Hm.” Abberline rose to his feet and began to move around the little office, PAUL’s optic plates following him as he went. “What do you think it means, ‘this is yor fathr, back from the ded’?”

  “I have no idea, sir. That is why I am here.”

  “Your father has been dead for how many years?”

  “Fifteen,” said Christien.

  “Renaud Jacobe St. John de Lacey, Sixth Baron of Lasingstoke, died in 1873 AD,” said PAUL. “Many tragic events occur in that year, including the sinking of the SS Northfleet, the Economic Panic of Europe, and the—”

  “Thank you, PAUL.” Abberline looked up. “Did your father write this note?”

  “Not likely, sir, being dead.”

  “Did you write this note, doctor?”

  Chess, thought Christien. Even in the police branch when they should be studying the evidence, it was all about games. Smoke and mirrors and chess.

  “Emphatically not, sir. I would not.”

  Abberline narrowed his eyes. “You would be surprised at how many false notes we get. People do love notoriety, in all its forms.”

  “Not me, sir.” Christien raised a brow. “I avoid notoriety like the Soup.”

  “The Pea Soup,” said PAUL. “Toxic fog that settles over industrialized cities—”

  “Had enough of it in your family, wot? Notoriety, that is?”

  “Indeed. Had I thought it a fraud, I would have disposed of it at once and spared myself the indignation.”

  “Forgive me, then, if I have caused any.” Abberline sat back down. “But you can breathe easier, good doctor. It is indeed a fraud.”

  Christien glanced at Savage, then back at Abberline. “How can you be sure?”

  “Because your father is dead, isn’t he? Shot his own head off with a three-chambered pistol, if I recall correctly . . .” And he held up a police report. “You were, what? Five?”

  “Six,” said the automaton.

  “Someone is playing a jape upon you, sir. One of your ‘boys,’ most likely, and it is a very cruel jape indeed. But alas, that is the reputation of medical students, isn’t it? Arms, legs, what’s a heart or two between colleagues?”

  And he smiled again, but it wasn’t a pleasant thing.

  “One last question, Doctor. Your ring. Did one of your ‘boys’ give that to you?”

  “This?” He glanced down at the little brass ring. “No, sir.”

  “A family heirloom, then?”

  “Not at all, sir. It was given to me by Dr. Williams to commemorate a special event.
Why?”

  “Dr. John Williams of St. Mary’s Bethlem?”

  “And the London Royal Teaching Hospital and University to College Hospital along with Kensington, Buckingham, and Sandringham, sir.” Christien frowned. “Why do you ask?”

  “Three small brass rings were removed from the dead body of Dark Annie Chapman, or so the story goes. It’s just a coincidence then, that you have a matching one.”

  Christien’s heart thudded in his chest, but he kept his face a porcelain mask.

  “They are cheap rings, sir. You can buy twelve for a penny at Billingsgate.”

  “Of course, I know that.”

  And Abberline smiled at him one last time.

  “Well, thank you for coming in, Doctor. And do say hello to Bondie for me.”

  “I will do, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  He rose to his feet, his mind racing in many different directions, not the least of them being the innocuous brass ring making a home on his finger.

  MY DEAR IVY,

  There has been another killing in Whitechapel. You will likely have read about it in the papers, and I am so grateful that you are not around to see the growing panic in the streets. This time, the woman’s body was so terribly mutilated that I feared it would be too much for me. Upon close investigation, it is clear that the villain has some medical skill. Your father fears this will not be the last, and I feel inclined to believe him.

  I have been getting headaches of late. I suppose it is to be expected during these last six months of my internship, but Dr. Williams has insisted I try a tincture of laudanum next time and will consult his fellows. If anyone can secure treatment of these accursed episodes, it will be him.

  My exams amid-terms have gone well, and Bondie has granted me and the boys leave for a few days, given the trying circumstances of our apprenticeships. I will attempt to visit you at Lasingstoke. Perhaps I will take an airship. They run fair regular from London to Lancaster, and I am eager to try my hand at this very modern mode of travel.

  Did I mention that my brother has an airship?

  I am looking forward to seeing your sweet face again. I miss you already.

  Yours,

  Christien

  Ivy laid the note carefully on the table and reached for her tea. The post had been late and Castlewaite had just given her the letter after lunch. Cookie had frowned as she tore it open, ignoring the penknife in front of her, but Ivy didn’t care. After her strange conversations with Arvin Frankow and Sebastien de Lacey, a letter from Christien was a welcome thing.

  “He’s coming,” she said, and Davis looked up at her from his soup.

  “Who’s coming?”

  “Christien. Christien is coming to Lasingstoke.”

  He slurped, and from her post polishing the silver, Cookie glowered at him. He grinned and slurped some more.

  “Don’t he live here?” He slurped.

  “Only sometimes,” she said. “He came back for a brief visit this June, but he’s been in London for years now. His schooling, you know.”

  “Ye should take some schooling, young Davis,” grumbled Cookie from the hutch. “Ye’ve done mighty fine on tha’ mop. Works like a charm, it does.”

  “Really?” Davis sat up. “Like a charm?”

  “That’s what Ah said, weren’t it?”

  He popped a crust of bread in his mouth as he looked at her. “Is there anything else in need of fixing? I could take a look . . .”

  “Hmph. Ah’ll send ye t’Over Milling.”

  “Over Milling?”

  “The wee town o’er the hill,” she said, turning back to the silver. “Ye can get parts at Grimwalts.”

  Davis sat straighter, and Ivy marvelled at his attention. Davis never paid attention like that.

  “That’d be grand,” he said.

  “Ye’ll go in the morn, ken?” And with a sour glance, she marched out of Smalls, disappearing entirely.

  Davis looked back at his sister.

  “D’you hear that, Ivy? She’ll see what she can do. The mop works like a charm, she said. Just needed a bit of tinkering. One of the gears was too tight. Buggered up the pulley mechanism.”

  “Well, I’m glad you fixed it, Davis. You have a talent. I have several chapters of The Ghost of Lancashire finished. Would you care to furnish it with illustrations again?”

  “If I have time between the mops and the sweepers and trying to find that bloody Seventh house. I’ve only got as far as the church.”

  “I wonder when Christien will come.” She sank back into her chair and looked down at the letter in her hand. It wasn’t dated, but still, she wondered how long it would take to journey north in an airship. Perhaps there were connections to be made. Perhaps he wasn’t able to leave on time. Perhaps the airships were filled.

  She frowned.

  Did I mention that my brother has an airship?

  Why wouldn’t he take his brother’s airship? Surely it would be available for him had he the need? And where was it stationed, this de Lacey airship? In the Lancaster dockyards? Here at Lasingstoke?

  Reach a little higher, he had said. Else buy yourself some very fine boots.

  She sat back, scowling. The Mad Lord was as odd as people said and deserved every word of his tabloid reputation. She understood now why Christien never spoke of him or of Rupert or even Lasingstoke, for that matter. And yet, Sebastien had been surprisingly astute in his observations, and she wondered how he could have guessed so much simply by the holding of her hands.

  Metal in his skull. Runs with horses. Died as a child, now speaks with the dead.

  Two rumours confirmed. One to go.

  “I think I’ll go with you to Over Milling, Davis,” she announced, pushing back her chair.

  “Yeah? Why?”

  “I need to find myself a pair of boots.”

  SEBASTIEN REACHED DOWN a hand to touch the grizzled grey coat. He could walk with closed eyes knowing Fergis the wolfhound would be there, watching for stumps, pot holes, and ruts in the road. Clancy was next, a fine retriever with a flaxen coat and a good nose for grouse. He grinned at the others bumbling all around him, some ranging out in front, some lagging behind. Jo, the English Setter; the collie Birdie; a Springer Spaniel by name of Tag; and a scruffy tailless mongrel called Dickey. The best family he could ever ask for. The best of friends. His pack.

  He’d completely forgotten about Gus. He’d left the horse behind in the pasture with the mares. He hadn’t even noticed the girl but she had surely noticed him. He could see it in her eyes as she had studied his cheek. But to his surprise and to her credit, she had said nothing, had even indulged him while he read her like a book. She was a spirited little creature, he thought. Highly strung and emotional, but then again, he had no experience with the fairer sex. Maybe they were all like that. Truth be told, when his human company was overlord uncles, brilliant psychiatrists, dead people, and Cookie, an emotional woman was an earthly delight.

  He could see the fence up ahead flanked by elms, could make out the shapes grazing in the fields. Sebastien smiled to himself. That would be a fine colt if the bay mare caught. He had hopes to keep it, train it himself, if he lived long enough. If Seventh didn’t kill him first.

  He reached the fence, ran a hand along it as he walked its length. Wood, dogs, horses, stone. No shadow in those, no vice. No fear of death, no fear of life. Even cold stone was warmer than most people.

  Gus nickered and trotted to meet him. He laid a hand on the grey nose, ran it up along the cheek to the neck, down to the deep chest, and there he gave him a sound pat.

  “Did you have a good night, my lad? She’s a fine thing, I know it.”

  He turned to lean against the fence, pulled a letter from his pocket.

  Sebastien,

  We do not need to tell you of the pressing incidents occurring in Whitechapel. We know you and Rupert keep abreast of the tabloids where the scandalous details are out for all to see. The French anarchists are paying close attention as well, an
d we have it on good account that there are those who are already planting the seeds for riot if the crimes continue. Such villains will use anything as fodder to undermine the solidarity of our Empire. This is something we shall never allow.

  Bertie has informed me that you have refused him once again. We will remind you that you are an English citizen and a gentleman and have responsibilities to the Crown. Lonsdale exists because of our good pleasure, sufferance, and purse.

  We trust that we will not need to remind you again.

  Victoria RI

  He crumpled the letter into a ball and tossed it onto the road. Dickey fetched it like a stick, causing the others to bound around him with the game. Sebastien turned back to the fence where Gus was waiting, pushed the gate wide.

  Suddenly, the horses squealed and bolted for the far end of the pasture.

  Fergis whined, and the air around him grew deathly cold. He refused to look behind him. He knew what would be standing there.

  “Go home,” he growled, and his breath frosted in front of his face. “I’ve told you, stay at Seventh. You’ll do no good out here.”

  He cursed his luck. The horses would never come if she stayed at the gate. Animals were sensitive that way.

  “I said, go home!”

  But the cold remained, so he turned slowly and immediately wished he hadn’t. It was the woman, the one with her intestines around her neck. It had made him sick when she’d first shown up, and he wasn’t certain he was getting used to it now. She still shook him to the very core.

  “Where are you from?” he asked again, but still she said nothing. The dead rarely did. But unlike the boy from Wharcombe, this one would not even nod. It was impossible to help those who would not help themselves.

  “Are you Annie from Whitechapel? Annie Chapman? Tell me. I can’t help you otherwise.”

  She had died quickly, it seemed. The gashes in her throat were deep, and he could see the white tendons beneath the skin. Her clothes were tattered and separated from her torso in a bloody mass. Her hair was brown, her eyes blue and very sad. She held up her hand, extended a finger.

  “You’ve shewed me this before.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand.”