Wharcombe SteamPress
September 15, 1888
Charlie Fretts, 11 year-old son of fishmonger Reggie and Bernadette Fretts, was found dead in Wharcombe today.
Chapter 6
Of Live Women, Dead Boys, and Horses at Midnight
SHE HAD SEEMED live enough.
At least, Castlewaite and Rupert had spoken with her, had interacted. All good clues, generally. And she had held her own with Rupert, which was never easy. His uncle was a cad. Brilliant with finances, with estates and horses, but not so good with people. He smiled, thinking the same could easily be said of himself.
She had left quickly, however, once she’d uncovered his name. They all did. They either fawned and prattled or fled like a house on fire. But before she’d known, she had chatted. That was different than prattling. More natural. No, this little woman of Christien’s had bared her soul, had laughed, and even shed a tear. It had been sweet, almost normal, and he’d learned to take normal whenever and wherever he could get it.
There was a loud squeal, and he turned his attention to the field where Gus was entertaining the new mares. He was prancing circles around a little bay, tossing his head and trying to impress. The mare was not impressed, however, and kept laying back her ears and snapping whenever he would dance too close. Sebastien shook his head. Five mares in a field, four willing, but Gus would naturally choose the fifth. Life was curious that way.
He laid his chin on his arms across the fence rail, watching the dance of the horses, feeling the dogs wrestle and bump at his feet. The air was quiet and he knew there would be rain in two nights’ time. There was an enormous pile of posts on his desk at First, and he knew he needed to pass them over to Rupert. Cad though he might be, Rupert would never open a post not addressed to him. The man had scruples.
The dogs whined, and the air around him began to grow cold.
There was a boy watching him.
There was always someone watching. It was exhausting, and sometimes he found himself wishing for the solitary blackness of Lonsdale. Frankow was a good man. His laudanum was by far the best.
He turned to look at the boy.
Perhaps eleven he was, with dark hair matted on one side and a very pale face. They usually had pale faces. If they had faces at all. Large, dark eyes staring at him, blood and bruising at the right temple indicating a backhanded blow. Not a hand, however. The wound was too straight and deep for that. A poker perhaps, for there was soot on the boy’s cheek.
“Where are you from?” he asked.
The boy didn’t speak. The dead rarely did. Instead, he merely flicked his large eyes in the direction of the bay.
“Dunbridge? Pelling? Wharcombe?” he asked, and at the name of the bayside town of Wharcombe, the boy nodded. “And did you die in Wharcombe as well?”
The boy said nothing. He was grateful it wasn’t Manchester. Manchester was a long ride.
“Was it your father? Was he drinking, or did you make him angry?”
Tears began welling behind those large eyes, and Sebastien looked away. Gus had found himself a willing mare, and he knew Rupert would be furious. Still, they were Warmbloods all. Any foal by Lasingstoke’s Gus would bring a good price.
With a sigh, he looked back at the boy. “I’m sorry, lad. I’ll see what I can do. Can you give me some time? My horse is rather busy.”
The boy folded up and disappeared, and Sebastien ran a hand along his face. Once again he felt the rush of desire for Lonsdale, its dark rooms and darker laudanum.
At least the girl had seemed live enough.
THERE WAS A swing in the dying garden. It was late afternoon, and her heart was heavy and the swing took her back and forth, back and forth, as if the simple motion could rid her heart of the weight. The sun was struggling to come out, but the clouds were thick and low and winning. Catherine Savage was still sitting on the stone bench under the branches of an oak, staring but seeing nothing.
Tomorrow, thought Ivy. Tomorrow everything would change.
She had left the stables and the Mad Lord de Lacey, who had at that point seemed the most sensible character on the entire estate. He certainly did not look like her impression of a lord, let alone a mad one. With the grey horse and six dogs in tow, he had headed out straight away to the fields in direct defiance of “the Scourge.” He apparently did have metal in his skull, and he certainly liked his horses. She wondered how many more of the rumours were true. Life was becoming too strange for her. She didn’t know what to think anymore.
She looked down at the newspaper in her hand, at the article in the Lancaster Guardian.
LONDON POLICE BAFFLED
The Latest Victim Discovered in Spitalfields Early Sunday Morning Shockingly Mutilated
LONDON, Sept. 10—The horribly mutilated body of a woman was found early yesterday morning in a yard attached to a common lodging house in Spitalfields. Her throat was cut from ear to ear, the body was ripped open, the bowels and heart were on the ground, a portion of the entrails was tied around the neck, and the womb removed entirely from the scene. This is the fourth murder of a similar character that has been committed recently in this vicinity. All the victims were women of the lowest character. The author of the atrocities remains undiscovered, and the excitement in the immediate vicinity borders upon a panic.
Police are continuing to investigate.
She frowned. Leather Apron, the press had taken to calling him, but truth be told, it wasn’t likely to be one man. At least that’s what her father had insisted. People, he had said, loved their conspiracies and would see devils in every lock and larder. The East End was a hard part of town, Whitechapel even more so. Women who worked their trade in dark alleys were easy to find.
Now Christien was involved, for he was studying under Dr. Thomas Bond in the new field of forensic pathology. Bond had assembled himself a team of brilliant young physicians-in-training. Bondie’s Boys, they were called. Christien, Henry Bender, Ambrose Pickett, and Lewis Powell-Smith. When he was not with her, Bond, or Dr. Williams, he was with the boys. They had been together for years.
It was an exciting pursuit, she thought, all for the advancement of science and the progress of the Empire of Steam. They were always dissecting something, analyzing something, cutting something apart. The other boys were hard as nails, but Christien was in it for the science. To see him working with Bond and the detectives of H-Division made her very proud. She knew that was his appeal for her, his dedication to the field of criminology. Not for the first time, she wondered what sort of wife she would make, when she’d rather be in a morgue than a kitchen or a nursery.
She looked down at the article once again.
“Her heart was on the ground, Mum,” she said as she swung back and forth. “That’s a terrible place to put a heart. Better than sending it to me in the post, I suppose, but still, I wonder what the devil was thinking . . .”
She shuddered, remembering the feel of the cold, sticky lump in her hands. It was as if Death were reaching for her from the pages of her stories. No, not Death. Jack. The heart had been “From Jack.” Was that his real name? Had the heart been taken from a woman like in this article, from a scene just like this? Her chest tightened as the questions mounted.
“And why remove her womb, Mum?” she asked. “That’s strange, isn’t it, and therefore, a very good clue.”
Catherine Savage blinked but naturally said nothing.
“Maybe he’s a collector, or a scientist of some sort. You know, like how some men like to stuff dead birds or pin butterflies to cork. Maybe he works for collectors or scientists and needs to find new parts to keep his kids in taffy.” She made a face as she swung higher and higher. “Maybe she was pregnant . . . Ooh, that would be bad, wouldn’t it, Mum? She was a working girl, after all. Dr. Williams says it happens all the time. He helps them with that, though we’re not supposed to say. Hmm, I’ll need to ask him when we’re back in London.”
And so she sat on the swing and went back
and forth, going over the article in the Guardian until Lottie called them in for dinner.
THE SUN WAS setting over the waters of Wharcombe Bay, and the smell of fish was strong on the wind. There were trollers rising and falling with the waves, and sea birds swooped low over the docks.
At the end of the road was the fishmonger’s shop. It was small and boarded with clapping, with barrels and benches lining the stoop. Gaslight beamed from the lone window, and the chimney curled with smoke. The shouting inside the thin walls had been going on for almost an hour. He dearly wished he could go in and put an end to it, but there were children, and he had principles.
Besides, while the wind was biting, there was no frost.
The wailing was growing unbearable when the door swung open and a man staggered out, a bottle in one hand, an iron poker in the other.
“Yor turn, next, Dot!” the man roared, and he struck the poker against the frame. It left splinters the size of a thumb, “You keep your gob shut or it’s yor turn for sure!”
The door slammed shut and bolts slid home.
“Piss on ’em,” the man grumbled. “Piss on ’em all.”
And he turned toward the docks and the cold waters of Wharcombe Bay, striking the poker on the ground as he walked.
Sebastien de Lacey released a long breath, watching as it frosted into a cloud in front of his face. He looked behind him. The boy with the large sad eyes was there, leaning against the wall of the shanty. His cheeks had sunken in, his lips as grey as the bay. The boy nodded.
De Lacey pulled the clockwork pistol from his belt, checked all three chambers for bullets, and followed the man toward the docks.
SEPTEMBER 15, 1888
Dear Tad,
I am happy to admit that our situation in Lancashire is beginning to improve and I am beginning to believe that both Davis and I will settle in nicely. I have met both Rupert the Scourge—a miserable man who apparently is Christien’s uncle, and the Mad Lord himself, who does not seem as mad as he is made out to be. However, I have only spoken with him once, and then our conversation was impeded by my weeping so I could be sorely mistaken.
We take Mum to Lonsdale Abbey tomorrow. I am still dreading it, although I know I cannot be both Christien’s wife and Mum’s caretaker. I do hope this Dr. Frankow is as kind as he is talented. Mum has been loved all her life. I fear that somehow, she will know that she has been abandoned and will fail to thrive under his care. That would be something I could not bear.
Regarding the woman found in Spitalfields, you might check with Dr. Williams on the possibility that she was pregnant. It’s just a thought. He runs many clinics and his research in obstetrics and gynaecology might prove helpful.
It is very late and I must be off to bed for it will be an early start tomorrow. Lonsdale is a good two-hour coach, and our appointment is for quarter of ten. Please give my regards to Mr. Beals and Ginny if you see them. I will give Mum a kiss from you.
Your girl,
Ivy
LOTTIE HAD FOUND her a new fountain pen and Ivy laid it down on the desk, waiting for the ink to dry. It was late, but she was unsettled, and she found her mind spinning in many different directions. She wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and rose to stand by the window that only last night had been covered in frost.
Funny, she thought, how for six months of the year, it was the moon that was brightest, cast the most light. She had heard that in France, the sun was king. Cherries and winefields and steamcars and writers and dancers and bohemians, all in love with the regal French sun. But here in England, over the rolling, sweeping grey-green hills, painting everything in strokes of silver, the moon was queen.
The squeal of a horse broke the stillness and then, an answering squeal. She peered out to see if it was the walking horse and his walking man. She could see nothing, but there was another squeal, louder this time, and she grinned to herself. Penny Dreadful and the Ghost of Lancashire was a real-life mystery. She exchanged the blanket for a woollen cardigan, slipped on a pair of old Wellies, and headed out her door and down the stair.
The house was silent at night and very dark, and she was grateful for that. The cardigan and Wellies could not disguise the fact that she was sneaking around in her nightdress, and she smirked to think of Rupert St. John and his “no skirts” rule. Before she knew it, she was opening the great wooden door to slip out into the night.
The air was cold, so she tugged at the cardigan and hurried across the cobbles to the fields beyond. At the fence, several horses gathered, necks outstretched to a grey standing on the other side. As she neared, she realized two things. One, that it was the horse called Gus, the one that belonged to Sebastien de Lacey, and two, that it was fully tacked, with bridle, saddle, and reins looped up on its withers.
She smiled to herself. Her father could not possibly have known the sort of story he had written her into.
Gus was blowing softly into the nostrils of a bay mare who was blowing back. She moved closer.
“Hello, Gus,” she said softly, and he swung his head in her direction. When she was close enough, she caught his bridle, making a point to run her free hand along his neck the way Sebastien had earlier. He was soft and warm.
“Where’s your lord, then?” she asked. “Did he fall off somewhere? You would be a naughty boy if you left him somewhere far, far away, now wouldn’t you? That’s right. Naughty, naughty boy.”
The great horse turned back to face the mare, and the blowing ritual began all over again. With a hand still fixed to the bridle, she looked up and down the road for a sign.
She heard it first, the faint crunching of boots on gravel, but before too long, she could make out his shape, coming out of the shadows of the trees and into the moonlight. He was wearing a greatcoat that billowed like a cloak and was coming from the west, from the direction of Lancaster and Wharcombe Bay. She clutched the cardigan tightly at her throat, wishing now that she had taken the time to lace up her country boots. Wellies suddenly seemed far too clumsy for her feet.
He said nothing until he was right upon them, and still he did not pause, merely walked up to the fence and began to pull the saddle of the horse’s back. She didn’t know what to think, knew even less what he expected her to do, so she stood, holding the bridle as he slid the saddle from the grey back and laid it across the rail fence. He then slipped the reins over the neck and began to work at the buckles of the headstall. She glanced at his face, lit on one side by the moon. There was mud on his cheek and hands. Or perhaps it was blood. She couldn’t be certain, and her heart thudded once in her chest.
Soon, the horse was completely undone, and still, without a word, he moved to the gate, opened it, and Gus trotted happily through.
He slid the gate closed behind him, swung the saddle off the rail and into her arms. She staggered under the weight but took it, too surprised to do anything else.
And throwing the bridle across his shoulder, he stepped back onto the path in the direction of the Hall.
All of this without a word.
At night, he runs with wild horses.
She stood in the moonlight and watched him go.
Wharcombe Steam Press
The body of local fishmonger Reggie Fretts was found off the shores of the bay this morning. He was shot once with a bullet to the head. This is the second tragedy to strike the fishmonger’s family, the first being the sudden death of his oldest son Charlie earlier this week. Upon interview, Mrs. Bernadette “Dottie” Fretts made mention that her husband was a terrible drunk and had gotten himself in low with the bookies. She has recently come into some money and made plans to leave Wharcombe with her four surviving children and move back to Surrey for a better life with her sister.
Police are now listing the Wharcombe/Milnethorpe bookmakers as prime suspects in this case and are continuing to investigate.
Chapter 7
Of Datamancery, Necroscopy, and a Clockwork Man
COOKIE HAD SET out an early breakfast but he
r brother had elected to stay behind at the Hall—helping Lottie with some of the cleaning machines, he had insisted. It didn’t surprise her. He put on a good show of pretending his mother’s state mattered little to him. She knew that deep in his heart he cared, but still, it was up to Ivy once again, taking their mum on the road to Lonsdale.
And so for a little over two hours, the coach rolled along the dirt roadways of Lancashire. She had seen only one steamcar so far and that of the four-wheeled variety. A blonde woman was at the helm, great goggles covering her eyes and a long paisley scarf flowing in the wind. Ivy could hear Castlewaite cursing from the dickey above, and the horses snorted and reared as it roared past. While they were a common sight in London, they were fairly new contraptions. Built upon the same steam-powered principles as a locomotive, they were modern but noisy and their movements stilted and jerky. Ivy thought they would need considerable improvements for people to abandon their coaches in favour of them.
She did not see a single airship in the sky. She did, however, see many sheep.
So, it was with such strange, trivial, and unrelated thoughts running through her mind that she barely noticed Lonsdale Abbey come into view, perched like a tower over a stretch of grey water.
She sat forward, pressed her nose against the glass.
The Abbey sat on the hills above Wharcombe Bay. She loved the smell of the ocean. It always made her spirit leap with the promise of adventure. The Thames was not the same. The Thames smelled like rubbish. The Thames smelled like ashes and oil and the hulls of large ships. There was no promise of adventure in the Thames.
She threw a glance at her mother, head bobbing in time with the horses. Cookie had exchanged her bonnet for a cream mob, although her dress was still deepest black. No matter what anyone did, she still looked dead.
Cold Stone and Ivy Page 6
