Cold Stone and Ivy

by H. Leighton Dickson

  “Marie,” said Bender, and he sat up a little straighter at her approach.

  “Henry,” and she winked at him, the dimples giving her the look of an impish little girl.

  The pair dropped into seats at the table and their beers were brought. Immediately, Powell-Smith raised his glass and downed a good third before dropping his mug to the table with a thump.

  “Damn that Bond,” he growled, and he tossed his head. “He made me work overtime tonight. There was a bloody accident with another steamcar.”

  “How many wheels?” asked Bender.

  “Four, naturally. A woman got her head crushed under the wheel. It was putrid. He made me do the autopsy for the lawsuit.”

  The boys grinned. Lawsuits against four-wheeled steamcars were all the rage in London now, fueled, it was said, by the makers of the six-wheeled variety.

  “He’s also asking about that Jane Doe. About why she got shipped from Bedlam to us.”

  “Oh God,” groaned Bender. “She’s still bagged, yeh?”

  “Yeh, he didn’t look.”

  “Yet.”

  Christien raised his glass to his lips. “And what did you tell him, Lewie?”

  “Nothing. I told him I didn’t know nothing.”

  “Well, it’s not unheard of for Bedlam to send us cadavers.”

  “Yeah,” moaned Rosie. “Happens all the time.”

  “Not without the papers,” groaned Powell-Smith. “And with the Bottle on his ass about that arm, we’ve got a very, very short chain.”

  “Indeed.” Christien sipped his ale slowly before lowering the mug to the table. “We are medical students. The public would love nothing more than to see us trotted out as villains here. We must be very, very careful in this particular climate, boys.”

  “Yeah,” grunted Bender. “No mistakes.”

  “No more mistakes,” said Christien. “We have six months, boys, until we’re done. And I want to finish free and clear.”

  “So’s you can get married,” said Marie, and she smiled at him, her eyes roaming over his fine face, his perfect lips, his smart suit. “’Ow’s yer moll, then, Remy? You missin’ ’er somethin’ awful like?”

  Powell-Smith didn’t care. He had paid for her so she was his tonight. Marie Kelly was a favourite of the boys. She would go with whoever had the coin but she was a good-hearted girl and very pretty. She had acted on the stage in Paris, or so she said. She had spoken about her experiences in Kensington-Knightsbridge with a French matron who had shown her the ropes. She was a friend to John Williams, and it had been her name Christien had seen in the book at Bethlem. Mary Jane “Marie” Kelly with an abortion at Bedlam.

  “Yes,” he said evenly. “I am missing her.”

  “I can ’elp with that.” She bit her lip coyly and raised the gin to her lips. He noticed she was wearing a brass ring on her middle finger. It was cheaply made, a simple loop of stamped brass, and it was identical to the one on his little finger.

  “Your ring . . . Where did you get that?”

  “Oh this?” She held it out, as if to study it, and she grinned. “My John. Gan fy John.”

  “John Williams gave you the ring?”

  She dropped her chin onto her palm. “’E’s takin’ me back to Paris next month. ’E’s a dear man, is my John. A smart, sweet, very generous man.”

  “Looks like your ring, Remy,” grinned Powell-Smith. “You going with Jackie to Paree next, you Frenchie dog, you?”

  Suddenly, his ring finger began to ache and the room suddenly grew cold.

  “I luv Paris,” said Marie. “I been three times.”

  “I never been to Paris,” moaned Rosie.

  “Paris is for whores,” snorted Powell-Smith, and he swigged his beer. “Old men and whores and Remy.”

  “What the hell’s wrong with you, Remy?” Bender laughed. “You’re all blue!”

  “I’m not a whore,” said Marie under her breath.

  “’Course you are, luv.” Powell-Smith grinned. “And you’re very good at it.”

  And he began to kiss her neck, in spite of the fact that she was scowling.

  “Remy?” asked Bender. “Remy, you all right?”

  “Damn but it’s cold in here.”

  The boys looked at each other.

  “It’s not cold in here, Remy,” said Powell-Smith, leaning across the table. “It’s a bloody Turkish bath.”

  Christien bolted to his feet, patting his waistcoat and pulling out the locket. It was spinning madly at the end of its chain, its rings creating sparks as it did so. The air around it began to frost, and to his utter surprise, snowflakes floated to the table like Christmas morning. They turned immediately to tiny droplets of water on the wood.

  “What the bloody hell is that?” asked Bender.

  “That’s beautiful, that is,” cooed Marie, spellbound as colours flashed across her pretty face.

  Powell-Smith leaned in. “By God, Remy, has your precious Club seen this?”

  “Not like this,” said Christien as he stared at the locket, his eyes larger than almost anything in the room. “It’s never been like this.”

  Quickly, he grabbed it and shoved it back in his waistcoat, ignoring the shock of cold as the locket touched the ring. He turned and pushed his way through the crowd and out the door of the Good Samaritan public house.

  THE CARRIAGE THUNDERED along the muddy roads, without even a moon to guide them. Ivy sat in the seat, clutching first one railing then another as she was lurched from side to side, and it was purely good fortune, better driving, and the best horses in Lancashire that kept the wheels on the road. French Warmbloods. She would never forget them now.

  The dogs lay in a wet pile on the floor of the coach, huddled and dejected.

  Sebastien sat opposite her, eyes riveted to the window, but she was certain that he was, like her mother, seeing nothing of the world. His lips were moving but in a language she did not understand. Latin, Frankow had said. It sounded just like the high masses said at important holidays. The windows were frosted and she could see her breath in the cab.

  This was not a world she knew. This was not a world she had ever heard of, this world of madness and ice, and she felt herself growing numb to it. Sitting here in a racing coach in the cold, wild heart of England, she was turning to stone. Soon all that would be left of her heart would be pebbles and dust.

  What had Frankow done to him?

  “’Old on down there!” called Castlewaite from above, and the coach veered sharply around a bend in the road. She grabbed the railing, held on for dear life. They had passed through Over Milling earlier and were on the last stretch toward Lasingstoke. Her head was spinning but her mind was slowing, and she had no idea what she should be thinking, or if in fact, she would ever think again.

  Her brother had gone to Seventh. She knew it in her heart of hearts. He had told her he would. She had promised him ghosts and tonight, it seemed, he had found them. She couldn’t imagine how or why but she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the world had shifted and would never be the same.

  Suddenly, the coach skidded to a halt, and Sebastien and the dogs were out like a shot, leaving the door open for her. But she was a close shadow, out and onto the wet grass at his heels.

  They were near a church, and as they raced past, there was a tall figure coming out of the trees. It was Rupert, grim-faced, an axe in his hand.

  “I can’t get him,” he said. “They seal it up as soon as I split a board.”

  Sebastien nodded, and together, the three of them continued on deeper into the forest. The dogs had gone on ahead, and Ivy could hear barking over the howling of the wind. They were moving through a graveyard now, with young trees growing like daisies over most of the plots. Dying ivy covering everything.

  The men were but silhouettes when she spied a flash of stone deeper in. All but hidden from view, Seventh was as dark as the night sky. Dark stone, dark lintels, dark glass on the windows. Dark trees that formed a canopy above and
around, dropping rainwater on their heads, turning the path into mud under their boots. Even in such darkness, she could see the blows made by the axe in the wood of the door.

  “Davis!” she cried and pushed past the men, heading for the door. “Davis, please! Open the door!”

  Suddenly, an arm was around her waist, pulling her backwards in the muck.

  “No, skirt,” growled Rupert in her ear. “This is no place for you now.”

  “But Davis—”

  Sebastien moved around them, his greatcoat billowing as he laid his hands against the splintered wood. The howling of the wind became the sound of nightmares, the wail of a thousand banshees, the screaming of trees and earth and stone and voices, and Ivy shuddered in Rupert’s grip as the door began to move.

  Not inward, not outward, but both at once, rippling like waves on a shore, and she could see lights flashing from within. As if in the distance, she could hear a voice, Sebastien’s voice, speaking in Latin, hollow and echoing and very strange. He drew on the door with the tip of a finger and ice began to crawl up the stone, up the windows, up to the roof, until the entire house was shining like glass. The cold descended like a blanket so that even Rupert’s arms could not warm her.

  Suddenly, everything grew deathly still.

  “Damn,” Rupert whispered behind her.

  She didn’t know but she knew.

  “No,” she gasped. “No! No! NO!”

  And she began to thrash in his grip.

  “Davis!” she wailed. “Davis!”

  The Scourge of Lasingstoke began dragging her away from the door, when she saw Sebastien pick up the axe and swing. It was like a thunderclap as the house struck back, and they were all lifted off their feet and sent flying backwards into the trees and the blackness.

  “Skirt.”

  The trees and the blackness

  “Skirt.”

  Her head was spinning in the blackness

  A wet nose nudged her, and she reached a hand into the soft golden coat of the retriever.

  “Get up, skirt.”

  She pushed herself up from the forest floor. It was raining now and both leaves and mud came up on her cheek. She looked up to see Rupert standing over her, surrounded by the dogs of Lasingstoke. There was a ribbon of blood along his forehead and he seemed to use considerable effort in simply standing. He was holding something in his arms.

  “Davis . . .”

  She felt the world shift around her at the sight of his body, cradled like a baby, arms and legs hanging, limp and unmoving.

  Ivy scrambled to her feet to follow as St. John stepped onto the path that led back to the church. She could see her brother’s face, and the world shifted yet again.

  So many cuts. So many cuts.

  “Skirt! Now, if you please!”

  Numbly, she followed, but she did pause to throw one last glance at the house known as Seventh. The door was shut and there was not even a sliver to show for the axe.

  Of the Mad Lord, there was no sign.

  Chapter 16

  Of Steamcars, Airships,

  and Princes of the House Saxe-Coburg and Gotha

  “WAKE UP, IVY.”

  Someone was stroking her forehead.

  “Wake up, my Ivy. I’ve some tea for you.”

  It was like a dream. A strange, wonderful dream in which she was back in London and everything was perfectly happy and normal. There were no murders. There was no madness. There was only tea and a soft bed and the strange warm scent of a man.

  “Sebastien?” she mumbled.

  She felt the weight shift and opened her eyes.

  “Christien?” She blinked, then smiled. “Christien!”

  She sat upright far too quickly and the room reeled like a night after too many brandies. He reached out a hand to steady her, put a finger to his lips.

  She looked down. She was on Davis’s bed at Lasingstoke, and her brother was asleep on the pillow. His young cheek was pink, his breathing regular. There wasn’t a single cut on him. Not a cut, not a scratch. Nothing.

  “I don’t understand. His face, the wounds. Oh, Christien, it’s been terrible.”

  For two nights she had stayed at his side. She had eaten at his side, read at his side, slept. When she’d closed her eyes last night, his breathing had been laboured and his face livid with cuts. Now, all of those wounds were gone, leaving not even the hint of a scar. He was breathing like a fifteen-year-old boy. In fact, she could have sworn he was snoring.

  “Come,” he said, taking her hand. “I have tea downstairs.”

  She allowed herself to be raised from the bed, and with one last glance, she followed Christien out into the hallway and down the stair into the sitting room of Second. It was morning, a fire was crackling, and she lowered herself into Rupert’s wing-backed chair, trying to recall the events of the past days.

  “Tea, Miss Ivy?” It was Lottie, smiling in her shy way.

  “Thank you, Lottie. Thank you so much for everything.”

  “And Master Davis?” She was wringing her hands like damp dishcloths and seemed to be holding her breath. “’Ow’s ’e doin’, then?”

  “I think he’ll be fine, Lottie. I think he’ll be just fine.”

  She could see tears brimming behind the ginger lashes, and Ivy felt a rush of warmth that had nothing to do with the fire.

  “Well, tha’s good, then. Very good, indeed. Ah . . . Ah’ll let me mum know yer up. And Mr. Rupert. ’E’ll be wantin’ t’know.”

  “Thank you, Lottie. You’ve been such a good friend to both of us.”

  The young woman smiled through her tears, quickly curtsied, and rushed from the room. Ivy looked at the tea cup, noticed the slight tremor in her holding. She felt her own eyes begin to sting.

  And suddenly, Christien was at her side, removing the cup and gathering her in his arms. And she sank into him, feeling his strength and wetting his shoulders with her tears.

  SIDE BY SIDE, they strolled through the courtyard. He had offered her his arm and she had taken it. It was her first time outdoors since that terrible night, and she marvelled at how fine the estate looked when not beaten down by rain. The sun was shining, puddles were drying. There were birds flitting through the branches, sheep and horses grazing in the fields. The lawns looked lush and green, and she filled her chest with sweet damp air. Everything looked so normal, and she found herself wondering if the last few weeks had happened at all.

  They had managed almost a full circuit of the Hall when they came upon a crowd of servants gathered around a shape on the drive. Castlewaite turned as they approached, his copper eyepiece clicking like a shutter.

  “Ah suppose it’ll do,” he said. “If ye like that sort o’ thing.”

  She glanced at Christien. “Is that a steamcar?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You bought a steamcar?”

  “It beats waiting in those blasted queues for an airship ticket. You know how I hate to wait for things.”

  “’Ere!” hollered Cookie from a doorway. “Get t’ work, the lot o’ ye!”

  The crowd of servants, including Castlewaite, quickly drained away into the estate, leaving the two of them in the company of the steamcar. He turned and smiled at her.

  “Do you like it?”

  She marvelled once again at how fine he looked when he smiled. His lashes were envied by women everywhere, and his eyes were as blue as a French sky. Not an English one. No, that was more his brother. Sebastien had grey eyes. Or were they brown? She realized she hadn’t seen the Mad Lord for days and wondered if he was still in that sinister house called Seventh.

  “I have been thinking about it for some time,” Christien continued. “So when Rupert sent the telegram, I couldn’t stomach the thought of taking an airship then renting a coach for the drive to Lasingstoke, so I simply . . . bought a steamcar.”

  “Six wheels?”

  “Naturally,” he purred. “Four wheels are notoriously unstable. You see the bloody things tipped
all over the streets back home. It’s said that Edward has one with eight.”

  She looked back at the car.

  “Can we go for a drive?”

  “What? Now?”

  “Yes. Now. I’d love to go for a drive.”

  “Ivy?” He studied her for a long moment. “What on earth are you thinking?”

  “I need to go somewhere.”

  “You are incorrigible, you know that?”

  But he held open the door to help her up and onto the high tufted seat before moving around to the rear of the car.

  She watched as he slipped on goggles then a set of heavy leather gloves and raised the boot of the car. She watched him rummage around the firebox and pull out a block of coal. She sat a little higher, twisting in her seat to see the flash of a copper boiler as the coal disappeared into the furnace with the slap of a plate. He closed the boot and flashed her another smile before climbing up behind the driving levers. He passed her a set of goggles, and she remembered the sight of Franny, her blonde hair and goggles and wild scarf flapping in the wind.

  With a dramatic flourish, he held up a beautiful golden key, set it into the lock, rotated it three times, and punched a hex-key painted in green. It took but a moment for the engine to catch, and suddenly, the vehicle began puffing and chugging like a locomotive. She threw a nervous glance at her fiancé.

  “Just warming up,” he purred. And with a deft motion, he released the clutch, hauled off the brake lever, and the steamcar bounced forward, and forward again.

  Ivy yelped as the steamcar puffed and chugged, puffed and chugged down the drive that led away from Lasingstoke Hall.

  “THIS WAS A bad idea, Ivy.”

  They stood by the graves near the little church at Lasingstoke, having left the steamcar by the side of the road. It was called All Souls Christchapel and had served the estate and surrounding area for centuries. There was no minister, no parson or priest, as the de Lacey family had historically refused to incorporate English rites into their charter. According to Christien, marriages, christenings, or funerals were to be conducted by the resident baron in either Latin or French.