Cold Stone and Ivy

by H. Leighton Dickson

  “No, sir, I have not.”

  Crookes sighed now. “Jack, you have been terribly lax in this boy’s education. How could he possibly be voted in for Club membership when he has absolutely no understanding of who we are or what we do?”

  “He’s a de Lacey, Bookie. His pedigree speaks for itself.”

  “True enough. Look him up, boy. Elias Ashmole. He was a queer duck but brilliant. Ahem. To continue, the lockets were apparently constructed based on designs by the Danish alchemist, Tycho Brahe. Have you heard of him, boy? No? Oh dear me, dear me. They have names, you know, these lockets, although where the names come from is still a mystery.”

  “Names?”

  “Ghostlight, Arclight, and Lostlight, or the French equivalent. Yours was Ghostlight.”

  “Ghostlight . . .” Christien sat back, thinking.

  “At any rate, they were intended to be a channel for angelic forces to enter and exit our world, a sort of ‘ghost door’ to other worlds and planes of existence that we are only beginning to understand now. All my work in chemistry and physics springs from this fundamental hypothesis. You see, I firmly believe that solid matter is neither solid nor matter, but rather collections of particles moving at great speeds through the vacuum of space, and that we are little more than a conglomeration of universal forces held together every second of every day by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God . . .”

  He paused, eyes darting from Christien to Williams and back again. He looked down at his tea, sipped a moment before continuing.

  “Ahem. Needless to say, only Ghostlight is left and your father used it to hunt and dispatch ghosts.”

  Christien frowned. He did not know what to make of any of this, especially in light of the incident at Seventh.

  “Is that what Sebastien thinks he’s doing up North?”

  “Likely a form of it,” said Crookes. “Although without the locket, I’m not entirely sure what he’s able to accomplish.”

  Williams leaned forward. “And you said your father left you the locket, Remy?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Are you sure about that, boy?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “And how exactly did he leave it to you?”

  “He . . . I . . .” Christien blinked, blinked some more. “No. He didn’t. I found it in his room when I was twelve. How odd. I’d completely forgotten . . .”

  He cocked his head and sank back in the wicker chair, a furrow appearing between his brows. “After they died, Rupert and Cookie kept the room locked up. I’d never been allowed in, not ever, but Cookie would go in once a month to dust. One day, I slipped in behind her. She didn’t know I was there, and when she left, I spent the entire day going through my things . . .”

  “Your things?”

  “His things . . .” Christien struggled to recall as the memories rippled like water. “I found the locket in a chest of drawers. It had turned the inside solid gold. I’ve had it ever since.”

  “Did you start wearing it then, Remy?” asked Williams.

  “No, not then. I kept it, however. Went through several lead boxes to keep it contained.” He raised his brows. “You should see the wall of little gold boxes I have at Hollbrook. Worth more than the bloody house . . .”

  The two men glanced at each other. Williams cleared his throat.

  “When did you start wearing it?”

  “On and off for years but regularly last spring.”

  “March 1887? When you started with Bondie and me?”

  “Yes, sir. The dissections were trying on my nerves and for some reason, the abortions reminded me of my mother . . .”

  “Abortions?” asked Crookes, but Williams waved a hand, dismissively.

  “I always felt strong when I had the locket. I felt whole—no, no. Accompanied. Yes, that’s it. Like he was with me and I could do anything I put my mind to.”

  “And that’s when your headaches started, am I correct?”

  “Mm.” He nodded now but distractedly, in a world of his own.

  “It could be a form of atomical poisoning,” offered Crookes. “The parapsychical waves these elements give off are quite remarkable.”

  “No no, it’s working,” said Williams and he leaned forward now. “Do you hear anything, Remy? When the headaches come, do you hear voices?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “What do they say?”

  “I don’t remember . . .”

  Williams turned to his fellow.

  “It could be angels.”

  “Quite so. This the proof we’ve always wanted, Jackie. What the Club was founded to discover.”

  “Indeed. We all know it to be true, the existence of the spirit world, but to prove it using scientific methods—”

  “To consistently prove it, Jackie. To remove all skepticism and doubt.” Crookes leaned back in his chair. “These are trying times, Jackie. God is testing us. We will not let him down.”

  Christien looked up. “So is there a key, sirs, and if not, why have I not been able to open it?”

  The two men glanced at each other once again.

  “There is a key, Christien,” said Crookes.

  “And Bastien holds it, then?” said Christien. “I have never seen him with a key so small. Does he know how to use it? Would he?”

  “Your brother does not hold the key, my boy,” said Crookes, and he set his cup quietly down on a glass table. “Your brother is the key.”

  HE TURNED UP the gaslight only enough to see what he was doing, for what he was doing was best done in the shadow. The pistol was a fine musket-bore walnut and steel officer’s piece, with carved ivory laid in the grip. It had been his father’s weapon, commissioned by Albert’s favourite gunsmith, William Westley Richards. It had three barrels that rotated due to very delicate interlocking clockwork gears. It could fire three balls in sequence, although he rarely needed to use more than one. He was a crackerjack shot. It was a marvellous pistol.

  It had taken his father’s head off in one go.

  The dogs began to thump their tails, and he looked up. In a woollen smoking jacket, Rupert was silhouetted in the light from the doorway.

  “Hallo, Laury.”

  Sebastien turned his back and continued loading the pistol.

  “Hello, Uncle. Sorry to wake you.”

  “You didn’t and you’re not. How’s Old Vic?”

  “Terrifying.”

  “Good to know.” He could feel Rupert’s eyes on him, knew instinctively what the man was thinking. “Are three bullets enough to take down London’s Ripper?”

  “I don’t mean to be taking down London’s Ripper. Not tonight, at any rate.”

  “Oh God, Laury. How much are you planning on dropping then? I can spare you two thousand, no more.”

  “It depends.” He slipped the pistol in his belt and moved around the desk toward the wall with the clippings. “I may have to kill the wife too.”

  “Lovely. Wonderful. That’s very economical of you. Saves the estate a fair bit of money if you can do that for me.”

  Sebastien sighed. Now he did look up at the silhouette in the doorway. “Where is Christien staying?”

  “He’s gone, Laury. Left the same day he came.”

  “Why?”

  “Didn’t ask.”

  “And the boy, Davis?”

  “Right as rain. Doesn’t remember a bloody thing.”

  He nodded, pulled several clippings and a set of addresses from the wall and studied them. Milnethorpe. Thankfully not far. There were still so many names.

  “Right. I should be back by morning.”

  “Be careful, Laury. Be careful and be right.”

  “I will.” He turned back to the dogs and raised a finger. “Stay.”

  They lowered their heads onto the carpets; all wagging ceased.

  And he slipped past his uncle and out the door, in the direction of the stables.

  THE SISTERS HELMSLY-Wimpoll dropped her off and headed back to Over M
illing. It was very late, and she met no servants as she rushed up the stairs and into Davis’s room. There was a note saying he was at Fourth, taking tea with Lottie. He was obviously well enough to travel and she silently gave thanks to God and to Sebastien. Of the two, she didn’t know who was the most confounding.

  Her own room was cold, but she was colder, so she started a fire and curled up on a wingback chair. The Ghost Club was sitting on the arm as if waiting for her. It had been sheer chance that she had chosen this one. She could have just as likely pulled something on dog training or horsemanship or the history of the royals at Kensington.

  She opened the page.

  Be Born. Work. Die. Be Born.

  Herein is a recounting of the Charter Members of The Ghost Club 1862, a Gentlemen’s Society dedicated to the serious and impartial investigation, study, and discussion of subjects not fully understood or yet accepted by science, especially psychical and parapsychical phenomenon. All members are such until they are disbarred. Death of any member is no requisite for removal from list, and therefore all will continue being recounted on roster along with their living compatriots. If they do not put in an appearance by November 2 of each year, they will be listed as inactive.

  Honourable mention to Francis Albert Augustus Charles Emannuel, Prince Consort of the United Kingdom, founder and departed member, 1861

  Albert Edward of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, Prince of Wales

  Benson, E.W.; Archbishop of Canterbury, Kent

  Balfour, A.; First Earl of Balfour

  Barrett, W.; FRS, FRSE, FRDS

  Crookes, W.; OM, FRS

  de Lacey, R.; Sixth Baron of Lasingstoke

  Dickens, C.; Author and Humanitarian

  Eastwicke, E.; Earl of Dunwarden

  Frankow, A.; MMBS, FRCS, MRCP

  Gordon, A.; Hon. Lieutenant-Governor of New Brunswick

  And the list went on and on. She found herself looking for and finding Williams, J.; MRCS MB MD, just as Sebastien had said, and for some reason, it filled her with dread.

  He was a member of the Ghost Club, you know. A ghost hunter. Drove him mad.

  What in the world was a ghost hunter? And how would such a profession drive one mad? She pressed on.

  It was like a census, she realized, a book of names and dates and occupations. Some of the names were familiar, belonging to politicians, aristocrats, and highly ranked clergymen, and two chapters alone were devoted to the roster of membership, living and dead. The next several chapters included case studies of hauntings in churches, castles, halls, museums, pubs, inns, and even a royal residence.

  Mediums, spiritualists, Egyptian magic, second sight, poltergeists. She read these terms with growing alarm. What had caused Davis’s strange injuries? Her brother had no recollection of even entering Seventh, so he had no idea as to what or who had been his attacker. And why was Seventh a forbidden house? What was hiding in there that should cause such horrors?

  What had Frankow done to him?

  She remembered the cold, the ice, the phrases in Latin. She remembered the face of her brother, how Rupert had carried him like a dead man, how Sebastien had shown up with the same injuries the very morning her brother’s had vanished. Not Seventh, Lottie had said. Never Seventh.

  What in the world was going on at Seventh?

  She closed up the book and stared out the window. It was growing dark but she knew the roads well enough now. She rose to her feet, stepped out of her skirts and into the breeches Sebastien had bought for her. They fit like a glove and she marvelled at the freedom that they allowed. She pulled her new boots up to her knees, carefully tied the laces. Tucked her dark hair under the bowler, threw on her brother’s woollen peacoat, and dashed down the stair toward the stables.

  She found tack and carried it out to the pasture. Rue, the bay mare, let out a nicker as Ivy tacked her up in the last of the evening’s light. The other horses watched as she led the mare out of the paddock, slipped her foot in the stirrup, and in a heartbeat she was up. It was a strange sensation, breeches, and she felt remarkably free and unfettered.

  Somehow, she knew the sisters Helsmly-Wimpoll would approve.

  There was only a crescent moon now, and it seemed odd that she had barely been here a fortnight. She couldn’t remember much of her old life in London. But then again, her life had mostly been her mother, and with her mother gone, there was simply nothing to fill the gap. Her old life had been one of duty and responsibility and mundane chores. She did not know whom she would have been if life had gone differently and Tobias had lived.

  The Penny Dreadful serials were her life; she realized this too, the life she wished she had. Penny was bright, clever, and independent. Ivy was bright, clever, but alas, in the real world, independence for a woman was not a thing freely given nor easily won.

  She needed to fight for it.

  She wheeled the mare down the drive, away from the Hall but toward the chapel and the house called Seventh. Neither was visible from the road, but she had passed them so many times on the way to Over Milling, Lonsdale, and Lancaster. And of course, there had been that night. That night would be etched in her memory forever.

  It was very dark, but she had never been afraid of the dark. It was night, but she had never been afraid of the night. In fact, she had never been afraid of anything at all. She was the daughter of a crimes investigator, she told herself as she rode. She sat at the feet of men who put their lives on the line every day and every night. From their tales, it wasn’t the dark to be feared, or the night, but the men and women who inhabited it, used it like a cloak to cover their nefarious deeds. Someone had tried to kill her brother and somehow, Sebastien had known. She could never rest knowing that there was a real life mystery living—or dying— right here at Seventh.

  When she reached the northwest corner of the estate, she dismounted and led the mare off the road toward the church. She could see the graveyard stones and statues but little else other than trees blowing in the wind. When she reached the steps, she stood for a moment, patting the horse’s long nose and steadying her racing heart. With a deep breath, she headed up, pulled the door open, and stepped inside.

  It was as dark as a tomb, but suddenly there was a glow all around her like a halo in a Renaissance painting.

  At the first button of her waistcoat, the locket was glowing.

  Science, spiritualism, and alchemy, Christien had said. It certainly seemed to be living up to its reputation.

  It was deadly quiet as she moved slowly along the pews. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was doing, but she felt sure there would be clues somewhere in this little church. She saw the glint of moonlight in the presbytery, spied a large brass candelabrum on the step. She headed toward it but paused as something crunched under her boot.

  She glanced down. To her relief, she saw matches, along with broken glass and something that looked like chalk. She scooped the matches, lit the candelabrum, and instantly, the chapel glowed with gleaming wood. She dropped her eyes to the floor. Sebastien’s large, black-rimmed spectacles lay broken under her very fine boot. She bent to pick them up, slipped them into her waistcoat. There was chalk and candle wax and something else smeared across the stone. Once again, she had the distinct impression it was not mud.

  She turned the candelabrum in a wide arc, feeling her chest tighten at the sight. Strange symbols, some written in chalk, others in what she knew to be blood, on the walls, pews, windows, and floor.

  The thin glow of light from the locket was pulsing now, like a heartbeat.

  Yes, very much like a heartbeat, and she remembered the words of Fanny in the Lancaster Mews.

  He killed her with a hunting knife, cut out her heart and her womb.

  Slowly, the odd rings on the locket began to spin. Very slowly at first, around the glass ball in the centre, and she could see the occasional spark thrown off from their orbit. She had never wound the thing, had never used a key to keep the tiny gears moving. It was as if they worked of their own acco
rd.

  They saw their mother in a bloody bed, her heart in their father’s hand.

  She began to shake. She had to leave, that was all she knew. She had to leave this godforsaken place. She blew out the candles and headed once again through the pews in near darkness. She pushed open the door, breathed in the cold night air, grateful that the mare was still there and very much alive.

  He was a member of the Ghost Club, you know. A ghost hunter. Drove him mad.

  As all light and movement from the locket died away, she tucked it into her waistcoat and leaned on the door of the church, waiting for her own heartbeat to return to normal. She feared it never would.

  Rue made a rumbling noise and Ivy looked up. Far off on the road, heading away from the Hall toward Over Milling, was a grey horse and rider, and she knew without a doubt that the Mad Lord of Lasingstoke was back.

  She waited until he was quite a long way off before mounting up the little bay mare and following.

  “OH, BUGGER,” GROANED Penny as she waited in the dark. Her trap had been set for hours and still, not a trace of von Freud, Durand, or Dunn, her three suspects. Her horse, Marlborough, nickered softly, and she stroked his long nose. “Just a little longer, Marley, I’m sure of it.”

  And when she felt herself about to nod off, she spied a masked man riding toward the Castle on a steel-grey horse. She couldn’t see much, nor make out whether he was entirely human, so she slipped from the shadows cast by the wall to follow.

  Chapter 21

  Of Trained Horses, Screwsmanship,

  and a Disconcerting Situation

  THE ROAD WAS dirt for the majority of the ride and he was grateful. Cobbles and stone were hard on a horse’s feet, even with iron shoes. Dirt and grass were far more forgiving.

  It was after ten and the streets were, for the most part, dark but street lamps burned at intersections and along high-end avenues. Where Sebastien was going was affluent. There was money in Milnethorpe now.

  Up until recently, the town of Milnethorpe had been precisely that—a town. But in the last decade since the explosion in demand for steamcars, factories had sprung up like mushrooms on a decaying tree trunk. In the moonlight, he could see smoke from the stacks that skirted the town and lights from factories that never slept. Shifts worked round the clock to make the cogs and gears for the car companies. Both Imperial Steam and Bentley United had plants here.