Cold Stone and Ivy

by H. Leighton Dickson

  Around Ivy’s neck, the locket was spinning, and bit by bit, snowflakes were being replaced by sparks.

  Sebastien had grown very still now, and the cold began to crackle in the sitting room.

  “Easterton Frederick Crumb?”

  “Answer me question, mate. Or I’ll pop ya between yer eyes. You first, then yer missus.”

  “I have a message for you from Clarissa Agatha Polkey and Sarah Ann Polkey.”

  His left hand moved slowly, dangling the pearls and cameo from his fingers.

  Mrs. Crumb let out a wail. Mr. Crumb’s face crunched up in fury. “You got no right being in my ’ouse. You got no right goin’ through my gear.” He wagged his piece. “Drop ’em and get out now, or I’ll pop you, I swear!”

  “Ivy,” said Sebastien in a very low voice. “Look away now.”

  Unfortunately, she was unable to comply. The locket had begun spinning in the opposite direction.

  The room had grown desperately cold, and Ivy watched Sebastien slowly throw a look over his shoulder. And just as slowly, he looked back at the man, holding the pistol.

  “You are forgiven and the Crown has been served. May God have mercy on your soul.”

  And in one swift motion, he swung his right arm up and pistol fire shattered the frost like ice on a lake. It had happened so quickly, and Ivy ducked instinctively, almost deafened by the blast, but she could have sworn there had been two shots not one. There was the sound of iron clattering to the floor and Celia Crumb began to scream.

  Hands over her ears, Ivy looked up. There was a very large, elaborate pistol in de Lacey’s outstretched hand, smoke curling from it like a serpent. Standing in the eerie gaslight of the foyer, Crumb wavered a bit as he stood, a small dark hole in the centre of his forehead. He wavered some more and crumpled to the planks.

  Ivy could not breathe. She could not move. She could not think.

  “Murder!” cried Celia.

  The gears rotated the chamber and the pistol angled several degrees towards her.

  “Hush, woman. You may yet live to see the morning.”

  Her cries faded to whimpers and she dropped to her knees.

  “Sebastien, what are you doing?” Ivy whispered. It was as if she had no voice, as if it had frozen inside like her blood.

  “I said, look away.” He was fixated on the woman. “What is your involvement in the murder of your mother and your sister?”

  “I don’t know nothing about that! I don’t know nothing of what he does, my Eastie. He’s a hard man. He has wants. He has needs. I’m just his woman, and he does what he pleases! Don’t kill me, good sir! Please don’t kill me.”

  He looked over his shoulder again.

  He sees things no one else sees. He hears things no one else hears.

  There was nothing over his shoulder. There was no one else in the room.

  A splitting of the mind.

  He looked back to Celia Crumb, his expression as dead as her late husband.

  Whom he had just murdered.

  The Mad Lord de Lacey.

  And the locket was spinning merrily.

  “Sebastien, stop.”

  “Celia Bess Polkey Crumb?”

  The woman wailed loudly, shrank back into the stairs.

  “Sebastien, no.”

  “You are forgiven and the Crown is served. May God have mercy on your so—”

  “No!” And Ivy leapt forward, grabbing the pistol as it fired, and Celia screamed once again. A sudden wind picked up, throwing ice around the room like daggers. There was a sound as well—the wail of a hundred voices—and Ivy clapped her hands over her ears once again. The wind was whipping her hair and clothing, buffeting them all as if in a storm, and arcs of electricity leapt from the locket to every metallic surface in the room. Celia saw her chance and bolted across the slick floor for the door.

  “Damnation, Ivy!” Sebastien shouted over the gale. “You’ve left me with only one shot!”

  Hair and coat whipping around him, he scrambled after her and out into the night with Ivy at his heels. Celia was already onto the street with her screams of “Murder” and waving at a set of approaching headlights. It was a steamcab, ferrying drunken passengers to their homes on affluent Pinchon Street.

  “Don’t shoot her,” Ivy begged, her voice raised to be heard over the wailing of the winds. “Please, Sebastien. Please, don’t shoot her!”

  He stared at her for a long moment, the locket flashing eerie lights across his face, before he raised the pistol and took aim across the street.

  He pulled the trigger.

  There was the roar of the pistol, the pop of a tire, and squeal of brakes as the cab began to fishtail over the cobbled road. Celia had time to shriek one last time before the cab struck her and the impact sent her tumbling onto the stone. Screams could be heard from within when, like a leaf on the wind, the steamcab flipped over onto its side and continued down the road before slowing spinning to a halt.

  Four wheels, thought Ivy with a strange detached sort of thought. Much more tippy than six.

  The gale within the house died as suddenly as it had come and Sebastien released a deep breath, lowered the pistol to his side. He stood as still as stone, face pale in the gaslight, watching it all from the steps.

  For its part, the locket lay silent now, a simple adornment around her neck.

  Ivy stared at him. He was mad, that much was certain. He was a murderer, and that was a surprise. She was a good girl, the daughter of a crimes investigator with the Metropolitan Police. She knew she should run back to the coffeehouse, grab the mare, and flee now, before he had the mind to kill her. She knew she should take her mother from Lonsdale and return to Christien and some semblance of normal life in London. She knew she should turn the Mad Lord in and leave him to his fate. She was certain it would be far worse than Lonsdale Abbey.

  But he hadn’t shot the woman, she realized. He hadn’t shot her.

  People began to pour out of the cab, shouting and wailing and running to the side of the downed Celia Crumb.

  Against everything good and sensible and normal and respectable, Ivy grabbed his hand and ran.

  THEY RAN FOR what seemed like hours but Ivy knew it was only a matter of minutes before the sound of a siren pierced the night sky. Then she slowed, reckoning that a couple walking from the scene of a murder might look less suspicious than a couple fleeing. Sebastien was unresponsive but, like her dear mother, he slowed when she pulled him back and walked beside her. She was certain that at this moment, his eyes saw nothing.

  The police vehicle, a squat wide six-wheeler, barrelled along Dorchester, its steam engine straining the need for ballast against the need for speed. She watched it pass, watched the red-tinted lanterns swing off into the distance. They were nearing the coffeeshop and she could make out patrons milling outside the door, talking and speculating about the mayhem down the street.

  Gus nickered at their approach and left his post. Ivy marvelled that the horse hadn’t been tied. He had stayed where he had been all night. Her own mare looked over at them but, being tied, could not move.

  “You shouldn’t tie her,” said Sebastien, his first words since the house. His eyes were glassy still and of indeterminate colour. “She’s well-trained, and she’ll come when you whistle in case you need to make a getaway of it.”

  “Please don’t say anything,” she whispered, gathering her mare’s reins from the post. “We need to look as if we’re just leaving the coffeehouse and returning to our neat little rowhouse by the factory.”

  “I would never live in a neat little rowhouse by a factory.”

  “You, sir, are a madman and a murderer,” she hissed under her breath.

  “Louder please. I don’t think they heard you back in Milling.”

  In fact, no one was paying them any mind. A second police car had barrelled down the street, its six wheels gripping the cobbles like rails. She stared at him in the light of the coffeehouse lamps before slipping a boot in the iro
n and mounting up.

  He leaned onto the shoulder of her mare. “If you could, remember to take a left at Dairy Castle Road, not a right.”

  “Lasingstoke is right.”

  “We’re not going to Lasingstoke. Not tonight.”

  “Oh? And where are we going then? Do you have some else in mind to murder?”

  He smiled at her, and she marvelled at how swiftly and easily he moved from killer to country lord. Christien had been utterly right in his assessment.

  “Many, actually. But not tonight. You see, I’ve been shot, and I don’t think I’ll make it to Lasingstoke. Lonsdale is only an hour’s ride north, and right now, Frankow’s infirmary promises the best chance of surviving the night. Besides, you could visit your mother, see what the good doctor has in mind for her, and if I do happen to live, then I could see if there is anything I can do for her myself. After that, you are completely free to go wherever your high-strung nature dictates.”

  He nudged her knee.

  “So, Miss Savage? Does that sound reasonable? Ivy?”

  She blinked several times at him. Truth be told, she hadn’t heard a word since “I’ve been shot.”

  “Yes, of course. Left.” She nodded woodenly, suddenly feeling as cold as Crumb’s sitting room. Sebastien mounted his horse.

  “We’re just leaving,” he announced to the group of patrons. “Returning to our neat little rowhouse by the factory.”

  Patrons stared at them now as together they pulled the rein and the horses moved out onto the street.

  IT WAS ALMOST dawn before she saw the wrought-iron gate and familiar geared archway. What Sebastien had described as “an hour’s ride north” took the better part of the night, as the Mad Lord began to fade and his horse had adjusted its pace accordingly. His cravat had grown dark as the night wore on and she found herself talking, singing, and telling stories in effort to keep him awake.

  At last, the hex-nut keyed plate gleamed in the early morning light and she slipped from her mare to stand beside it. Up close, she could see a wide key beneath it all, and several buttons above. She pressed the wide key with a click.

  “Enter code,” said a grinding mechanical voice.

  “I don’t know the code,” she spoke into it. “Please, I need help.”

  “Unknown response. Enter code.”

  “What’s the code, Sebastien?” she called up, loudly now so he could hear.

  His eyes were closed.

  “Sebastien? I need the code? Do you know the code?”

  “Yes,” he murmured.

  “Please, Sebastien, tell me the code.”

  “Mm. It has sevens in it.”

  She glanced through the iron, could see the Abbey far, far up the drive. It could be an ocean away if they couldn’t get through the gate. She pressed the wide key again.

  “Enter code.”

  “Can you hear me? Is there anyone there?”

  “Naturally there is someone here,” droned the voice. “You are speaking with someone.”

  “Please, sir. I have Sebastien de Lacey here. He is injured and needs to see Dr. Frankow.”

  “Welcome, Sebastien de Lacey. Please enter de Lacey code.”

  “I don’t know his code. We need help! Please!”

  “Unknown response. Enter code.”

  She growled and slammed both fists into the keys.

  “Unknown response. Initiating intruder protocols.”

  Lights flared suddenly along the posts and the iron fence shuddered. With the hum of what sounded like a thousand bees, wide spikes began to emerge from its capstones and in the distance she could hear the wailing of an alarm.

  “Ivy, I don’t feel well.”

  He began to dismount his horse. It was more a controlled fall than a dismount and she caught him before he hit the ground. He was heavier than she could manage, however, and she was forced to lower him to the grass beside the wall. She could feel the blood now, wetting his shirt and staining his waistcoat red.

  “No!” she growled. “No, I need the code! Sebastien, what is the code?”

  “Hmm.” He smiled at her, eyes still closed. “That’s a special code, the one for me. Mumford made it up. Something about sevens.”

  And then he was still.

  She sat back, cold and numb but undefeated. She was the daughter of a crimes investigator and a writer of crackerjack mysteries. She had survived all manner of strangeness since coming to Lasingstoke. Surely a little datamancery was not beyond her. Something about sevens. Seventh House. Seventh Lord. She took a deep breath, pushed herself to her feet and stepped to the panel.

  She punched seven once. Twice. Thrice. Seven times she punched the number seven.

  The lights above the panel turned green.

  “Welcome home, Sebastien de Lacey,” droned the mechanical voice, and suddenly the gears above the gate whirred and groaned and the iron began to swing open. It was impossible to move him, however, and so she sat with him on the grass as the first rays of dawn broke over Wharcombe Bay.

  The Milnethorpe Press

  Mayhem in the Streets

  One unfortunate Milnethorpe family has once again been struck with tragedy. Only weeks after the shocking and untimely deaths of Clarissa Agatha Polkey and Sarah Ann Polkey of 1011-A Pinchon Street, Mrs. Celia Bess Crumb nee Polkey was killed in an unfortunate steamcab accident late last night. Several passengers of Roach’s Steamcab (license 33752) were injured and sent to Saint Margaret of the High Street Infirmary and released. The ensuing investigation revealed yet another shocker—the murder of Crumb’s husband Easterton Frederick Crumb in the family home. The sitting room was disassembled and several planks in the floor removed, revealing a stash of jewels, notes, and bonds from several suspicious deaths in the county. Police Constable Terrence Tartworthy believes that, at some point during the evening, Celia Crumb discovered the stash and confronted her husband. A scuffle apparently occurred, during which the villain Crumb was shot cleanly between the eyes. “A crackerjack shot,” said Tartworthy, and he confirmed that Celia had been well-known for her marksmanship with pots, pans, and other kitchen sundries.

  Passengers of the steamcab report hearing the sound of a tire blowing, once again raising the issue of the safety of four-wheeled steamcars as opposed to six. Roach’s Steamcab Company has declined to comment.

  Police are continuing to investigate.

  Chapter 23

  Of Metal Works, Morgues,

  and the Peculiar Tale of a Skull

  “WOULD YOU LIKE tea, miss?”

  Arms wrapped around her ribs, Ivy swung around to the doorway. There was a nurse standing there, her winged cap looking stark in the gaslight.

  “No, thank you.”

  The woman disappeared and Ivy resumed her pacing. She was outside an operating theatre, and it was very different from the rest of Lonsdale. Whereas the Abbey proper was either dark and gothic or brightly coloured and surreal, this ward of the sanitarium was—simply put—terrifying.

  They had wheeled a gurney carrying Sebastien de Lacey down a spiralling ramp deep underground. As they went down and further down, they seemed to leave all colour behind to enter a world made entirely of metal. Doors were not the “open and shut” variety but rather great wide panels that slid on tracks, or double panels that swung in and out, or heavy reinforced iron doors that were moved by massive gears. Almost all the ceilings were low, with pipes that ran the length of the subterranean construct. Floors were grated and they clanked underfoot. She could imagine worms, rats, and madmen living beneath her boots.

  Frankow himself had appeared down the ramp. There were wheels clipped to the mechanisms that served as his feet and he sent her a sombre look before rolling into the theatre. For a brief moment, she could see inside. It was gruesome, with drills, saws, drips, and all manner of macabre devices suspended from coils on the ceiling. In the centre of the room was Sebastien, unmoving under a stained white sheet. Blood was dripping into a pan beneath him. But then the doors had cl
osed and she had been relieved of the sight.

  The room outside was cool, smelled of ammonium and rust. There were no chairs, so she stood, arms wrapped around her waistcoat, waiting for hour after hour after hour.

  She could not even think, so strange her life had become in only a matter of weeks. She had lived more strangely in these past weeks than in all her life, but she had lived. She had driven with wild women in steamcars. She had dined with royals and their airships. She had been witness to murder and mayhem and mysteries that defied explanation. She realized that the moment he had shot the tire and not the woman, she was hooked like a trout, somehow affixed to the life of Sebastien Laurent St. John de Lacey, the Mad Lord of Lasingstoke.

  She had lived more in these past weeks than she had lived in her entire life.

  Sometime later, Dr. Frankow emerged from surgery, his smock spotted with blood. He motioned for her to follow, and together they moved up the long winding spiral ramp toward the daylight.

  SHE SIPPED HER tea, grateful for the small pleasure. Here at a sanitarium north of nowhere, the china was beautiful and the tea surprisingly good.

  She was standing now at the large windows of his office and she could see how in daylight, each individual pane turned and angled to catch and reflect the sun. The panes hummed and she felt the heat radiating off them; she could see tiny connector wires running from them to grids likely hidden somewhere deep within the Abbey. He had said that the sun powered much of Lonsdale. She could believe it now.

  Frankow had seated himself at a large chair by the fire. He had changed out of his operating smock into a neat suit of pinstripe grey. His reticulating spectacles sat idle on his forehead, and if she didn’t look at his legs, he looked almost normal.

  “You have questions,” he said.

  She turned now, placed the cup in the saucer, and set both on his desk. She was still in her breeches and waistcoat, and she realized it made her feel strong in many ways. Curious. She wondered if the suffragettes had thought of this.