“Oh my . . .” Ivy whispered.
Now the levitating man began to spin, slowly making circles with his body in midair. Once, twice, three times he circled before slowly, ever so slowly, he began to descend. Tidy fussed over him and tucked him back into his chair.
Together, man and nurse turned and wheeled out of sight.
“Mr. Home is doing much better now,” said Frankow.
It was remarkable the things she was simply taking in stride.
There was the rattle of another chair and Ivy’s breath caught in her throat. Her mother was being wheeled across the lawn, and Frankow waved them over. Ivy waited, wringing her hands like damp dishcloths, until the chair came to a complete stop.
“Hello, Mum. It’s me, Ivy.”
There was no response. She bent down and hugged her, fighting back the rush of tears. She kissed her cheek and took her hands.
“She’s looking well,” she said softly. “Her colour is good. And she looks to have put on some weight.”
“Three pounds, miss,” said the nurse. “She’s eating well, sleeping well. She sits outside most days, even the rainy ones.”
She nodded, squeezed her mother’s hands.
“Have you . . . tried . . . anything on her, Doctor? Any of your scientific techniques, I mean?”
“Do you mean to ask if I am experimenting on her, Miss Savage?”
“No! Yes . . . Maybe. I don’t know, sir.”
“Not to worry. I understand completely.” He inclined his head. “We have tried two things since she has been here. The first is the Baths.”
“The Baths?”
“It is essentially a soundproof tank of salt water. There is no light, there is no scent, there is no sound. The water is warmed up to exactly the temperature of the human body and the salt content makes it dense enough to float without exertion. It is most relaxing.”
“And what do you do in the Baths?”
“Well, there is nothing to do in the Baths, but ‘Be.’ The mind is freed from all external stimuli and therefore opened to explore its own mental acuity and spiritual pathways.”
She swallowed, remembering Franny Helmsly-Wimpoll and her Hypersensory Mental Acuity, Spiritualism, and Communion with the Realm of Departed Souls.
“And the other?”
“Just like Sebastien. Small electrical charges into her cerebellum.”
She should have been outraged. She should have been shocked.
“I see,” was all she could say.
Yes, quite remarkable the things she was taking in stride.
“As I said earlier, there is little I may be able to do.”
She sighed, nodded, squeezed her mother’s hands again. “Thank you for doing this. For trying.”
“Not at all, child.”
And they continued their walk along the grounds of Lonsdale Abbey, Ivy pushing her mother in the wheeled chair, fighting back the tears and being both the happiest and the saddest she’d ever been in her life.
THERE WERE AT least thirty bodies in the morgue of the Royal Hospital, all wrapped in tarp. The mortician had gone home for the night and the room was cold and dark and smelled of formaldehyde. Christien didn’t care. He was certain his heart was colder, his mood darker, and he felt as dead as those on the slabs.
He moved over to a table where a body lay shrouded in black. He didn’t need to check her tag. He himself had wrapped her.
“I’m sorry, Annie,” he said quietly, and he looked down at the ring. It was turning his finger a sickly purple, the skin around the ring puckering and tight. “I know it’s yours but it’s stuck. I’ve tried everything. It won’t come off.”
He could make out the outline of her face, the bump of her nose, the hollow of her eyes.
“Marie Kelly has one too, just so you know, and Albert Victor. What a strange trio to have your rings.” He sighed, turned to lean against the table. “Did you love him? I doubt it. Eddy’s not terribly lovable, is he? I do hope you loved someone, and that someone loved you. This is a lonely place to end up.”
It was raining outside and he could hear dripping from the ceiling pipes on the floor. Water was not good for cadavers, he thought. The hospital needed to invest in a better room, but then again, he doubted anyone complained overmuch.
“Do No Harm, says the oath.” He sighed. “But that’s not the same as doing good. I don’t know where to draw the line anymore. I have to talk to Williams. I know he’s trying to help you girls, but all this has gone terribly wrong. It seemed clear at the time. All about the research, he said, but it’s grown far too complicated, and I think he’s covering for someone. If I talk to Trevis or Bondie, they’ll investigate and we’ll all get the sack. All my schooling gone, because of you, Annie. You and your three damned rings.”
He could see a rat moving in the shadows. Terrible, the state of things.
“But if I don’t say anything, then I know this ring is going to get tighter and tighter and I’ll lose my finger and my career will be damned anyway. Then how will I take care of Ivy or anybody else? It’s an ethical conundrum.”
There was only the sound of the dripping from the pipes, the hissing of the gaslight. It was almost peaceful down here in the morgue, and he looked at her again.
“Is your spirit alive somewhere? Up north maybe? Is that what Bastien sees? Can he really? I can’t believe it. I just can’t. It’s impossible. And yet . . .”
He sighed.
“And yet, here I am, sitting in a bloody tomb, talking to a dead woman and a rat. I never thought I’d do such a thing. Wouldn’t the Ghost Club be pleased?”
And he sat like that for some time, with only the rat and the body of Dark Annie Chapman for company.
SOMEONE HAD BEEN singing.
Strange tunes, sure enough, and in another language, but it was singing nonetheless. He didn’t think it was his mother. His mother used to sing all the time, in the nursery, in the hallways, in the gardens. He didn’t remember much of her, but he did remember singing.
He opened his eyes to the ghoulish green lights of the infirmary and the sight of Otto hovering over him with his tarnished faceplate. He saw a series of lights flash, knew that outside the door Carl was being notified of his waking, knew that very soon Frankow would be down to see him and that all would be well.
His mouth was sharp, and he realized that there was a respirator covering the lower half of his face. He reached up, removed it, and inhaled deeply the damp, rusty smell of the infirmary. A sudden stabbing pain at the simple act of breathing and he remembered the fact that sometime, at some point last night, he had been shot.
She had done it. She had got him here and he had lived. That was a bit of a surprise. He hadn’t expected to live. Truth be told, he hadn’t expected to be shot either. Life had a way of throwing things at him. There was always something different around the corner. He would miss her, though, for she would have disappeared the moment she’d dropped him off at the gates of the Abbey. She had looked sweet in her breeches and bowler.
Otto spun along the track and stopped at his left side. Calipers extended from the metallic body, and a set of hoses lowered from the ceiling. The calipers caught the hoses, attached them to suction pads already placed over his heart, at his throat, on his forehead and wrist. He sighed, waiting for Otto to do his work, and let his eyes wander around the recovery room, as familiar to him as the stables of Lasingstoke.
He spied the metallic brace holding his right arm in place, the bandages brown with dried blood. He flexed his fingers, relieved to find everything in working order. Bertie would love a friend with a prosthetic arm. If he ever took up smoking, the flint could come in handy.
And at the foot of the bed, Mumford.
He smiled.
A yellow light flashed over the doors, and they began to swing inward. He could hear the whirring of Frankow’s wheels, and he waited for the bearded face to appear. It did, the great spectacles causing his eyes to warp and bend with the lenses. He was worrie
d, Sebastien could tell, but he masked it well with an arched brow and a patronizing smile.
“Ah. You have finally decided to see what it is like being dead.”
“I keep trying.” His voice was hoarse. “It never takes.”
The doctor grunted and moved to the side, checking the numbers that were now scrolling from the slit in Otto’s mouth like a very long tongue. “Hmm. It appears you are quite fine.”
He raised the brace slightly. “Bertie will be disappointed if I don’t keep this.”
“I can arrange to surgically remove your arm whenever you feel the need.”
“Thank you. I shall think on that.” He moved to sit up, groaned, sank back into the pillows. “Too soon, yes?”
“Your brilliance is a constant amazement,” muttered Frankow as he read the papers, and for the first time since his awakening, Sebastien realized there was someone else in the room.
“Miss Savage . . .”
She slipped out of the shadows toward the bed, the locket radiating softly as it nestled between her breasts.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
He shot a glance up at Frankow, who was ignoring them both.
“I don’t like the infirmary.”
She smiled.
Frankow’s large eyes flicked up from the scroll.
“Well,” he said. “Since you are invariably recovering from this disastrous injury, I shall leave you now. I have other patients to attend. Ones that have not inflicted grievous bodily harm upon themselves.” He nodded. “Sebastien, Miss Savage . . .”
And with that, Arvin Frankow rolled out of the infirmary, leaving the pair with Otto, Mumford, and the green gaslight.
The locket was calling him, but he could barely look. He felt his breathing quicken as she moved over to the bed.
She reached down, picked Mumford up in both hands. “Your mother made this?”
He swallowed. “Before I was born. She wasn’t much of a knitter.”
“He’s charming.” She looked at him, and he realized immediately that he had never felt so exposed. She moved over to lean against the bed, and he saw that not only was she wearing the locket, but the breeches, blouse, and oddly enough, a red leather corset. Her hair was down and loose, rare for women, and he thought he had never seen one look so very good.
“Frankow says he speaks Latin.”
“Yes. But he won’t speak when you’re here. Only to me.”
“I see. He’s a shy woollen.”
He reached out with his good hand and snatched Mumford out of hers, tucking him under his arm.
She smiled at him.
“Why are you still here?” he asked, trying desperately not to look at her.
“I was concerned. I wanted to make sure you were going to be fine.” She shrugged, pushed her hip up onto the bed frame. “Also, I saw my mother and then found this amazing corset in the Wardrobe room upstairs. I’ve never worn a corset like this—look. It cinches at the waist by these little tiny gears. Isn’t it scandalous? Hmm, what else? Oh yes, I saw a man levitating on the lawns, got called the Virgin Mary by an undying Russian. You know, usual fare for a sanitarium, I suppose.”
“Well, I am indeed fine, as is your mother. So you can leave now, your conscience clear.”
“But I don’t wish to leave, Sebastien. After all, you promised to see what you could do for my mother if you lived, and apparently, you did.”
Finally, she noticed his attentions to the pendant around her neck. It was spinning only slightly. She smiled, reaching for it with her fingers.
“Christien said it had been in your family for years.”
“Periculosum est,” he said aloud and nodded at Mumford. “I know.”
“What is he saying?”
“He is saying you should leave.”
Suddenly, she was touching his face.
“Grey,” she said with a smile. “Today, at least, your eyes are grey.”
He did not know what to say to that.
“And these . . . They’re almost healed,” she said now, running her fingers along the scratches from last week. “Thank you for doing this, whatever it was that you did. You saved his life.”
“And you saved mine last night. I believe that makes us even. So leave.”
She smiled again. Curse her and that damned smile.
“I have no pressing engagements, and you are fascinating company. I’ve never followed in the footsteps of a murderer before.”
And to his complete and utter surprise, she leaned down and kissed him on the cheek.
She rose from the bed and moved away, turning back only once.
“Get up soon, will you? I wish to explore the lands around Wharcombe Bay and can think of no better way than on horseback.”
And she left the room, its double doors swinging outward to let her through.
As for the Mad Lord, he pulled a pillow over his head and waited for the heartbeat of her to leave the room.
“ALEXANDER DUNN,” SAID Penny. “He is an international jewel thief and rogue. He has stolen the Clockwork Heart, but I suspect he has already left the country.”
“Damnation, Penny,” groaned her father, Charles Dreadful. “This is a disastrous end to the affair. Regina Imperiatrix will not be amused.”
“And what about the key?” asked Claryss, her dearest friend. “How did Alexander steal the key?”
Penny hesitated. “Perhaps this is a mystery that will never be solved.”
And for the first time in all her years as a Girl Criminologist, Penny Dreadful and her boys in blue did not have an arrest on their hands.
Later, days after they had returned to London, Penny slipped into her papered room to retire for the night. She had just attended a swank soiree for the Belgian Ambassador and was happy on the finest champagnes imaginable. A man stepped out of the shadows.
“Thank you,” said Alexander Dunn/Alexandre Gavriel St. Jacques Lord Durand. “For not revealing my identity.”
Penny raised an eyebrow. “Do not think, sir, that my good will extends beyond the Affair of the Clockwork Heart. It was, after all, yours.”
“Indeed.” He stepped closer. “It is difficult to steal a heart.”
She stepped closer. “So I’ve been told.”
“And thank you also, for not incriminating Dr. von Freud.”
Closer.
“He is like a father to you, I suspect,” she said, stepping even closer herself.
“He gave me the key.” Now almost upon her. “I simply returned it when I was done.”
“And that was your mistake.” She could feel the warmth from his body, looked up into his eyes. “It seems perhaps you do have a heart, after all . . .”
He leaned in closer, his lips only a kiss away. “Perhaps I do . . .”
Penny held her breath. Her own heart was pounding like a fist on a door.
“Penny! Penny, are you in there?”
It was Julian Terrence Hull, Penny’s fiancé, a-knocking on her door.
And suddenly, Alexander Dunn/Alexandre Gavriel St. Jacques Lord Durand was gone, along with most of her breath.
And apparently, her pearl necklace as well.
The End of “Penny Dreadful and the Ghost of Lancashire.”
Chapter 25
Of Red Ink, Killing of Two Birds,
and a Letter from Jack
THE STEAMCAB PULLED up in front of the long white row of houses. Christien paid his fare and trudged up the steps to Hollbrook, exhausted, cold, and, after a night spent talking to dead women in the morgue, damnably sad.
“Hallo Remy,” called the voice from next door. “You’re looking tired, my boy! That Ripper fellow giving you more headaches?”
Christien sighed. It was Jekyll, and like before, he was standing in his dressing gown, holding the paper in one hand, a pipe in the other. Christien could barely manage a smile. Civility was, he told himself, a very English mask.
“We haven’t heard from him for a while, sir,” he called.
“I’m certain he’s left the city.”
“Right, right. I’m sure you’re right.” And the man put the pipe to his teeth. “Probably gone back to France. That’s what the papers are saying. That he’s a French anarchist, wot?”
The London Steam News was folded on his step, and in a deliberate move, Christien turned his back to the doctor and bent to pick it up. From under the paper, a square brown envelope fell out onto the step.
“Not that there’s anything wrong with being French, dear boy. Don’t get me wrong on that account. Nothing wrong at all . . .”
The address was written in red ink.
“Post come early today, did it?” called Jekyll. “I really must talk to the post master. I rarely get letters anymore. Most of them are for some fellow named Hyde . . .”
Slowly, Christien straightened, cursing the fact that the letter was trembling in his hands. He was a surgeon. His hand should never shake. He breathed and breathed again, willing himself to remain calm, to remain detached. Above it all. In control. It was the only way to stay sane in this mad, mad world.
“Remy?” called Jekyll. “Remy, are you quite all right?”
Carefully, he peeled back the seal, read the letter in its entirety, and closed it up again, neat and precise.
“Remy?”
Slowly, he turned to look at his neighbour next door.
“Dr. Jekyll,” he said. “Could you kindly flag me another cab? I’m afraid I must go to Whitechapel.”
And without waiting for a response, he looked back down at the letter and the rather unusual terms of address.
“Dear Boss” was how it began.
DEAR CHRISTIEN,
How are you? I am fine. The weather has been nice if a little blustery . . .
“No.”
Dear Christien,
I am at Lonsdale because your brother got shot whilst murdering someone in Milnethorpe. And by the way, I want you to quit the Ghost Club.
“No, no.”
Dear Christien,
How are you? I am fine. I kissed your brother last night.
Cold Stone and Ivy Page 24
