Cold Stone and Ivy

by H. Leighton Dickson

  “Salt?” offered Ronnie.

  The three of them began to tug on the strings now until the paper unfolded on its own. Cyril Sharpie screamed and dropped the package, bolting down the road as fast as he could. Martin Alcorn began to back away and tripped over his feet before turning and scrambling after him. Ronnie Shipley watched them for a moment but he peeled the paper back to reveal the contents.

  “That’s not bacon,” he whispered to himself, and he peered closer.

  It was an arm, tied off with a piece of string and lying in a puddle on Lambeth Road.

  SHE HAD NEVER dreamed she’d be arriving at the Westminster Port Tower in an airship. The tower was a common sight for all Londoners, better known as the Clock Tower of Big Ben, and there were always airships tethered to the top. But she had never been up, never set foot in the adjoining palace of Westminster either. No one in her family had, but now, as the wind buffeted and the thunder threatened, she was about to experience it all firsthand as the Chevalier moved in to dock.

  It had taken the entire afternoon to make the trip from Lonsdale to London, and she had spent the duration sitting with an iron pot in her lap. She was not a good air traveller, she reckoned, not with the way the airship rocked and bucked like a frigate on the high sea. The skies had been dark and occasionally split by lightning and they had outrun the storm by mere hours. It was dinnertime now as Castlewaite piloted the great ship through the gusting winds to the dock.

  Three other airships were moored, and the narrow gangplank was open to the skies, flanked only by a thin copper railing. It allowed her a terrifying bird’s eye view of the city and, given the wind, she wasn’t surprised that there were always hats, gloves, and umbrellas littering the streets below. It was a haven for quick-handed thieves. A fine hat could bring a pretty penny in the secondhand shops of Piccadilly.

  The gangplank made landing high in the tower at the Clock and Bell Club, a lounge that served tea and spirits to the politicians who made airship travel a routine part of their schedules. She couldn’t fathom it. The trip had been far too bumpy for her to carry on any sort of conversation, let alone a political one, and for his part, the Mad Lord had polished off an entire decanter of port before starting on the Scotch.

  As they trotted down the steep steps of the tower, she could feel the glances of men in black overcoats and top hats. The Mad Lord did not look fit for a day in London, being plucked from the wilds of Lancashire as he had been, and she herself was still in her breeches, red corset, and riding boots. She wondered what Christien would think if he saw her.

  Finally, they were out onto Whitehall Road, and the late afternoon crowds flowed around them like a river. Down the street, she could see the buildings of Greater Scotland Yard that served as home for the Metropolitan Police Service. Her father used to have a desk in A-Division, before transferring over to Stepney’s H, and she had fond memories of riding his shoulders through the halls of the building. Her father would often remind her of the time when she was six and had announced to his entire unit that one day, she would be a crimes investigator like her tad.

  She didn’t need to wonder what he would think if he saw her like this. She knew well enough.

  “So the Clarence is just down the road,” she began. “Perhaps we might have time for a cup of tea before Castlewaite fetches us in the coach? The man is remarkable, isn’t he? Coachman and airship pilot. What else can that fellow do?”

  But her breath fell like ice to the walk and she looked up at the Mad Lord, hands in the pockets of his greatcoat, staring across the road at the Yard. His eyes were changing colour, and around her neck, the locket began to flash. She swallowed, dreading now what that meant.

  “Sebastien?”

  “Lees,” he said, his voice hollow and echoing. “His name is Lees and he has seen the Ripper.”

  Without warning, he turned and stormed across the street, unmindful of the squealing of horses and shouting of cabbies as he went. She scrambled to catch up as the crowds parted for him but closed in on her, and she fought her way through wave after wave of black wool and protests. Finally, he slowed at one of the many backstreets rabbiting the Yard. She reached his side just as a door swung open and a man was pushed out into the lane.

  “But you need to listen!” moaned the man, a slim, middle-aged fellow in a charcoal suit and spectacles. “He’s a medical man, I tell you. I’ve seen it! Please listen!”

  “We already listened, Lees,” said one officer. “You’re a lunatic, you are!”

  “You need to take this up with the City Force,” said the other. “Or the Hs, not us.”

  “But I’ve already talked to H-Division, sirs! They said the Ripper was your jurisdiction!”

  “But dreams, visions, and other such ‘communications’ ain’t. Now, beat it or we’ll ship ya to Bedlam.”

  “Here,” said the man called Lees. “Take my calling card. Call me if—”

  They smacked the cards out of his hands, causing them to fly up like leaves before falling into the mud.

  “Mark my words, sirs,” he grumbled as he bent to collect them. “He will strike again soon.”

  “If he does, we’ll throw you in the claps.”

  “Bloody lunatic . . .”

  And they disappeared back into the door of the Yard.

  She glanced up at Sebastien. He wasn’t moving and she was certain that, right now, his eyes were greener than hers. She stepped forward into the lane, the locket sending colours all across the shadowed brick.

  “Mr. Lees?” she called.

  “Leave me alone, miss.”

  “Sir, we overheard your conversation—”

  “Then you heard what they said.” He rose to his feet, began to straighten the cards in his hands. “They think I’m a lunatic. They’d ship me off to Bedlam if they could.”

  His tired eyes flicked over Sebastien. “Him too, by the looks of things.”

  “We can help.”

  “Can you shoot me?” He strolled over towards them, slipped a card into her hand. “Your friend’s got a pistol, I can tell. Shoot me in the head and put me out of my misery. Will you do me that kindness, pistol man?”

  She swallowed, wondering if Sebastien would consider doing that very thing.

  “You said ‘he’ is a medical man, sir. What did you mean?”

  “Nothing.” Lees smiled now, but it wasn’t a pleasant sight. “Nothing at all. What do you see, pistol man?”

  The Mad Lord was staring at him, cocking his head like a dog hearing a faraway sound. At her waistcoat, the locket was humming like an engine.

  “A Highlander,” said Sebastien. His voice was hollow, his eyes as green as emeralds. “There is a Highlander behind you.”

  “Been there ever since I was a boy. He protects me. I have no clue as to why.”

  “He was killed by a sword to the belly. He died in agony.”

  Lees laughed.

  “By God, you’ve got it worse than me.” He stepped forward, slipped the rest of his calling cards into Sebastien’s waistcoat pocket. “Do yourself and your young lady a favour. Take that pistol of yours and shoot yourself in the head with it. Let her find someone normal and get on with it.”

  And with a pat on the chest, Lees pushed around them and departed the alley.

  Ivy didn’t know what to think, even less what to do. The crowds were moving to and fro in their suits of black and grey. Coaches and steamcabs rolled along the streets and the shadows of airships fell across the skies, but as they stood toe to toe, hearing the distant rumble of thunder and waiting for the rain to fall, there was no one else in the entire city, and the locket called Ghostlight had fallen silent once again.

  IT WAS DARK in the Mortuary of the Royal. It was always dark in the Mortuary of the Royal. Shapes were distorted by the flickering gaslight on the walls and the leaded glass of the door, and Christien rapped once before rolling it aside. Bond, Henry, and Rosie looked up from the dissecting table.

  On the table lay a pair of
arms.

  “Christien,” said Bond. “I told you not to come, boy. We’ve got this handled.”

  “All we got is arms,” grunted Bender. “You got another letter from the Ripper.”

  “The Police have the letter now,” said Christien. “And Inspector Savage told me about the arm. I want to help.”

  “You can go home, boy.”

  “Home is where I find the letters, sir,” said Christien. “I feel much safer here.”

  Bond studied him for a moment before stepping back.

  “Very well. Second arm found on Lambeth Road by the Blind School wrapped in lime. The hypothesis is that they are from the same woman. Henry, refute.”

  “Aw, Dr. Bond, why do I always have to refute?” grumbled Bender as he ambled over to the table. “Right, then. Right limb is slimmer than left, less subcutaneous hemorrhaging, seems to have been removed from the trunk at a radically different angle than the other . . .”

  “Removed, not dissected?”

  “I see no evidence of medical skill, sir. Any competent butcher could have done this. Joints of cows and joints of people are all the same, really. All you need is a good strong blade.”

  “Continue.”

  “Nails of the right hand shaped differently, perhaps indicating a different line of work. If she worked. Ah, let’s see . . . This one found in the river tied with string and black tape and this one . . .” He rolled the other arm. “This one found wrapped in paper and cased in lime. Radically different methods of disposal. And weeks later to boot. Not likely the same perpetrator, so therefore, not likely the same victim.”

  “Brief and to the point. Verdict?”

  “Found dead, sir.”

  “Christien, are you sure you’re up to it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well. Defend.”

  Christien moved in, lifted the limbs one by one. “They are the same length of bone. I’d put her height at five-seven, or five-eight. She’s well fed but not gluttonous and her hands are long and fine. She’s used to a comfortable life.”

  “Maybe she lived in a lunatic asylum.” Rosie grinned, but Henry smacked him.

  “Shut it, you git.”

  “It were a joke, is all . . .”

  Christien glared at him before turning back to the cadaver. “Probably young, given the state of the hands. No wedding ring found or indicated.”

  “Speaking of rings,” said Bond. “That one of yours seems to be cutting off the circulation.”

  Christien studied his hand. “I can’t get it off, sir. I’ve tried everything.”

  “You ’aven’t tried the bone saw.” Rosie grinned, and Bender hit him again.

  “Try some of the carbolic soap,” said Bond. “You’ll want to get that off before it damages a nerve. With your skill, that would be a loss.”

  The boys rolled their eyes. Christien was Bond’s favourite and they all knew it.

  “So then, getting back to our girl. What do you make of the difference in the nails, Christien?”

  “I would warrant that everyone has a slight difference in the length and style of their nails, sir, depending on their handedness.”

  “So then. Professional anatomist, butcher, or murderer?”

  “I cannot express an opinion, sir. There is conflicting evidence.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Well,” said Christien. “To me, it looks to be different perpetrators but the same victim.”

  Rosie snorted out loud but ducked before Henry could hit him.

  “Gruesome theory,” said Bond. “Right then, boys, let’s hope we find the torso to which these belong. Bonus marks to whichever of you is correct.”

  “Aw, now, Dr. Bond . . .” groaned Bender. “That ain’t fair, is it?”

  The Police Surgeon turned to leave. “Put our girl away. And I want you all to scrub up good. Lister’s rules, remember?”

  “But the ladies love a bloody frock,” said Rosie. “They practically swoon for it!”

  “Off you go, boys. See you tomorrow. And Remy, if you need anything . . .”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  As Dr. Bond left the mortuary, Bender swung around on his companion.

  “Rosie, you git! You’re going to see us all sacked.”

  “It won’t ’appen,” moaned Rosie. “Williams won’t let it ’appen.”

  “He will, mark my words,” said Christien as he wrapped the first arm back in canvas. “He will retire if something goes wrong. He’s protected by the Club.”

  “And so are you, Remy,” said Bender. “You Clubbers stick together something fierce.”

  “I’m not sure I’m in, boys. This has become entirely too complicated. Bond is bound to put it together sometime and the Hs are all over the hospital.”

  “What’s wit’ yer finger anyways, Remy?”

  “Yeah, it’s disgusting!”

  Christien shook his head as he studied his hand. The little finger was purple and twisted, looking more a slip of dried tendon than live flesh.

  “I can’t get it off,” he repeated.

  “’Ere,” said Rosie. “Take this, then. It ’urts me eyes just lookin’ at it.”

  And he held up a glove made of fine black leather.

  “One?” asked Christien. “Why do you have only one glove?”

  “You find all sorts of flash gear on the streets under Big Ben.” Rosie grinned. “It’s cause o’ the gangplanks. I got myself a new topper last week, traded it for a pint at the Bells.”

  Christien slid the glove over his hand, hiding the decaying digit from view as the boys turned to clean up the arms, one from the river and one from the road.

  THE CLARENCE WAS both pub and restaurant, and it was a favourite of royals, lawyers, and Parliamentarians alike. It was crowded and full of smoke and she thought them lucky to find a table on their own. So they sat tucked into a corner by a street window, drinking tea and saying nothing at all to each other.

  Their meals were delivered by a stout automaton whose chestplate slid open to rolls of billowing steam. A tray cranked out, two plates of golden meat pies slid off and onto the table. A hose snaked out, refreshing both cups of tea before it turned and wheeled back in through the crush of patrons at the bar.

  She didn’t want to look at him. She had prided herself on her expanding sensibilities, but she had to admit, all this talk of the Ghost Club and secrets and now Lees, had left her wondering if she really knew what she was doing at all. Life had seemed so simple back in Stepney. Flat and safe and two-dimensional, like the pages of a book. In a book, you started at the beginning and went on to the end. Life, she was beginning to realize, was not like that.

  She turned the card over in her hand—Robert James Lees. Psychic. Spiritualist. Clarivoyant. She wondered if he too saw with the eyes of a cat.

  She looked at Sebastien. He had picked up his knife, but was only prodding at his food. He glanced up at her, eyes brown once more.

  “Why did you kiss me, Ivy?”

  Her heart thudded once in her chest. So he had noticed.

  “In the infirmary,” he went on. “You kissed me. Why did you do that?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I suppose I was happy you’d lived and it was my fault that you got shot in the first place, really. I’m terribly sorry. It was too bold.”

  “It was entirely pleasant. I never get kisses like that. Sometimes . . .” He sighed and pushed his plate away. “All the time, actually—I find myself wishing I were normal. I wish I could have friends that didn’t have four legs, a pretty fiancée, perhaps marry. Have children and a regular occupation. Like Christien, you know. I think it would be wonderful to be normal.”

  “But why can’t you marry, Sebastien? I can’t see why you couldn’t.”

  “Christien has told you, surely . . .”

  “About?”

  “About my parents.”

  She lowered her eyes. “He hasn’t told me, but I have heard.”

  “My father k
illed my mother, because his father killed his mother, for how many generations I honestly can’t say. Madness runs in the family and it needs to stop, you see. And so it does. It ends. With me.”

  Her throat was growing tight.

  “Christien says the lithium would help, but honestly, Miss Savage, I can feel nothing at all on the lithium. I do prefer laudanum to the lithium. My mind is free and the darkness is beautiful. Really, it is.”

  He reached for his tea and she noticed his hand shaking. A ghost hunter, Fanny had said. Drove him mad.

  “It’s been good for me at Lasingstoke lately. I have my dogs, I have my horses. And while he may be prickly, Rupert is very fine company. I do what I can, and if I’m not forced to be around people for too terribly long, I manage well enough. For you see, the spirits are getting louder, more insistent, certainly more gruesome, and it is to the point where the dead and the living look alike to me now. It is very difficult to tell them apart.”

  He paused, the cup hovering over the table in his hand.

  “What does that mean, Miss Savage, when I can’t tell a living person from a dead one?”

  She bit her lip. “I don’t know.”

  “I don’t know, either.” He looked out the window. “And so I stay up north and do what I can to keep out of trouble. Dash the broadsheets for hounding me. Poor Christien. I know why he is driven as he is.”

  “I don’t know why the papers hound you, Sebastien. I think you’re a brilliant, gifted, fascinating man. But I don’t think you should be shooting people, no matter what the reason. There must be a better way.”

  “Can you think of anything? You heard the officers. You know what they think.”

  “What about Edward, or Albert Victor, or even Victoria? Surely, there is someone higher up who can assist you.”

  “A royal?” He arched a brow and smiled. “No, I fear I am very much alone in this pursuit.”

  “You are not entirely alone, sir.”

  “No?”

  She saw something odd and hopeful in eyes that were brown now like chocolate.

  “You have Rupert,” she said rather quickly. “And, and Frankow and Castlewaite and, and the dogs . . .”