Cold Stone and Ivy

by H. Leighton Dickson

  She cursed her inadequate, foolish tongue and her fear.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “I do have them.”

  She leaned forward, keeping her voice deliberately low.

  “In Milnethorpe, you said, ‘You are forgiven and the Crown has been served.’ So do you work for the Crown, sir? Do you murder murderers for the Crown?”

  “No, I murder murderers for me,” he said. “It is the only way I can have peace.”

  “That’s criminal.”

  “It is no different than a hanging at the Old Bailey, Miss Savage. The Empire rigorously pursues stability and order. I serve at the pleasure of Her Majesty.”

  “It’s not the same at all, Sebastien. A hanging at the Old Bailey is the result of an investigation and trial by judge and jury.”

  “In Wharcombe, a drunk kills his son with a poker to the head. Tell me, in a town with one overworked police constable, who is going to investigate the death of an eleven-year-old fishmonger’s boy?”

  “That is why we have a police service, sir. To do that very thing.”

  “But a dead boy doesn’t go to the police, Miss Savage. He goes to me.”

  “And what if you make a mistake or what if you don’t find the killer? What happens then?”

  He sighed.

  “Seventh is very full.”

  “But why Seventh? Why do these ghosts go to the Seventh House of Lasingstoke?”

  “Because bad things go to Seventh,” he said. “That’s what my father always said. When I first started seeing them, I was younger than your Davis, and my first inclination was that they belonged at Seventh. What sense does a young boy have?”

  Thunder rumbled once again and the old beams in the ceiling shook cobwebs onto the floor.

  “Nature is a powerful force, Miss Savage. If there is a hole in a barrel, a crack or a flaw in the wood, the water will find it. I am that hole, Miss Savage, that flaw in the integrity of the world. Spirits come to me and I send them to Seventh.”

  “You’re not a flaw, sir.” She looked out the windows. The sky was very dark. “But what I saw in Milnethorpe, the cold, the frost, the wind—it defies rational explanation, it defies reason, and it makes me afraid. What if the dead asked you to shoot me?”

  “But they wouldn’t, Miss Savage. You’re not a murderer.”

  “You are putting peoples’ lives into the hands of angry dead spirits. Your women almost killed my brother and yet Davis is no more a murderer than I.”

  “They are not my women.”

  “I can’t see how the dead are more trustworthy than the living. You put more faith, more value, in a departed soul than in a living one. It’s not only dangerous, sir, but I believe it morally wrong.”

  He looked away and she sighed.

  “I’m sorry, Sebastien. I am speaking out of turn as usual. I just wish you could involve an officer of the law in your investigations.”

  “Your idealism is charming, Miss Savage, but unrealistic. It is only the increasing frequency and brutality of the murders in Whitechapel that are attracting attention. I guarantee you that if there had been only one woman—even one woman a month—there would be nowhere near the clamour for justice.”

  She sighed, knowing this to be true.

  “What I do is a labourious and subjective process, dependent entirely upon my ability to interpret supernatural communications. You saw how Lees was treated by the police. They would never take me seriously.”

  He was right. People regularly reported their dreams and visions to the police and London’s Whitechapel killer was no different. In fact, people were crawling out of the woodwork claiming supernatural knowledge of the villain, and she could hear her father’s voice deriding them as lunatics, fantasists, and crackpots.

  Even he would not take the Mad Lord seriously.

  She took a deep breath.

  “I would.”

  “You would what, Miss Savage?”

  “Take you seriously. We made a crackerjack team in Milnethorpe. I could be that moral compass in your quest for justice. I have a good mind for a mystery and I do know the law—my father’s unit made sure of that. I sat and listened at their feet for hours. You asked me what I want for my life, back in Lasingstoke. Well, this is what I want. Please say that you’ll consider it?”

  He smiled sadly.

  “Now you are reaching a little too high, Miss Savage. Crumb’s bullet could have struck you, and Christien would never forgive me if something were to happen, nor would I be able to forgive myself.” He shook his head. “No, we’ll head straightaway to the docks, but once I have found your mother, I will insist you fly back to Lasingstoke while I stay in London alone. I will find this London Ripper, I will kill him, and the Crown will be satisfied. I will turn myself in to the Ghost Club and Christien will be free to marry you. You see? It is much better for everyone all around.”

  “Turn yourself in . . .?”

  “Don’t worry, Miss Savage. They won’t find me as tractable as my father. In fact, Christien says that St. Mary’s Bethlem has crackerjack surgeries for people like me.”

  “Bethlem? You mean, Bedlam?” Visions of horrific procedures and wailing lunatics ran through her mind. St. Mary’s Bethlem Hospital, better known as Bedlam, had a history of visiting the cruellest treatments upon its patients. Just the name alone evoked horror.

  “The very one,” he said, looking down at the golden crust of the meat pie in front of him. “In his last letter, Christien mentions a procedure in which the surgeon drills three tiny holes in the forehead like so . . .”

  He picked up his knife and poked the crust gingerly once, twice, three times. Gravy oozed out onto the plate.

  “Sebastien . . .”

  “And then a long aluminium probe is inserted—”

  “Sebastien, no.”

  “Christien says it is quite effective.”

  “Sebastien, stop!”

  She threw her napkin onto her plate. “You don’t need surgeries, Sebastien. And you most certainly do not need Bedlam! You simply need to exercise a little restraint, obey the law, and stop shooting people!”

  The pub had suddenly grown silent and she glanced around to see all eyes on her.

  He lifted the tea to his lips.

  “Oh I do believe they heard you in Over Milling that time, Miss Savage.”

  And a roll of thunder announced the commencement of rain.

  Chapter 27

  Of Wet Streets, Dry Cabs,

  and a Head in the Thames

  THE RAIN WAS pelting down as the coach pulled up in front of a little rowhouse in Stepney. The street was dark, the brick of the buildings streaked with coal, and the odour of fish hung heavy in the air. There was a factory at the end of the street, the large stained sign reading “Fermier’s Fish and Crab.” Sebastien thought the entire neighbourhood looked weary and sad.

  “Yes,” Ivy said. “I live in a neat little rowhouse by a factory.”

  “Funny how life is,” he muttered.

  “I’m just going to leave a note for my tad,” she said. “He doesn’t know I’m in town.”

  He continued to stare out the window.

  “You won’t leave without me, right?”

  “I won’t.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “Castlewaite?” Ivy called, and the trap swung open, revealing the gap-toothed smile of the coachman. “You promise not to leave without me?”

  “Aye, miss. Ah promise.”

  “Right.” She reached for her umbrella. “We’ll do this tonight, and have a better day tomorrow. Agreed, Sebastien?”

  “Yes, Miss Savage,” he said, trying to smile. “We will have a better day.”

  “Because every day spent living is a good day, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, Miss Savage.”

  She stepped out of the cab, popping her umbrella and trotting up the steps. He dropped his chin onto his palm, watched her let herself in with a very old key. Immediately
, figures began to rise out of the floor.

  “Castlewaite?” he called.

  “Aye, sir?”

  “Did you see anyone else in there?”

  “Other than Miss Ivy, sir? Naw, sir.”

  “You didn’t see a bearded woman, a clown, and a sword-swallowing acrobat?”

  He could hear the old man grin.

  “Naw sir, Ah din’t see any o’ tha’.”

  He sighed.

  “Castlewaite?”

  “Aye, sir?”

  “If a man kills a killer, is that wrong?”

  “Sir?”

  “What I mean to ask is . . . ah . . .” He leaned his forehead against the glass. “Is it wrong to kill someone that you know is a killer? If you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that the person has killed not just once, but several times. That he is a murderer and a villain and will kill again unless stopped. Then is it wrong to stop him . . . or her . . . by means of a bullet to the brain?”

  “Without a trial, sir?”

  “Yes, Castlewaite, without a trial.”

  The coachman thought a moment and Sebastien could see rainwater drip from his top hat onto the roof of the coach.

  “‘And if he strike him with an instrument of iron, so that he die, he is a murderer: the murderer shall surely be put to death. And if he smite him with a throwing stone, wherewith he may die, and he die, he is a murderer: the murderer shall surely be put to death. And if he smite him with an hand weapon of wood, wherewith he may die, and he die, he is a murderer: the murderer shall surely be put to death. The Avenger of Blood shall slay the murderer: when he meeteth him, he shall slay him.’”

  Castlewaite looked down at him; his copper eyepiece whirred and clicked.

  “Th’ Avenger of Blood shall slay the murderer, sir. Tha’s wha’ Ah think, sir.”

  “Thank you, Castlewaite.”

  “Tha’s from the Bible, sir.”

  “You’re a good friend, Castlewaite.”

  “Aye, sir. Thank ye, sir.”

  He leaned his forehead back on the window, waiting for Ivy and a break in the rain.

  “DR. WILLIAMS!” CHRISTIEN called as he pushed through the crowd toward the steamcab. He could see the Royal Physician’s face through the rain-streaked window, looking very fine in his top hat and cloak.

  The cab door swung open.

  “Get in, boy,” shouted the doctor. “You’ll catch your death in a torrent like this!”

  Christien climbed in and dropped himself onto the red velvet seat. Rain dripped down his forehead and cheeks, but he did not move to wipe it.

  “I’m headed to Buckingham, Remy,” said Williams. “But I can give you a lift as far as the Park.”

  Christien nodded but said nothing.

  The coach lurched forward with a sputter and pop, and forward again as it pushed into the crowd. The smell of coal filled the cab.

  “What is it, my boy?” said Williams, leaning back in his seat. “You have the look of a lost soul about you.”

  “I . . . I . . .” Christien held his breath for only a moment before pulling the black glove from his left hand.

  “What the deuce?” said Williams, and he leaned forward.

  The little finger looked like a slip of drying jerky. Tendons were stark against the purpling flesh and the skin had peeled and blistered around the circumference of the ring. Bone and nail looked as one.

  Williams took his hand, turning it over in the window’s grey light.

  “It’s a miracle,” he breathed.

  “A miracle?” said Christien. “A miracle? It’s a nightmare, that’s what it is!”

  Williams looked up at him now, eyes shining.

  “It is proof, son. Success.”

  “It’s a cursed ring from Annie Chapman, isn’t it?” He snatched his hand away, slipped it back inside the safety of the glove. “Why did you give it to me and why is it behaving so?”

  “Oh Remy.” Williams sighed, and Christien was certain he saw tears shining in the grey eyes. “You have no idea what this means.”

  “I most certainly do not.”

  “She’s trying to contact you, boy. Through the ring.”

  “That’s nonsense, sir. You know how I feel about that sort of thing.”

  “It doesn’t matter how you feel, Remy. What other explanation can there be?”

  “That it is too tight and is now cutting off circulation to my finger.”

  “Really, boy? That is what you believe?” Williams leaned back in the cab. “Or is that what you are telling yourself?”

  Christien set his jaw but said nothing.

  “You see?” said the surgeon with a grim smile. “If you believed that, why wouldn’t you have simply asked one of the boys to remove it with a hacksaw? Easy enough done, I should think. And why else would you have been going through my medical journals in the Doctor’s Rooms at Bethlem? Oh yes, I do know that’s what you were doing. I’m not a simpleton and you’d do well to remember that. Why were you looking for Dark Annie Chapman in my journals if you thought a brass ring simply too tight? And finally . . .”

  He inclined his head, smile widening.

  “Finally, why would you be sitting here in a cab with me, telling me that such things cannot happen if you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that they could not?”

  Christien was shaking with fury, a sensation altogether new for him, and it took all of his nerve to keep his face passive and his breathing controlled. The coach bumped and rattled as its wheels exchanged mud for cobbles, and he knew that they had left the East End for a better part of town.

  Williams patted his knee.

  “You see, Remy? This is why the Club wanted you. You are your father’s son and your brother’s superior in every way. I will call an emergency meeting for tonight, ten o’clock. We will share this amazing discovery, and all will be explained. How does that sound, Remy my boy? You will have all the scientific, metaphysical, and parapsychical answers you seek.”

  Christien eyed him for a long moment before turning his face to the window. Fleet Street now, tall limestone and brick buildings, arched windows, gothic spires, and squared roofs. Men and carriages, women and horses, crowding the streets with the noise of their lives. It was deafening and suddenly he understood his brother far too well.

  “Tonight,” he said through tight lips. “At the Ghost Club.”

  SHE COULD SEE umbrellas by the dozen bobbing as their owners trudged along beneath them. It was very late, nearing midnight now, and the wet streets were lit with gaslight.

  “Are ye sure ye want to be doin’ this now?” Castlewaite called down from the dickey. “We can come back in the mornin’, we can.”

  They had been sitting for hours on Tower Hill Road, waiting for the downpour to ease, neither wanting to admit defeat and retire to the places they called home.

  Ivy looked at him, her eyes heavy. “We can come back, Sebastien. I don’t mind.”

  “No, Castlewaite,” he called up but he was looking at her. “This won’t take long.”

  “Aye, sir. Ah’ll wait right ’ere for ye, then sir.”

  “Certainly, but do wait inside,” said Sebastien. “The cab is good and dry.”

  The old man grinned, his eyepiece whirring as he left the dickey to climb down.

  “It’s bad enough the horse has to be out in this,” the Mad Lord grumbled as he held the door open. Ivy popped her umbrella and stepped out into the rain.

  The formidable dark shape of the Tower rose above them as they made their way onto the road. She was still wearing Davis’s peacoat. It was several sizes too large but served to keep the water off. The bowler did the same, and together they strode past the Tower down St. Katharine’s Way toward the docks.

  She could smell fish and oil as they neared the river. There were some longshoremen working, some shipsmen, and she could hear shouts and laughter as they moved about the ships but for the most part, the docks were quiet. Still, she hoped Sebastien had his strange three-barrelled p
istol at the ready, just in case, and she led him away from the cloistered docks toward the pier.

  Finally, in the rain and the darkness, she stopped.

  “Here,” she said. “A ship from the East India Company was reported to have brought elephants as cargo and Mum had taken Tobias to see. The elephants were being unloaded and Mum was watching them when Tobias chased a kitten toward the pier . . .”

  Her voice trailed off. She had not been there. She had not seen.

  “Here?” asked Sebastien. “Not inside the locks but this pier, right here?”

  “Yes. Down there . . .”

  He moved slowly to the edge of the water, his umbrella keeping his head and shoulders dry, but she saw his hand move, turning upwards as if to catch raindrops in his palm. He had called it “asking” back in Milnethorpe.

  She glanced around the dark waterfront. Smokestacks billowed above the engineworks house, its massive steam engines running constantly to keep water in the locks and basins level. The Tower of London rose darkly on one side, the arched windows of the Ivory House on the other, and in the distance, cranes—idle now, but in daylight busy with the construction of the new bridge across from the Tower. It was an elaborate project that had already taken two years. It was rumoured not to open until well into the next decade.

  Suddenly, the locket began to hum and glow, and she looked back at the Mad Lord. He was standing as he had been, palm upraised, and she felt her heart breaking at the sight of him. He moved her more than a thousand stories.

  Suddenly, he dropped the umbrella and began moving toward the far end of the pier. She thought he would walk straight off the edge, but he paused, turned, and began to climb down the ladder that accessed the framework beneath the dock. He disappeared and she stood clutching her umbrella and peering over the side.

  “Miss Savage!” she heard him call. “Miss Savage, come here!”

  She turned and climbed down after him, once again grateful for the practicality of breeches. The framework was dark, but because of the locket, she was not completely blind. The water lapped at the posts and timbers, and the smell of the river was strong here. Fish and sewage, silt and oil. Wharcombe Bay had smelled so much better than this.