Cold Stone and Ivy

by H. Leighton Dickson

  “THERE WILL BE a report of a head in the Thames that I filed last night with a Constable Poole. The times will coincide and our story will be vindicated. You’ll see, sir. I am telling the truth.”

  “Ah.” Carter Beals smiled at her. “You’re telling the truth now.”

  “There’s a time for every purpose under heaven, sir.”

  There was a rattle at the door, and Christien slipped into the room.

  Beals glanced up. “I’ll, ah, I’ll go see if your Poole filed that report in the archives, shall I? Back in a jiff.”

  And he was gone, leaving Ivy by the window while Christien sagged against the door. He looked very pale, and perhaps sadder than she had ever seen him. He was usually so controlled, so calm, so perfect.

  It was a mask, she realized, a fine, perfect, porcelain mask, cracking now and revealing someone very fragile underneath. She remembered a time when she had wanted to be his partner, draw strength from his perfection, but now things had changed. He was a stranger to her. Or perhaps she was the stranger.

  She felt the ring, tight on her finger.

  “I’m sorry, Christien,” she said. Her throat was closing but her hands had curled into fists of their own accord. “I’m sorry I’ve made a calamity of things.”

  “What were you thinking, Ivy?” His voice was very thin. “How could you do this to him?”

  “You drugged him, Christien! You slipped the lithium into his tea and used me to do it. How could you do that?”

  “Please stop.” He held up his gloved hand, drew a long shuddering breath. Fighting for his calm, she knew that. Smoothing the porcelain. He was so very different from his brother.

  “Your father wants you to go home. I’ve arranged a cab—”

  “No, I can’t leave hi—” She caught herself. “Now. I can’t leave now.”

  But he had caught it too and he took a long deep breath.

  “Well, you don’t have much choice, Ivy. They’ve taken him downstairs to the pen.”

  “Oh . . .”

  “Eloquent response for a writer.”

  “I’ll . . . I’ll talk to my father . . .”

  “It was your father who ushered him.”

  Ivy bit back any further eloquence. In truth, she didn’t know what to say.

  “I do care for you, Ivy. Do you not believe that?”

  “I know you do, Christien.”

  “What more, then, do you need? What does he give you that I cannot?”

  A word popped into her head, and she tried to chase it out as quickly as it came to her. But there was no denying it, she knew it full well. It was a key, the very key to her heart, her mind, her soul, the key to Penny Dreadful and her winning ways. Just as quickly, she realized that it was very unlikely that Christien could ever give it to her. He was as much a prisoner as she.

  She looked up at him.

  “Freedom,” she said.

  HIS NAME WAS WILLS. Westinghouse Institutional Legal-Lockdown Sentinel. He was the sergeant-at-arms of the holding cell and he was easily twice the size of a man and much more formidable.

  At the end of one of his arms was a skeleton key that spun as he unlocked the large iron door to the cell. Inside, the room was small with grey walls, plain linoleum, and a single window very high up. There were currently five men incarcerated and the odour of them struck like a fist, as unwashed men have a way of doing. A covered bucket and a low bench were the only items, other than the men, in the room.

  Other than the men and the dead, that is.

  Sebastien hesitated as, one by one, like wolves out of a forest, they appeared, until there were at least twelve along with the living. He suspected there would have been more, but it was these twelve alone who were the most insistent and were aware enough to sense him. Not for the first time he regretted the loss of his pistol.

  He turned back to Savage.

  “And why am I being locked up, sir?”

  “Having second thoughts, are you?”

  “Not at all. I am just recovering from a rather large dose of lithium and am a titch addled. I would just like to know. For the sake of clarity.”

  Savage raised a thick brow. “You pissed off the Chief Inspector, that’s why.”

  “Ah. And that is a crime, now, is it?”

  “In.”

  Sebastien stepped through the door as Savage leaned in.

  “Stay away from my daughter.”

  The door closed in his face.

  Sebastien stood quietly for a moment before slipping his hands in his pockets.

  “Hm. Apparently, I pissed him off as well.”

  He turned to the other occupants of the room. By the looks of them, this was not their first night in a cell. One by one, they stood and moved toward him as if to jail him with their very bodies alone. One was short, stout, and smelled of cooking oil and beer. Another was very hairy and reminded him of a warthog. One sharp tooth even protruded from his lip like a tusk. The third was bleeding from a wound to the head that was obviously not his first. The fourth was very tall with a beaked nose and tattered clothes, but oddly enough, very fine riding boots. And the fifth was the largest man Sebastien had ever seen, a great tattooed bull of a man with a shaved head and burnsides that swung up and formed a moustache.

  This man alone brought six of the dead.

  He towered over the Mad Lord, and his breathing was the only sound in the room.

  Sebastien looked up at him and smiled.

  “Your tattoos are quite remarkable, sir. Do you know, by any chance, when they bring the tea?”

  A massive fist turned out the lights, which was as good a start as he could have hoped for.

  Chapter 35

  Of Repentance, Remembrance,

  and a Trio of Unexpected Visitors

  PALL MALL STEAM Gazette

  TORSO FOUND AT WESTMINSTER

  At twenty minutes past three this morning, workmen on the construction site of the New Scotland Yard made a grisly discovery. It was the torso of a young woman, missing the head, arms, legs, and several internal organs. She was wrapped in a dark skirting and was assumed to be a bag of lime until a workman tried to move her. How or when the torso was brought to the site is unknown, but it is believed to be the original owner of the arms of Pimlico and Lambeth Road. Dr. Thomas Bond is on the scene and the Offices of the Metropolitan Police have declined to comment.

  Whether this is a prank on the part of medical students or yet another victim of the Whitechapel Ripper is still unknown. Police are continuing to investigate.

  “HE WAS IN there all night?” asked Carter Beals as he trotted alongside his partner, Trevis Savage. “With Rusty and the Millhouse gang?”

  “Aye,” muttered Savage. “Half an hour with Rusty is enough to make most men cry like a baby. That’ll teach him to mess about with my daughter after midnight.”

  “Trev,” groaned Beals. “I’ve told you. Nothing happened. Ivy was lying.”

  “I don’t care, Bealer. She was a good girl ’til she went up north.”

  “He was right about those chromes, you know. Two fellas in the chrome before his, one limping like a lame nag.”

  “That says he’s either observant or he’s good with a pistol. Nothing more.”

  “Did he have a pistol on him?”

  “Probably in the house.”

  “Did we search the house?”

  Savage rolled his eyes.

  “Well then, maybe we should,” said Beals.

  “Well then. Maybe we should.”

  They came to a halt at a registry desk outside the row of cells. Savage presented his badge, as did Beals.

  “Block D, Prisoner 777,” said Savage.

  The registrar peered up at them through thick reticulating lenses.

  “We ’ad a bi’ of a problem . . . wif d’ ’eat,” he said. “Cold as ’ell, in ’ere. But ovver’n ’at, no incident.”

  Beals glanced at his partner but said nothing, and the pair of them entered the cellblock row.
/>
  The ceilings were at least twelve feet high and their footsteps echoed on the linoleum. There was a peculiar odour to the cellblock as well. The pots were cleaned daily but that was a part of the “charm” of a cell. No amenities. Intended to make a villain think twice about committing another crime.

  They pulled up in front of the Sentinel. It patrolled the row like a soldier.

  “Identification code,” it said, and Beals punched a series of numbers into the panel on its chest. A green light flashed on the Sentinel’s faceplate.

  “All right, WILLS,” said Savage. “Open ’er up.”

  The Sentinel rolled forward, raising its key arm in the air and attaching itself to the heavy iron door. The key spun three times and the door groaned as it began to wheel back on its hinges. A wall of cold hit them like a fist and both detectives peered in on a most unusual sight.

  Four men—the oily one, the warthog, the bleeder, and the tattered fellow—were on their knees in four corners of the room, hands clasped under their chins, praying. The fifth—large, tattooed, moustachioed Rusty, was sitting on the bench weeping, his meaty hands grasped within de Lacey’s. He was also wearing de Lacey’s cravat around his thick neck.

  Savage and Beals exchanged glances.

  Sebastien de Lacey looked up. “Please give us a moment. We’re almost done here.”

  He turned his attention back to the big man. “So, Rusty, what do you say to Ponce?”

  “I’m sorry, Ponce!” the big man wailed, and it seemed that his breath frosted in front of his face. “I should’nae poonched yer head in! I should’nae rammed ye into the bricks or cut yer forks off like kippers and I should’nae hung ye up by yer sausages till ye was blue! I was in me cups but it was wrong! Can ye ever fergive me?”

  Savage looked around as a wind picked up and blew at their clothing and hair, but it died as quickly as it had come.

  “James Russell, you are forgiven and the Crown has been served.”

  Sebastien sighed, dropping his hand on the top of Rusty’s bald head, patting it like he would a dog’s. It made a slapping sound.

  “So, can you promise me that you will try to control your temper from now on? I really don’t want to have to come back down to London and shoot you, because I will, Rusty. Next time, I will. Honestly, it is so much easier.”

  “I will, Laury! I will control my temper!”

  “And watch the drinking.”

  “Aye. No more gin fer me! I’ll be dry as a nun.”

  “There’s a lad.” Sebastien rose to his feet. He was wearing riding boots. Savage was certain he hadn’t been wearing those yesterday. “And remember to call the Heath Row Fields. They can always use a big lad like you to help with the ships. Ask for Neville Scully and tell him Laury sent you. Can you remember that, lad?”

  “Neville Scully. Aye.”

  Sebastien glanced around at the others. “Promise me, lads. All of you. Remember, bullets are expensive.”

  The four others nodded, and the tattered man looked up from his knees, smiling like the sun. “Dese are de most flush docks I ever owned.”

  And he looked down at his feet, shod now in fine spats with brass buttons.

  “And they suit you, Percy. Like a glove.”

  “Bless you, Laury.”

  “Yes, bless you, Laury,” moaned the warthog. He was wearing a fine grey waistcoat.

  “Bless yew, Laury,” moaned the greasy one. He made the sign of the cross. “Amen.”

  Sebastien turned to face the detectives. “May I leave now?”

  Beals glanced at his partner.

  “Aaaah, no,” said Savage. “The Chief wants to talk with you awhile.”

  “Oh good Lord.” The Mad Lord’s shoulders sagged. “I’m desperately tired and need a cup of tea. Ivy would be proud but honestly, sirs, a bullet is so much easier.”

  Savage grumbled something unintelligible and ushered Sebastien de Lacey from the room, leaving WILLS to close up the iron door on a now-reformed James Russell and the repentant Millhouse gang.

  SHE SAT ON the edge of her bed, staring at the floor.

  She hadn’t slept at all after the cab had dropped her off, merely climbed the stair to her room and sat, the way she was sitting now. Christien had not come with her, and her father had not come home. She felt entirely alone.

  What had she done?

  And so she sat for a very long time more, thinking very little, feeling even less. At some point, sometime, she realized that someone was rapping on the door downstairs. She honestly didn’t care, but finally, like an automaton herself, she rose to attend it.

  “Open up, you petulant thing, you! Open up I say!” came a familiar voice, and Ivy’s heart leapt within her. She flew down the stair now and threw open the door onto a tall slim horsey brunette in an aubergine jacket and tiny top hat next to a short round blonde in a red cloak, massive touring hat, goggles, and long paisley scarf. With a cry, Ivy threw herself at the sisters, pulling them both into a great teary-eyed embrace, at which the sisters wailed, shrieked, and exclaimed their surprise. Finally, Ivy managed to disentangle herself and pulled them both into the house.

  “Dearest!” exclaimed Fanny. “That was a most unusual welcome. Splendid and hearty, yes of course. We Helmsly-Wimpoll women are used to splendid and hearty welcomes . . .”

  “Most splendid and hearty,” agreed Franny.

  “But from you, dearest and darling, it is most unusual.”

  “Most unusual.”

  “Oh,” said Ivy, wiping the tears from her eyes. “I’ve just missed you both terribly. Please come in.”

  Fanny studied her with a now-familiar scrutiny. “I suspect there is more that you are not telling us, surely, dearest . . .”

  “Surely more,” said Franny.

  “But you will tell all over tea, won’t you? I know you will.” She laid a hand on Ivy’s shoulder. “You can keep no secrets from us, dearest.”

  “Are there biscuits?” said Franny.

  Ivy beamed at them. “I am so glad you are here!”

  And she led them into the kitchen, where she set the kettle to boil for tea.

  SEBASTIEN DE LACEY glanced around the new holding cell, hoping to spy a tea service, but there was nothing of the kind. It was as grey as the former room but smaller and on the third floor. However, it had a desk and two chairs, and he had to admit that, as of this morning, his station was much improved.

  Trevis Savage was the only other occupant of the room, and he leaned against a wall, arms folded across his chest. Very little in the living world frightened Sebastien de Lacey, but for some reason, this man did. He wondered if it had something to do with the fact that he was a father. All in all, fathers were very frightening creatures.

  He looked up, put on his best smile. It was difficult, for he was very tired and he couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten. His stomach had been rumbling all night.

  “And how is Ivy, sir?”

  Savage glared at him but no answer was forthcoming.

  There were no apparitions. It was a strange thing. Such animosity from an obviously good man. Yes, it had to be fatherhood, and for the first time, Sebastien felt thankful that he was not in that camp. His mind and instincts still functioned without compromise.

  “She’s a persistent thing, isn’t she? Quite a little badger. And I must say, she has a good nose for a mystery. She would make a wonderful detective. In fact, I think she’d—”

  “Don’t you dare speak to me of my daughter, sir,” Savage growled, pushing off from the wall. “Not one more word. Ever. Do you understand?”

  Sebastien nodded, although he didn’t understand in the least.

  “You have effectively ruined everything for her. She could have had a life with your brother. She could have had a nice, sensible life with a fine house and a fine husband so she could stop writing those dreadful stories of hers. Don’t you understand? Christien de Lacey was her way out, man. Her way out of the East End.”

  “But he—�
�

  “Not. One. Word!” There were tears in his eyes as he continued. “All I wanted was for her to be safe. All I wanted was for her to have a better life than she could have with me in Stepney. She would care for her mother until she died, my Ivy would. She is that sort of girl, but you! You step right off the pages of one of her Dreadfuls. How could she possibly be safe with you?”

  He loomed over the table, bringing his face down until they were almost nose to nose.

  “There is scandal in your every footprint, sir. No one will have her now, but she’s far too young to realize it. Your madness has only fuelled her imagination, and I’m certain she will have nothing to do with a quiet sensible life now. You have been her ruin, sir. You have been her ruin.”

  Sebastien swallowed again but to his credit, said nothing.

  “I don’t think you’re the Ripper, but if you are, you will hang. If you are responsible for the arms of Lambeth and Pimlico, you may still hang. But for this, this ruination of a good young girl, I wish I could see you hang for this crime alone.”

  There was the rattle of a door, and Savage stepped back as Moore and Beals entered the room. Beals had in his possession a folder of papers, but for his part, Sebastien quickly stared at the floor.

  Beals glanced at his partner, who said nothing, merely stepped back to the wall, wiping tears from his eyes.

  “Are these your men, sir?” asked Beals. “The ones you were chasing last night?”

  He slid a chrome under de Lacey’s nose.

  The Mad Lord did not even look at it.

  “And Constable Pleasant Poole does have a record of a Miss Ivy Savage reporting a woman’s head dropped into the River Thames at St. Katharine’s Pier at 12:52 yesterday morning. Is this correct, sir? Is this your remembrance of things?”

  “There was no head,” said Sebastien softly.

  “Sir?”

  “There was no head. In the river. There was a splash. Nothing more.”

  Beals glanced between his partner and his superior. Moore leaned in over Sebastien’s shoulder.

  “There was no head, you say?”

  “No,” said Sebastien. “There was no head.”